Every so often life provides one with the opportunity to feel like a completely heartless arse. I've never been one to reject such an offer, and made good on one just yesterday.

A colleague of mine was attacked recently, and the unknown assailant left his right eye looking very nasty indeed. He's a nice, dry, northern bloke, seemingly no more prone to rushes of testosterone than your average man, and not the kind of guy one expects (or hopes) to see sporting a shiner.

But he's a Mancunian of the Red persuasion, so attempting to lighten the mood, I say, "I know he's a United fan but not even they deserve that." As luck would have it, this is timed perfectly for him to hear as he walks into the room. Aforementioned arse feeling ensues. The embarrassed silence from other colleagues does nothing to help.

It's a force of habit. Maybe I'm a little more ready than most with the sassy remark, but just like those in the medical profession, journos make light of serious situations as a coping mechanism to desensitise themselves to all the death and destruction. Or maybe it's just people with sick senses of humour who are drawn to the job.

Either way, it's good to be reminded from time to time that in every act of violence the victim is a real person, and they probably don't find it that funny.