Manchester Hobo - a tale of homelessness and happiness.
He was a lovely chap and I'll call him Fred.

I first met Fred when he was sleeping on the steps by Oxford Road Station.....in the snow. At least he was wrapped up. His girlfriend was asking for change, as homeless people do. I gave her a couple of quid and noticed her hands were blue- really blue - so offered her my gloves. She gave me such a lovely smile and woke up Fred to tell him. I sat down with them and had a little chat, gave them a couple of cigarettes and went off to uni.

I'd see them most mornings and that little act of generosity ensured they'd remembered me. Most mornings I'd give them a smoke, have a 5 minute chat and take them both a coffee. I found out they 'lived' in the alleyway at the back of the Salisbury which was a bit grim. Still, they were lovely people.

One day they weren't there, nor where they there the next. I was a tad concerned. A couple of weeks later I saw Fred selling Christmas hats on Oxford Road. He called me over gave me a hug, thanked me for all the coffees, change and time that I'd taken to have a chat each morning. He explained that his girlfriend had gone down south, he'd moved to a hostel and things were looking better. He gave me a free hat, shook my hand, thanked me once again for everything I did. To me it wasn't much - a bit of change, a 20p cup of coffee, a couple of roll-ups and 5minutes to day hello. To him it was the world - someone took the time to look past the dirt and treat him with respect. I smiled, shook his hand again, wished him a merry Christmas and walked away with a tear in my eye.

I saw him again occasionly, the time between each sighting getting longer and longer. I finally saw him outside the Uni wandering up Oxford Road as happy as can be. He explained he was still in the hostel but now on a waiting list for a flat in Hulme. I didn't see him again for a long time.

The happy finale: About 2 years later I was out in Manchester. There were only 3 of us and we were having a few beers around Canal Street waiting for my mates fella to turn up. There was a tap on my shoulder and there was Fred! Fred looked really well - he'd put on a bit of weight, had a shave, a decent haircut etc. He explained that shortly after I last saw him he got his flat in Hulme. This allowed him to get sorted with regards to benefits etc. Having a proper address meant he was able to find work. He'd got a job, worked hard and was doing pretty well. He bought me a few pints, and as he left he thanked me for all those morning chats etc. He then looked in to my eyes and gave me the most sincere thanks I've ever been given. He told me that our 1st meeting - when I gave him a pair of gloves - was the greatest thing anyone had done for him, yet to me it seemed so insignificant. He nodded and left. I did a little cry.

I've not seen him since.
( SpikeyPickle wishes he was mabazaritchie, Fri 3 Jul 2009, 12:10, 17 replies)

Not the funniest & quite long.
I’ve been volunteering for a homelessness charity in the UK for the last 8 years. This post isn’t a boast about that (I only volunteered in the first place to try & impress a woman I was playing hide the bratwurst with), but it is now something I could never see myself not doing – it’s a fucking brilliant experience.

The charity runs temporary centres for the homeless for eight days over Christmas (many of the hostels in London close over this period). The charity itself was founded as a result of a few people (I think 12 or so) setting up temporary shelter in a church (the charity is not a religious organisation) in response to the 60’s film ‘Cathy come home’. These 12 individuals expected about 30 or so homeless people to visit the shelter. Approximately 400 homeless people turned up. We now get approx around 2000 visitors (we call them guests in an attempt to give them at least some dignity) each year – of whom around 500 are rough sleepers with the remaining being either sofa surfers (temporarily staying with friends) or living in hostels.

I began as a general volunteer (there are several thousand volunteers across 7-8 centres that the charity operate) and for the last 4 years have been one of the team that manages one of the centres. We have operated centres in all sorts of buildings from the Dome (O2), London Arena (now demolished), empty office blocks, schools and colleges. We receive gifts in kind (food, clothing etc) from individuals and large companies worth a couple of million quid each year. Few of these mention it publicly and the level of philanthropy is humbling.

The mix of people who become homeless is unbelievably diverse, including graduates, professionals and about a third have served in the armed services in the past (these typically end up homeless from not being able to adjust to civilian life).

Anyone can become homeless. There is an estimate that before the recession the average adult in the UK was financially about 6 weeks away from homelessness if they lost their job. Fuck knows how much that figure has reduced since the start of the recession. A lot of people end up homeless as a result of a relationship break-up.

Yes of course there are pissheads & druggies and a lot have mental health issues. A lot of these ended up like this as a result of being homeless (remember the snow we had in February – you’d want to get off your head if you had to sleep out in that).

Typically the different problems the homeless suffer are made up of thirds. This means a third are ex-services, a third have substance dependency problems, a third have mental health issues, a third have suffered physical or sexual abuse, etc, but we see a lot of people with what we call multiple thirds – e.g. have mental health issues and are ex-services or have experienced abuse and have dependency issues. We have also seen an increase in homelessness since eastern European countries joined the EU – this is common – every rise in immigration comes with a rise in homelessness - fuck me can these boys drink.

The volunteers are fucking amazing. Some of my best friends are other volunteers who I’ve had hilarious nights on the piss with, brilliant holidays etc. I’ve also got a few shags out of it as well (volunteers not guests!). The volunteers come from a very diverse background – from leftie students to people in the 70’s.

I have met ‘A list’ celebrities who volunteer anonymously every year, quietly and with no publicity. We also have former homeless people who the charity has helped get sorted who come back & volunteer. The professions of the volunteers are so diverse the charity are able to operate dental, podiatry & general medical services, provide legal advise, teach basic skills (literacy etc) as well as dependency counsellors, cooks, sewers (to alter clothing), plumbers, carpenters, etc to make the buildings we get habitable.

The relationships the charity has with other organisations and councils means about 200 homeless people are re-homed over the 8 day period we are open – some go to hostels (first step to getting off the streets), some require further medical attention (long term residency due to mental health issues) and some are re-housed by councils.

I have on occasion taken rough sleepers to their new homes which is an incredibly emotional experience (and I am one of the most cynical & non-emotional cunts you would ever meet) – witnessing the sheer joy for them of getting off the streets & being able to get themselves sorted (jobs, qualifications etc) is extremely humbling.

Of course there are rough sleepers who don’t want a roof & four walls but they get the same access to services if they wish and we treat everyone equally (for example volunteers and guests eat together whenever possible) to break down barriers – the isolation of homelessness is one of the worst aspects and definitely contributes to the mental health issues that many will experience.

Yes we also get the occasional cunt who wants to spoil it for everyone else – fighting/ stealing etc. but as more experienced volunteers who run the centres we are trained by the charity on how to restrain these wankers & we ban them quickly (with the “help” of the rozzers where required). However these incidents are rare (probably 5 at each of the 7 centres across the week – 35 out of 2000 is a pretty good rate. Our first concern is the safety of guests and volunteers. Only one of the centres allows alcohol. Weapons & drugs are banned from all. One of the centres is women only & this is operated in anonymous location so these guests can get away from pimps, abusive partners etc.

When I turned up at my first shift in 2000 I didn’t have a clue what to expect, was slightly apprehensive and I only turned up to impress a sexy nurse I was seeing at the time. In fact the only good thing I got from my relationship with her was my introduction to volunteering and the friendships and fucking amazing (often hilarious) experiences I have had.

So if you’re based in London & don’t like the whole family Christmas thing you can volunteer at www.crisis.org.uk or gaz me for further details.

I have experienced some extremely funny times when volunteering but will post these separately.

And no I don’t read the fucking Guardian before you ask.
(lkjshaglkasjdhglkhjz lkcvl; g;aodh;owih, Fri 3 Jul 2009, 10:08, 17 replies)

There is a ceratin breed of cyclist that simply oozes mug self righteousness

"I'm saving the environment" they say.

"I'm fit and healthy" they show off.

"I actually quiet like the feeling of lycra against my frank and beans" they probably think.

Anyway, there are plenty of these tools around London whizzing in and out of traffic, zipping straight through traffic lights and squishing under lorries.

One beautiful sunny day in London town I saw a swarm of these brightly coloured piss weasels pull up at the side of the road for a hydration session (drink to you and me).

As they glugged down their isotonic hydrating glucozoidal treacle something wonderful happened. A tramp came around the corner on "his" bike, he was giving it some beans as he was probably late for a dinner party or some such thing. He going fast enough that the rudimentary cloak that he had fashioned from old plastic bags flew majestically in the breeze like some kind of Tesco value superhero, SuperWino!


When he saw his cycling brethren he slammed on the brakes and pulled up beside them, lent down to the lower cross bar of the frame of his bike where there was a water bottle holder and pulled out a shiny can of Special Brew.

The cyclists looked on in disgust as he raised it up, opened the top, shouted/burped "CHEERS" and downed the lot, before crushing the can with snarl and riding off to his next SuperWino adventure fortified by his magic potion.
( Naked Ape call me Caitlyn, Fri 3 Jul 2009, 13:01, 6 replies)

daffodils
I live near an area of Dundee that's affectionately known as "needle row"... pick a closie and you could wrap a christmas turkey with the amount of used tin foil in it. Between needle row and the town centre, there are plenty "interesting" people to meet. Many are the usual crazy/drugged up hobos you see all over Scotland, but there are a few who are true legends. Apologies now, this is not a funny story, it just kinda highlights that not all homeless people are junkies, some are the complete opposite.

Lisa was awesome. She used to sit in the overpass at the station in the winter, minding her own business and staying warm. She was quite possibly the sweetest girl i've ever met, so cheerful even though she'd had a horrible life.

The first time I met her, it was early December. She hadn't eaten in about 9 days, and was nearly unconscious. The pile of Big Issues she'd been trying to sell lay unsold beside her, no one buys them in Dundee. I took her to MacDonalds and she told me her story. Her parents were junkies in Glasgow, both heavily into heroin, and used to beat her, or worse, pretty much when the mood took them. She'd ran away when she was 15 after they'd tried to prostitute her to earn drug money. She didn't have a proper education, but was desperately trying to get a job. She'd go to the job centre nearly every day, looking for jobs and getting out of the cold for a bit. She'd applied for several jobs, but they all refused her as she didn't have an address. I got her a hotel room once, she insisted that she'd get a job in Tesco or something and pay me back. she ripped a corner off a Big Issue and wrote me an I.O.U. Everytime we met she told me how her job search was going, what she'd been up to, where she'd been. Sometimes she'd spend her day wandering about the parks, picking flowers. She loved them, she was amazed that something so pretty could grow from nothing but dirt. She told me once that it gave her hope in the spring when the daffodils came out, she knew that she would be ok.

For someone who'd lived on the street for nearly a decade, and had no more than a primary school education, she was incredibly warm and quick witted. Any time I was getting a train, or if I was bored in town, I'd sit and speak with her for ages, sharing cigarettes and cider and having a sly laugh at the businessmen who spent their whole day getting stressed over things that don't really matter. Someone gave her an old mobile phone once, the only numbers she had in it were me, a couple of my mates and the Samaritans hotline. I always felt a bit guilty when I went home to my warm house, knowing that she was still out there, huddled in the overpass trying to keep out of the rain. Whenever she saw me going for a train she made sure to give me a hug, and told me she prayed that I'd get there safe.

The council started to revamp the area around the station last year, and knocked down the overpass. Lisa had to move to the station doorway, with no shelter from the elements, but was still her chipper self, chattting to whoever would listen and sharing her last cigarette.

They found her on the 20th January this year, sat in her usual spot at the station doors. She'd died of pneumonia, and was frozen solid. She'd been ill for weeks, but refused to move in case someone stole her spot. She'd been grieving for one of her friends, another Big Issue seller who'd been stabbed outside M&S a week before. It was strange to think that Lisa and her flowers wouldn't be there anymore, and to see the impact she'd made on the lives of other Dundonians.

When spring came this year i made sure to leave a bunch of daffodils in her spot, along with a cigarette and the I.O.U. ripped in half. Next time someone asks you for change, please don't snub them and justify it with some druggie excuse... even if you only have 5 minutes, get to know them a little... they might just be another Lisa.

Apologies for lack of funnies. And length.

here's a link to the BBC site about her, any other Scumdonians on here might remember her and her awesomeness :)

news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/scotland/tayside_and_central/7861600.stm
(DonMorte Cake is a made up drug, Sat 4 Jul 2009, 5:33, 10 replies)

Grunge is not dead
I was enjoying an afternoon pint with a friend sitting outside a pub in Oxford on a glorious day several years ago, when we suddenly hear 'excuse me guys...'

We both looked up and there's a mid-twenties bloke, thick beard, straggly hair, looking like he's been sleeping rough.

Before he even says anything we both go for the automatic response:

'No, sorry mate...'
He looked a bit surprised
'Eh?'
'Haven't got anything to give you - sorry.'
Now he looked totally bemused...
'I'm... I'm not homeless- I was just going to ask for the time! I'm a student for fuck's sake!'

We paused for a moment, awkwardly as he was still stood there glaring at us, then my companion piped up...

'Well, have a fucking wash then - this is supposed to be a respectable university'.

I laughed my arse off... Then I felt sorry for the guy... Then I laughed my arse off some more.
(SnowyTheWereRabbit the Leporid from Hell, Sun 5 Jul 2009, 21:21, 2 replies)

Tramps, illegal raves, axes, coppers, goths, a bloke who'd missed his train and a free breakfast.
Me and my mates had attended an anti-war protest in Manchester a few years ago, it was very nice, peaceful and organised affair… The police were cool, the protestors were cool…. T’was a great day…

Anyhoo, after the protest had finished we sauntered off to a few pubs and had a few scoops and debated whether to get the last train home or stay in Manchester and get pissed. We decided (sensibly) that the latter option was the better one.

So we wandered across the city through a small park in the centre looking for a nightclub. As we passed through we could hear loud techno music being played and we noticed a large converted bus was parked up, a generator had been set up and some one was DJ’ing.

So we nip over and we notice that a loud crowd of assorted types were pretty much raving in Manchester city centre.
The group consisted of:

The bus owners: A six foot seven, dreadlocked geezer in a kilt, his lovely missus, and a few of their friends. They had driven up from Cornwall for the protests and decided to make the best of it.

The rest of the crowd consisted of:

A few protestors, some goths, also some skater kids, some chav kids, some punks, a bloke in suit who’d missed his train and three homeless guys.

But despite the rather obscure mix of people, this actually turned out to be a great, free outdoor/inner city rave, especially because we all knew this was breaking the law but nobody really gave a shiny shite. We got chatting to everyone and despite the cultural boundaries we all had a ruddy good time….
Until six copper suddenly ran over to us, very angry and quite possibly looking to arrest who ever it was who had set up the rig.
That is until the large braveheart looking guy approached them (towering over them all) and politely informed them that it was he who’d set it up and that yes, he will turn off the music, if the police could suggest somewhere that he could continue his antics.

I think we were lucky, one of the coppers just said ‘anywhere, just not in the city fucking centre’ and then a radio call came through and the coppers legged it.

Okay, so we basically had permission off the police and the braveheart bloke told us all to jump in his van. So, the Goths, the punks, the skaters, the chavs, the protestors, the tramps, the bloke in a suit who had missed his train and us guys got into his converted library bus and the tramps told us they knew of a good field on the outskirts of Manchester.
Sure enough they were right. Except a large padlocked gate prevented us from entering the field with his bus, leaving the braveheart guy with little choice but to take an axe to the padlock and smash it open…. To a loud cheer from us all.

The field already had a bonfire roaring, and many more homeless people were sat in the tents. The Braveheart guy and his missus rummaged in their bus and pulled out some pots and pans and got some food on the go and gave it all to the homeless.
He and missus then rolled up about five or six joints, set up the rig and blasted out some drum and bass tunes and then proceeded to get everybody stoned….

We all partied through the night, warm, happy and loving this act of complete randomness, as were where technically surrounded by complete strangers but we all made the very best of it.

Eventually the sun came up, people started to drift off and the few that remained all decided that breakfast was in order. So we jumped back in the van and as we were driving back into the city, one of the homeless guys told us all ‘that breakfast was on him’… and he gave braveheart guy some directions and sure enough we finally stopped at a donation centre.

The homeless guy led us inside and told the workers that we were his friends and we all got given free fry up, a cup of coffee and a place to sit. Now some of you stuck up types might cringe at the very thought of dining with the down and outs of Manchester, but it was something very different for me. They had returned the favour, and that in itself was all they could offer, but it was a hearty meal and we were eternally grateful.

We finally left, after a few of us had a bit of a whip-round and gave the three homeless guys whatever change we had left. The Braveheart guy and his missus donated the rest of the weed to the three guys and we eventually all went home.

I like to think that the homeless guys had a genuinely great time, I loved the fact the carefree attitudes of a couple of people from Cornwall turned a potentially boring night into a randomly beautiful act of human kindness. And I also like to believe the bloke in the suit finally got his train home (and hopefully still thinks of this event as much as I do).

It made me realise that at the end of the day, no matter where you are from, or what occupation or opinion you have, or what clothes you wear or how you style your hair or whether you live in a tent or a mansion…. We are all the same, we all appreciate human kindness, a fire, a meal and a smoke.

Peace.
(mr-lizard Hell's teeth man!, Tue 7 Jul 2009, 0:43, 8 replies)

Richard of York: tramp agony aunt
My dad is a vicar. Those of you who have had bad experiences of organised religion, feel free to wave your pitchforks now. Done? Good.

But as a vicar's son, I sometimes glimpse, behind the scenes, all the good my dad does that no one ever hears about. Dealing with people's secret pain - the help he gives to those who come to him in distress. It was one such tiny act of kindness from him that sparked the following chain of events.

It begins with a phone call...

The scene: A small Yorkshire town. The time: summer of 2006. I had just graduated and was inhabiting the strange ghost world between university and real life. I had been fired from a temp job for breaching national security (but that's another story) and with the World Cup on the telly had no intention of getting another for at least a month. So I was guarding my parents' house while they were on holiday and doing a spot of gardening to keep myself busy.

*bring bring*
SELF: "Hello, this is the Vicarage."
MYSTERIOUS VOICE: "Hello, is Reverend Of-York there?"
SELF: "No, I'm his son, can I take a message?"
MYSTERIOUS VOICE: "Oh, well, I hear you've been having trouble with some kids messing around in the churchyard."
SELF: "Why yes, yes we have."
MYSTERIOUS VOICE: "Yeah, well, I've sorted it."
SELF: "Er... yay?"
MYSTERIOUS VOICE: "Yeah, I'm an old mate of your dad's and I heard in the pub you were having trouble with some kids, so I thought I'd come and sort it. I used to be in the army, so I know a few things."

Anyway, we talk a bit more and it transpires he's in town for one night but doesn't have a place to stay. So, I say - and I'm still not sure why:

"Oh, well, if you're a friend of my dad's, why not come and stay here?"

He accepts, says he'll come straight round, I put the phone down and suddenly realise that I've just invited a complete stranger to spend the night with me, and not in the good way. Did he say he was in the ARMY? He sounded pretty tough - and what did he do to 'sort out' a bunch of 15-year-old chavs, officially the scariest breed of mammal found in nature? What if he's not an officer and a gentleman, but some crazed killing machine of a squaddie? What if even now, blood-soaked strips of burberry are blowing across the churchyard?

With these terrifying thoughts in mind, I quickly hid all the family silver (well, the DVD player anyway) and was fashioning a makeshift weapon out of a broom handle and a toasting fork when the doorbell rang.

*ding dong!*

Trapped, like a lamb in a field full of bastards. With bated breath, I approached the door...

Fortunately, on the step stood, not a seven-foot Terminator, but a five-foot five middle aged chap with trace of a West Country accent. I hadn't picked up on that over the phone. His name, he said, was Steelie.

Figuring that if the worst came to the worst I could probably take an aging Bristolian shortarse in a fight, I invited him in. He had indeed been a soldier in his youth, but after leaving the forces had been homeless for many years. It was at some time during this period when my dad had, apparently, saved his life (but that's another story). Eventually, the love of a good woman set him on the right path once more, and as proof of this he showed me a photo of himself in a rather natty suit, alongside a woman who, while not exactly in her prime, was holding up well for her age and looked a pillar of respectability. She could definitely have been the head of a village WI. Steelie told me that she was off visiting her sister, and he was on the road again "for old times sake." Perhaps I should have been suspicious at this point, but I was so reassured by the picture of the WI-lady that it passed me by.

So, anyway, what do you do to pass the time with a reformed tramp who you've invited over for the evening?

We went to the pub.

Here, Steelie told me a bit about life on the streets, including some really quite interesting stuff about 'famous hobos throughout history' (or 'gentlemen of the road', as he preferred to call them). I can only remember a few of the stories now:

- Casanova tramp. This was an Irish fellow who lived in the 1800s and apparently shagged his way around the southern counties; it seems no lady of good breeding was able to resist his twinkling eye and silver tongue. He had something incredibly amusing inscribed on his tombstone but alas, it now escapes me.

- The doctor. This was a terribly sad story about a medical man who lost his wife and kids in a fire. Something went snap in his head and he took to the living on the streets. The last time Steelie saw him all his teeth had been kicked out by a gang of youths.

- These two other tramps who stood about under a tree all day waiting for some guy. Actually, I may have heard that story somewhere else.

Anyway, it gets to chucking-out time, we stagger home, I show him to my sister's room (shut up, she was away as well) and say goodnight. The next morning I haven't been murdered, he's still there, I give him a cuppa and send him on his way. End of story, or so I thought.

That night, he was back.

The old chap looked somewhat the worse for drink. "Mate," said he, "you've been generous enough already, I'll just sleep in the garden if it's all right by you." He wouldn't accept the offer of a bed, so I gave him a sleeping bag, and he laid himself out on a bench.

The next morning I awoke, looked out of my window, and saw him still down there. Being the ever-generous soul that I am, I made a cup of tea and took it out to him. Steelie, it was clear, was in a perturbed state of mind. He had a kind of dismayed expression on his face, as if he'd just heard Princess Di unexpectedly come out with a really racist joke.

"I really need to see my missus," he said. "If you give me some money I can catch the bus to York and she can pick me up from there."

'Aha!' I thought. 'Here comes the sting!' "Listen, I don't feel comfortable giving you money," I said (my generosity strangely disappears when it comes to parting with actual cash), "but you can ring your missus from here and hitch-hike to York." He agrees, and I hang around sheepishly in the garden while he makes his call. He hangs up, and comes over.

"A bit of bad news, mate. She's left me."

And THAT is how I found myself sitting on a bench in my garden, in a dressing gown, comforting a heartbroken tramp.

Turns out WI-lady had grown increasingly frustrated with Steelie's unwillingness to fully give up his hobo lifestyle - it's not something you can really do part-time - and they'd had a bit of a bust-up, hence the trip to her sister's and now her callous if understandable phone-dumping. I sat with him on that bench for the best part of four hours, listening to his thoughts on life and women. At one point he got out a little book from his bag and read me a poem. I started wondering if he was ever going to leave - if when my parents returned in a week's time I would have to make out like he was some wacky uncle who'd always lived with us, like when they write in new characters to an American sitcom. It was gone noon by the time he finally decided to depart. I gave him a couple of cans of beer for his journey, and away he trudged, out of my life, forever.

My friend who runs a charity shop in York saw him a couple of days later and gave him some clothes. Beyond that I don't know what became of Steelie. Nor do I know if any of his tale was true, but it seems an elaborate lie to tell for a place to sleep and two cans of Carling.

Personally, I don't think I'd do what I did again, but I learnt a lot about trust and human nature (and famous tramps, obviously). Steelie didn't murder me, and he didn't steal anything. And he did get rid of those kids in the churchyard - not through army skills but through genuine tramp cunning. But that is yet another story...
(Richard of York gained battles in vain, Sun 5 Jul 2009, 21:56, 7 replies)

Kid.
No funnies, no apology. Just plain sad.

Many moons ago when piglet was still being incubated, me and my six months pregnant wife were walking through the town centre when we came across a filthy young man sitting on a blanket. He had his hands out and his head lowered, lifting it only occasionally to direct a beseeching glare on a passer-by. As I looked into his eyes I caught this attention and he looked at me. Then through me. I suddenly understood what a thousand-yard stare looked like. Looking straight at him I opened my wallet and give him my last fiver and walked away.
Curious as to the reason behind my strange burst of generosity (I am known as careful by my Scottish friends) my wife asked why I had done it. So I told her his story.

Long ago in what feels like a different life I used to be a playscheme leader in some pretty rough areas. Attending one of these was a young lad of about 12 who was always fighting. Always. The other kids would wind him up just to see him fight. And he never backed down once, not ever, even in the face of some barely sentient knuckle-dragger who would pound him senseless. But this ginger haired freckly kid had one shining light: His Sister. She was a few years older than him and looked after him and the other kids in his family, he worshipped her as the mother he didn’t really have. He wasn’t the brightest diode on the circuit board but he was capable of following instructions and as stated before, an unyielding fighter. So as soon as he was able he joined the Army.

At this point I have no idea what happened but he went off the rails. His reaction to initial training was that everyone was bullying him, being ginger\freckly probably marked him out and knowing the way he reacted to physical pressure I can only presume he continued to react with his usual flair. Strangely he made it through training and came out as an infantryman. He lasted another two years before being discharged on medical (mental) grounds. He wasn’t very good on his own so his sister took him in and helped him look after himself. He became involved in petty crime but was cunning enough to keep himself out of bother. Then his sister met her husband.

After a whirlwind romance she became pregnant with the first of her three kids and they were married. Kid never got on with his brother-in-law. He never trusted him and would often end up leaving the house before he did violence on the prick (for prick he was, I knew the lad at school and he was a cunt of the highest order). Unfortunately during one of these periods Prick decide that he wanted to be re-housed by the council and firebombed his own home. With his wife and kids inside. They burned to death and he was sent to jail.

When Kid returned he was inconsolable and wandered the streets howling his grief like a madman. He had lost the only good thing he had ever had in his young life (he was still only 23 at this point). He was interned for treatment at a local mental hospital but it didn’t take and he eventually walked out one day and disappeared. Until I saw him on his blanket. I knew I couldn’t help him in any real sense, no-one could. So I gave him some money and hoped he would spend it on something that would help him forget for a while., he always knew how and where to get fed. I’ve never seen him again (cliché? Maybe) but hope he’s found peace, I doubt it’s in this world though.

Peace to you Kid, wherever you are.
(porkylips looks better as the sun goes down., Mon 6 Jul 2009, 23:41, 4 replies)

A bizarre one
As unlikely as this sounds it really happened.

