AN interesting social experiment regarding the stage at which people reach boiling point appears to have been carried out on the streets of Bolton.

A potent concoction of youthful carelessness, irresponsibility, drunkenness and a thug-like over-reaction of near heart-attack inducing proportions had, in just five minutes, colluded to provide me with more entertainment than 30 years of TV variety shows.

I had just crossed over the road from Bradshawgate when a teenage cyclist sped past me and proceeded to cut in front of a stationary bus. Coming the other way, also on a bike, was another lad of a similar age. Both were listening to music and both were totally unaware of their surroundings. "Promising," thought I. Kerrrrrash!

Within seconds, said cyclists were knocked to the ground and, in a brilliant display of choreography, both leapt to their feet and responded with simultaneous shouts of the same expletives.

A quick check of their mounts revealed minimal damage to both and, grazed knees aside, the lads were all right. They had a laugh about it, shook hands and, in the true spirit of the stunt man, continued on their way at - possibly literally - breakneck speeds. Boiling point not reached.

Spectators muttered darkly and pointed accusingly at the careless chappies. "Wouldn't have happened in the days of the pennyfarthing." Me, I walked on by, unconcerned at the lack of thought that had gone into their journeys and the possible consequences of their thoughtlessness.

Further on, a drunk was crossing Nelson Square. Meanwhile, a snake of cars was making its way to the top of the gardens. Again, you didn't have to be Plato to predict the potentially dramatic outcome.

The canned-up laddie stepped out in front of the leading vehicle which, as it was travelling at all of about five miles an hour, managed to stop. The drunk waved his apologies and would have merrily carried on his way had the motorist not leapt from his car, grabbed him by the scruff of his neck and forced him against the wall with the intention, no doubt, of giving him a good pummelling.

Fortunately he was dragged away by several bypassers and retreated back to his car, where a woman - his wife? - squirmed in embarrassment in the passenger seat. As he drove past me, I shook my head at him, safe in the knowledge that should he again emerge from his vehicle, the same passers-by would come to my help. Either that or I would run for it in the hope that, with his obviously high blood pressure, any pursuit he offered would likely result in collapse or at the very least early abandonment.

In any case, he chose not to confront me. Humbled? Shame-faced? Scared? Not interested? Or was it just that he mistook what I believed to be a firm and accusing shake of the head for a slight twitch.

Clearly, the two cyclists were intelligent enough to see the funny side of their unfortunate little incident and the drunk was obviously having a better time than the driver, who was just some highly strung bloke in need of a day's pampering at a health spa.