The Special K has wheat and rice flakes.

But over here in merry ol' England, I have discovered that one thing can be counted upon to be the same as it is back home in the States. It seems that even when you cross the ocean, a sketchy guy is a sketchy guy ... is a sketchy guy.

"How can you spot them?" you might ask. Well ...

It's that same repulsive stench that seems to combine smoke, alcohol and bad cologne in a most exacting and yet revolting proportion. It's that moistness that seems to dampen the most oddly selected areas of his button-down shirt. It's that certain expression on the face that gives off a predatory air, even in its comically ridiculous, inebriated state.

He is behind you while you try to dance with your girls. He is close enough that other male onlookers might actually think that you are grinding with him, yet maintaining that crucial distance of about five to seven centimeters so that you yourself are not actually aware enough of his presence to move away.

He is staring down your neck and putting far too much effort into badly executed dance moves while you (aware of him by now, thanks to the aforementioned stench) try to edge away with grace, while still maintaining your rhythm and good-times vibe with your chicas in front of you.

He sees you glancing furtively over your shoulder, which in his sketchball little brain is perceived as a full steam ahead invitation - or at the least an inviting compliance - and before you can even fully register what has hit you , that clammy little hand has closed the blessed gap between your denim-clad bum and his squidgy, damp trousers (damp from his unsuccessful attempt to hold a drink in one hand and keep the other hand free for either a) a supposedly "sexy" swipe through his sweaty mop of hair; b) a mostly ashed out cigarette or c) a free little grope of you, or the girl next to you, depending on how drunk he is.)

That sticky heat you had been trying to edge away from before knowing its origin in all its sketchy glory is now forcefully gyrating behind you. It's almost more than you can take - you have lost the ability to ignore it with polite grace and you can no longer lose yourself in your dance moves. Apparently, your friends aren't ignoring your situation either as they are giggling with amusement at how you have managed to endure this sketchy situation so long.

Finally, you do what any self-respecting girl would do in this situation.

Knee him in the crotch? Throw 'em bows? A proper Elizabethan-era slap across the left cheek?

Nope.

High tail it for the ladies room, girls in tow, where you can promptly assign a name to your assailant outside: "That was one sketchy guy."

Now for all you Brits out there. Some of you may not be sure if you should agree with this column or not - are these guys the same everywhere? Try this: just replace the word sketchy with "dodgy," and suddenly it all makes sense. They are the same everywhere. A universal brand of guys to avoid in clubs and bars.

Good to know. Good to know.