I was standing behind a tramp on the underground a while ago, on the escalator - he was a traditional, "fun" type tramp, but he had matted ginger hair down to his waist. In front of him were two japanese teenagers. They had matching yellow rucksacks on so they must have been on some kind of school trip.

The tramp started going "arr soor! aaaar soooor I'm Bruce Lee!" and karate chopping the air.

I was cringing at this basic level of slightly racist humour, until one of the boys turned around, waggled his fingers at him and said "arr soooor! I'm Mick Hucknall".
( browser still relating boring anecdotes into a void on, Fri 3 Jul 2009, 11:41, 2 replies)

I've just remembered another one
When I went to visit somebody in Portsmouth, I saw a tramp on the street, with a small puppy. He didn't ask for anything, just offered me a bottle of water. I politely declined, but gave him some advice as to where he could get free injections for the dog, and he told me his life story. Fucked by a divorce, only drugs he did was smoke. Didn't even drink.

Two years later, I end up moving to Portsmouth. In the same spot, there is the man (Dave) and his dog, now looking grown up, but in excellent condition. In Daves bag were tins of dog food, and Dave was looking skinnier. In his defence, he did use some of his begging money to use facilities in some sort of hostel, where he could shower and shave. Even bought charity shop clothes.

Every time I saw him, I'd buy him a 10 deck of fags, a few cheap (I was skint) sandwiches and a tin of dog food. He was the most appreciating man I'd ever seen.

Fast forward 8 months, and I see another man with the same dog. Dave had been taken to hospital with pneumonia. I was gutted for him, but the also-tramp mate had been looking after the dog, so I bought them the usual. The man asked if my name was Sam - Dave had been talking about me!

I saw him again, briefly. He excitedly told me that the council had given him a house (after 5 years!) and would let his dog go with him. They'd even given him money for furniture, which he held at his ex-wife's house. A charity had given him some toys and a bed for his dog.

I never saw him again. It makes me smile to think of him in his new house, and his dog curled up next to a fire and Dave watching TV.
( Methylene Blue - electrohead, Fri 3 Jul 2009, 1:43, 7 replies)

sing along


I walked past a homeless guy and he started singing "when I was young I thought that life was so logical....."
I said that's supertramp. He said thanks very much
(dolly gobshite, Fri 3 Jul 2009, 13:23, 4 replies)

Tramp-o-gram
During my time as a travelling salesman I was paired up with a succession of evil bastards. One of them was a fella named Harry. Unfortunately this was prior to the Harry Potter thing, so I didn’t have the opportunity to rip the piss out of him all day about this. Instead I nicknamed him Krishna. He thought I was being effectionate and matey – I wasn’t. I hated the prick.

One time we’d just finished lunch in some Toby Carvery somewhere or other in South Wales. Krishna spent the meal talking with his mouthful about how fucking marvellous he was – his favorite subject. As he was technically my superior I nodded, silently stabbing a fork into my leg to stop myself from delivering a haymaker straight round his smug, cuntish, inbred face.

Eventually, we left the restaurant. Krishna went to get the car and I hung about, happily releasing a succession of stinky, silent farts (gravy dinners have this weird effect on my guts, its a bit like lobbing a light match onto a bonfire doused in kerosene). While I'm happily trumping away, breathing in the vapours (nothing quite as satisfying as the smell of your own farts), a tramp ambled up to me. I smelt him first - even above the noxious gasses I was emitting like a badly conditioned moped; the tramp gave off the sort of vapor trail you see in the Yogi Bear cartoons – only this bloke was emitting the pungent smell of stale piss and cheap booze, not the contents of a lovely pic-er-nic basket. The tramp stood next to me. I made a mistake then, I nodded at him as if to say: awight. He then started telling me his life story. He was friendly enough, I suppose.

Then I hit on an idea. I asked this tramp to do me a favour. As a little sweetner I passed over a tenner. As I couldn’t tell Krishna how much of a cunt he was to his face (politics of the workplace and all that bollocks), I hired this affable vagrant to do it for me. Not a bad deal for him; tell a random stranger he’s a cunt – ten quid. Fuck me, if I could get that sort of employment contract sorted I’d be earning a couple of grand a week with hardly any effort.

I nodded to my new mate as Krishna drove up in the company Lexus. My new best mate winked at me, scratched at his haggered old chin, and ambled off towards where Krishna was pulling in. The look of horror on Krishna’s face was worth the tenner alone. I smiled inwardly and waited. God, I wanted this cunt I was partnered with to know he was a cunt so much. I’d been waiting a long, long time to let him know. And now I was about to tell him via the rather peculiar medium of tramp. It was the perfect fucking crime.

The tramp rapped loudly on the windscreen. I steadied myself, staring intently at Krishna, just waiting to see how he’d react to some random abuse (he was a bit of a wet blanket underneath the brash exterior, I anticipated he’d cry or piss himself, or – hopefully – both). The tramp rapped on the window again and said: “That bloke over there says you’re a cunt!”

...bugger...
( SpankyHanky, Fri 3 Jul 2009, 16:59, 3 replies)

Repost but quite funny
I was about 15 and walking up Guildford high street with my pals. Just past Church Street and the local tramp jumped out from behind a bush, swigging from a can of Tennants Extra. Usually this particulr tramp performed shows outside Burger King with little puppets on the end of his gnarly toes, but on this occassion he was playing a harmonica.

He stood in front of us and did a little dance; his cock was dangling cheerfully from his string-tied trousers as he leapt about.

After a minute or two we gave him some change for his well earned performance. He said "listen lads, some advice - get a trade. I know this looks like a glamarous life, but it has its downsides".
( browser still relating boring anecdotes into a void on, Fri 3 Jul 2009, 10:43, 4 replies)

Tramp Joke
courtesy of google...

There was this tramp.

One cold winter's morning he was walking along a country road, when he
heard a cry for help from a nearby lake.

Without a moment's hesitation he ran out onto the ice and slipped and
slided over to a little girl. He managed to pull her out without
breaking the ice further and carried her back to the road. He took off
his coat and wrapped her in it then began looking for a car to flag
down.

Coincidentally the father drives up. "How can I ever thank you sir?"
he says after putting his daughter into the warmth of the limo. "Just
name your price - I'm a wealthy man."

"Ah, well..." stammers the tramp, "... uh, I'm a little short of cash,
perhaps you could help me out."

"Oh dear," says the father, "I don't carry much cash with me, I only
have ten pounds - but come home with me and I'll get more from the
safe."

"No! No!" says the tramp, "Why ten pounds is more money than I've seen
in my whole life - that'll be plenty."

"Ten pounds," thinks the tramp, "I'm rich! I'm rich!" and off he goes
to the town to buy himself a holiday.

He finds a travel agent, walks in - much to the disgust of the staff -
and goes up to the desk. "I'll have one holiday please!"

"Ahem, which holiday would sir like?" asked the girl at the desk,
forcing a smile.

"Oh, any holiday I don't mind, anything up to ten pounds," replies
the tramp.

"TEN POUNDS! You'll NEVER get a holiday for ten pounds," says the girl
incredulously.

She goes into the back of the shop, and searches in the deepest,
dustiest filing drawers she can find. There - to her amazement - she
finds an old file.

"Well you'll never believe it," she says to the tramp, back in the
shop. "I've got you a holiday - its a super-duper, ultra-hyper, mega-
economy class round the world cruise - and it costs ten pounds."

"Yippee!" exclaims the tramp, "I'll take it!"

A few days later he arrives at the port, and there in the dock is the
most beautiful, most elaborately decorated, most expensive looking
ocean-going liner he has ever seen.

"Get off my ship ye dirty bum!" shouts a voice, and an irate captain
storms down the gangplank and kicks the tramp down onto the dockside.

"But I've got my ticket!", responds the tramp, "super-duper, ultra-
hyper, mega-economy class, and I want on!"

"Well okay," says the captain, "but you can't come on just now, I
don't want my first-class passengers seeing you. Come back at midnight
when it's dark and I'll let you on then."

So the tramp finds himself a quiet spot among some cargo cases on the
dockside, and he falls asleep.

"Psst," says a voice, waking him with a start. It was the captain.
"Hurry up, it's midnight, let's get you to your cabin."

The tramp toddles after the captain, along the dockside, up the
gangway, and onto the ship - and what a ship!

First they went down through the first class level: Oriental carpets -
6" pile. A genuine Rembrandt on every wall. Leave your shoes outside
for cleaning, and the steward brings a new pair. 24 ct gold trim
everywhere.

Then the second class: As above, but perhaps the carpets were only 3"
deep, and so on...

3rd, 4th, 5th class, down past the casinos, and the ballrooms, down
through the crew's quarters, down through the galleys, and the engine
rooms, until finally, at the lowest point in the ship, against the
very hull, the captain opens a watertight door into a tiny 7' x 4'
cabin, with a hammock, a bedside table, and an alarm clock.

"Sheer luxury!" exclaimed the tramp, "A room of my very own."

"I'm glad you like it," replies the captain, "but there is one more
thing... Your class of ticket only allows you to use the facilities of
the ship, at night - when all the other passengers are asleep. So
that's what the alarm clock is for. Enjoy your cruise."

Well the cruise began, and the tramp had a whale of a time. Sleeping
by day, and up on deck at night - he loved it. One-man-tennis, clay
pigeon shooting, more food than he'd ever seen...

Then one morning, a week or so into the cruise, the tramp decided he'd
have a go on the diving board of the pool. He had just enough time for
one dive before he had to go below.

He climbed up the ladder, stepped onto the board tip, bounced, and
dived...

... and what a dive...!

Perfectly poised in the air, he hit the water without so much as a
ripple.

Now unknown to him, the captain - who'd grown rather fond of the poor
old tramp - was standing watching this.

"That was amazing!" exclaimed the captain, "Where did you learn to
dive like that?"

"Um, well I've never actually dived before," replied the tramp.

"Well that's incredible!" says the captain, "I've never seen..." He
broke off. "Hey, I've got an idea", he started again. "How would you
like to train a bit, and we'll put on a show for the other passengers.
I'll pay you, and you can then afford to go first class!"

"It's a deal!" says our man. For the next 3 weeks the tramp practices
like he's never practiced before. Back-flips, front-flips, triple-back
sideways axled dives, you name it he tried it.

Then one morning the captain comes to talk. "Okay, I'd like you to
stay in your cabin for the next 2 days. We're going to erect a high
diving board for you."

"Okay," agreed the tramp.

Two days passed, and the big day arrived. The ship was humming with
excitement. Everyone wanted to see the mystery diver. The captain had
provided the tramp with a new pair of swimming trunks and he wore
these as he stepped out onto the sun-beaten deck. Gasps of
astonishment from the crowd, and a hushed awe. Higher than the eye
could see, towering up and up, rose a slender column of metal.

"Well, tramp," said the captain, shaking his hand, "Let's see what you
can do." And with that the Captain handed him a walkie talkie. And the
tramp began to climb...

up and up...

below him the ship grew smaller...

on and on...

past a solitary albatross...

and still higher...

till the ship was but a speck on the ocean below...

and on still further...

till the ocean grew dim...

and the earth itself...

began to shrink...

past our moon...

and on...

and Mars...

and on...

higher, and higher...

through the asteroid belt...

and on and on towards the diving board...

past the outer planets, until...

on the outermost reaches of the Solar System...

he reached the board.

He climbed on top and radioed the captain...

and then...
.' '.
. .
. .
he jumped. .
.
.
.
.
:
Slowly at first, :
:
but speeding up, :
:
:
:
faster, and faster, :
:
speeding past Pluto, :
:
and the other outer planets,
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
through the asteroid belt,

past Mars,

and the moon,

faster,

and faster,

faster - ever faster,

and by now the earth was growing large in the distance,

the oceans and land masses grew clear,

faster, and faster,

past the albatross,

double-back somersault,

and he could see the ship, tiny in the distance,

hurtling down now, he posed, ready for the final 500 feet,

Down on the ship the crew strained their necks,

"I CAN SEE HIM!" yelled a passenger, "LOOK!!!"

The tramp streaked down towards the pool, did a last triple flip, and
dove...

NOT A RIPPLE ON THE SURFACE!

DOWN THROUGH THE WATER!

SMASHED THROUGH THE POOL BOTTOM!

DOWN THROUGH THE FIRST DECK!

SMASHING THROUGH THE SECOND!

DOWN!

DOWN!

THROUGH THE CREW'S QUARTERS!

THROUGH THE ENGINE ROOMS!

SMASHING THROUGH HIS OWN LITTLE CABIN!

AND DOWN THROUGH THE STEEL HULL OF THE SHIP!

STILL DOWN...!

DEEPER,

DEEPER INTO THE MURKY DEPTHS,

TILL.........

SMASH!

Into the sea bed, sinking a 37' shaft in the process.

Desperate for air he struggle out of the shaft, his lungs bursting he
swam frantically for the surface.

Up and up, desperate, gasping...

Out of the water, up the ladder onto the deck of the ship, into a
throng wild with acclaim.

"HERO!" "WONDERFUL!" "AMAZING!" "BLOODY GOOD SHOW THAT!"

And handing him a heated towel the captain spoke, as a hush fell over
the crowd.

"Well tramp, I have NEVER seen anything like that, EVER. That was the
most *STUPENDOUS* piece of diving I have ever seen."

The tramp blushed.

The captain went on, "but tell me, most amazing of all is how you
survived smashing through this boat after you dived - how did you do
it."

And the tramp looked at the captain, and the crowd and replied
modestly: "Well you see...

I'm a just poor tramp...

so you must understand...

I've been through many a hardship in my life."
( browser still relating boring anecdotes into a void on, Wed 8 Jul 2009, 10:55, 15 replies)

What some people will do for a cheese sandwich
The first time I met my ex girlfriend Emma’s brother, Eric, was what Shakespeare would probably describe as a monumental, colossal, immense, we’re talking Biblical scale fuck up. It wasn’t my fault. It was the sun. And the fact I’d skived off work to soak up the rays like a gigantic, bronzed twat. And the beer garden. And the beer. And the shots. And the other beers. And, to a lesser extent, the chocolates my mate Steve brought with him to the pub (they were those whisky liqueurs which I tend to crack open with my teeth, drink the contents, and then spit the chocolate shells into the bushes).

Emma gave me a call at about two to explain I had to go and meet her brother off the train at Euston at four. Fair enough. No problem, Emma. So, roll onto five-thirty and I’m still attempting to consume my bodyweight in Fosters and gin and tonic chasers (I’m either gay or an old woman when it comes to the hard stuff). Steve, my erstwhile drinking companion, advises me I had to be somewhere an hour and a half ago, but he’s fucked if he remembers what or where I was supposed to be. We do the only sensible thing. We get in another round.

At six I get a text from Emma: WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU – ERIC’S WAITING IN THE PUB JUST OUTSIDE THE STATION! STOP BEING A LAZY CUNT AND GO AND GET HIM!

Buggeration... Never, ever, EVER piss off you’re girlfriend. She allows you pussy privileges, and if you piss her off, well, the chances are you’ll find yourself masturbating furiously in the shower every morning for the next week – and if it comes down to a choice of shooting your load against a nice wet cervix or a cold wet shower curtain, well…

So, I stagger out the pub, hail a cab, and rush down to Euston. Because I’m drunk I forget the details about Eric, Emma’s brother, waiting in the pub outside. I rush in. Look round. Panic. And then I see him – I recognised him, sort of. He’s sat over on a bench with his backpack on the floor in front of him.

“Eric?” I ask. He looks up at me. “I’m Spanky – Emma’s boyfriend. Sorry I’m late. You must be starving, mate.” Eric looks a bit confused. But I explain it quickly away: “Sorry, mate – I’m absolutely shitfaced. Been drinking all day.” I explain Emma’s busy at work and won’t finish until nine or ten(ish); this seems to clear things up. “Let’s get you home,” I reach out, grab Eric’s arm and lead him out into the lovely warm evening summer sunshine. He starts saying “thanks” in the thick scouse accent I’d learned to understand since knocking boots with his sister.

One brief cab ride later and we’re back at the gaff in Hackney. Eric’s quiet. Pretty shy. Nice fella, though. Tall and thin. Scruffy little early-twenties-man-trying-to-grow-a-beard-thing going on all over his face like a bad, hairy rash. I told him to help himself to whatever he wanted in the fridge and he did. Then we settled down to watch Mallrats while we waited for Emma to get home.
Then, after about an hour, I get another text (Emma worked in an office with terrible reception and could only pick up her calls when she got to go outside on a break; she used to text me as regular as clockwork when she went out for a ciggie). I feel my phone buzz, I reach into my pocket, expecting all sweetness and light, hugs and kisses and the promise of a blowjob later for being such a great boyfriend and getting her brother back safely. But I didn’t get that, no, not at all. What I got was:

ERIC’S BEEN TRYING TO PHONE ME FOR TWO HOURS! HE’S STILL AT THE FUCKING PUB! WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU YOU USELESS DRUNKEN CUNT?!?

I put my phone away, looked over at Eric, who was happily watching Kevin Smith’s second film while munching on a cheese sandwich: “Errr… who are you?” I ask.

The lad turns to me and says: “I’m Eric.”

“Are you?”

He nods, and then he says, quite suggestively: “If that’s who you want me to be.” And he puts the sandwich to one side; as if to say: you’ve given me food and shelter, now I need to give you something in return.

As I’m drunk and been out all day in the sort of heat that would make a lizard say: “Fuck me, its too fucking hot – I’m going for a fucking ice bath.” I just sat and stared at this lad for a bit, formulating a genius response. All I could come up with was: “I’m not gay, you know.”

“Neither am I.”

Now I was confused. I said: “I wasn’t, you know, cruising, I haven’t brought you back here to, well… erm… fuck you… ”

He seemed to realised then I wasn’t into bumming Scouse vagrants in exchange for a cheese sandwich. We both stared at each other for a bit. Eventually, he got up, grabbed his backpack and fucked off in a bit of a mood (I think he may have really fancied a quick hide-the-salami sesh). Thinking about it in hindsight, I did think he stank a little bit too much of piss; but I did live with his sister for a while and her personal hygiene routine occasionally left something to be desired, truth told – I just thought it was a weird family trait.

Oh, and I was reduced to wanking in the shower for nearly two weeks after this… Curses!!!
( SpankyHanky, Thu 2 Jul 2009, 16:44, Reply)

Walking along Oxford Street, London
after a heavy night out, pizza in hand. I staggered aimlessly past a street dweller and he struck up a conversation with me.

"Is that pizza, my old mucker?"

"Erm, yes it is" I replied.

"I'm fucking hungry mate, would you mind if I took a slice"

Of course, I obliged. He really did look hungry, and as dirty as a freshly dug potato.

I wasn't expecting his next comment though. "Eurgh! Pineapple! Nah, you can keep it". Apparently beggars can be choosers after all.
( chart cat has an itch, Fri 3 Jul 2009, 2:30, 6 replies)

Poxy hotel policy vs hobo = win.
As an infrequent poster, chances are not many if any here will remember my post or two around the time my father died some year-and-a-bit ago. Anyway, while he was hospitalised and in the process of doing so, I was called up to the city at very short notice (ie "they're transferring him to the big city hospital NOW and he might not make it to the morning"), as happens. He stabilised a bit, and we, the family, organised ourselves vigil-wise. So I head into the city to find a room for the night.

I have many years' toil in the hospitality and accommodation sectors behind me, and am thus well acquainted with what I am likely to discover. Or so I thought. Biggish city this, but at 1AM there seems to be a dearth of rooms available. Rather, as I am at this juncture not all that well cashed-up, there are no apparently budget-type rooms available. So armed with my knowledge of general hotel policy at this hour, namely, sell a room at whatever price you can get above cost, I proceed to offer $150 (AUD) on the first $300 room I encounter. Surly geek number one manages that classic trick of displaying absolutely NO change of expression and merely repeats the price of a room. I attempt to use his pity and/or compassion gland and briefly outline my situation. Still $300.

Around the corner I go, repeat the experiment, fail, repeat again, and again. I am tired, emotional, and although I could just have stumped up the cash I just simply resented the ridiculous bumf I was hearing from the mouths of these gormless jobsworths, whose managers would most likely have ripped them new arseholes for not selling rooms at a profit. To a man (and they all were) they just wanted to go back to tossing off or sleeping behind their desks.

I exit the marble and glass lobby into a deserted street, pause, and glance over to my left. Here tucked into the shrubbery is a sleeping gentleman of the road, smelling like his fermented anaesthetic of choice has had plenty of time to work its soporific magic. Here I am, imminent-father-death-stupid-hotel-dork-bone-tired perspective in hand, with the $150 in cash I simply cannot seem to give away for a room. And here is he. So I very gently reach down, tuck the neatly rolled bills safely in his jacket pocket, and stroll off healed of my woes for now, to spend a cold, but dry and safe night sleeping in my car in a park.

Who cares what he did with the money? The moment of joy is the thing.
(dadadali has hybrid vigour, Sat 4 Jul 2009, 8:29, 3 replies)

REVENGE
“What do you see in that guy, Karen – he's a complete prick,” I commented, talking about her new boyfriend, a high flying city gent named Stefan who was a) a German, b) a banker leeching thousands off us tax payers, blowing (literally) ridiculous amounts of cash to fund his nasty habit for Columbian nose candy, and c) he was a fucking GERMAN.

Karen thought for a moment and replied: “Stefan's rich and he's got a fucking huge penis.”

Fair enough. But that was then. A few months later when my mate Karen and this sour kraut were getting heavily involved, it all changed. Fine by me – it was just fucking off putting having her waddle about, bow legged, asking for a cushion to sit on on account of her badly bruised and expanded vag from all the super-sized bratwurst action she was receiving.

Karen sat in our local and fumed. Stefan had given my mate Karen a rather nasty case of the clap he'd picked up from some random sexual conquest which took place in a club toilet with some, and I quote Karen: “fucking under age tart who probably didn't bother putting knickers on that night to save time later.”

Now, if there's one thing I've learned its that you don't fuck about with Karen. She's a Gateshead girl, hard as fucking nails, and incredibly, astoundingly nasty to those who deserve it. Karen then told me what she'd done to get even with this city wanker, I mean, banker. I didn't believe her. So we left the pub (me somewhat reluctantly), got in her car and drove down to Somers Town round the back of St Pancras where all the tramps used to hang out.

And I pissed myself laughing.

“Does Stefan know about this?” I asked.

Karen nodded, “I left him a note. He's an anal little shit so he'll come down here to look for himself. But I don't imagine he'll want anything back.”

I gazed for a bit longer. It's not everyday you see this sort of thing. Then – not being an expert on this sort of thing – I enquired: “How much did all this stuff cost?”

Karen, without batting an eyelid, responded: “About ten grand, so Stefan says.”

I laughed a bit more as I gazed from the car at a collection of elderly, smelly, disease-ridden bearded gents gathered round sitting on empty beer crates and flattened out cardboard boxes, merrily drinking cans of tesco value lager and blue nun. Only these tramps were a little different. They looked the fucking business. What with several of them wearing pristine Gucci suits, others decked out in Armani's finest, and the rest sporting catchy little numbers from the latest Jean Paul Gaultier collection.

It looked like a scene from Miami Vice...

...only Crockett and Tubbs and all the other guys in the vice squad had really let themselves go...
( SpankyHanky, Thu 2 Jul 2009, 23:10, 7 replies)

Dublin 2004 - three days after passing my medical finals.
The preceeding 2 months had been a hell of enforced purgatory as a result of drinking and dossing my way through medical school, occasionally forging signatures to pass modules. I was on the cusp of fucking up my entire career and it was time to deny myself life’s little pleasures in order to protect the only job I was able to secure: whipping boy in Man’s Worst Hospital.

But that was the past and this is now. And by now I mean 2004. I celebrated my academic good fortune by lying on the grass in Phoenix Park, beer in hand, sun in sky, the dulcet tones of the Pixies hitting my tympanic membranes - they had just reformed. Although, having chomped my way through 2 boxes of Pro-Plus and having not slept for 72hrs I was finding the gig rather difficult to enjoy. The crowds of people surrounding the stage had begun to resemble the waves of the sea and, accordingly, I began to feel a little sea-sick. By the time the headlining act, the Red Hot Chili Peppers, hit the stage this sensorial torture had become unbearable and so I headed towards the centre of Dublin, buying a sandwich and plonking myself down on a bench in St. Stephen’s Green.

As far as inner city parks go, St. Stephen’s Green is a peach. To my memory, ornate bridges span burbling water features, with broad aged trees providing much needed shade over the benches that border the stone paths. It’s not a very green park but it’s a great place to sit and watch the world go by whilst you lunch. St. Stephen’s Green is also notable for being the setpiece of my favourite tramp encounter.

I had never seen Irish tramps before, although I was not surprised to see that they were alcoholic. There were four of them in total, and pretty interchangable in that they each had a bulbous red nose, hairy cheeks and malodourous rags for clothes (except for one, who was wearing a green Ireland football team shirt to compliment his dubiously stained black trousers). They staggered in formation towards the bench next to mine. I increased my grip on my soda bread. I noticed that the tramp in green had taken on a sort of leadership role and was cradling a tube that was wrapped in white paper. The other three tramps followed excitably behind, almost pawing at the paper tube.

“C’mon now, this belongs t’all of us. Y’know that,” said one of the interchangable tramps to the tramp in green.

“Ah, to be sure, ‘tis a great afternoon indeed,” replied the leader, slowly unwrapping the paper tube to gasps from the amassed tramp populace.

The tube was actually a bottle of medium-priced Jacob’s Creek red wine wrapped in paper, the sort that you’d get on offer at your local supermarket for about £5. To my sophisicated friends here on b3ta I’m sure that the opening of a bottle of Jacob’s Creek is something of a non-event; but to the tramps of Dublin, this bottle represented their entire day’s begging money. This wasn’t the opening of a bottle of wine, this was the opening of the Ark of The Covenent.

With great ceremony, the leader removes from his pocket a shiny metal object with “MALLORCA” written across it in gaudy rainbow lettering. From this, a corkscrew swings out on a hinge next to a metal ring for hooking your keys to. The bottle is uncorked. The tramps applaud. They really APPLAUD and my sandwich goes uneaten as I watch, mesmerised, not entirely sure whether my insomnia has led to wild hallucination. The leader lifts the neck of the bottle up to his fat red nose and inhales deeply, a wide grin appearing on his face before exhaling with a satisfied sigh. Cheers abound. Then, as in a spirit of community, the leader takes a long gulp from the bottle and hands it to the tramp on his right, who is sat on the bench.

I like to believe that leader tramp had the time to think “Christ that’s better than K cider!” I’d like to think that he enjoyed his gulp of Aussie shiraz before he was knocked unconscious by his violent colleague, who had plucked an empty bottle of Stella from the bin and had twatted the leader around the head with it. On his way to the ground, the leader’s head crashes into the edge of the bench and I can see a thin trail of blood beginning to run down the path. There follows a stunned silence for what seems like an eternity. As an honest-to-God newly qualified doctor I’m contemplating running away lest someone recognises me and asks me to do something. Luckily, the silence is broken by the tramp holding the bottle, who composes himself and yells, “What the suffering fuck did you go and do that for? Jesus and Mary!”

Violent tramp is hyperventilating: a real ball of fury. “You know how fucking disrespectful that was! Fucking bastard, I should’ve killed the fucker, honest to God,” he fumes.

“But what? Why? You have to be patient for your turn on the wine.”

“Jesus suffering fuck, I’m surrounded by fucking animals,” laments violent tramp, “You’ve got to let the wine BREATHE!”
( blindmelon, Mon 6 Jul 2009, 16:14, 2 replies)

Realisation
Some years ago I was walking with a friend through Bath. A rather wild looking young man came up to us and seemed about to speak. I flinched and moved away.

Then in a gentle, sweet and desperately sad voice he said ... "Please don't be scared."

And you know, I was scared. Scared and, when he pointed it out, bloody ashamed. I gave him every penny I had on me, and I've never forgotten him.

Don't be scared. They're people.
(ubergeekian, Fri 3 Jul 2009, 17:20, 2 replies)

I once gave a lady tramp 50p just to get rid of her
I was trying to enjoy a beautiful summer evening drinking with work colleagues in the centre of Bristol and this woman just wouldn’t leave us alone. Against my better judgement I gave her the coin and quick as a flash she kissed me on the cheek and told me I was welcome in her bed any time. Yuck.

I thought that would be the end of it. Wrong. The next day at work the woman who sat near me said “I hear you kissed a tramp?” I spent the rest of the day explaining to curious colleagues that I had not kissed a tramp, but the more I denied it the more the rumour spread. At the time I worked in a building with about 800 employees and from then on whenever I met someone new it would be “Ohhh, you’re the guy who kissed a tramp!” There’s only so many times that you can explain through gritted teeth that you had NOT kissed a tramp before you go postal.

One day the central London sales manager came to Bristol to see us. I had worked with him over the phone but we had never actually met. I introduced myself and a look of recognition flashed across his face. I knew what was coming next. “Oh, you’re the guy (here it comes…that sodding tramp, will I ever live it down) that sorted out that key-man insurance with the multiple policy holders. Thanks for that, we almost lost the client”. With relief I confirmed that I was indeed that man. As an afterthought he turned to me and said, “Is it true that you once kissed a tramp?”

ARGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!
( Colonel Dracula Two manky hookers and a racist dwarf, Fri 3 Jul 2009, 12:15, 6 replies)

Tramp-clone
Me and the missus were walking through Oxford Street, and we hapened to pass a tramp, sitting there bothering people by the cash machine.

"Oh my god Fantomex", bleated the missus, "look at that tramp!"

There, lo and behold, was a tramp wearing exactly what I was wearing, from head to foot.
Sure, his clothes were grubbier, and smelt of wee, but for all intents and purposes, I had found my tramp-twin.

Of all the luck, owing to a tooth removed by the dentist, I was also at the time missing the same one as my domestically-challenged doppelganger.

Humiliating, yet intriguing.
(fantomex, Fri 3 Jul 2009, 19:08, 1 reply)

Porn mag on the train station.
Sitting waiting for my train with 5 or 6 random women and one smelly old tramp in a very bad pin-stripe suit. It was a small village stop so not much around. The tramp, while constantly groaning and spluttering pulls out a grotty copy of Fiesta and stands right by all the women blatantly rubbing his nuts and laughing. I was just about to stand up and say something like 'I say old chap, it's just not on!' but instead all the women shuffled around and ended up standing around me, I realised, hoping I would protect them! This bolstered my manliness to the max thinking that all these ladies needed me for protection from the weirdo so I stood between them and him with my arms crossed looking annoyed. For an Englishman this is a grave threat and the tramp wandered off muttering and rubbing. All the ladies thanked me for my braveness and I felt genuinely useful for once in my life.
( Brandy_Bumwinkle, Fri 3 Jul 2009, 14:00, 4 replies)

Abigail's Ink.
A lady of my acquaintance is, how shall we say, of negotiable affection. She is also very attractive, very good company and as such a cut above her immediate colleagues. However her one big failing is that she is a tart with a heart and will probably never get rich as the negotiations often entail goods in kind from all sorts of tradesmen, professionals and various shopkeepers. Just as an aside she has never needed to pay for legal representation. Ever. But I digress.

One such negotiation was with Steve, the owner of a local Tattoo and Piercing parlour. He promised a tattoo of her design based on a minute for minute trade. This sounded good to Abigail (her working name) as she had been fancying a bit of the old ink for a while. She saved up his visits for a couple of months and then visited him.

Unfurling the design he said it would probably take slightly less than the time she had banked and being the kind-hearted lady she is she told him to keep the change. After nearly 2 hours she a beautiful pink ribbon design with a lovely intricate knot. Lots of shading and some gold rings tattooed on so that it looked like the ribbon was part of a piece of lower back corsetry cinching her actual waist in.

Steve stepped back to admire his work and suddenly a frown of concern appeared. “Abigail, you know with being in your profession don’t you think it’s a bit of a cliché to have a tramp stamp, beautiful as it is?”

“Oh no,” said Abigail “It isn’t a tramp stamp. It’s a Ho-Bow.”
(porkylips looks better as the sun goes down., Fri 3 Jul 2009, 12:08, 3 replies)

El Duderino (If you are not into the whole brevity thing)
This won’t involve Miami Actress or any acts of gross indecency, but it did happen on the same trip.

Key West, 2001. I met ‘The Dude’

And really, he was. He was the absolute dead ringer for Lebowski. He looked like Jeff Bridges, he sounded like Jeff Bridges. He was a fucking rock star.

I sat on Duval Street and got as high as a fucking kite and as drunk as a lord with him and his hobo friends. The man who made hats out of palm leaves and looked like he was carved out of mahogany, the man who made a living giving out cards for the strip club (and yes, of course I went, and met the nicest stripper ever, when $40 fell out of my pocket, she called me over and gave it back) and the man who hustled tourists over the pool table at The Drunken Parrot (or whatever similar name that place had). I supplied the booze, they supplied the dope.

The Dude didn’t even get pissed off with me when I stupidly asked him if he had ever seen The Big Lebowski (‘Man, do I look like I own a video player? Where would I even plug it in?’)

And, one of the most bizarrely smile inducing things that has ever happened to me – I was sat on the edge of the wall, looking over the water at Mallory Square (I think that’s it’s name? Anyone know any better? My memory does not serve me well sometimes) watching the famous Key West sunset while cats tightrope walked at the show nearby and American students got drunk on frozen margaritas from Fat Tuesdays, when I heard ‘Scarpe! Dude! Good to see you man’ being yelled at me.

From the water.

As The Dude went sailing past in a bath tub with an outboard motor attached to the back, waving at me like a mad man.

Dude, I salute you, you were fucking awesome. May your bath float on forever.
( scarpe We Stole Bikes, Fri 3 Jul 2009, 16:31, 1 reply)

Tramp on a boat
I have two dogs, and regularly walk them alongside the Leeds-Liverpool Canal near Apperley Bridge, on the Leeds/Bradford border.

About two years ago the hull of a boat - not a big boat, maybe a two-berth cruiser type - appeared one weekend, moored by the butresses of an old bridge.

Slowly but surely a superstructure has been built up on the hull, made entirely of rubbish - old kitchen units, doors etc..Essentially this wreck now has a serviceable, if ramshackle, living quarters.

And I can't help but envy the old dosser who lives in it. It's rent free, he's done a very good job making his little cabin waterproof, he's not going to be bothered by chavs and I often see him making his way back down the towpath with bin-pickings from the very affluent areas nearby.

This boy lives for nothing and I've never seen him ask for anything, in a rustic, peaceful little corner of the West Yorkshire rat-race.

There's the irony - his floating house is next to the railway lines from Skipton and Ilkley into Leeds, with trains conveying polyester clad arse-lickers from Barratt Home to call-centre and back, stuck in 9-5 land with only Big Brother to entertain them.

Hats off, Canal tramp. I'll print this, and any replies, and leave it on his boat tomorrow.
( The Disappointed Caravanner of the year, Thu 2 Jul 2009, 18:53, 18 replies)

once I was homeless...
...for quite a while, living in a stolen car with a friend.

It was about 10 years ago: I was 19, I'd been in Australia (Byron Bay) for quite a while and was running low on cash, but didn't want to get a job. i remeber pissing it up on Xmas day safe in the knowledge that I was spending the last of my cash and that was a good thing, as I would no longer have to worry about getting closer and closer to being broke. I would just be broke, and it couldn't get any worse.

So on boxing day morning i moved out of the youth hostel i'd lived in for the last 4 months, and into a car we'd been occassionally "borrowing" (it was presummed dumped, it had been in the hostel car park for several months).

It was a huge 1970's Holden with bench seats (I had the front since you ask) and massive boot, so plenty of room for all the crap I'd foolishly brought travelling and enough room to sprawl out and sleep.

And so we stayed in there for about 10 weeks, until the hostel owners asked us to leave the car park... after that we drove the car around various other places near by until the police removed the plates as we had no tax, mot (green ticket or something) or insurance.

Then we slept on the beach for a couple of weeks - but everything started to get really sandy...

Finally I called up my folks and asked them to lend me £100 to go to Sydney and get a job, but really i would have happily stayed living on the beach if i could - it was getting a little colder though and starting to rain more - and tramping without a roof aint no fun in the long run!

Something amasingly invigorating about having nothing at all!

I'd get up in the morning with no cash in my pockets, no wallet to worry about, no keys to loose (and this was before everyone had mobile, so didn't have that to think about) and just do whatever I fancied.

We usually popped in to one of the various youth hostels and helped out for a bit to earn a free breakfast before hitting the beach all day, and then returning to our original hostel to help cook an evening meal they sold there.

We often seemed to find cash on the streets - enough to get some bread and honey once in a while... and usually some group of fellow travellers would ask us to join them in a box of finest Auzzy wine, so most evenings were free fun down on a beach. If you build a big enough bonfire - people will come.

Only thing i actually wanted cash for was to develop a couple of rolls of film I'd taken, but that waited.

My friend found it a little harder as he was a big smoker - and resorted to hitching to the next town to rob a store of 4 large packs of rolling tabaco. Before that he'd taken to smoking dog ends through a pipe... Desperate times for him.

---

i have some amazing memories (and photos) of that time of my life, really was a glorious time for me, being a true beach bum. I missed having a tan so much that when i came back to the UK for uni i bought a tanning bed... but that wasn't quite the same as spending all your day doing fuck all on a beautiful deserted beach...

I'd do it again in a second if i could unravel myself from modern life! The book 'diary of a supertramp' is well worth reading if you are interested in living outside! Though my ultimate dream is to live the life of Tom Neale - 'An Island to Oneself' is my bible.

(sorry, story not funny... just wanted to share!)
(crowcrow - wasting domain names since, Wed 8 Jul 2009, 20:56, 3 replies)

strangest mugging?
I was once walking home late at night in Grimsby, and a man walked past me - in a smartish looking suit, I thought nothing of it at first, until he'd walked past and I heard somebody behind me running.
The same chap who'd just walked past me was now in front of me, waving a knife in my face.
'Give me all your money'
'I dont have any' A likely story, he probably thought.
Thing is, I really didn't - I had no electric in my flat, the meter was in debt from the last tenants, and the landlord had done sweet FA about it - i also had no food whatsoever. I was living on water, while waiting for the dole to get their act together and sort my claim out.
I told him this, and he put his knife away, embarrased and apologetic - he kept shaking my hand.
'sorry mate, sorry mate - i'm in the same circumstance.. im waiting for the dole too - but you've got it worse than i have'
and with that, he dug deep and gave me his change - more than a fiver and walked off!
(Davethefan began lurking again on or around, Fri 3 Jul 2009, 17:57, 6 replies)

Foot in Mouth
My favourate encounter with a homeless person occured when wondering back from Peterborough's classy Queensgate shopping centre over the foot bridge to the station.

There was normally someone on this bridge asking for change, and this particular day was no different. Being a young, caring Padawan (or maybe due to an annoying strong conscience, I once went back into a shop to give them back 10p which they had over-changed me - I had been agonising over all day, yet I digress) I checked my pockets but realised I didn't have a single coin to rub together (nor a one-handed clap).

I asked him if he smoked instead and he said yes so I offered him the packet with the immortal line that still makes me cringe to this day:

"Cool well have one of these, sorry, they're only Lambert and Butlers but Beggars can't be..."

It was at that point when I realised what I was about to say. My face went white and the guy looked sharply at me seeing if I was taking the piss. The look of horror on my face must have been priceless as he burst out laughing. I threw the whole pack at his feet before stammering an apology and running across the rest of the bridge, his laughter echoing after me all the way...
(ab1kenobe, Mon 6 Jul 2009, 16:44, 1 reply)

Kindness of Homeless
I volunteer with wildlife and at times go to some unusual places to get wildlife out of scrapes and have them treated and rehabilitated. One time I had to go to Circular Quay in the city (Sydney), and find a homeless man who had called us the night before about a bat.

It was weird I hadn't been called out when the call came in as an animal in trouble can die if left and this bat had been left for about 9 hours at this point. I also wasn't optimistic that the homeless man would still be there or whether or not I'd be able to find the bat.

As it was, I found the man and at the same time saw the bat. This man had nothing, was grimy, thin, had a sign asking for money and yet was utterly lovely. He told me all about the bat and it really touched my heart that he had used some of his own money to make the call to try and get help given how little he had himself and how much help he himself needed. These are the kinds of people that, to me, are the ones I would help first - those who are kind and still have a heart.

The homeless man explained to me that the bat was pretty feisty (they usually are when sick and terrified, otherwise they are usually very curious about people and look you in the eye, not as a challenge but because they are interested - and not interested in eating you, stop being terrified people!), he'd given the bat water through the night and shared the small amount of food he'd been able to scavenge as well, which again I found deeply touching.

I went and picked up the bat who had concussion and really wasn't at all happy and people had been walking back and forth within centimetres of this poor animal all day without making a single call about her. Yet a man without a home, money, food, shelter, security or friends who could help him in a material way had ensured that help would come, that the animal would not die of thirst or hunger and kept an eye on her through the night and half of the day until help arrived. Also given how much pain and fear she was experiencing the man had taken a real risk of being bitten, of which he was aware as we talked about it, but he could not see another creature suffer without trying to help. All I did to help him was thank him profusely, and give him $10 and still wish I could have done more.

I have found on several occasions that the homeless will help someone worse off than themselves and while this man was the strongest in his help towards this sick bat, many homeless people have aided animals and deterred other people bent on mischief from interfering with animals.

I hope that homeless man has been able to get help as he was a wonder.
(Dog Bum Cute, wiggly, has scary anal glands, Mon 6 Jul 2009, 9:00, 7 replies)

I was the tramp
Our tale begins with yours truly sitting in a police car. You see, I'd been homeless for a good many months and in between roughing it, I'd done a fair bit of sofa surfing on especially cold nights. At one particular “friends”, I had however come a cropper. See this friend, rather then asking me to move on, as others had in various ways, decided instead to go for broke. I was asked to go out and pick up some stuff from another mutual acquaintance only to find that person wasn't just not in the house, but not even in the same city! Trudging back I phoned up – I'd left everything I owned in this friends place, beyond the bag on my back that literally went everywhere with me – it had a change of clothes and a sleeping bag in it. I was refused, and then was put on the business end of the most painful and hurtful tirades I've ever been witness to.

Threats a plenty came across the line. So I'd phoned the police as the temperature was dropping below zero at this point to get back what stuff I could carry with me. By the time the police had arrived (2 hours later), this friend had managed to hide/remove/whatever everything I knew to be in that house.

Everything.

So the police took me to the local salvation army centre, but as per – it was full to the brim. It's December, there is snow coming down quite heavily and I'm on the streets. Fuck.

In a moment of desperation I phoned a guy I'd worked with as a phone monkey for Currys. At this point I figured I didn't have anything to loose. The diamond came through.

“No probs Lea, get your arse round to my old man's – we'll set up a bed for you and we can work out the rest later!”

After an hour or so I got to his old man's house based on the directions he'd given me. By now I can't feel anything below my knees and my fingers are becoming difficult to move – it's that cold.

I stay at his Dad's place for two weeks in the end. But that's not the best part. Oh no.

His Dad was (as I understand it) a well known and trusted member of the Muslim community. Where both the local council and Christian charities had told me they couldn't do much due to me not being a single mother/(ex)junkie/asylum seaker/ex con. This one man, with a handful of phone calls arranged a place for me. Even better, thanks to his good words on my behalf, I didn't even have to pay a deposit!!!

So here I am, at home nearly 18 months later and very much alive thanks to a virtual strangers' kindness.

Thanks Noah, I can't say how much I owe you – how much is a life worth?

As for the “friend”, she ended up with practically all of my ID (in another bag), computer (worth a few hundred) and piles of other stuff. Not that I can prove it, of course.

Apologies for length...
(the_leander, Fri 3 Jul 2009, 7:39, 5 replies)

Short and sweet for now
Random exchange with a tramp in Canterbury:

"'ere, 'scuse me mate, 'ave you gotta spare fag?"
"Er no, sorry, I don't smoke."
*pause*
"But you must smoke! You've got a beard!"

Can't beat tramp logic.
(jamesthegill opens new tabs with his scroll wheel, Thu 2 Jul 2009, 16:46, 2 replies)

Drifting tenuously off the subject...
...but I suppose it can count as an answer because the guy was a stranger, trying to elicit a pecuniary response.

The Oscillating Gibbon and I have just been in the pub with Nettlesteed (a mutual friend of ours) enjoying the fine ales available at the Charles Dickens on Union Street (for the information of any London-based b3tans: it's a great establishment; for all of you: apologies for posting whilst half-cut).

A chap appeared outside said pub with a hat full of change in one hand.

In his other hand? A leash. To what was said leash tethered? An alpaca.

I saw this. I double-took. I looked harder to make sure it was real. There really was a man outside the pub with a miniature llama.

Naturally, upon realising this, I did the only mature thing and stormed out of the pub to pet said alpaca. The chap was collecting for some children's charity and was just leading the llama through London with him.

I'm normally a bit selective about which charities I give to, but to be honest, any charity which will let me fondle a llama for money can probably expect a handful of coinage off me.

I like llamas. And alpacas. And other variants on the camelid theme.

Sorry, started slightly off-topic and just drifted further and further away from it. Meh, have a good evening, the lot of you: I've got to be up at silly o' clock tomorrow to get to Reading in time to give a talk at 9 to what few have managed to get in despite their hangovers.

But I got to fondle an alpaca outside the pub. Oh yeah.
(LongJohnBaldry, Fri 3 Jul 2009, 22:44, 4 replies)

Human waste
At a similar time to my first story, I was combining fighting a hangover and getting my mother a birthday card with a trip to the same Tesco in Huddersfield.

My still foggy brain led to me taking a slightly different route, and hence I noticed something in the street. “A pile of rags.” My brain told me. People walked by and seemed oddly unaware of it. Looking any were but at it.

As I got in close I realised it was a man, and by his look, a very homeless man. He was out cold, broad daylight, middle of a fairly busy street and nobody paid any attention.

I asked if he was ok, no response. I asked louder, again, nothing. I could see he was still breathing, So I looked to see if I could see any injury, or any sign of what was wrong. I found the culprit, a bottle of “white lightning” (strong, cheap cider to our more cultured readers). Seemed the old fellow had drunk himself to pieces. A group of girls came over to see what was wrong. They quickly decided it wasn’t too important, and not worth touching his “piss soaked rags” over. They quickly left, but a woman, appearing to be around 30 appeared. She asked me if I knew what had happened, I said that it looked like he’d been drinking and had passed out. Another man walked over, he appeared 30-35, and we decided between us it would be best to phone an ambulance. The man asked if we would be ok dealing with it, he had a place to be.

As soon as he was off, the tramp began to stir, got to his feet looked around, clearly still blitzed, I tried to talk to him, but he didn’t seem to notice, then he feel down on his back pretty hard. The woman phoned for an ambulance, and I waited with her. We didn’t really say much, I didn’t want to leave her alone with the guy, and I also didn’t want to just walk away from him. The ambulance turned up and the guys recognised him, said he was a regular, and would be better off with the police. They summon up a few police man and are off. We waited for the police to bundle him off, I felt a bit guilty but realised he’d get a fairly comfortable cell, probably a bit of decent food and some clean water, so it was probably a favour to him.

As we went our separate way, the woman and me said goodbye and there was a moment when we looked at each other and seemed to share a thought. “Why did so few people stop?”

Remember while your laughing at stories of drunken, crass, smelly and strange men, they are people too, and the majority of tramps suffer from mental problems and a huge number are ex service men unable to readjust to civilian life. I’m not trying to be preachy or tell you off, just don’t forget that there are people underneath the rags, people just like you or me.
(Mong goose, Fri 3 Jul 2009, 1:54, 3 replies)

Not all tramps are insane
Dateline: East London, early 2003

I was walking home in an odd kind of mood. I'd just been attending a strip establishment in Shoreditch, accidentally on purpose turning up on the same evening as the girlfriend of a mate was one of the performers. She knew that I knew what she did, as did he, and it was no big deal really, however the temptation to turn up and stare at her fanny was too much to resist. Plus she moved to America in her other career and now is on a top-rated TV show every week, so I have a great memory to call to mind whenever I see her.

Anyway, back on topic. Wandering back towards the station, full of beer and with my head full of all manner of thoughts about this lady friend I passed by a filling station which had a young lady sat on a blanket outside begging for change. She smiled at me as we made eye contact but I breezed past without stopping.

20 seconds later I did stop. I'd just had a great evening, fulfilling a long standing ambition to see a certain friend naked in a social context, and here was this girl (who must have been no more than about 25) with a life infinitely shitter than mine, still able to flash me a smile and make me feel good about myself. Spotting a chip shop nearby, I bought the largest portion of fish and chips they could manage and headed back to where she was still holding out her battered cup.

I sat down next to her and opened up the package, inviting her to share the feast if she told me her story. In between shovelling huge handfuls of food into her mouth in a manner which was quite heartbreaking, she told me how she had been thrown out by her mother, sectioned twice and now was reduced to living on the streets, trapped in the eternal poverty cycle of not being able to get a job without an address and vice versa. She didn't do drugs, didn't drink and was hopeful that somehow she would find a way out, but in the meantime she was left begging for change and hoping that a charity would spot her and get her a place in a hostel.

She even apologised for stealing virtually all of what she assumed was my supper, but I assured her that I would just get another for myself later. I thanked her for the company, gave her my last fiver and breezed off into the night after receiving a kiss on the cheek from her.

I've no idea what happened to her, or indeed what possessed me to suddenly be nice to the kind of person I'd normally spend my time stepping over as they camped underneath the cash machine. The warm glow I had for the next 24 hours somehow made it all worthwhile.
(TalkbackStuck making obscene phonecalls since, Mon 6 Jul 2009, 17:53, 1 reply)

Top Tramps
Beard length: 16cm

What you got?
(The Archduke of South London I'm in your Girlfriend eating her organs, Sun 5 Jul 2009, 23:36, 9 replies)

Not funny on QOTW!
I stop and talk to most of the homeless people in my local town and the stories are all similar lots of times involving drugs, alcoholism etc but there was one guy and I couldn't get over how "normal" he looked. We got chatting and it turned out that he had lost his job and had come home to find his missus with someone else and the locks changed. He had literally lost everything in a very short period of time and back then you had to have been unemployed for a bit before they would help you. He was begging to raise enough for a deposit on a flat some he could beat the stupid "No house can't get a job, no job can't get a house cycle" Yeah Right I thought, thats what they all say. He was cold so I gave him my gloves a couple of quid for his tale of woe and off I went.

3 months later I walked in to my local Tes*o and there he was on the checkout. He had raised enough begging to pay the deposit on a small flat got a job and was on the road to recovery.

It just made me feel all warm and fuzzy.
( Peej, Sun 5 Jul 2009, 10:11, Reply)

Primark
Oh god, all I can think about is tramps now.

When I was a young lad, I wondered into the local Primark. there, inside a clothes rack, was a homeless man drinking a Costa coffee. he said "Hello" and pulled the clothes back around himself.
(beetlejuice Go and boil your bottoms you sons of silly persons, Fri 3 Jul 2009, 16:40, 2 replies)

Bless Me B3ta
for I have sinned. It has been many days since my last post...


So I was standing in this bar one day when this girl walked past me. She was slutty looking and had jeans on that were so tight they must have been painted on.

"Fucking hell love" I said "How the hell do you get in those?"

She looked me up and down and said:

"Buy me a drink"

Cheers

What?
( Legless Mister Stabby - shanks for the memory, Fri 3 Jul 2009, 7:51, 14 replies)

Tramp asked you for cash?
Chances are, they're not homeless. In London, with its population of 7.5 million people there are less than 150 people who are street homeless.

Don't believe me? Check the statistics for yourself:
www.communities.gov.uk/housing/homelessness/publicationsabouthomelessness/roughsleepingstatistics/

If you ever find yourself homeless the help that is available for you is simply staggering. This is my step-by-step guide to getting yourself back on your feet.

1. Contact Shelter (0808 800 4444) who will give you a list of hostels and homeless shelters.

2. Find a walk-in hostel. A lot of these (for example St. Mungos) offer a lot more than accommodation. Addicted to drugs or alcohol? The hostel can refer you to addictions services and from there you can find yourself in a 6 month residential rehab placement within a year. Mentally ill? The hostel can refer you to a community mental health team.

3. From the hostel, you should approach the housing association. Sadly, these bureaucratic fuckwits may not give a shit about your plight. However, should you make an impression you could expect to be housed within a month. Seriously, it can be that quick.

4. Whatever the outcome of the housing association meeting, register with a GP. Again, they can link you in with mental health or addiction services should you need it. More importantly, some GPs have benefits advisors who will visit the surgery to sort your finances out and help you to start looking for a job.

5. Should you find yourself in hospital, bizarrely you've struck gold. We cannot discharge you if you're homeless and the NHS will put massive pressure on the housing association to find you somewhere to live. If you have a mental illness, we will put you up in a bed & breakfast at taxpayer's expense until a home becomes available.

6. Homeless through violence? Find yourself a refuge at www.refuge.org.uk where you are guaranteed to be safe. The refuge staff will not give out your details to anybody, not even doctors.

With all of this help available there is no excuse at all to be out on the street begging for cash. I have been approached by beggars for whom I have personally sorted out accommodation, benefits, free travel and help set up job interviews. I know that they have a roof over their head because I've seen it for myself and this sort of behaviour, frankly, pisses me off.

Give help not change to beggars.

***EDIT - My maths is shocking and yes there are more than 150 people sleeping rough in London. But not much more. It's still a startling statistic.***
( blindmelon, Mon 6 Jul 2009, 23:32, 5 replies)

how he got there
Sorry that this isn't funny, but I still feel the need to share.

My brother had a really good mate through school. One of those scarily clever people. A bit lazy, but people that smart tend to be, because they can basically breeze through school. Which he did.

Thing is, he didn't have the best home life. His parents never seemed to want to have kids and just saw him as an annoyance. Whenever they noticed him, they would constantly put him down - basically say he was useless and he would never amount to anything. As a result, he was criplingly shy, had a really bad stutter and had real difficulty coping in social situations.

Once he'd breezed through school, he got offered a place at uni. As did my brother. Since his uni was on the way to my brother's, and my parents were driving my brother there with his stuff, he asked for a lift. We were a little concerned that his stuff wouldn't fit in our already overloaded car, but didn't have to be - when we arrived at his house, he was sat on the kerb, with a bin bag with all the stuff his parents would let him take. Which wasn't much - a couple of changes of underwear, a toothbrush an a pad of paper - his parents claimed everything else was theirs, since they'd bought it for him.

We dropped him off at Uni and never really heard from him again. He wrote to my brother a couple of times (this was way before emails were the norm) then nothing.

A couple of years ago, I was on my way to meet a few mates for a drink in Liverpool. I stopped at a cashpoint to get some beer tokens and was asked for change when I looked at the homeless guy begging, I realised it was my brothers mate. I asked him how he got there and he said "give us a tenner and I'll tell you"

Turns out he just couldn't cope with Uni. His stutter meant that he could never participate in class, couldn't really afford the books and his shyness left him feeling very lonely and homesick. He returned to his parents in Widnes and quickly spiralled into a very poor state of mind - his parents, his failure at uni and living in Widnes all weighed him down and dragged him into using heroin.

One day he's being driven by a mate to swap some crack he'd cooked up for skag and they end up getting chased by the police, since the car was TWOC'd. Car ends up crashing and his "mate" legs it, leaving him in the car. Police and CPS pin stealing the car and the 6 rocks in the glovebox on him and he does a short stretch.

When he got out, his parents wouldn't let him in the house. The DSS put him on a list and he ends up in a hostel while he waits for a flat. One of the other hostel residents re-intorduced him to the joys of brown and that was him fucked. When he got his flat, he sold everything in it for smack and the council threw him out.

And there he was, probably the most naturally intelligent person I'd ever met - a baghead on the streets.

I gave him all the money I had on me and he toddled off on his way, to score no doubt. I like to think that he somehow pulled his life around and is doing alright, but I'm fairly sure he's dead somewhere right now. He was a nice lad, once you got past the shyness, but his familly fucked him up pretty badly.

Knowing him made me appreciate my mundane upbringing.
(ScousersPet, Mon 6 Jul 2009, 14:58, 2 replies)

You're not supposed to call them 'homeless people' any more.
The correct term is 'Involuntary Street Performers.'
(apeloverage committed the vile act of onanism on, Fri 3 Jul 2009, 16:25, 2 replies)

Remember, all tramps are someones child/brother/sister...
My little sister took a somewhat unorthodox route into adult life and ended up with a social circle that contained people that most wouldn't piss on if they were on fire. Despite my family's most extreme efforts*, she ended up on the streets taking god knows what. We think she was raped at least once, probably more. Pretty much the kind of place you don't expect many to come back from. My parents spent years just waiting for the call from the police/hospital to tell us she'd been found dead.

Thankfully, she hit rock bottom before she actually ended up dead and somehow found the strength to turn her life around quite monumentally. With support and some pretty amazing help from local services, she is now back to being the fun and happy person she was before. Furthermore, she has more respect for everything and everyone around her than anyone else I have ever known.

I know this is supposed to be a comedy QOTW, but before you post your hilarious story about how you pissed on a homeless guy or kicked a busker in the face, perhaps take a second to think that these people are quite often in horrific places in their lives; rarely through choice and sometimes treading a fine line between life and death. Being a twat to them is not only incredibly unnecessary but might actually send them over the edge. 50p/not being an arse isn't really much to ask of any decent human.

*anyone who just assumes these things could never happen in their family or that they would never let something like this happen to someone they know can go forth and populate. You have no idea
( Devon Dan without geometry, there would be no point, Fri 3 Jul 2009, 10:51, 19 replies)

London tramps are best.
Whilst queuing up to get into a club, a mad homeless black fella was marching up and down the queue saying, "Hey, who wanna fight, eh? I'm Muhammad Ali! Who wanna fight?"
He then heard some music from the club, started dancing on the spot and shouting, "Now I'm Bob Marley!"

Another tramp decided to sit with me and my mates whilst we had a bit of lunch in the park.
He said to us, "I have 5 daughters, 9 turtles and 9 daughters."
( Edd: The Unfunny Try-Hard Edgelord, Fri 3 Jul 2009, 8:37, Reply)

Xylophone man
Joseph Conrad believed that the best stories are about the author and that when telling a story it's an error to talk about someone else. I'm not sure I agree.

I've got the usual assortment of tales of being rude to tramps, running away from them when I was younger and, on a couple of disturbing occasions, receiving sexual advances that made my skin crawl.

Most people have a tramp (or even several, if they're lucky) that they remember. There was the one who hung around outside my university that I bought cider for so he would keep me entertained while I handed out flyers for one pointless club night or another. There was the heroin addict outside Euston Square station that I saw creep a little closer to shuffling off this mortal coil each day. But these are all little, pointless memories of a single person - few cross over to become an institution. Xylophone man was one of those few.

Anybody who spent time in Nottingham city centre during the nineties is likely to remember him. From about 1989, until his death in 2004 he sat there (usually outside C&A on Listergate), playing his child's xylophone. He never worried about the finer points, like learning to play a recognisable tune, he just plinked away on his tiny instrument for 15 years. I don't remember seeing him without a smile on his face.

Maybe it's uncharitable to call him a tramp, or anything similar, as there were rumours about him having a home somewhere in the city. But as he never worried about the finer points, neither shall I.

Nottingham city centre's been a slightly poorer place since.


(geekboy Hillbilly., Thu 2 Jul 2009, 18:46, 8 replies)

Squirrel vs Pigeon
Whilst sat on a bench in Regents Park one time a tramp ambled up to me, stinking of piss and the sort of strong white cider that could strip a wall at twenty paces. Oh gawd, I though. I've always - for some unknown reason - being rather popular with tramps, a sort of tramp magnet who they think would be interested in hearing them recount their tales about what crap they found in a bin that afternoon, how they had a piss in a phonebox earlier, how they've been secretly popping round to Buckingham Palace every evening for the last twenty years to squirt a thick load up the Queen's jacksy. etc, etc, etc.

So, I let out a little sigh, resigned to a few minutes of listening to complete and utter tramp drivel. But the tramp doesn't want me. No. He veers off at the last moment, busying himself with something by the side of my bench. And to my horror, after a few moments, the tramp reappears from his crouch holding a stone cold dead squirrel, trailing guts and blood - it looked like a dog had mauled it - which the tramp strokes and talks to in gentle, placating tones, holding it up to his cheek and coooing softly, before ramming the half rotten corpse squarly in one of his overcoat pockets - so the stiff back legs and bushy tail, trailing squirrel shit, poke out looking like some kind of fancy fashion accessory.

The tramp goes swaying off, talking to himself. And I just couldn't help myself.

I said: "There's a dead pigeon over there," and I pointed.

The tramp stopped. His manky old nostils flayed open, his twisted, pox-ridden face screwed up a little more, and he said:

"WHAT THE FUCK CAN AYE DO WITH A DEED FUCKIN' PIGEON??? D'YOU THINK I'M FUCKIN' MENTAL OR SUMMIN???"

I apologised. He accepted my apology and wondered off, absently stroking the dead and mangled rodent corpse in his pocket.
( SpankyHanky, Thu 2 Jul 2009, 17:32, Reply)

Regent Street
We'd been out for a lovely chinese for my friends birthday. Lots of drinks and merriment all round. What we saw whilst stumbling home topped off the night (for me anyway):

A homeless chap next to a very large sign stating:

"Crazy Johnny plays the hits"

Which he was doing.

With a large traffic cone as a trumpet.

Whatever these "hits" were, only he'd heard them.

I gave him all the change in my pocket.

Best tramp ever.
(Cylon Bum Raider already knows how this will end, Thu 2 Jul 2009, 16:57, 4 replies)

Tramp pic gets me laid
Years ago, I suffered the misfortune of losing my home, my fiance and my job within about two weeks of eachother.
But this is not a tale of woe... oh no.

Luckily (or unluckily depending where your sitting) my grandad had passed away about two months earlier. With me at a loose end my dad gave me the keys to the house and I ended up living there for a little while. The only downside to the place was there was no furniture to speak of, no hot water and the whole place leaked.
Still, I was destitute and it was kinda comfy. I had a sleeping bag and a roof over my head, so I wasnt complaining.

To cut a long story short, I set myself up as an IT contracter and jetted off to the heady town of Aberdeen to work for BP for a ridiculous sum of money.
A couple of months into the contract, I got to know this pretty blonde lady ten years my junior and set about trying to impress her with my worldy knowledge and anecdotes.
One of these was about 'me being homeless' for a while and how I'd managed to pull myself up by my bootstraps and get back on the employment ladder.
Was bollox really, but she had great baps so a little lie didnt seem the worst thing.
Funny thing was though she didnt really believe me, could see it in her eyes.
Till she was at my place and I'd just got some photographs back. As I was flicking though them she came across one taken by my mate at the house, of me in my sleeping bag next to a broken window.
"wots this?"
"Oh thats me when I was homeless".
Cue a sparkle in her eyes and shazam.... got me end away

result
(EvilMeister, Tue 7 Jul 2009, 15:33, 3 replies)

Why?
I live in London, so therefore see a number of the down and outs that fit the typical stereotype of hobo, one of the guys I see on the odd occasion is pretty weird. I can’t really call this bloke a proper tramp as he always looks quite clean, despite living in a box the size of a wardrobe that was stolen from the local cop shop – it still has the police signs on it for gods sake, and we know that its his as he takes the thing everywhere with him. According to some people he has been homeless after some problems with his family and friends.

To say that he can be eccentric at times would be an understatement. I have seen him around my estate a few times inserting mumbo jumbo words into normal sentences. The problem is he’s not talking to himself he is usually accompanied by someone (my guess is a care worker of sorts). So far I have seen him being followed round by three different type of care worker, always going along with his made up stories (must be part of the job description or something). The care workers also seem to be pretty decent looking (well the first two I saw him with anyway, the latest one was a bit too old for my taste.

Anywhoo this bloke (I don’t know his name but my guess he was a GP at one point due to his nickname) will always be seen round town causing all kinds of mayhem and after the trouble dies down he hides in his box and buggers off somewhere else.

I had better get off it looks like the Daleks are back again so my vagrant friend (aka the doctor) will be here soon.
(mon bison powered by magnets, Tue 7 Jul 2009, 9:15, 3 replies)

Cliche
I once saw a tramp fighting a pack of stray dogs for some food, then doing a runner hotly pursued by the same dogs - who were then chased by two cleaver wielding chinese blokes.

I had to stop and actually (cartoon style) rub my eyes and confirm what I was seeing.

Eastern Europe rocks.
(mymilkshakebringsallthemongstotheyard poison hearts, poison minds - joining hate, Sun 5 Jul 2009, 17:56, 1 reply)

tramp dating
my friend evie is known for her randomness. she is forever picking up strange people or habits, and then just as carelessly forgetting about them.

so when she went to a friend's party by herself one night, she was very surprised when the hostess came up to her after about an hour, looking pretty fucked off, and said:

"evie, that guy you brought has just necked back everyone's beer."

evie had to really think for a minute, before saying in bewilderment that no, she definitely hadn't brought anyone with her.

turned out a stray tramp had followed her into the party. because it was evie, everyone had just assumed that they were together. unable to believe his luck, he had simply headed into the kitchen and gone to town on the free booze.

i really must try this tactic one evening...
( rachelswipe with a fork, Sun 5 Jul 2009, 11:53, 2 replies)

Me and my mates...
...used to like going camping in the woods. We'd invite anyone who wanted to come along, set up a big fire, get pissed, stoned and high, and fall asleep. No tents, just sleeping out in the warm summer night. Yay for living in rural devon where no-one calls the police, and even if they did they'd take 3 hours to get there.

Still, we never did any harm and it was nice sleeping out under the stars.

It was on one of these trips that I tried some cannabis. Pot really doesn't work on me, it just instantly knocks me out. I go into a deep deep sleep, but not really asleep, so I wake up and feel like I've been awake for 24 hours. Its rubbish. But this time I thought, ah, I'll give another go.

zonk. Straight to sleep.

Next morning I'm woken up by a dog licking my face as someone walks his dog, and all my mates have buggered off home. Great. So I stagger off to the nearest village, with a raging thirst, smelling of woodsmoke and a bit grimey. And Im exhausted, completely knackered. I stumble into the village shop and buy all I can afford - one of those horrible synthetic juice drinks in a plastic cup with a peel-back lid. I dont think you can even get them anymore, but they tasted of plastic and cost about 10p. I sat against the wall outside, peeled back the lid, and quenched my thirst.

And promptly fell asleep.

When I woke up a few hours later, sunburnt and uncomfortable, I found I had acquired a couple of quid in the cup I still held in my grimey hand.

Yay, unconscious begging.
(inflateable, Fri 3 Jul 2009, 20:42, 2 replies)

Tramp bingo
In the sprawling operatic narrative of our lives, tramps are the equivalent of tragi-comic walk-on parts akin to the gravediggers in Hamlet, or the surreal little characters who crop up for just a couple of lines in Dickens novels. There for just a vaudevillian flash, either silent or noisy; leaving such a deep impression that if the tramp were a performer playing a role it would be like powerful surrealist art. Waiting for Godot: quod erat demonstrandum.

If life were a theatre, they would all have their own official routines like real-life clowns have official faces in the Clowns International egg museum. Some of the tramps I’ve known could be billed with their professional stage names like the following:

London Bridge compulsive raspberry-blower`
With his little knitted hat, thick glasses and his duffle coat, this fellow frequents the station and surrounding areas all the year round; sometimes getting on trains and going for miles and miles on packed services of commuters – the silence of which is irregularly but persistently shattered by his staccato, ear-splitting fart noises. Trapped on there for upwards of an hour with this seemingly tireless soloist, rigid commuters adopt frantic eye-swivelling (presumably to try and establish that this is actually happening, they’re not going insane, and the other passengers can hear him too). Weeping attacks of the giggles are not uncommon from fellow travellers as well, but are usually strangely strangled-sounding, as we all know that noise is verboten on commuter trains.

Baron’s Court beaming drunk
This guy is the happiest guy in the world. When you come out of the tube station after a long hard day he’s always there with his shiny, happy face and his Big Issues, and suddenly everything seems a little bit better. ‘Thank you, tramp,’ you say to yourself as you walk home, ‘you always make me feel good about myself.’ Once we had a nice moment after I gave him a quid; I needed to pick up some wine for dinner on the way from the tube, so we shared a little trip to the off-licence together. He had no doubts about the best £1/maximum-alcohol optimum ratio, made his purchase decisively, and then helped me pick a good wine. ‘This one,’ he said, pointing to a cheeky-looking merlot, ‘made my sick go black’ (£2.99 from Londis), ‘whilst THIS one,’ he said, peering at a dusty bottle of Lambrusco, ‘gave me the shits’ (£1.89 from all good stockists). Then he laughed uproariously and my day was well and truly made.

Wimbledon garden shears toenail-clipper
Name says it all. A mute performer. I saw him sit on the doorstep of a suburban home using a pair of massive garden shears to trim his toenails. He was concentrating so hard his face was totally blank, and only registered a tiny flicker of triumph as he sent a sizeable, black, horny clipping pinging off of the houseowner’s car parked on the driveway.

Stepney Green determined tits-leerer
He’s going to get his leer, if it’s the last thing he does. You could be standing waiting for someone, calmly reading your book, when this guy could come along, walking like Frankenstein on his way to the village, with so much hair coming out of his nose it looks like an olive-green moustache. First, in a broad Manc accent, he starts out subtle; ‘what’s that you’re reading [leer down cleavage]?’ Foiled by book now blocking his view, he then gets cunning; ‘an insect just fell down your top [point, leer at re-exposed cleavage].’ In response to ‘please don’t look at my breasts,’ his excuse is, ‘but they’re really great [leer].’

Resentful Charing Cross Big-Issuer
Another mute. I couldn’t afford a magazine with the change in my purse, so I gave him a 20p instead. He looked at me as though I had just space-docked with a mangy dog and loved it so much I cried. I should have asked for my 20p back, but instead I just went back to queuing up for my Big Mac, fiver in hand.

Passive-aggressive Waterloo East train beggar
(All delivered at the top of his voice in a monotone with no change of inflection at all) ‘HELLO I AM HOMELESS AND I NEED A PLACE TO STAY TONIGHT SO PLEASE GIVE ME WHAT CHANGE YOU CAN SPARE’. Pause. ‘I HAVE ASKED YOU REALLY NICELY AND POLITELY.’ Longer pause. ‘IF YOU DON’T HELP ME I’LL BE OUT ON THE STREETS IN THE COLD.’ Pause. ‘IT’S GOING TO BE VERY COLD OUT THERE TONIGHT.’ Really long pause. ‘WELL – NONE OF YOU SEEM TO CARE.’ Silence. ‘DOES ANYBODY CARE?’ A commuter needs to get off at the next stop and starts shuffling for his things. ‘I HOPE YOU’RE ALL HAPPY THAT I’LL BE OUT SUFFERING ON THE PAVEMENT. I HOPE IT RUNS YOUR DAY.’ He opens the door to the next carriage, walks through and says exactly the same thing. Then on to the next carriage, and so on.

Brighton dog-frightener
Walking along as a family, many moons ago, with our dog – a red setter called Sam – on a lead. We were looking in at the pretty Brighton shop windows in the sun, when *out of nowhere* this purple-faced tramp lurches forward and makes a grab at Sam roaring ‘NICE DOGGIE!’ Sam, literally, crapped himself and ran to hide behind mum, wrapping the lead around her legs and making her topple over with a mouth shaped like a surprised ‘o’, narrowly missing a sizeable puddle of liquid dog terror on the pavement. The tramp continued lurching down the street roaring at passers by and himself things like ‘NICE SUN!’ and ‘SHINY CAR!’ I remember he looked like a sea captain, because of his knitted jumper and wellies.


This could be like a spotters-guide type exercise, so send me a virtual high-five if you’ve ever come across these chaps yourself. Anyone with the full set wins a prize.
(Wheezy Luv-ah is pootling about on, Fri 3 Jul 2009, 15:22, 7 replies)

When I used to work in Camden we had a wealth of tramps. This was one of them...
Actually, I'd never seen her before.

Typical trampette though, got 50p for a bus, all that jazz.

I said no. So she asked me for a tenner.

I said no more firmly. So she told me she was pregnant.

I stared at her blankly. So she told me it was mine.

Genius.

I gave her the 50p in the end.

And it wasn't mine, before you ask.
( mrlogic is copying your beard, Thu 2 Jul 2009, 18:42, 2 replies)

I once heckled a tramp.
Bad move.


I was at the Edinburgh festival and with a mate (trying to chat-up some girlie actress-types from London).

We walked past a hairy inebriated trampy man who was berating passer-bys for partaking in the sins of modern life.

Quite wisely, everyone was sticking to procedure - ignore him... no eye contact etc.

...that was until Mr Wiseguy here tried to impress his girly with a witty retort.

TRAMP: Blah blah YOU THERE! You think you've got it all, blaaargh... but I've got it right... I don't neeeeeeed a bloody television...

ME: Just as well - where would you plug it in?


I was cool for a full 3 seconds before he launched himself at me, making a noise like a bull being branded.

Being a tough guy, I shrieked like a startled schoolgirl and ran with my wrists flapping at my sides. *

* It turns out, that this isn't what foxy London actress types are looking for in a man.


( Zak McFlimby Twibbling @McFlimby, Thu 2 Jul 2009, 16:24, Reply)

sorry
What did the slug say to the snail?

Big Issue?
( Vipros. clever got me this far, then tricky got me in, Mon 6 Jul 2009, 18:21, 2 replies)

George
This is George. He's an absolute legend.

I like to think this was God, Jesus, Buddha or some other fictional character beaming another can of Tennents Super into his pocket.


(R0SS, Mon 6 Jul 2009, 16:12, Reply)

Sadly missed tramp.
I live in a small village which has more than it's share of...... normality impaired people, I suppose is the PC term. These days there's loads of junkies, weirdos and oddballs, but when I was a nipper, being eccentric made you a novelty, and one old fellow became legendary.

I'm not sure if "tramp" describes him fully as he did have a house, but apart from that he ticked all the boxes..... incoherent rambling? Check. Dirty, dishevelled appearance? Check. Rampant, special brew fuelled alcoholism? Check. The kids tortured him, but secretly we all loved old Wullie.

You'd see him every day, staggering round to the local shop. The shopkeeper would only sell him one can at a time, so every half hour he'd make his pilgrimage..... usually without much more than some loud incoherent ranting, but occasionally with a bit of indecent exposure to the girls who worked in the shop thrown in. When he was allowed into the local pub, he'd have hushed, intense arguments with an imaginary drinking partner about whos round it was. But two incidents really stick in my mind as the defining moments in his legendary career.

The first incident was when he was caught short, evidently after a huge bout of boozing. The fact that he was at home must have slipped his mind, as he burst out his front door, bollock naked, closed the door, pissed up it and with a tirade of abuse at onlookers went back inside.

That's nothing though. He set his house on fire.

The fire brigade arrived and put it out though, and not much damage was done. Before that though, Wullie managed to evacuate the building. Following fire safety guidelines rigidly, he did not attempt to take any valuables with him. Or any clothes. He burst from his smoke filled house in a hail of unintelligible ramblings wearing only a pair of slippers and a hat. That's not the best part though, oh no. His slippers were on fire.

He died a few years back and passed into legend. I heard that his wife had passed away when she was very young and he had never got over it, turning to drink to help cope. I found that very touching and sad.
( baw__bag contains traces of nuts on, Sun 5 Jul 2009, 19:11, Reply)

last night a tramp saved my life
ok it wasn't last night, we're going back about 6-7 years and Aphex Twin is playing at The Coronet in Elephant and Castle for an acid warp halloween party.

I have travelled up to Brighton from Plymouth to meet up with some old uni mates with the plan of getting the train to The City and from then on to the club.

Adding liquid acid to the mix probably wasn't the best idea...

Having all taken far too much, one of the girls with us starts to freak out on the train, and we have no choice but to get off at the next station - Clapham Junction. Now this can be a hectic place at the best of times, but on acid it was pure hell. The tunnels seemed to stretch off to the horizon, lots of people running around (with screw faces on - respect to skinnyman), and us stuck in the middle with a screaming girl and all getting more scared by the second.

We had to get out, so made it to an exit and out into the calm streets. Only it wasn't calm, it was rush hour and everyone seems to be coming at us, so we leg it. We walk for what seems like hours and hours trying to get our heads together, but in a moment of lucidity i read a sign that says - Clapham Junction - 250 yds. So we hadn't gone anywhere and then one of us nearly gets hit by a car, clearly we are not safe. So its back into the station so at least we know where we are.

And now the tramp. Amongst all the clean, rich, employed people rushing around scaring the hell out of us is a really dirty man in the corner who for some reason seems like the only kindred spirit in the place. I head over and start chatting. He clearly knows I am fucked, and asks if I have any drugs. I apologise and say we've taken it all that is why I'm so messed up. He understands. We chat some more. Just talking to him is making me see clearly again and he is so friendly I feel completely safe. It is bitterly cold so I give him my gloves and £5 as a thank you and whilst my head is still clear, grab everyone, bundle them into a taxi and tell the driver to take us to the Coronet.

We all pretty much pass out in the taxi and he has to kick us out when we get there, nearly get hit by another car but make it into the club (god knows why the bouncers let us in). We then spent an hour in the corner of one of the bars, under a table, thinking it was the main room until we just had to investigate "all the loud noise coming from through those double doors over there".

In the end we had an amazing night, watched THX 1138 on the big screen till the next day and made our way slowly back to Brighton, with haunted faces, mild hallucinations and the promise that we would never do it again... ...or at least take a tramp with us next time.

Thanks man, whoever you were, for saving my life that night. If I ever see you again, i'll save some drugs for you.

Sorry for the length everyone, It's the first thing i've ever felt entitled to share on B3ta
( A Rory Borealis here under duress, Sat 4 Jul 2009, 20:00, Reply)

When I was visiting San Francisco a few weeks ago
I was in line for the cable cars on Powell Street. A sizeable queue was forming, and I was at the back of it.
A lovely young homeless chap with the cutest dog was selling newspapers - the SF equivalent of the Big Issue I guess. Most people were downright ignoring him, and the couple behind me were tutting and muttering. I looked at the homeless guy - no evidence of drug use or alcohol abuse so I asked him his story.

He had HIV, lost his job because of it, he had lost his boyfriend to AIDs and could no longer afford his house payments so he shifted to the streets. He was paying for his own medication and was going through counselling and doing what he could to get back into "real life" as he called it.
I promptly handed him $10.....and the couple behind me who had overheard his story did the same thing.
Meanwhile, there was chinese whispers going down the line and everyone was turning around to give the guy money - a dollar here, $5 there....I think the guy made off with around $100 and he came back to me and thanked me for giving him the chance to tell his story!
( Batshitmentalist is sane for once, Fri 3 Jul 2009, 16:59, 2 replies)

Manchester Bus Stop Kung Fu Master
When I am waiting to get the bus back to Fallowfield from the city centre and decline to give you money, please do not try to roundhouse kick me in the head only to fail to get your foot above waist height and to fall flat on your arse.

Please, because I can’t laugh that hard ever again. I felt like I didn’t breathe for about 15 minutes solid. You nearly killed me.
( scarpe We Stole Bikes, Fri 3 Jul 2009, 16:34, 1 reply)

The homeless mans poor dead pet
I don't think it was really his pet but the chap was obviously homeless, had a love of animals and I think he had some kind of mental health issue.

The poor chap was walking through St Annes Square in Manchester, in obvious distress crying for someone to help him. All he got was ignorance and avoidance. He needed help for the poor little animal clutched to his chest, wrapped in a little blanket. This annoyed me, in fact it made me a little angry so I went to assist. All he wanted was for someone to help him and take the poor little creature to a vet, so I calmed him down and offered my services.

I took the little bundle from him, and promised that I'd take care of it and get the wee little beast the attention that it needed. Placated, the man thanked me for taking the time to help and went on his way.

The dead rat went in the bin once he was out of sight.
( SpikeyPickle wishes he was mabazaritchie, Fri 3 Jul 2009, 15:48, 2 replies)

I left my hometown in Scotland
with nothing more than a suitcase containing clothes and headed 400 miles south. WARNING: lack of teh funny commences

I had a job and a few weeks booked in a B&B but other than that I was on my own in an unfamiliar city. I had to work it all out, find a place to live, navigate my way around the city on foot and with public transport, make friends, start a new life. All this with one eye on my quickly diminishing bank balance.

I woke on Saturday to see what the first full day living in my new home would be like. It was hot. Too hot, I wasn't used to walking round in such heat and I had no idea where the busses went or where they stopped. Wandering around I realised that no-one smiled or made eye contact. It may have been hot but it was a cold, impersonal place.

A day of modest discovery had just about finished. I was feeling down about how hard it seemed to be to find a place to rent. Apparently as soon as one was on the market someone was in there instantly. Dejected I barely raised my head up to look where I was going.

Until I saw a white transit van start revving thunderously from a stationary position. In spite of the heat there was huge puddle over the pavement and road which this van had been waiting by for an unsuspecting pedestrian. Not thinking clearly I quickened my walking pace instead of running backwards: I was covered from head to foot in muddy water. I turned to see the van and a registration forever burned in my mind.

As I shuffled damply back to my B&B in my no longer clean clothes - a commodity I had a short supply of - I came to an important conclusion: this place, though picturesque, was a hole and everyone within it was a cunt of the first water.

Back in my small room I quickly realised that there were just too many hours in the day left and the earlier versions of the Gameboy Advance had a screen that you just couldn't see in any light. I was going to have to go outside and find something to do to kill some time.

By luck I managed to find a cinema and Michael Moore's Farenheit 911 seemed to suit my mood. I just had another hour to kill before it started and that sounded like enough time to briefly look at the "historic town centre" the signs were directing me to. As I slowly meandered around I was thinking how on earth can I live in this place where people don't have time for each other, aren't friendly, are complete bastards. My train of thought was interrupted by a voice. Someone was speaking to me, the first person who'd spoken to me all day.

"'scuse me pal, ahm no' joking right but I need a couple o' pound for breakfast the morro' so if you could gie me 50p, that wid be be magic."

I was so shocked to speak to someone friendly that I hadn't even noticed that the guy was begging. I reached into my pocket for some change.

"Yeah, no problem mate. Listen where about you from?"

"Scotland."

"I got that, me too, I just moved down here yesterday. Where abouts are you from?"

"The Gorbals."

I started chatting with him for a few minutes so happy to meet a friendly, open person and fellow countryman. During the conversation he told about how he had to make sure he had enough money for breakfast in the morning and that he was living on about £40 a week without a place to stay.

"I used tae work on the shipyards but efter this..."

I look down and see a missing fore-finger on his right hand.

"...I just cannae get a job."

What were my problems again? Oh yeah, some muddy clothes and trying to find a place to rent inbetween working my new fulltime job. It put me in my place and I felt embarrassed about my earlier self pity.

"Well, anyway, nice meeting you but I've got to be getting on. Actually I'm a bit lost. Could you point me in the direction of the cinema?"

"Nae borra, I'll take ye there for a few pound!"

"No, that's alright thanks."

...

I timidly looked at the ground before offering over some more change and walking with this homeless guy down unfamiliar streets. Everytime we passed a group of people he'd tell me to stop while he begged them for money. I stood there growing increasingly more embarrassed.

After what seemed an age he finally pointed me in the direction I needed to go while he went in the other direction to find a busier route where people would hopefully be generous.

I sat down in the cinema and saw a documentary tear Mr Bush to shreds. My thoughts were on my bizarre day though, my first day living in a city. All those people I hated who were closed off and unfriendly, I understood why they behaved like that. The weekend hadn't yet finished and already I'd become one of them.

A week on Saturday will be the fifth anniversary of that weekend. I've lived in this glorious city 5 years, the longest I've ever lived in one house, and I love it dearly. But as I walk about the streets, I look straight ahead with my earphones in block out all the tramps and their requests for... money? a conversation? a speck of recognition?

Fuck them. Fuck them all. They should all be put on an island and blown up. Because, you see, if we did that we'd all be friendly and nice to each other. Wouldn't we?
( djtrialprice, Thu 2 Jul 2009, 19:31, 2 replies)

THIS MAKES ME SICK
A week of middle class cunts taking the piss out of those people who are cast out on the streets, probably as a result of mental illness, abuse, and neglect. Ha fucking ha! Whichever self-centred prick came up with this idea (probably someone who has the mental age of a three year old and the personality, looks, way with the ladies, and waistline of the comic book guy off the Simpsons), should be taken out back and given a good hiding.

What next week - lets take the piss out of cancer patients?
(Emms Scracci, Thu 2 Jul 2009, 17:13, 49 replies)

Could this be...
... the world's poshest hobo?
( Enzyme is powered by sunlight, Tue 7 Jul 2009, 13:50, 2 replies)

Hobo
I knew a hobo once - probably saw him once or twice a week back in the 80's. He was quite little, but had big ears that stuck out.

Thing is despite him being a hobo he spent his life padding around helping others.

One day I said to him, why don't you stick around? Make a home for yourself...

His reply "There's a voice that keeps on calling me. Down the road is where I'll always be..."

Bindun?
(Galahad is out of his gourd on yellow bentines, Tue 7 Jul 2009, 9:27, 4 replies)

never pearoasted before, but fuck it.
A good few years back in Nottingham I was approached outside a pub by a rather desperate looking individual asking for money for a bus/taxi. This was nothing strange for Nottingham where at one point advanced training in compassion-fatigue was required just to cross the main market square with the contents of your wallet intact.

What stopped me this time however was not the usual piss-poor and unimaginative "I need 70p to get to Loughborough/buy some crack", but the rather more attention grabbing "Please help me. My colostomy bag has burst"

He lifted up his sweater, and indeed it had. His colostomy bag had burst. His entire abdomen and the top of his trousers was covered in a shitty (and I believe also slightly nutty) diarroheic goo that was dribbling out the tube in his side.

Picture the scene: Two in the afternoon, blue sky, birds signing, and a 40 year old man stood in front of me gesticulating desperately at his own poo-encrusted belly.

I immediately gave him a tenner, and wished him luck getting to the hospital.

Two hours later, as I pass by the same point on my way home I'm approached by a man. I recognise him just as he uttered the words "Please help me. My colostomy bag has..."

Now, over the years I've reflected a lot on this, and I firmly believe that he deserved that tenner.
( rofl harris, Mon 6 Jul 2009, 14:40, Reply)

Lincoln
Outside of House of Fraser a few months ago there was a Big Issue vendor put off his attempts to flog his wares, mainly thanks to a slightly inebriated gentleman, stood a few feet away holding a box of Kleenex shouting "Big Tissue!". This was only interrupted by the occassional plea of "Mansize!" thrown in by him for good measure.

He was stood there doing this for a good few hours, much to the annoyance of the Big Issue seller and amusement of everyone else.
( Muns, Mon 6 Jul 2009, 12:32, 1 reply)

Poo-dar
I have a terminal problem recently diagnosed as ‘poodar’. If there is a tramp ready to curl one out in the streets, fear not, for the hairs on the back of my neck will stand and I will be first across the scene, retching. It should be known that I work with a homeless charity, but I draw a sympathetic line when the tramps shit on me.

On my first day at a new job in Camden, I was stood at a cash point on Camden High Street when your classic (trousers held up by a rope, pong like a chicken farm, and ohmygod that’s a compounded urine stain) trundled near me. As I am big and wooly, I jangled around in my pockets looking for a quid to give the man. He stood next to me, squatted down, shat and caught my trouser leg in the splatters. He pulled up his trousers as I whipped around to see most of Camden backing away from me, mouths covered a mixture of terror, panic and repulsion. Crowds of goth tourists parted as I ran through the streets. I sat outside my new office crying until one of The Brave hosed me down and delivered a new pair of trousers. Shitting tramp made me spend my first day of work half naked and covered in a stranger’s detrius.

A short period later, I was spending a bit of cash at Tesco Express when one of the more colourful street characters came in. I’d become familiar with him, as he often smoked crack under my stairs. He stripped naked next to the sandwiches and shat on the floor. Some quick thinking types shoved him out the door, but not before he got a handful of his own feces, which he proceeded to smear all over his undressed form. We were all trapped inside the store as a naked tramp covered in his own bowels rubbed himself against the glass windows. Gonads on glass is difficult enough to stomach, poo-ey balls leave a person with a permanent twitch. My God, people, he left snail trails of poo with his penis.

I fled Camden and moved to Oxford, assuming that said part of North London was the root cause of all this public shitting. Surely, Oxford - the city of dreaming spires and abominable toffs – would have more decorum than to allow such things. It is an honey-coloured emporium for young men who non-ironically wear pastel trousers and have lazy chins. One might assume that we would perform a termly cull on those less fortunate – the tramps – but we live in a modern world where murder is generally frowned upon.

I was crossing Magdalen Bridge, when a woman pulled down her trousers and shot fetid bottom steam from her backside. I was the only witness. Of course, I told everybody I knew (excitedly, arms waving,) how could I not? I didn’t see her again until I was out with a group of friends. She quite kindly asked for change and my friends obliged, dropping spare change into her open hand while I stood back having terrible flashbacks. No, no, I will not give you money, I said as my friends angrily accused me of betraying my liberal background. “That’s the bridge shitter,” I said. Just as they put the chips in their mouths.
(TheSnark oh, c'mon, like you didn't see me coming, Mon 6 Jul 2009, 11:52, 1 reply)

No one I know
heard it on the radio years ago:

This woman was calling her cat, Whiskers, one night: "Whiskers. Come here Whiskers, I've got some food for you".

An old tramp with a beard came wandering up her garden path.
( stopmeandslapme Cometh the hour, cometh your mum, Sun 5 Jul 2009, 11:55, Reply)

rejection by tramp!
a few months ago, we were all out in london, helping my friend fliss get drunk enough to forget that it was a rather majorly depressing birthday number. fliss had just started seeing a new man, a very gorgey but silent and rather repressed swede. fliss was pretty keen, but she complained to us all the time that, whatever she did, the swedish robot remained incommunicado and non-tactile.

so at the end of the evening, we all staggered to covent garden tube. lots of people were pissed enough to buy hotdogs from the ebola shack outside the station. it was not a good look. people were smothered in mustard, ketchup and gurning away with mouths full of pigeon-meat. apart from the swede, who looked as if he had precision cut his hotdog with a protractor and scalpel.

when we got to the platform, there was a tramp sprawled out, holding up a card that said "HUNGRY". he had a rather weary-looking dog with him, which turned giant brown supplicating eyes on us. fliss decided that that the right thing to do, was to give the dog her sausage. now, arguably it's rude enough to feed someone's dog whilst ignoring the owner. but it's a damn sight ruder when you are drunk enough to think that catching your (appalled) boyfriend's eye whilst "seductively" sliding the sausage in and out of your mouth to suck off the mustard is "sexy". especially when you are plastered, and have hair and makeup everywhere.

so having performed her sausage fellatio, fliss sank theatrically to her knees and offered the sausage to the dog. which, having witnessed the same performance as the rest of us, naturally refused it. fliss tried a little harder, pressing the sausage into the poor mutt's face. the dog growled. at which point the tramp drawled possibly the worst line of rejection i've ever heard:

"please leave my dog alone. can't you see he doesn't want your sausage?"

rejected by a tramp's dog. does it get ANY lower than that?!

ps: she dumped the swede shortly afterwards in any event, when she caught him backcombing his hair over a baldpatch... and spraying it into place...
( rachelswipe with a fork, Sun 5 Jul 2009, 11:47, 3 replies)

McTravelling around the USA
In the late 90's my brother spent 5 months trekking around the USA with 2 other guys. They had a smallish van and a smaller budget so they did anything in their power to make their money last. This basically involved all sleeping cramped in the van as much as possible and avoiding costly hotels at all costs.

The downside of never using a hotel is that obviously your personal hygiene takes a massive nosedive and you hardly ever get to shower properly. What did they care though? They were young and having the trip of their lives. The majority of tasks such as shaving, washing your armpits and cutting your own hair could be accomplished for free in fast food restaurant bathrooms. So for 5 months that is what they did, save for the occasional visit to a cheap motel if they were in a town and thought their might be some booty on offer.

So on one sunny day in Florida my brother found himself at the mirror of a McDonalds looking a bit rugged after another night on the booz and several days of not showering. His face smeared with shaving cream and with a McD's cup of cold water (for this particular toilet didn't have a working tap so he kept the cup from his earlier meal and filled it with water when he left) he began to shave. Mid shave and hunched over the basin the door creaked open and in hobbles the worlds stinkiest tramp. He had unidentifiable skank on his face, dishevelled clothing and a discernible pong about him that could have been used disperse rioting crowds. He ambled over to my brother, put his arm around him and mumbled the immortal words, "Don't worry, we've all been there".
(The Archduke of South London I'm in your Girlfriend eating her organs, Sat 4 Jul 2009, 15:02, Reply)

SpikeyPickle's Rat Man
reminds me of a gentlemen of the road I knew when living in Exeter.
This bloke genuinely had a pet rat. I got to know him - well to talk to anyway, never knew his name - because so did I and he used to get his rat food from the same shop I did. The staff never charged him the real price of course, they just took whatever he offered - often pennies - as this chap obviously loved his little brown rat, which was well cared for and bright eyed.
One day said pet shop got a delivery of these huge plastic clear tunnels designed for ferrets that were about three feet long. Living with a bloke with debt problems I was always short of money so although I wanted one for my rat I had to wait til payday. I was admiring the plastic tunnel on the shop display one day after work when the rat man joined me, his little sniffy friend on his shoulder as usual. He got all misty eyed and said he'd love one for his rat (named Ratty, lol) but he had no chance of affording such a thing. I sincerely wish I'd had had the money as I would have bought Ratty one there and then and had my own rat wait, he was that sincere. She had plenty of toys already !

So I go back to the shop on payday to buy said rat accessory, and find they have sold out. I enquire as to whether the display model is still available, and the shop bloke tells me that rat man came in the day before and surreptitiously stole it. How he managed to steal something three feet long and bright transparent yellow I have no idea, but he did.
He was last seen outside Tesco's, with one end of the tube stopped up against the window and the other on his lap, happy as a lord because his rat had somewhere to play. The people in the queues at the tills in Tescos had mixed reactions apparently.

The pet shop didn't follow it up. And I always smile when I think about it.
(womanwhocanonlylivewithdogs, Fri 3 Jul 2009, 22:00, Reply)

Tramp-a-like
Fair few years back I was sitting in a bus station minding my own business waiting for the bus home (and unknowingly linking 2 QOTW's) when a gentleman of the homeless persuasion sat down next to me and started chatting to me, I'm not the most social person but I didn't want to be rude so we spent about 15 minutes chatting about the weather and such while he sat there slugging away and a bottle of cheap cider.
the conversation lulled and he turned and said
"Do you want a swig this mate?"
I declined politely...
after a couple more minutes he said
"so... you found anywhere to sleep tonight?"
"sorry?" I replied
"Have you managed to find anywhere to kip tonight?"
and it sunk in that this bloke thought I was a tramp too!
now im not the most snappy dresser.... casual... maybe a bit scruffy.. yes I sport a lazy man's beard... but I wouldnt have said I was tramplike in any way.
Now I was a bit stuck... I couldnt say "Well yes actually I've managed to find a nice spot in my 3 bedroom semi"
So.... I lied.... in my best Bill Sykes voice I said "well mate... im hopeful"
Our eyes met and he gave me a slow nod and I felt we shared a moment together.

Then my bus turned up and without a word I hopped on paid with a note and slunk to the back looking out of the window on the other side of the bus.... felt like a right bastard.
(Mr_Smythe, Fri 3 Jul 2009, 17:08, Reply)

ATTENTION TRAMPS!
When you are begging for change, don't do it next to a cash point:

The people are going to the cash point because they don't have any cash.

As they walk away, all they have is notes.

They are not going to give you a tenner.

Arrange yourself outside shops that sell fripperies and amusing luxuries. People will have change in their hand as they come out of the store and the contrast between their needless expense and your pitiful poverty will inspire guilt and induce donations.

Thank you for your attention.
(ManekiNeko loves horses, Fri 3 Jul 2009, 8:54, 6 replies)

Edinburgh has Greyfriars Bobby - Glasgow has...
Geordie Paul and I were heading to a gig in Glasgow on a fine summer evening, and got lost. We spotted a map board on the other side of George Square - you know, for the tourists - and walked over to figure out where we're going. On a bench in the square is a very unwell looking gentleman of the road - Manson hair and beard, that skin tone that only tramps and Sir Alex Ferguson have, dog on a string, the whole package. As we walked past him, Paul and I shared a look of concern - the guy wasn't moving, he looked like death, and his dog was nudging him and whining.

So, we check the map and figure out where to go - starting with back across the square. By now Mr Tramp has slid completely off his bench and is face down on the flagstones, motionless - his furry companion barking like mad next to him. Oh dear.

Now, neither of us want to end up doing mouth-to-mouth on a Harry Ramp, but we're not going to just let a man die in front of us so we hurry on over. A couple of other people are doing the same from other directions. JUST as we get to him Tramp Dog stops barking and... jumps aboard to start frantically humping his masters trouser-seat. Master wakes up - he's alive! - and half-heartedly tries to push the canine rapist off, muttering 'Fuck off out a' my arse you fucking bastarrrd...'. But it was obviously a bit too much effort for a man this swallied so he just slumped back down and took it.

I know, I should have rescued him. Helped him salvage whatever shreds of dignity he, as a human being, still possessed. Unfortunately I, Paul, and all his other would-be-first-aiders were hampered in our ability to do so by being otherwise engaged wetting ourselves laughing - concern to hysterics in 2 seconds flat.

This is the fourth most degrading event I have ever seen in Glasgow.
(scunnydelight, Tue 7 Jul 2009, 20:45, 3 replies)

Gav
2003 was the end of my first year at Coventry University, in halls, happy memories of good times and top people. Especially our hulking, rugby playing, beer monster of a halls friend, Gav. Gav posessed many qualities of a good tramp and many good qualities of being generally massive.

Now it was not uncommon for Gav, being of the large rugby playing variety, to get himself into many situations that would require a degree of explanation to the lay person. One of the girls in our end of the halls decides to take a hard earned bath, the door appears to be locked so she waits patiently. On one of my many daily stumbles we strike up conversation in the corridor which leads to her saying, "Who the fuck is in the bath, they are taking fucking ages" With all the usual girls out at lectures and baths being a lot of hassle for such unmotivated men we come to the conclusion that Gav had again turned tramp and fallen asleep in the bath after locking himself out of his room.

Battering on the door begins to wake the slumbering beast of Gav, swearing and petty name calling (Gav you trampy nobber was my favourite) being our chief tools at hand. Another halls friend pokes his head out the door to politely enquire "fucking stop that bastard racket will you!?" He agrees to help us try and wake Gav, as there is a chance he could have left the tap running, after all, it was Gav. More shouting, swearing and name calling but with no avail.

A small crowd is now gathering to help us in our herculean feat of waking Gav, more heads poking out of doors.
-"what in the fuck are you all doing!!?"
-"For fuck's sake, we are trying to get Gav out of the bathro... GAV!!?? What the fuck are you doing out here"
-"Trying to bastard well sleep".
-"Well give us a hand getting you out of the bathroom"
-"that makes no sense you idiot, but alright if it will shut everybody up"

Gav at first tries diplomacy, which involves him launching his 18 stone frame at the door in a feast of splintering, door obliterating pwnage.

The actual tramp who had been sleeping in our bathroom for the past 4 days (showers were in separate individual cubicles, were not that mingin') looked like a rabbit in headlights as what seemed like a lynch mob was gathered outside and an 18 stone rugby player careened through the door and into some bathroom shelves. "Lerruz jus' get me stuff from the fridge would yerz and ah'll fuck off". His fridge contents had consisted of 3 cans of Carly Spesh, which again we had attributed ownership to Gav.

Retiring to the kitchen for breakfast and discussing the brilliance of the tramp's idea Gav pipes up.
-"you know guys you really ought to think more of me, I mean this trampy shit goes to far sometimes"
-"errr Gav"
-"what"
-"you are drinking a bottle of Frosty Jack at 10:45 on a tuesday morning"
-"cunts"
(captainbildo, Tue 7 Jul 2009, 8:19, 2 replies)

I'm gonna get killed for this one, but it's kind of appropriate
Knock, Knock

Who's there?

Bigish

Bigish who?

Not today thanks!

Hahaha! How childish of me *Looks sheepish*
(wehttamman via B3ta for microwave, Mon 6 Jul 2009, 15:48, 3 replies)

and finally
anyone who's ever been to hammersmith will know the mad old woman with the zimmer frame and a serious case of evil. she looks so frail and doddery, but only a fool will try to help her cross the road or to do her shopping... go near her, and she looks you in the face and screams:

WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU WANT GET THE FUCK OFF ME FUCK OFF

or words on a similar variant of this theme. she got me in tesco car park, when she was hobbling towards the doors at 9.55pm. there were kittens roasting away in hell with a better chance of getting their shopping before it closed at 10pm, so i naively offered to run in there for her. never again. my ears were ringing for hours.

she also loves to stop the traffic on the shep bush road, which is not, as such, what you might call traffic-free at the best of times, by hobbling sloooooowly across... then back again.....

but the real reason i hope she dies slowly and painfully, and then gets her corpse anally raped in the morgue, is that every single time i have to walk past her, she yells:

"OI BIG TITS" at me.

every.

single.

time.
( rachelswipe with a fork, Sun 5 Jul 2009, 12:01, 16 replies)

Do any b3tans have some spare change they can put in my PayPal account?
I'm homepageless.
(apeloverage committed the vile act of onanism on, Sat 4 Jul 2009, 5:56, 2 replies)

"Would you like to stroke my monkey?"
McDonalds, late evening, Cambridge.

After a few hours of buggering around in the city me and my slightly intoxicated student chum-pals go for some eats at MaccyD's.

While I'm waiting for my apple pie a staggering, homeless Scotsman approaches me and asks,

"Would you like to stroke my monkey?" in an accent rough enough to give you a nasty carpet burn.

Now, at this point I'm panicking. A tramp's just asked me to wank him off in the middle of an almost empty fast-food outlet in the late hours of the night, he might have a knife...

But then the tramp suprises me, he unzips his coat to reveal a cheeky little plush monkey teddy and tickles it's chin. I laugh, he laughs, everythings okay again.
(chrisdood Why yes, I am the shizzle, Sat 4 Jul 2009, 2:17, 1 reply)

Good ol' Pete
Back in the summer of 2004 me and a few crazy friends went out for a heavy drinking session in Peterborough. Starting in a bit of a rough O'Neills we had all resigned ourselves to the fact that the night was going to contain brief nudity, copious amounts of vodka consumption, projectile vomiting and scenes of mild peril, we had however not taken into account my friend Alan.

Now Alan is a ‘special kinda guy’ (I have mentioned his antics in a previous post) and when drunk has a tendency to befriend anyone in a 100 mile radius, whether they are interested or not. This particular trait of his made an appearance on this fateful night.

Whilst loitering around a cash point Alan caught sight of a homeless man snuggled down in a sleeping bag, looking pretty darn content. Al’s reaction to the man was a mixture of awe and glee and he grabbed my arm and exclaimed ‘Look-it, a man in a sleeping bag' – like he had never seen a homeless person before. The poor guy then made a fatal error by making eye contact with Alan, he was in. Al staggered over and introduced himself and then started questioning the guy at a speed and intensity that would have made Columbo proud.

Turns out the homeless mans name was Pete and he had been living on the streets for a couple of years after losing everything in a divorce and a mega breakdown he had at work. We all immediately felt really guilty and because Al had been probing Pete about his past this had clearly brought up old memories and Pete looked quite tearful. It was then Alan had a brilliant idea, Pete was coming out with us. After a few minutes of drunken slurring and shouts of ‘come oooooon’ we had convinced Pete to join our rabble. He found a friend to leave his stuff with and wandered off into the night with us.

We asked him where he wanted to eat and he said he fancied a Maccy D’s so we grabbed a bit of wall space outside and filled him full of burgers whilst getting ‘fuck off’ vibes from the staff. We wandered around to a few different pubs and brought Pete drinks and then attempting to get him into a nightclub, this failed - they wouldn’t let him in because he was wearing trainers. I think he found the whole night quite entertaining, as did we, and at about 2ish we dropped him back near the cash point and filled his hands with money before gallivanting off into the night cheering ‘Pete, Pete, Pete’.

It was a really strange night and we had a fun time (from what I remember) but sadly none of us ever saw Pete again. I hope he is okay wherever he is.
(Flim-Flam the Magnificent "You is talking loco and I like it!", Fri 3 Jul 2009, 14:23, 4 replies)

Pearoast of accidental hobo-ism
As a scummy student, I spent a day travelling from Manchester to Essex to go to an old school friends birthday house-party.

As I was going back the next day, and, as I said, a scummy student, I figured that I'd travel light.

Travelling light basically involved a pair of pants in one coat pocket and a toothbrush in the other and carrying a crate of beer. Anything else could wait until I got back.

He lived about a 15 minute walk from the station, but I knew a short cut through the woods.

Unfortunately, as I'd arrive after dark, I drifted off the well trodden path and got a little lost. And wet. And muddy.

I arrived at the party after wandering around for about 45 minutes, looking rather the worse for it. With a now open crate of lager under one arm and third of the three cans I had opened almost empty in one hand and in a pretty foul mood.

After a few drinks, I had cheered up,

After a few more, I was very happy.

A few more and with all the beds full, the last stragglers of us were sat around a fire deciding it would be a good idea to go through the night rather than try to force ourselves into already over crowded beds or floors.

We made it through the night and at about 10am, I staggered off back to the station clutching a three quarter full bottle of wine.

By the time I'd got to London Euston for my connection back up North, this was half a bottle of wine.

It was at this point I realised I didn't have my wallet. Luckily my train ticket was tucked in my jeans pocket, but I was still desperate to find out if I'd left the wallet at the house.

I searched my pockets desperately for change for the telephone, but I had none. All I had was a half pack of Marlboro Lights.

I had an hour for my train, no money, no food, nothing to read.

I was dishevelled, drunk, dirty, stinking, muddy

Defeated, I leant against a pillar outside the station and slid to the floor. I went to get a cigarette and realised I didn't even have a light.

So I am sat there, on the floor, unlit cigarette in hand, a half bottle of wine next to me.

I looked up, as a well dressed woman walked past smoking.

I opened my mouth to ask her for a light and before I'd even said 'excuse me...' she looked down, and said 'i am sorry, I don't give money to the homeless because they will spend it on drugs or alcohol, but I have a banana here if you are hungry'.

And I was.

So I took it.

The shame.

And I never even used the clean pants or toothbrush either.
( scarpe We Stole Bikes, Fri 3 Jul 2009, 12:13, Reply)

My male mate loves fucking male tramps
He swears blind he's not gay.

Though I'd say he's definately a hobosexual.
( SpankyHanky, Fri 3 Jul 2009, 11:12, 3 replies)

Decadent tramp
Staggering down the Strand after a birthday meal with some mates, I was carrying a bottle of Champagne and a big Cuban cigar that one of them had bought me. I was feeling a little icky after too much drinking, so couldn’t stomach the thought of either. There was a small group of homeless people crowded around the alleyway next to McDonalds so I gave the nearest one the fizzy grape juice and turd stick. Very amusing to look back to see him puffing away and firing the cork into the street. Amusingly he still seemed to be asking people for change which an unsurprising lack of success.
(Alphabet Soap boshboshboshbosh, Fri 3 Jul 2009, 10:33, Reply)

Tramp Rape?
There is an army of tramps that hang around near my flat (Whats the collective noun for tramps? A passle? A troupe?) And I have seen more tramp sex than I ever thought possible. This has included:

Two man tramps in a phone box, one recieving a blow job.

Two man tramps in a phone box, one receiving.

Two man tramps next to a phone box, wanking over two tramps in a phone box having a good bum

A man tramp and a lady tramp up against the wall of my flat (I heard this more than saw it, they actually seemed embarrassed by their discovery.This is in stark contrast to the man-tramp-on-man-tramp action, it seems they are out and proud).

I should mention that these have all been during daylight hours, and there is at least one school quite nearby. I don't think any of it beats this text from my mate though:

"I've just found two tramps shagging in the bins behind subway"
(Gertcha_cowson NAH MATE, Thu 2 Jul 2009, 17:07, 9 replies)

Many years ago, on our way to a house party...
me and a few classy friends decided to out-do the other unoriginal students with their pathetic traffic cones, so we stole a tramp.

A genuine, hairy, pissy-streetbum who had passed out in a doorway.

We neatly carried him into the house and deposited him on the sofa.

He woke up a couple of hours later and became an instant celebrity - he was passed endless drinks and got loads of cuddles from inebriated girlies.
He was christened "King Wookie" (I've no idea why).

It was dark, there was loud music and flashing lights. From his reaction, I'm fairly sure he thought he had died and was in a trampy afterlife.


EDIT: I dunno what the rules for "reposts" on the QoTW board are, so instead I'll just link to a previous post on the subject:
www.b3ta.com/questions/localnutters/post14942
( Zak McFlimby Twibbling @McFlimby, Thu 2 Jul 2009, 16:09, 5 replies)

thanks to someone on b3ta coming up with the idea
I can no longer walk past a tramp, without suddenly incredulously saying "Dad???" just for that tiny little glimmer of recognition in the tramps eye that flashes through the alky cateracts.
( I have run out of coke is a little sweaty, Thu 2 Jul 2009, 15:51, 3 replies)

MK Central
If you ever see a man outside this station with his beautiful German Shepherd, please spend a few minutes talking to him. I remember the first time I stopped to say hi (admittedly to the dog) his face lit up. He was so happy someone acknowledged he was a human being. I shared a smoke and even gave him a few quid.

He looks like a man Joe Calzaghe would run from a fight with, but he is a genuinely nice guy and would rather die of hunger and thirst than not feed his dog.

I admire that in ANY man, yet alone a tramp.
(Galahad is out of his gourd on yellow bentines, Wed 8 Jul 2009, 4:38, Reply)

Truly lovely
Back in 2005, I think, there was an article in York uni’s Nouse paper about how student drinking was spiralling out of control in the city centre. To illustrate the truly Inferno-esque levels of depravity we pesky students got up to when we had a skinful, the article led with an enormous photo of two wasted girls sitting on a kerb outside the Gallery nightclub on a Tuesday night.

Girl A was French-kissing a tramp (who still had firm hold of his special brew with his fingerless gloves whilst working his moves), and Girl B was being heartily sick on Girl A’s shoes.

I was asked three times that day whether I was Girl A. I could say with confidence that I was not Girl A, as I didn’t own a pair of shoes like that.
(Wheezy Luv-ah is pootling about on, Tue 7 Jul 2009, 14:03, 1 reply)

I once saw a hobo with a sign that said "kick me in the nuts for a dollar"
...best twenty dollars I ever spent.
(TheManWhoWas SlightlyKnackered, Mon 6 Jul 2009, 21:46, 1 reply)

It's been sixteen years that are gone forever, and I'll never have again.
Groovy! I get to make a repost - and here it is...

I arrived in Manchester to study at a pretend University in mid-1990. On (I think) my second day in town I was strolling down the main road (Oxford Road) when I was approached by a well-dressed man of early middle years.
"'scuse me, son?" He asked politely, so I 'scused him. "I wonder if you can help me. God forgive me, I'm trying to get to the men's hostel in Wythenshawe and I've not got my fare for the bus and, God forgive me, I was wondering if..."
Well, undoubtedly you can see where this was going. The upshot was that I was pretty callow and naive at the time so he got some cash out of me. I wised up pretty sharply when two days later, I was walking down Oxford Road again when he came up to me: "'Scuse me son, God forgive me, I'm trying..."

As time went by I realised that this man and a compatriot would walk down opposite sides of Oxford Road, accosting everyone who passed with the tale that, God forgive them, they'd lost their fare to the men's hostel in Wythenshawe and could they be spared some change? This went on for the entire five years I lived in Manchester. A couple of times a week, "'scuse me son..."
You know how it goes. Sometimes they got some money out of me if I was feeling flush, sometimes not. I learned the location of a Mens Hostel which was literally a hundred yards from Oxford Road and went through a period of directing them to it with all appearence of helpful cheer and goodwill, saving them the trouble of getting to Wythenshawe. They didn't like that much, because apparently the central Manchester hostel didn't have the right facilities. Perhaps the pool wasn't of the right quality, or the central Manchester hostel didn't give complimentary chocolates in the rooms and Wythenshawe did. I don't know.
The most striking thing about this bloke was that he didn't give any appearence of being your average homeless man. Whilst not smart, he certainly wasn't a bum, either. He plainly took care of himself; shirt and tie, personal hygeine, he made an effort, which was enough to at least predispose me to listen and sympathise and occasionally cough up.
I did wish he'd occasionally use a different story, though.

Eventually I left Manchester. A couple of weeks before I left, I had been walking through town in a pretty poor mood for lady-related reasons when: "'scuse me, son, God forgive me, but...". I turned to him and replied:
"Look, you've been trying to get to the mens hostel in Wythenshawe for five years. I really think you could have walked it by now."
And then I left town. I thought that was that.

Thirteen years later I was staying in a central Manchester hotel whilst up there to see chums and on Saturday morning I took a walk down Oxford Road to the Manchester Museum, one of my favourite places. As I was walking, a familiar figure approached me.
"'scuse me, mate? God forgive me, but I'm trying to get to the mens hostel in Wythenshawe..."
I was so shocked I put my hand in my pocket gave him a quid.
Subsequent to this, though, I've been thinking. I'm now fascinated by this man, and what his story must be. He's spent at least sixteen years walking up and down Oxford Road in Manchester, asking people for money to get to Wythenshawe. What could make someone think that this is a good way to spend all that time? I stop and think about the thimgs I've done since 1990. I've got a degree. I've started my own company. I've seen the view from the top of the Pyramid of the Sun, the Temple of the Jaguar and the Space needle. I've seen attack ships in flames off the shoulder of Orion and T-beams glitter at the Tannhauser gate...
In the same period this guy, come all weathers, has been hanging around outside Whitworth Park pretending he wants to go to Wythenshawe. Is there a good living to be made on Oxford Road panhandling from students? Or is he on day-release from a local Sanitorium and knows nothing else? Or is he a tragic figure like King Pellinore or Sisyphus, doomed by the gods ever to quest for the mens hostel in Wythenshawe but never to find it?
I think the next time he collars me, probably in 2022 the way things are going, I'm going to offer to buy him a drink and ask him his story.
(davywavy, Mon 6 Jul 2009, 10:54, 3 replies)

Tramp Punks
Well, in reaction to Michael jackson's 'designer punk' rubbish back in the day, loads of Londons Punks got a bit grubby in a kind of you-cant-fake-that-mofo way...so.... we were looking really vile, viler than usual, and infesting a London Underground tube train like you do. Obviously all the other passengers were suitably terrified at the sheer state of us, aware of all the horror stories etc... All except, one kind elderly Indian gentlemam, he was so upset at our unkempt and obviously penniless state, worried for our well being he actually had the balls to speak to us. Now, in 2009 this sounds a bit wierd, but in the early 80's it really was a step into the unknown that almost nobody made, the Noughties equivalent of hassling gangs of hoodies in dark alleys..... So, the gentleman asked us 'are you OK ? do you need money ? do the government give you nothing ?' ... it was really very kind, so we were nice to him, but aware we had the whole carriage listening, utterly transfixed....

What to do ? Well, we were on our way to do a big LSD deal, so had large wads of cash in our pockets, understanding each other, we just pulled out thousands of pounds in wads from our ripped to death jeans, waved it at him and said 'no thanks my friend, we are fine'

I swear everybody in the carriage still talks today about the Fat Wallet Tramp Punks.


length ? more of a problem than a blessing.
(chemdog, Sat 4 Jul 2009, 22:01, Reply)

York has quite a few.
So I shall be doing my best to think of them all for this. However some that come to mind.

Mr Round-the-corner-from-the-station:
Does the usual lines and so on. "Spare us some change mate?" etc, however one nice sunny day he apparantly was in a crafty mood. He decided to appeal to your softer, fluffier side with a well prepared and thought out line.

Him - "Spare some change mate?"
Me - "Na, sorry mate."
Him - "Do you like cats?"
Me - "..."
Him - "I had a cat once..."

I gave him a quid for the pure random-ness of it.

Miss WHATTHEFUCK - Im still not 100% sure of this but Im pretty sure it was a Miss. You'd see it walking around sometimes, feet wrapped in Tesco bags, dirty old skirt and a bright orange, dirty as hell bomber jacket with no arms on along with dirty green beanie hat. Not too different tramp wise in itself but she had a FUCKING MASSIVE BEARD. I mean seriously, Santa would lay down his sled and bow down to this massive, great grey wiry bastard.

Mr Happy (He actually had this on a name tag): Not as such a tramp, he was a Big Issue seller outside the train station that seems to have sadly dissapeared, he was always dressed in brightly coloured clothes and had obviously done a bit too many drugs in the past. He would greet every one with a huge giant HELLOOOOOOOOOOOO and offer his Big Issue vending abilities. I'd usually talk to him and he'd fall into step besides me for a quick chat as I went to work inside the stations coffee shop. However there was twice that he showed his darker, 'Im-fucking-sick-of-people-ignoring-me' side.

Scene one - A mother with her baby asleep in a pram come past. "HELLOOOOOOO LOVELY DAY!" he goes at her. She just makes a face and signs that the baby is asleep, kindly shut up and fuck of and continues walking past. He turns round to face her retreating back and simply yells. "I BET IT ISN'T EVEN SLEEPING, ITS PROBABLY DEAD." then continues to greet other people happily.

Scene two - Im talking to him and 3 women in that full body Muslim stocking (Hijab?) walk past, he greets them and they soundly ignore him. He turns to me and simply goes "Ah its ok, probably lucky we are outside the station." (they where heading inside) "They're probably bombers."

I miss him :(
(Guilt wants to get in your moist confines, Sat 4 Jul 2009, 14:57, 3 replies)

A mate of mine hired a load of tramps
to come round to his place and lay down in a line in his back garden.

My mate then let his kids loose on them. The kids bounced up and down, squealing in delight and generally having a whale of a time as they jumped higher and higher, The vagrants suffered cracked ribs, broken limbs, severe internal bleeding. But they were getting paid (twenty B & H and a whole bottle of white star between ten of them), so they didn't really mind.

You can keep your high-tec gadgets.

Nothing, and I mean NOTHING, can impress a bunch of kids more than a genuine, living, breathing (stinking of piss) tramp-oline.
( SpankyHanky, Fri 3 Jul 2009, 13:27, 4 replies)

And another one,,,
Last year we operated a homelessness centre in Acton in a former BBC building which is opposite a Holiday Inn. Being a responsible organisation the charity always gets local authority permission to operate and notifies local businesses and residents in advance. Unfortunately we sometimes get the odd bit of local disruption but nothing bad (to the point we often get lent the same buildings for several years). The little bits of disruption can involve a slight amount of kleptomania which we warn businesses about in as a positive a way as we can.

I was running the shift one day when I was asked to go over to the Holiday Inn as they had had a full keg of Kronnenberg “liberated” from the hotel underground car park by a few of our guests & the hotel manager wanted to get the police involved. We had a pretty chilled atmosphere going on at the centre so I didn’t to spoil it by the rozzers attending so reached an agreement with the hotel manager that if I could get the keg back he wouldn’t call the filth.

After a quick walk around the block I found about 6 of our guests with said barrel which they had managed to open (fuck knows how without a spanner or something) merrily drinking away from 2L soft drink bottles they had managed to cut open to resemble glasses. After some quick negotiation (hurry up & don’t drink it all – I need to return it so you don’t get nicked) me & another volunteer carried it back to the hotel. I didn’t pass on the message from the guests to the hotel manager of “thanks very much but can we have Stella next time”.
(lkjshaglkasjdhglkhjz lkcvl; g;aodh;owih, Fri 3 Jul 2009, 12:47, Reply)

I am not a dominatrix sugar momma (or homeless).
When I was 15 my mom and I went out to get sushi. We were waiting for a table, so she decided to wait inside and I decided to wait outside (it was crowded and I wanted to hang out with mom as little as possible). I was dressed pretty gothy at the time, but was clean and well groomed. An overweight homeless man in his thirties wearing nothing but black leather (lace up pants, buckle boots, zippered jacket, stupid hat) sat next to me and started talking about how he is a bisexual submissive and into pain and all sorts of other horrible things and he is looking for a sugar momma dominatrix with a nice house to take care of him, and am I interested? I politely declined just as a businessman approached, commented on what a cute couple we are, and asked us if he can buy us some McDonalds. I reply, "That's sweet, but I'm waiting for sushi." The business man gave me a horrible look, probably assuming I am some sort of homeless snob. At that point I decided to wait inside.
(cnidaria0 Cnidaria, Fri 3 Jul 2009, 10:03, 1 reply)

Tramps are humans too.
I wish I had a cheerful story to tell, but I don't, people looking for a laugh best look away now.

When i was in my second year of uni at Huddersfield, I was stocking up on food at Tesco with my house mates, two of whom were southern, one was extremely snobby. Leaving with our food, I saw a homeless guy sat outside, being totally ignored. He just looked so sad, so broken. I offered my pocket change. About £1.50 or there about. When I handed it over he grabbed my hand and squeezed it. He looked into my eyes and began to sob. "Thank you." he said, "Thank you.". I was just stunned. The look in his eyes, it was so alive, there was gratitude, shame, sadness, loneliness and sorrow. I consider myself pretty thick skinned, I never cry, ever, but at that moment i was close to tears. There was a man, just the same as any one else reduced to begging for amounts of money that I thought nothing of giving away. I just put my hand on top of his and said "It's ok."

Walking away, my snobby friend said. "You shouldn’t have done that, your moneys going straight to a needle full of heroin." I couldn’t believe how cold he was. Or how stupid. I told him to fuck off, that it was a real person he'd just chosen to ignore and that £1.50 wasn't going to get him much heroin. It made me so mad that some one was willing to just write off another human like that.
(Mong goose, Fri 3 Jul 2009, 1:27, Reply)

I was skulking around in Central London,
waiting outside the building where Wookiee works posts on b3ta when a trampette walked up to me and demanded money. I refused, politely but firmly, to hand over any cash. She mumbled something abusive and wandered off.
Five minutes later I had moved along the pavement, so she appeared again, seemingly having forgotten she'd already spoken to me.
"Still no," I told her. She was being aggressive so I told her to bugger off and received various terrible threats in response.
When Wookiee finally appeared, we walked across the road to the tube station and there she was again.
Wookiee was treated to the sight of a smelly, aggressive tramp approaching me, suddenly clearly recognising me and saying, "Oh. It's you," before swearing and walking away.
His raised eyebrow said it all.
( thealternativefact, Thu 2 Jul 2009, 18:33, Reply)

There's a multi-story carpark near Picadilly Circus
I was meeting some friends in central London and drove into London on a Friday evening running late. It was obviously going to cost me the price of Neverland in its full glory to park there for the weekend but I thought I'd make like an MP and expense it, as I was running late and would have added at least an hour parking further out and then trying to get in.

Anyway, having parked the trusty metal stead I set about leaving the dank concrete underground hole. Trudging up the stairs I reached what I presumed was the exit level - it wasn't. There's few times in my life when I've walked into situations that you really don't want to be in, but certainly walking in on two tramps bumming with a third gleefully watching on was one which no quantity of mind bleach seems to wash away.

The thing was the minute I stepped backwards and let the door stand between me and the homo-hobo show, I started to worry. Was the man being bummed consenting? Was he indeed even a tramp or had he been some poor bastard who happened to park in that car park and made the mistake I'd just made but been pounced on by the two vagrants and being raped? Standing outside I looked at my phone which typically was on its last legs in terms of battery life and had no reception in the concrete cell - even if this hadn't been the case, what could I say to the Police? If they were threeway merry bum bandits, then well they might get asked to move on and not rut in public places. But of course much worse, by the time the police arrived and the guy on the bottom was being attacked then he could have already taken tramp number two's length and been left for dead, etc. I felt very much like Bruce Willis in Pulp Fiction.

I could still hearing the muffled grunts beyond the door so assumed that the loose tramp hadn’t decided to come after me – perhaps that meant that they were all enjoying themselves and I could go and enjoy myself well away from there. I just couldn’t walk away though, just in case it was the nightmare scenario.

Shoving the door heavily I stood forward with the door swinging wide open, again absorbing the horror of the down-and-out dirty show. This time they stopped. They all looked up at me and the voyeur vagrant sneered, soon followed by a broad smile from the one being bummed. That was my cue, I didn’t need to see the one on top smile, I just turned and got the fuck away to the fading sound of tramp cackle.
( @><|= w0nu!) or cunt to my friends, Thu 2 Jul 2009, 17:26, 1 reply)

Bring on the pain.
Full warning in advance, there is no content, nothing sensible, just an entire nonsense story told with tramp puns. As for why it's here... read on. Or just skip to the bottom.

I once saw a homeless man posting a letter. It was a tramp stamp.

The letter was about sex with homeless guys - clearly a hobosexual.

The sex involved power politics - begging for change.

The politics were about prostitution and syrup - ho molass.

The prostitution involved some slippery drinks - oiled rum

The drinks were tainted with sheep wool and other stuff from Yorkshire - down an owt.

After drinking it you felt like a man. Even bigfoot. That's a bigger shoe.

But anyways, the stamp on the letter was an unusual design - that of a nobleman wearing an icecube on his head tilted to the side. Cold hat knight round 'ere.

The letter was sorted and taken abroad, on a glamorous but ageing ship. Showboat ails.

When it got there, it was delivered to a fruit merchant who was once high up in local government and literacy campaigns. He also sold metalwork. Ess Pear Chains Guvnor?

Not really the nicest location for this letter to end up, a terrible nonsense story indeed. Which fits in with the nonsense on b3ta really, the dark avenues of injokes. Honda streets.

And why did I do this? Challenge really. So many puns on the QotW, so I wanted to see just how many I could churn out in a 10 minute time limit. I'm sure that there'll be many 'better' ones forthcoming.
(calamarain just invented dehydrated water, Thu 2 Jul 2009, 16:56, 2 replies)

Was there a keyboard player for Smash Mouth? If so,
I might have met him.

I had the privilege of making the All-New Jersey Honors Orchestra, with the illustrious gig of playing a concert in Atlantic City for the annual teacher's convention. The 'honor' part of the orchestra meant that your mode of travel from the cushy Howard-Johnson Motel to the Convention Hall was by hoofing it down the boardwalk, in concert attire. So now there's about a hundred kids walking down the boardwalk in fancy dress in the middle of the day in November. This is when myself and a fellow musician met the keyboardist for that band Smash Mouth.

He walked up to us, Trump Taj Mahal Casino cup in his hand and wearing varying shades of brown. With the cup outstretched, he comes up to the two of us and says: "Hey, is there a wedding going on or something?"

I wanted to just say yes and keep moving along, but my companion decided to stop and answer him, explaining how we were all musicians that were going to be playing in a concert for the teacher's convention, etc. etc. Why I stopped along with him, I'll never know. But the rest of the conversation I will remember forever.

The bum nods his head in understanding, "Oh, neat. I played piano for the longest times. Piano/keyboards."

"Oh."

"Yeah, I was actually in that band Smash Mouth, you remember them right? 'Walking on the Sun' 'All-Star'..." He named a few others, but honestly--who actually listened to any of their other songs? And before we could even respond to that, the story kept on coming.

"Yeah, I played keyboards for them. Got pretty rich off from doing it too, if you can imagine. A couple million for a couple of hits. But then I got ALS--Lou Gehrig's, you know? And that all messed up my sense of timing and pitch and everything else. I was pretty much useless to them and couldn't play piano or anything like that anymore so I was out of the band.

"And, I was living in California at the time. So my wife sued me all I had; because under California law, a spouse can sue for having power of attorney over their spouse's funds if they have any sort of mental illness. Lou Gehrig's Disease counts as a mental illness under state law so she took everything."
(That's a huge bunch of bullshit-smelling legal babble, but kudos to this man if he thought it up on the spot.)

Here was the spot where I thought he was going to give his plea for some spare cash (it was the perfect set-up for it, in a way). Instead, he said this: "So anyways, I was broke and my wife took all my money--so I came back home to here in Jersey. But, everyone gets what they deserve you know? Like my wife--I killed the bitch. Shoved her through our third floor window into the driveway, the cops thought I had a seizure because of the ALS. They don't know shit."

That certainly came as a shock to me, and there was a very uncomfortable moment of silence between me, my fellow musician, and the (alleged) former keyboardist from Smash Mouth who confessed to killing his wife. Then he nods his head again, and with cup still outstretched towards us says "You guys have a nice day." And walks away.
(Wagner's Rabbi, Wed 8 Jul 2009, 21:49, 1 reply)

WELL!
This one time this homeless guy who was with all these lapdancers right with big tits right was all like "I PITY THE FOO' WHO DON'T GIVE ME NO FIVER SUCKA'!" I was like "what?!" and he said there was no way he'd get on no plane.
So I knocked him out with my fists and had sex with all the strippers with their big tits right in this posh hotel on the top floor in their most expensive room on cocaine for five hours on linux. Nobody back at the games workshop believed me until I showed them the PORNO I MADE ROFL!!!!!!
( Jam Master Geordie Hero of B3ta., Wed 8 Jul 2009, 3:57, 8 replies)

Ah.. Connie!
Back when I was a juvenile Sparklet, I worked in a city centre burger bar. We served burgers on plates and everything, with waitresses. It was there that I first encountered the lovely Connie.

She was short and always dressed in a good woollen winter coat, even when it was a hot sunny day. And she had an impressive collection of plastic carrier bags. Each bag contained many tatty and mucky looking cuddly toys. Connie also had a large manky looking teddy bear under one arm as she travelled around the city. On the day I met her she announced her arrival shouting "Margaret!!! MARGARET.. WHERE ARE YOU!!"

At this point, the manageress, (named Margaret) whispered "oh deary me it's Connie" and tried to make it to her office before Connie saw her... Too late...

"THERE YOU ARE MARGARET!!" yelled Connie

With a sigh Margaret, a chic, well turned out middle aged lady of (I think) Dutch extraction turned around and mentally wrote off the next ten minutes as Connie took a deep breath, and continued

"MARGARET THATCHER!! YOU WANT ANY CONDOMS MARGARET? I GOT THESE ONES THEY'RE BRILLIANT!" She yelled across the busy cafe She waved a grubby fist, filled indeed with prophylactics, although we didn't want to know how she knew how good they were.
Margaret swallowed, and graciously declined the kind offer.

OK THEN MARGARET!! YOU ARE MARGARET THATCHER, AIN'T YOU?" Connie asked her right up close to where we were both standing. Close enough that I could smell both Connie's Eau de parrafin lamp and Margaret's L'air du Temps..

Margaret half sighed "yes I am Connie, if you want me to be!"

"See I told you she couldn't fool us!" Connie chuckled to her moth-eaten Panda, and went on her merry way...

Two years after this encounter, my Mum stood waiting for my Dad to pick her up after a morning shopping, and Connie appeared behind her, wreathed in smiles..

"GUESS WHAT?" she shouted at my Mum.

"I don't know" My Mum replied

"I'm going to Skeggy*, and THEY'RE ALL COMING WITH ME!!!" yelled Connie in delight!

My Mum tells me that the look of sheer joy on this smelly, grubby and deeply troubled woman's face made her smile for months.

Sadly, we never heard of Connie again after that, I hope she liked Skeggy!

*Skegness, Lincolnshire. Favourite seaside resort for Leicester folk.
(Beer Elf Thought this was like a campfire, anyhow, on, Tue 7 Jul 2009, 14:03, 4 replies)

The punk
I just remembered this one. Not my story, but one I rather like.

Anyone who lived in Manchester in the late 1980's/early 1990's will probably remember the punk beggar. He was a big bloke, both tall and muscly, and he'd use his size to be intimidating. Interestingly, he was also apparently deaf and dumb, so he'd come up to you and grunt menacingly in your face whilst holding up a card saying which read '50p for bus'.
It worked pretty well for him; people were scared of him enough to hand over the demanded 50p, and when he'd got enough he'd be off down to the Salisbury and the Banshee to spend it all. (He certainly got money out of me - I was scared shitless of him).

And then there was Andy. Andy was a copper who didn't like bullying much, and didn't take well to a six-foot-odd punk menacing old ladies for fifty pence peices which should have been going in their gas meters, so he took to carrying a notebook with him when he was off duty. Sure enough, one day, Punk came up to him and leaned in menacingly and held out his card, Andy pulled out his pad and wrote '"Which bus do you want to catch? Where are you going?', and handed over the pen.
A certain amount of to and fro got punk to admit he wanted to go to Northenden (the middle of nowhere), so Andy gave one of his mates a quick shout on his radio and out of the kindness of his heart got him driven all the way there, for free, in the back of a cop car.
(davywavy, Tue 7 Jul 2009, 14:01, 5 replies)

tramp on Euston Road
just before you get to Euston Square tube..


He has a sign that says, need money, don't do drugs, help please..


I gave him some drugs
( Signify, Mon 6 Jul 2009, 23:19, 4 replies)

A hobo in the family
My sister is the coolest person I know.

When I was still in high school, my sister decided to drop everything and hobo around the northeast for a year. With nothing but her boyfriend, a backpack and the clothes she could carry, she hitchhiked and train-hopped and slept in doorways and street corners and dumpster-dived and spanged for food and learned the absolute terror of knowing that your very existence depends on the kindness of complete strangers. She saw the entire spectrum of human charity, from the hippies in Boston who taught her how to weave hemp jewelry so she could sell them in their festival booth to the thousands of people who saw her, hungry, tired and dirty and spit on her, insulted her and even assaulted her for asking for a means to survive.

She returned a year after she'd left, 20 pounds lighter, a great deal more tan and with a lifetime of experience leaving her with both an optimistic and incredibly jaded view of humanity.

Now when I'm accosted on the street by the fiftieth beggar that day, instead of putting my hand in my pockets to still the jingling of change or pretending I didn't hear, I give a quarter or a cigarette or a bit of whatever I'm eating, because that hobo is someone's sister or brother, someone's son or daughter, and that bit I give which means so little to me could mean everything to them.

[EDIT - having read through a few more of the previous pages, I'd like to clarify that this isn't an attempt to guilt people into giving hobos money or feel bad about making fun of them - this is just my personal perspective. Also, hobos who keep asking after you've already told them you have no change (no, really, stop asking) annoy the crap out of me.]
(TheManWhoWas SlightlyKnackered, Mon 6 Jul 2009, 21:43, Reply)

No. You don't get to be a chooser.
I was on my way out, couldn't be bothered to cook, so I grabbed some chips on the way.

A homeless guy stopped me and asked if he could have some money for some chips. I said he could have my chips.

He looked at me aghast, confused, uncomprehending.

Then he took the chips and said "what the hell am I meant to do with this". He picked out one of the pointier chips and mimed injecting it into his arm ranting "oh look at me, I'm so high, these chips are exactly what I wanted".

Maybe only the frst 4 sentences of this post are entirely true.
(teebie jeebie, Mon 6 Jul 2009, 13:17, Reply)

I apprended a ham-thieving tramp
in the Peterborough branch of Te$c0 Xpress a few weeks back. I went to do my weekly shop one night after work and as I was about to select some cold cuts for sandwiches, I looked down and noticed, aghast, there was a drunk tramp sat in the chiller cabinet eating ham from a packet. I shouted a security guard and the tramp promptly tried to leg it, stuffing the packet of open ham into his pocket. He was caught and the ham was removed from his person. Strange thing is, he stole Value range ham. Surely if you were going to nick some you'd steal the pricer stuff?
(SpongyMonkey is an honorary East Anglian on, Sun 5 Jul 2009, 19:49, 3 replies)

Apologies to Coolio and Stevie Wonder...
(See www.b3ta.com/questions/tramps/post470801 for the inspiration)

As I sit in a doorway on a street in my town
I take a look at my pants
And realise they're filthy and brown
With a dog on a string and a 3 day-old bagel
Even my momma thinks that I'm long-term AWOL
You know I used to be a suit in the city smoke
Until I copied in my boss on that e-mail joke
Quicker than I could type "licked out"
He had my kicked out
And now I am homeless begging peeps for a toke.
My missus hit the roof when she heard I was fired,
And kicked me out on the street, I can't sleep - I'm tired.
My joke only got a cheap laugh now I'm hoping for a "street bath",
On my knees under a drainpipe
With a Burger King freshwipe.

Pissed, skint, kicked out by my wife
I'm heading for a trampy afterlife
Pissed, skint, kicked out by my wife
I'm heading for a trampy afterlife

Look at the situation - I'm on my arse,
I can't live a trampy life, I was raised middle-class.
But I gotta be down with the hobos,
Nightly television watching in Dixons windows.
I used to spend evenings shovelling coke in my face
Now there's a whole different meaning to the daily rat race.
In my cardboard house, chasing my pet mouse
Putting cheese in my pants to help me get aroused.
Starvation could happen soon - any day,
I'm eating 6 month-old dog food, what can I say?
I'm twenty-three now, will I live to see twenty-four,
The way things is going I don't know.

Tell me why are they
So blasé
About the tramps they see
Every day?
Pissed, skint, kicked out by my wife
I'm heading for a trampy afterlife.
Pissed, skint, kicked out by my wife
I'm heading for a trampy afterlife.

Fast food in the garbage, garbage in the fast food,
I'm scrambling through the rubbish, but you don't have to be so rude,
Everybody's seeing, but half of them ain't looking
I just need one pound fifty
To get some decent cooking.
They say to "get a job"
But nobody's here recruiting.
If they won't try to help, do they have to stick the boot in?
I guess they can't,
I guess they won't,
I guess I'm fucked,
That's why I know my life is out of luck, fool!

Pissed, skint, kicked out by my wife
I'm heading for a trampy afterlife.
Pissed, skint, kicked out by my wife
I'm heading for a trampy afterlife.
( TheMagicDwarf is back like ballroom dancing, Fri 3 Jul 2009, 9:48, 2 replies)

It's a bloke!
In my younger days I had slightly long hair. I was once standing on the platform in Baker Street underground station waiting for a tube when a tramp drunkenly staggered up to me, put both his hands upon my shoulders and said "Alright darling". I replied in my deepest, gruffest, manliest voice "get off mate". The hobo muttered "It's a bloke" as he staggered backwards. He then announced it to everyone standing on the platform "It's a bloke! Fuck me! It's a bloke!". Made my day that did.
( stopmeandslapme Cometh the hour, cometh your mum, Thu 2 Jul 2009, 22:16, Reply)

My mate is disabled, and as such, has to use a wheelchair.

He was due to get married to a lovely lass, so as such, it was my responsbility to throw a stag party.

Considering he lives in Yorkshire, it was a bit of a trek for the rest of us who lived in London; but he's a good lad so it was no bother.

My reckoning was that we would have a nice quiet drink in a pub, and then head along to a strip joint.

However, I rang the strip joint to check if they had disabled access; and they didn't. No problem I thought, we'll just carry him up the steps. We might have had a few beers in us by then, but we're big lads so it wouldn't be a huge problem.

Not being a local, I called a pub in the town centre as well; just to cover my bases:
"Red Lion."
"Yes, hi. I'm arranging a stag do for my mate, and we're probably going to have a drink in a pub before anything more adventurous. Only problem is, he's disabled."
"Oh that's no problem."
"Great! So you have disabled access?"
"Yeah, he can just use t'ramps."

/coat
(Purple_Monkey_Jingles Purple Monkeys need love too, Thu 2 Jul 2009, 19:40, Reply)

I was waiting for the bus
and a deadlocked smackhead traveller style of vagrant approached.

here we go I though something along the lines of "spare change for a; cup of tea/bus fare home/bite to eat"

He smiled broadly showing his wonky brown graveyard teeth "You look like a man of good taste and discrimination" he said, I rolled my eyes waiting to trot out the "sorry skint mate" line

He went on "hopefully you may be able to help me out of my predicament. You see Bad Manners are playing at the Fleece & Firkin tonight and I'm hoping to raise enough cash to gain entry & drink myself stupid on cider. Just a small donation of a pound will go a long way to helping this happen" He then, with a flourish removed his hat and held it out grinning his horrible grin and wiggling his eyebrows. I gave him a handful of change (about £3+) for the laugh and wished him good luck
(sittingduck Attention seeking, bullshitting fuck-knuckle, Thu 2 Jul 2009, 17:14, Reply)

My dad's favourite joke.
Two toothless members of 'the portable wine tasting society' are strolling along one day, when one of them notices a strong smell of faeces in the air.

"Have you shit yourself?"
The first tramp enquires.

"No!"
Replies the second.
"How dare you suggest such a thing?"

The first tramp, albeit sceptical accepts this answer and they carry on their merry way.
A little while on and the smell of turd has only got worse.

"Are you sure you haven't shit yourself?"
The first tramp again asks.

"No, I have not bloody shit myself"
Once again replies his bridge camping companion.

So they continue on.

A little while on and the first Harry Ramp notices that they have not managed to beg a penny off anyone. People are actually crossing the street to avoid them, due to the stench of fetid arse matter that is surrounding them.

"Look, you fucking stink."
Says the first tramp.
"You are scaring away customers with your smell, are you sure you have not shit your pants?"

"I promise I have not shit myself, check for yourself."
The second tramp answers while turning round and undoing his 'Giorgio Armani summer collection' rope belt.

Once undone, the smelly tramp bends over and exposes his bare, foul stinking, sloppy arse gravy covered bum and cack caked kecks to his mate.

"Oh Jesus!"
Yells the first tramp, retching at the sight and odour.
"You have fucking shit yourself, its fucking everywhere!"

"No."
The smelly tramp replies....


"That's yesterdays."


Thank you, thank you. I'm here all week.
(Bam Bam McPenis will change all this when he is fuhrer., Wed 8 Jul 2009, 15:03, Reply)

If I was losing my home
I went to a conference once with my boss and we were saying that if it was looking like we were going to become homeless, the one thing we'd keep hold of would be a good smart suit. With that, you can always get free food - there's always some conference, wedding, funeral or other event that you can blag your way into. A selection of simple name badges would probably help too.
( flatfrog Staring vacantly into space, Tue 7 Jul 2009, 11:35, Reply)

The Seattle Homeless Rock!
I was there for a little over a year, and I would like to state, that they have the best, truly A-Grade mentalist tramps anywhere I have seen!
Apart from the usual 'sleeping in their own faeces' types. The ones with creative banners pleased me greatly. Among my favorites that I can remember...

"Help, Wife taken by Aliens, now they want to give her back. Need money for lawyer to fight them"

"Homeless, Unemployed, Need money for Crack. (at least I'm honest)"

"Starting to sober up, it's scary, need money for drink"
( Pixieelf got his 1st front pg. when MJ died! Double Whammy!, Tue 7 Jul 2009, 9:49, Reply)

Immortality
Once, long ago, if a person was wandering down the street talking to noone visible, it was a surefire sign of mental disorder rather than a surefire sign of someone who wants to look amazingly important with a bluetooth device.

So there had used to be a high correlation between talking to the air and homelessness.

I happened to be following a tramp down the street; he was deep in conversation with noone that was visible to the rest of the world, but I could hear at least his side of the dialogue.
"... and then we drowned him, and it still didn't kill him. So we cut off his head, and we still couldn't kill him..."

A whole quarter of a century later, I'm still fascinated by the scenario being described. Who was this indestructible being, and why was he subject to such determined annihilation attempts by the homeless and helpless of North Staffordshire?
( Enzyme is powered by sunlight, Mon 6 Jul 2009, 14:20, 6 replies)

Special Brew
The better-class vagrant's lager of choice, Carlsberg Special Brew, was first brewed in 1950 in honour of Winston Churchill. Fact.

I think the brewers at Carlsberg might have gone a bit overboard though on ensuring that the drink adhered to the Churchillian ethos - in particular the sentiment of his famous speech where he said "...we shall fight on the beaches... we shall fight in the fields and in the streets..."...
(Capo, Mon 6 Jul 2009, 12:24, 1 reply)

I once
helped out a young tramp lady, gave her a quid if she was waiting near my bus stop. We struck up a rapport, she'd ask me how my day'd been and I'd ask about hers. Then one day she'd gone. I was worried cuz she was on the game, I thought something terrible might have happened to her.

Turns out she got a flat in a housing association and a job as a cleaner in a local factory. Things were lookin up for her.

On the downside, though, bang went my one pound blowjob after work.
(Smitty Foster, Sun 5 Jul 2009, 11:42, Reply)

I smiled at a Tramp once...
...as he bounced off the bonnet of my car.
(Dante licked your nipple on, Sun 5 Jul 2009, 0:07, Reply)

Rich McTramp
At the law firm where I used to work we had a tramp for a client. No, it wasn't our fees that rendered him tramped up, but I like your thinking.
He was a proper client. He lived in a tent in some local woods and one day had been hit by a car, breaking both his thighs in the process. We got him some compo. A LOT of compo. We opened him a Personal Injury Trust so that he wouldn't lose his benefits, and got the benefits and a bank account for him. Before that he had nothing, no address no bank account, see? No GP either. He has now. Nowadays he comes in the office when he wants £50. He can't have all the money at once, someone would probably kill him for it.
However, being of the trampy persuasion, he whiffs a bit. Quite a lot. It was so funny seeing him sitting in the waiting room with proper, un-whiffy clients, seeing them trying to breathe through their mouths.
He's mad as a bucket of blue shit, but has a twin brother who is Mr Normal. Don't know why he's ended up in a tent. Wish he'd buy himself a bar of soap though.
( Sallyrsm, Sat 4 Jul 2009, 19:30, 1 reply)

Looking through the answers this week it's clear that tramps are great.
Remember how many homelesses there were in the eighties?

Want to relive those glory days?

/David Cameron.
( Dr Preference AjcuiVd289, Sat 4 Jul 2009, 18:32, 1 reply)

Here's your fucking ear!
Back in the 80s I would often spend my lunch hour sharing some Special Brew with the dossers of Leicester Square. Once one came fresh from court and gleefully told her tale: she'd be scrapping with another lady of the road and it had got rough - her injured opponent had reached to her head and shrieked 'where's my ear'. She related, with pride, that she'd spat it out and crowed 'here's your fuckin ear'.
(enile, Fri 3 Jul 2009, 16:41, Reply)

Walking to work
I was ambling through central London one morning unintentionally following in the path a young couple. From our right appeared a scruffy young individual with a grubby sleeping bag slung over his shoulder.

He strode purposefully up to the couple in front, proffered a dirty hand and said "would you like some spare change?"

The couple looked at each other, confused. Then with a big shit-eating grin he said "Well, I like to be different". The couple didn't know what to do and walked away looking very embarrased.

Got a few giggles from other commuters and earned him a few quid. Brightened my morning up no end.
(toomanydecibels has bleeding ears on, Fri 3 Jul 2009, 15:44, Reply)

A deserved rp from yesteryear
Was working in a computer shop just outside Swansea Train station a good few years back. Was an ok job, but the bosses were barmy and it all ended in tears, but while it lasted we had a hell of a laugh. The street the shop was on was in "Tramp-downtown" and we'd regularly see the poor bastards wonder past and sometimes glance in at us as we all stare back for an awkward second.

This one particular morning however, things were quite unusual at the station. Police had arrived in their masses and a large glass security car with a double-seat podium sat at the back. It could only mean one thing; the Queen HRH herself was in town. She along with Philip was touring Wales to highlight the opening of the Welsh Assembly some 10-11 years back, and her journey had currently taken her to the station a few yards up from us. Well this don't happen every day, so we congregate by the shop door, waiting for Coin-Bitch to drive past. Apparently there was a parade starting on the Kingsway in Swansea, which is a main road situated at the bottom of our road where the shop was.

After a few minutes the car is loaded and we can see them both clearly in the back (without seat-belts on I might add, road safety gamblers) and they start curb-crawling down past our shop complete with us gawping back. We wave, and Philip gives us all a massive "Hello!" and waves like a madman back, which made us grin like fuck. But the Queen has unfortunately spotted something else, and has a look of horror on her face.

We follow her gaze..........and see on the opposite side of the road 2 tramps taking a shit in a hedge, just as the queen was passing. She's got a look of shock, and we promptly piss ourselves laughing. Some patrolling police officers who are guarding the Royal car start radio-ing in something but it's too late. The Queen's seen Swansea for real and it stung :)

Soz for length of rp, but it was a royal sized number 2...
( Jeccius Steam Borderlands 2 junkie, Fri 3 Jul 2009, 9:20, 2 replies)

You shouldn't call them tramps.
As a friend of mine has said, they prefer to be called hobo sapiens.
(mariam67, Fri 3 Jul 2009, 0:09, 1 reply)

Gordon the Tramp
Pretty much every student at Bournemouth knows of Gordon the tramp.

If you see him and shout "Whats the time Gordon?" he'll tell you. Not that exciting but it made it onto the news:

www.youtube.com/watch?v=b13vsbLgwrs

Turns out he isn't a tramp, so not sure if it is really relevent to this QOTW

I've only seen him twice - and both times somebody else has asked him the time before I got a chance.
(ecilA Alice...has nothing to do, Thu 2 Jul 2009, 18:03, 2 replies)

Johnny Wellies
Simply a legend in my home town of Sthelens.

He's known for both his politeness and his antagonism (usually at the same time), coining such phrases as 'Fuck off, god bless'

Although he does match the stereotypical requirements of trampkind, gnarled stump, strange plastic bags, beard and hat/coat/wellies. He refrains from drinking and taking drugs. Instead he offers people food, money, newspapers (all faintly smelling of urine). He is known to laugh at anything, but can hold his own any most conversations.

Here's a video of him having his own private disco outside a bar.
www.youtube.com/watch?v=kz6aFY22DYw

He's been alive longer than anyone else (possibly immortal), although when he does die, me and a few mates will be petitioning for several statues of him one every roundabout in sthelens.

Although it does sound like i'm taking the piss, he is actually a well loved character and is treated very nicely by the people of my home town. A local taxi rank puts a kittie together every christmas and pay for him to have a shave, a hair cut and the buy him presents, which is rather touching.

Keep it real Johnny.

A fan.
(mr-lizard Hell's teeth man!, Thu 2 Jul 2009, 16:25, Reply)

There was this one really annoying beggar
Kept hassling me non-stop with her whining "please sir, spare a few coins", which I just ignored. Her next tactic was to run around in front of me yelling "just a few coins, that's all I'm asking... I'm poor and sick and hungry". Couldn't deal with that for long so I grabbed her and shoved her, upon which she landed on her arse across the other side of the town square.

Soon afterwards, the city guards got pissed off and killed me for some imagined infraction, so I stopped playing Assassin's Creed and turned the Xbox off.

...bindun, probably?
( Dave McF wrote some words on, Tue 7 Jul 2009, 22:45, 1 reply)

window-popper terrifies local student
So, when I was at university, I was unfortunate enough to be sharing a house with eleven other people. What's worse is that I occupied the first room (Room 0), which was the very front room of the house, the enormous windows facing the busiest thoroughfare of this particular town. It was also an ancient house, with them kind of slidy windows you only really see in wartime films or cowboy shows.

Anyway, I was in my room, happily smoking a joint one evening, looking at porn on my uni-funded laptop - and to my surprise I had found that the town tramp had silently slid up the side window, poked his head through the space and was quietly watching me. I noticed him, instantly became terrified, (closed down the porn sites), and inquired as to his motives for becoming a peeping tom.

"Have you got the internet by there on that computer have you is it?"
(The university was in Wales)

I nodded.

"Right tidy, go here on the internet will you then, and go to this place then will you?"

He handed me a scrumpled note upon which was scrawled the address for a self-tattooing kit. I loaded up the site for him and he looked in awe. He was getting pretty comfortable at this point, poking his head further in, leaning his elbow on the sill.

"Ahhh, tidy! Look at that! Tidy mun, tattoos innit! Nice one, lush mun!"

I neglected to mention earlier that even though he was being fairly polite with me (despite the ninja-like opening of my window), he was one of those hard-looking tramps with tattoos all over his rotting face. As he looked at my computer screen I fearfully looked at him, willing him to disappear behind the curtain and out of my room forever.

"Listen butt, 'ow much is that kit by there on that computer?"

It was something like £60.

"Ahh tidy son, now listen, will'ew buy that for me and have it delivered here and then what I'll do is come back to this window and pay you for it is it, tidy?"

This fucking tramp was using my window as a business opportunity.

I was terrified by this point. I agreed and mumbled some computer jargon to confuse the tramp. I then proceeded to pretend to order the kit and tell him the estimated delivery time would be about two months.

"Two fucking months? Duw, I thought the fucking internet was fucking quicker than that! Hahaha!"

And then, just like that, he swooped backwards out of my window and was gone. I shut that window with so much fucking force that I'm surprised I didn't trap my now-utterly limp cock in it. I locked the window and the front door. I didn't sleep much that night. I left the house soon after.




I visited the house recently since the story above took place about three years ago now. The (my) front room's window had been smashed in, and the room had been gutted by someone, leaving only rotted cardboard boxes and my old mattress on the floor. I hope I never bump into that hard tattoo-wearing tramp. He'll probably kill me.
(Hernandez Fiendish probably won't be here until at least, say, Tue 7 Jul 2009, 13:35, Reply)

Dundee Drunks
We used to get kicked out the fire exit at my old work to go for a cigarette, on to a piss-soaked, syringe covered, cobbled alleyway where lots of old drunk and homeless men would sit all day sharing cans of Tennents Super T and telling anyone who would listen anecdotes of fights they had been in.

One story that stood out was from a man called Rufus who was very drunk one Wednesday morning. He told me he had gone up to Lidl at 8am and picked up 2 bottles of vodka and stuffed them in his jacket and tried to walk out, only to be confronted by the manager and escorted to an office round the back. Lidl only ever seem to have about 2 staff working at anytime so the manager had to go back on to the shop floor while they waited for the police to turn up, leaving Rufus alone in the office....with the 2 bottles of 'evidence'.
The police turn up, are shown to the office by the manager to find an inebriated Rufus giggling in his chair, the police say they can't arrest him for trying to steal empty bottles (they obviously couldn't be arsed with the paper work) and as a final kicker...offer Rufus a lift back to his shelter because he's to drunk to walk.

What a clever tramp.
(rmmkkenny, Tue 7 Jul 2009, 10:34, 4 replies)

I wasn't expecting that.
Despite the prevalent image of Japan being a squeaky clean utopia of clean-shaven, impeccably-dressed men and women marching in neat rows and columns to and from their office jobs at the space robot construction companies every day, in all metropolitan areas you will inevitably see the shanty towns of cardboard and blue tarpaulin. Go to any train station and you'll see human beings slumped in doorways and alcoves, most unconscious due to the usual forms of chemical enhancement. Some are sitting cross-legged on the ground moaning at no one in particular. These are the homeless that are easy to spot.

However, there are a few that you never suspect of being those whom have fallen through the cracks, until it is far too late.

A few years back I was standing outside Shibuya Station -- one of the busiest, hysterically crowded mass-transit facilities in the entire solar system -- on a Tuesday morning in full businessman suited regalia, briefcase in hand, waiting for a coworker to show up before heading to a meeting with a client. I'm standing there amongst an endless sea of flowing humanity, in and out of the station and across the intersection opposite the front gates. Off to the side was a little waiting area with a fountain where you might expect a multitude of pigeons and various homeless people to congregate.

Presently I saw a middle-aged lady sitting on the marble facade of the fountain, calmly reading a tabloid newspaper. Her clothing, while weathered, didn't scream "tramp!" at me, and neither did her demeanor. She wasn't wobbly drunk, nor was she having animated conversations with alien beings from the planet Zoombak. She was just sitting there, reading a paper. There were no other people in the immediate vicinity. Just this one lady and her paper.

And then, as I was looking in her general direction, she looked up from her paper, and leaned a bit over to one side as if to peer at something on the ground.

At which point, without any warning, without any pre-heave, without any signal whatsoever, she proceeded to explode forth with the longest, most horribly sickening Mr. Creosote-style projectile vomit I have ever seen. Making a noise that sounded very much like RAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGGGH, she managed to achieve a spew distance reaching nearly five feet.

Keep in mind that throughout all this, there are hundreds and hundreds of people behind me walking to and fro, minding their own business, no one stopping or even looking in the direction of Mt. Vesuvius over there on the water fountain. It was just her, and me. A decidedly odd personal moment between us.

When she finished her nuclear vomitocaust, she slowly sat back upright again, and turned to the next page of her newspaper. Nobody acted as if anything out of the ordinary had occurred.

To this day I wonder if she was even a homeless person at all.
(The 2-Belo OH SHI--[Sound of impact][End of recording], Tue 7 Jul 2009, 8:19, Reply)

Cash Machines
I'm not typically known for my compassion, but one thing that really grinds my gears is, well, two things that really grind my gears are:

1. tramps that sit at cash machines. This is not fair-play. So many times have I seen young girls scared shitless and giving the mumbling, gurning hobo some money just so he will leave them alone while they try to get some money and get through the night un-assaulted.

2. "Got any spare change, mate?" Now then. "Spare change"? Isn't having "spare" change kind of like admitting that you earn too much? There are no things in your life for which that money could be put to better use? There are no things in the world that you can think of that are more pressing a need for this extra money you seem to have lying about? You have no debt, your mortgage is paid off, you don't use credit cards, your elderly mother is in a paid-up, expensive nursing home, your children are all fully funded and not having to work through Uni, and now, you, my hobo-friend, have finally made it to the front of my payroll. Instead of quitting my job, that I clearly don't need, since I have now found myself with spare money, I will GIVE you my money.

Easy now.
(Her Ghost, Mon 6 Jul 2009, 21:32, Reply)

Not Very Funny, But Sadly True
I used to live with a mate in Manchester City Centre. We lived off Oxford Road in one of the cube-shaped apartments.

After a typical night out the road home was paved with what I came to call, "the pseudo-homeless". As we negotiated our way into Monsoon's (god rest its artery-clogging soul), they were everywhere - the whole variety show; stinky-dude, aggressive-dude, glum-dude, pissed-dude, change-for-a-cup-of-tea-dude, change-for-the-last-bus-dude..

That night, we got into a debate about my "lack of heart" versus his naivety about the pseudo-homeless. A gauntlet was laid down:

"Go and get a pasty from the Spar and give it to that pseudo-homeless bell-end sat over there. See what happens."

My mate, convinced he couldn't lose this one, skipped in and returned with a Ginster's pasty.

As he made his way over to the pseud, time slowed and I could hear classical music - it was like the docking scene in 2001: A Space Oddity. Their paths were set to cross and a well-meaning, yet naive, young man was about to feed a homeless tramp out of little more than compassion and the desire to win a bet.


"What the FUCK am I supposed to do with that, dickhead? Give me some money or PISS OFF".
(Her Ghost, Mon 6 Jul 2009, 21:24, Reply)

No Home in Motown
After my third divorce, I had lost my wife, small daughter, house, job, car and all. Another girlfriend had thrown me out into the streets and I was using a reconditioned bicycle to make my way around town and from bar to bar looking for the free luncheon tray on Sundays.
Hopelessly alcoholic, I stood tottering on a bridge in the rain one night and shouted to the heavens above, "Give me MORE, you motherfuckers!" That night some asshole stole my bicycle.
Clean and sober six years now. Re-united with ex. Still writing bullshit on websites.
(Devilbabytales, Sun 5 Jul 2009, 19:51, Reply)

Man of action.
My most fun encounter with a shackless bum was on the Queen's Jubilee weekend, and climaxed with me in the back of a free black cab being anxiously reassured by the driver that it would all be ok, and that we'd be at the hospital soon.

Ten minutes previously, I'd been taking a pleasant and very drunk walk back to my house with my girlfriend and another female acquaintance. As we neared the building, a particularly disturbed and dishevelled gentleman emerged from an adjacent alley, letting forth all manner of x-rated insults to the two women I was with.

In their wisdom, the ladies politely ignored him and continued on. I however, full of piss and righteousness, turned round and told the unwashed fuck to fuck the fuck off.

He stormed at me with madness in his eyes, so I gave him a hefty push and he fell to the floor. Then he stood up, pulled a knife out of his pocket, and shoved it between my ribs, just missing my very lucky heart.

Lol.

The downside of being that drunk is that I didn't appreciate the seriousness of the event, thinking he'd merely swung a punch, and I immediately fluctuated into "love" mode, accepting his frantic and (to me) inexplicable apologies and gently chiding him for being so confrontational. He disappeared sharpish, leaving me bewildered by his sudden change from angry psychotic to sheepish apologist.

Then I looked down at the alarmingly painful spot where he'd 'punched' me, and it all became very clear.

I don't initiate physical violence anymore. And if I were to, I certainly wouldn't initiate it with a fucking push. Idiot.
( Wet-chinned bag shanker Cannot parse Wogan, Sun 5 Jul 2009, 18:41, 1 reply)

Inarguable logic
A mad boho mate was in london from berlin, nice summer day and we are 3 pubs in on a crawl. tramp with blanket and dog near the princess louise in holborn, 2 banks next door with cash machines doing the bleating act.
We are beer and sun enjoying and getting fed up with the noise.

" i`m hungry, can you help" after about 20 repetitions, graham is on one, puts on his best glasgie accent at full glasgie volume: ( assume capitals)
"ay pal, I can help, a bit of advice... eat the fucking dog" and there was a round of applause.
It got up and left with blanket and dog.
(tootired Is searching for a funny sig, nothing good so far, Sun 5 Jul 2009, 17:52, Reply)

Gorilla in the garden!
In my delightful home town we have a tramp/mentalist by the name of Tick Tick. He has a loose grip on reality and is prone to shouting random things for no discernable reason.

Once I was walking up a staircase in Boots and was surprised to pass Tick Tick talking quite amiably and reasonably to a small group of 12-13 year olds. Strange, I thought, and assumed some new medication was working wonders.

As I came down the stairs having completed my business Tick Tick was still chatting away to the kids. As I reached the bottom I heard him scream the immortal words, "Gorilla in the garden! GET HIM OUT!", followed by the sound of frightened children scattering.
(superscape blames it on the bogie, Sat 4 Jul 2009, 18:44, Reply)

Cheeky Bastard
I'd just come out of a Brixton club in the early hours of the morning and was waiting for a bus when this wild-haired tramp dashes up to me and says "Man, have you got any spare change?"

I shook my head and said I was sorry but, no, I didn't.

No joke, he leaned his head slightly closer to me and, with an expression of mild annoyance, looked me directly in the eye and said "Why not?"
(Gilbo, Sat 4 Jul 2009, 16:55, 1 reply)

I have the makings of a tramp, apparently
I was working as a sound engineer in that there London and having a mooch around Notting Hill one afternoon. After a few pints, and a self telling off for not going before I had left, I found myself nipping into a public toilet.

I walked down the stairs and found a hobo convention! There were four or five of them who all turned to look at me as I entered. There was no going back without pissing myself, so I made my way to a urinal as one started on his, "I need a couple of quid to get home" speech. I put on my gruffest Glaswegian accent and said, "Fucksake, can ye no wait till I've had a pish."

To which the mendicant replied, "Oh, sorry, are you on the road your self."

GET TO FUCK. I thought I looked quite dapper.

Got out without giving any money away, but I did lose a couple of fags.
( Cheeses of Nazareth Where's Captain Kirk? www.whereiskirk.com, Fri 3 Jul 2009, 18:51, Reply)

The memoirs of a urine-stained derelict.
In Cambridge in the 1990s I remember a mange-ridden washed-up derelict who closely resembled Brian Blessed, but with matted hair.
The student populous referred to him as "Uncle Nobby", he was regularly seen pushing a shopping cart (the type favoured by old ladies) filled with rags and roadkill.
His activities included.

1. Urinating publicly, the more public the better. I once saw him unzip and pull out his dirt-encrusted phallus and micturate like a racehorse in a crowd of commuters at a bus stop.

2. He was once seen rifling through a bin, pulled out something without form and covered in flies, and proceeded to devour it hungrily much to the open disgust of passing members of the public.

3. He would regularly masturbate in public, although he limited this activity to the hours following the closure of the local hostelries. Regularly on leaving the Kings Street Run and walking across Christ's Pieces, I would be treated to the site of Nobby, completely sated, with his spent Phallus lying across his leg oozing the remains of his fetid ejaculate.

4. He occasionally attempted clumsy coitus with female vagrants on the childrens' play park next to the zionist church on East Road. One summer I noted as i passed him rhythmically jiggling up and down on top of a semi-comatose female tramp, like a slightly macabre adult version of Burt and Mary Poppins.

5. Standing outside Sainsburys in the days before the big issue sellers monopolised it, and shouting obscenities randomly at passers by. Many a time I was greeted by him with a stentorian cry of "Fuckwanker!" as I went in to buy a wispa bar and a can of fanta.
(Vic Flange, Fri 3 Jul 2009, 15:18, 3 replies)

I officially look like a tramp
My friend and I were in town the other day when pounced upon by ywo RSPCA vultures, trying to pick over the bones of our poor student bank accounts.

My friend quickly made his excuses, saying he donated online. I was not quick enough though,

I simply said "I can't afford it"

But they were ready for that "it's just two pounds a month" charity vulture 1 countered.

However trying to shake them off my friend said "he's homeless" apparently he meant to say poor but instead said homeless.

Now I was chuckling a bit now but before my friend could correct himself, the charity lady did something unexpected, she asked me if I wanted any food and offered me a peach. Now I was a quite amused by this and respectfully declined and made my exit.

I was slightly insulted by how easy she found it to believe I was homeless, but she did work for a charity, so was probably more inclined to be kind and after all who would lie about something like that.

Now I didn't think much of it, but my friend said she believed it because I looked like a tramp, so he decided to see if other people would believe it.

So we were in Mcdonald the other day and chatting to the girl at the till, we were joking around and he got his change was just 5p so he said just keep it, whereas I had about £3 worth of change so she joked "I suppose you want your change don't you?"

Now I suppose you can see where this is going can't you.

My friend said in the same jocular voice "He certainly does, he's homeless"

Now as we'd been joking so I expected her to take it as a joke, however instead she stopped laughing and started giving me advice on how to get a council house, I thanked her and quickly made my exit.

On an unrelated note I've started shaving and am getting a hair cut.

Length? Well it is awful cold on the street.
(Charlietron Still can't think of anything witty to put here, Fri 3 Jul 2009, 12:12, Reply)

Grungy little fuckwit
Being a student in the early ninetees I was heavily influened by Alice in Chains, Screaming Trees, Nirvana, and so on. I had the look and the attitude and everything. Wooo!

One day I was sat on Oxford Road, Manchester drinking a cup of coffee, wearing my best lumberjack shirt, fucked up denims, favorite old Jane's Addiction t-shirt and sporting a weeks worth of carefully cultivated fur on my face.

It was a beautiful day, sun shining, I had some lecture or other I should've been at - but fuck that for a game of soldiers. It was too damn nice out. Learnings for wimps and all that twattery. So, I'm quietly contemplating how fucking good life is, how amazing I look in my uber-grunge outfit when-

some fucker walked passed and absently tossed a fifty pence peice into my cup, splashing boiling hot coffee all over my bollocks.

Turns out I didn't look cool, casual and urbane. I just looked like a scruffy listless tramp with fuck all else to do.

(Though 50p is 50p - get in there!!!)
( SpankyHanky, Fri 3 Jul 2009, 0:22, 2 replies)

The ballad of Gay Tony
Burritos should come attached with small signs to drape around your neck stating 'Do Not Disturb'. With many a pint in the gullet as my breath hung in the wintery Birmingham air, I wanted to relish every drop without interruption from another soul. On Broad Street at 3 in the morning, you have more chance seeing Jeremy Clarkson passing by in a Citroen Saxo than you do going 30 seconds without someone derailing your train of thought.

And that night was no different. A loose friend of mine - Paul - and I were engaged in the habitual debate between walking back to campus through the RAG Market to save a few quid, or rush around town at horrifying speed in the back of a dodgy taxi, all the while with fragments of bean oozing along our cheeks.

'Got 10p for a cup of coffee mate?' a voice muttered. Not a chance. Not at this hour, and not for such a meager price. The entire offer seemed to be echoing the very bollocks I was undoubtedly digesting, courtesty of Argentinian agriculture.

'I'm not fooling for that, fuck off', I replied, without a second glance. The same couldn't be said for Paul. Imagine Bob Geldof a slight ego problem. That's Paul. Every poverty-striken fellow's personal white knight.

'I've got 20p mate, let's go.' was his response, leaving me stuck with a taxi for one as he ventured off happily to have his liver removed and sold in a piss-ridden alleyway.

15 minutes later, and Paul and his new best friend Tony are sitting in a homeless shelter talking about their lives. Tony was married but so far in the closet he was petting Azlan. When Tony fell for a boy at the track, he called it quits and moved in the next day. 6 months later and his partner has drained his savings and ditched Tony for the next sucker. Although begging was getting him nowhere fast, his plan was to somehow make it to Brighton to find a sense of belonging in the world again.

If you've made it and are reading this Tony, I'm sorry I told you to fuck off.
(FoxyBadger (try saying it backwards), Thu 2 Jul 2009, 23:26, Reply)

Dont mess with the beardy one
When I was at school, there was a tramp that moved into the underpass between the school and the estate, nobody really bothered him and all the usual rumours had been flying about, failed professor, broken marriage etc but including one that he was in the SAS (and in 1970's Northern Ireland that's not something you made jokes about)

One day these two blokes walked into the underpass and proceeded to give him a hard time, calling him names and generally making a fuss, the chap just sat there staring at them, and politely asked them to go away.

The two lads just kept going, and eventually one of them took a swing at the tramp.

what followed next was like something out of a Kung Fu movie - the end result being the two lads being stretchered off to waiting ambulances with multiple fractures and bruising. Of course the tramp was arrested but with 10 witnesses all willing to testify he acted in self defence he was soon let out.

Nobody bothered him again, and he was gone when we returned the next year after our summer holidays. I often wondered if he really was in the SAS, he certainly knew how to handle himself.
( TBL I posted this on, Thu 2 Jul 2009, 22:23, Reply)

tranny tramp
there used to be a tramp near my parent's house a few years ago who was very fond of wearing pink high heels which, by the look of them, he'd found in the street. he was fully bearded and cord-trousered but, gradually, more and more female clothes crept into his ensemble so that, eventually, he looked like a tranny version of grizzly adams.
one day, he asked my dad if he could spare some change "for a cuppa". my dad gave him 50p, saying "here you go, mate."
the trampy tranny drew himself up haughtily, gave my dad the fish eye and said "it's MISS, if you don't mind", before tottering off in high-heeled disgust.
( Smash Monkey lowering the tone of the whole internet, Thu 2 Jul 2009, 17:52, 4 replies)

Move any mountain (of shit)
The pet tramp in my old town was called Seth. One night a load of folk were going up to see The Shamen at the Barra's in Glasgow....

Seth is in the train station, marinading in his own pish and probably someone else's shit. They strike up some witty banter with the confused old soak and together they come to an agreement that Seth should in fact come and see The Shamen as well.

They get to Glasgow despite him not having a ticket, then on reaching the Barra's they produce their shiny tickets and in they go...but not before chipping in and procuring a shiny ticket for Seth as well.

I can only imagine the spectacle that unfolded as the saucer eyed, acid house rave zombies experienced the walking shitstorm that was Seth grooving and popping along with the best of them
(Cancer Joy was short lived, Thu 2 Jul 2009, 16:30, Reply)

I only recall one
Going back about 6 years or so, when I was a fat(ter) bastard, I had a part-time job after school that required me to bus to and from the city centre.

By the time I finished, the buses were running every 30 minutes, and just before I got to my stop I saw my bus pull away. Shit!

Oh well, another would turn up, but what to do for half an hour?

As was the case when I was bored, I decided I needed to eat. So I strolled over the road to purchase some lean cuisine (KFC). A few bits of chicken, chips and a coke, and I was set.

Anyway, the bus turns up early and I've barely started on my chips and coke. So, knowing that bus drivers don't like people eating on the bus, I turned to dump the rest in the bin.

But just in time I noticed a nearby homeless guy asking people for change. Something pulled at my heart strings (or maybe I was having a mild heart attack from my over-indulgence in grease laden 'food') and I walked over to him and gave him my large coke and chips.

He seemed very grateful and I felt like I'd made a difference in someone's life (oh how naive I was).

I realise this story is shit.
(porkinator is a Rock n Roll nerd!, Thu 2 Jul 2009, 16:15, 4 replies)

A wino referred to me as a pretty lady last month.
That was the nicest thing anyone had said to me that whole week, bless his cider-raddled little eyes.
( crackhouseceilidhband Fuck off back to Mumsnet, Thu 2 Jul 2009, 15:51, 2 replies)

13 Kittens
I grew up on a farm, about 5 miles out from the nearest town. We always had a couple half-feral cats around, keeping the mouse population down in the barn. One year, however, we had a kitty population explosion. Someone dropped off a couple ripe female cats, and our old tom got up to his tricks -- before you could turn around we had 13 kittens mewling around the barn.


This was too much for us, so my mother put an index card advert in town: Free Kittens. We didn't expect much result from this, and were frankly considering the .22 caliber solution, when one day a neighbors flatbed truck pulls up in front, and a crowd of hippies piles off and comes up our driveway.

They'd moved into one of the long-abandoned houses on the outskirts of town, and had a rodent problem. They'd seen our card, and hitched a ride to get some natural mousetraps. Soon enough they took all 13 kittens, plus both mommas! My dad was so pleased he fired up our own truck, piled the hippies into the back, and drove them into town. Nice folks, really.
(danalan Pretty good, for an amateur., Wed 8 Jul 2009, 22:00, Reply)

A friend of mine
once went out drinking & after unsuccessfully trying to take a short cut through a park fell asleep on a bench only to be woken up by a tramp man sucking his cock.
(MyFakeName, Wed 8 Jul 2009, 18:43, 5 replies)

Coming from Amsterdam
I've had my fair share of encounters with tramps. The best one was the black dude on Surinameplein though. (a large square with roundabout outside the centre).
He was always there when i passed it on my way back home from work. And i also had to change trams there occasionally so i had the misfortune of being close enough to smell him a few times (the basic piss, poo, sweat and alcohol aroma. You get the drift).

Anyways, summer or winter, he always used to wear at least two winter coats with some sort of crust on the outside and trousers to match. He didn't seem to mind though, he was always merrily bantering away and always smiling while "controlling traffic", blessing the trees, looking for something (his sanity probably) in the large flower pots the city used to put there during the summer or managing his collection of footballs he used to keep in the bushes.

One time though, i spotted him while i was on the bus and i was actually afraid of being passed for being a bit loopy myself, coz i could barely stop myself laughing out loud.

He was doing his usual thing, can of beer in hand, laughing and bantering away. When suddenly he stopped in his tracks and gave his can a rather bewildered look. He peered into it, gave it a bit of a shake, started talking into the can and then held it to his ear. He repeated this a couple of times, talking louder and louder every time and getting increasingly worried every time he peered into his can. Until he started panicking a bit, shouting into his can and shacking it franticly.

My guess is he heard the echo of his own merry banter in his (nearly) empty can, thinking a tiny person was trapped in it.

I wonder if he's still there, i haven't seen him since i was lucky enough to move to a nicer part of town. All i can find on him is a blog entry dating 2002 and some official city document mentioning complaints coz he used to kip in the central hall of a nearby block of flats. The last also mentions he used to say "I once killed a man you know!" to the passing residents for no apparent reason, smell must have been awful in there too.
(Whatsit, Wed 8 Jul 2009, 18:25, Reply)

Crying shoeless tramp scamp
Not sure if this one has been posted yet or not, I would read all the stories and check, but then I would have already finished my lunch break.....although I am enjoying the subtle compassion vs. loathing for the great unwashed battle taking place. My Mum is a great soft touch and we have taken in many a waif and stray over the years, so I do have a couple of stories to add to the pot this week.

The first tramp in question is not one who my Mum invited to stay with us, and is probably not a tramp at all. In fact, the guy is probably doing very well for himself. Or not...

This "tramp" would sit on the pedestrian precinct in Manchester's city centre, overtly shoeless, sobbing his heart out. The bloke had a proper theatrical gift (or perhaps some serious inner angst to draw on)and the first time people saw him, they would quite often instinctively go and ask him if he was ok, and perhaps give him some money (from memory, he wasn't actually asking).

The novelty did wear off though, and rightly or wrongly most regular passers by decided this sobbing routine was a con. Confirmation that this was the right decision came when a group of (female) friends of mine saw the said shoeless wonder in a swanky wine bar in Deansgate enjoying a mojito. I believe the phrase "Oh, you've found your fucking shoes then" was used to full and embarrassing effect.
(impossibly witty twat No, YOUR Mum etc etc, Wed 8 Jul 2009, 11:54, 2 replies)

Ever cuddled a Tramp? I have......*bokes*
10 years ago I was about to get wed, and chose to have a stag do in the big smoke.

We started drinking early, and by midday we were "well on the way", Beers..shots...cocktails, you name it..if it had alcohol in it, we polished it off.

Cut to the end of 17 hours solid drinking, it was 4 in the morning and time for bed..problem was..we hadn't booked any hotel rooms. So we stumbled to a train station and kipped outside on the cold concrete floor.

Now if you've never tried it, concrete wasn't really made for 'sleeping on', and the cold soaks into your body, into your bones, and wakes you with a jolt..even if you have had enough booze to sink a battleship. You just can't get comfy!.. no matter what you do, or how you lie.

The night passed...very very slowly, and eventually the doors were opened to the station so we could enjoy some warmth! My laughing mates woke me from a very deep sleep..The sunlight burnt a hole in my brain..so my eye's remained tightly shut.

"What the fuck is that smell"?? I thought.. Oh no..I've shit and pissed myself in a drunken stupour. I reached down to my groin to feel 'the wet patch'..but I was bone dry?

I opened one eye, and checked out my surroundings. Somehow, during the night I had moved in my discomfort and found what I thought was a comfy pillow..The reality was a big fat hairy tramp called dave, who stank of piss, was covered in dog shit, and what seemed to be a little bit of my sick.

He didn't seem to mind, and told me "He'd had worse".
Had worse? What did he mean by that? He'd had worse nights..or situations..or people being sick on him..or did he mean sexual partners!!

My head was certainly pounding more than my ass, so that to me was a good thing. So until the next time..I'll say "Never again".
(TheRiddler Hmmmmm... I concur., Wed 8 Jul 2009, 10:02, Reply)

Royal Ascot = lots of tramps
Back when I was a wee whippet of a child there was a tramp who lived in our small town who went by the name of Tinker. Tinker would spend his nights asleep either in a tent up the local hills or on one of the many stone benches dotted around the old shopping precinct.

My mam would never let me get too close but as a naturally inquisitive 3-year old I would say hello and he always had a cheery response.

Tinker had a nice bushy beard, a long green coat and always (and I mean ALWAYS) wore a top hat; and that's why whenever I see posh twats all dressed up on the telly they'll always look like tramps in my eyes.
(SpongeGavShitPants, Wed 8 Jul 2009, 0:00, Reply)

Top Tip
If you haggle *really* hard with a Big Issue seller you can beat them down to 25p a pop.
(_(_(_(_(_(_(_(_(_ =o.o=, Tue 7 Jul 2009, 18:26, Reply)

Got me...
Once saw a hobo with a sign that said "bet you a dollar you'll read this sign." So I did. S'only fair.
(TheManWhoWas SlightlyKnackered, Mon 6 Jul 2009, 21:25, Reply)

Once...
When I was stumbling home from a club in Exeter I came across two homeless people in the high street sitting in difference shop doorways.

One was quietly vomiting a chalky substance out of his mouth and his dog was eating it from the floor in front of him and from his beard and mouth. The other was playing (quite well actually) No Woman No Cry by my main man Bob.

I gave a quid to the busker. 'Oi!' shouted the vomiting man, in between vomits, 'Where's my money?'

'Dog ate it'. I replied as wittily as I could manage. My entourage were disgusted with me and gave money to the vomiting dude. I was shunned for my attitude.
(powervator and NONE SHALL PASS, Mon 6 Jul 2009, 20:56, 1 reply)

A short one.
Walking through Newport Town Centre a couple of weeks back I saw a female tramp sitting on some cardboard with a guitar.

Now, Newport normally has a pretty high level of street-performers, from the electric-guitar duo to the Pink Floyd cover-band.
This woman, however, was just strumming the open strings of the guitar and wailing tunelessly.
Even I could do a better job than that.
( Cawl, Mon 6 Jul 2009, 16:16, 3 replies)

I assulted a tramp.
It was pissing down, my motorbike had broken down, and I was freezing. Whilst waiting for the RAC to turn up I decided to nip over the road to Tesco to get some cigarettes. On my way back, I saw a woman standing at the bottom of the ramp leading down to the store.

She was in her 50s, with scraggly grey hair and mad eyes. She was muttering to herself. At first I thought she was talking on a mobile phone. As I drew closer, it became obvious that she was mental.

I was wearing a hi-vis jacket - as I often do when riding a motorcycle - and I think she mistook me for a policeman. She started following me. "You think you can fucking control me!" she slurred. "I'm self medicating! I'm fucking self medicating! What do you think of that?"

I was starting to get concerned now. I walked a little faster. I glanced over my shoulder. She was stumbling along behind me, pointing at her wrists. "I'll do it! Fucking bastards!" God only knows what she wanted. I crossed the road. She followed me.

At this point she was starting to get agressive ("Come over here! I'll have it out with you! You fucking bastard!") , and I was starting to get annoyed.

Has an idea ever flashed into your head? Have you ever acted on one of those ideas, even though you know you really shouldn't?

I have. I'm not particularly proud of it. But I did it. I picked up a plastic bin bag full of rubbish that happened to be on the pavement, and threw it at her with all my might.

Time stood still. The bag hit her and burst, covering her with old teabags, bean cans and fuck-knows what else. She fell backwards, surprised, and landed on her arse.

And I legged it, laughing my backside off.

I'm evil, aren't I?
(Half of Stephen Fry's right buttock pissed on your dog on, Mon 6 Jul 2009, 15:21, 3 replies)

I'm being stalked.
Specifically, I'm being stalked by one Big Issue seller in particular.

When I go into Manchester city centre, she's there. On those occasions that I'm back at my parents and nip into town, she's there. Last weekend, when I was in London, she followed me down Tottenham Court Road. She was in Hull, just outside Paragon Station, last spring. I could go on.

It's always the same one - I'm sure of it. She's either following me, or she's the revenant image of some deeply-hidden trauma involving headscarves, or there's a secret army of cloned Armenian homeless people stealthily taking over the world.

Poe had his Raven. I have my Big Issue seller.
( Enzyme is powered by sunlight, Mon 6 Jul 2009, 14:29, Reply)

Big issue, please?
Outside the indoor shopping centre in the dull as ditchwater West Sussex Market Town that I have the misfortune to call home, there is a woman of Eastern European descent who stands there, day in day out, repeating over and over again the same phrase:

'Big Issue, Please?'

Nothing else, just, repeatedly…

‘Big Issue, Please?’

Morning, noon and night…

‘Big Issue, Please?’

I think it's a bloody disgrace and downright cheek in all honesty.

I mean, she's always got plenty of copies already.
( scarpe We Stole Bikes, Mon 6 Jul 2009, 12:02, 1 reply)

My brother the tramp
My brother has a condition called cluster ‘b’, its basically a mental condition that means he isn’t able to control his emotions. He has very, very dark thoughts and these manifest in the form of violence towards others. I grew up in a household where it was a regular event to receive a tremedous beating from this person. One time he collected together my three pet rabbits and made me watch as he repeatedly hit them with a shovel – I can still hear the squeals as they died in agony. My parents tried to get him to go and seek medical help, but he point blank refused and on the few occasions he actually got as far as a doctors waiting room he’d cause a scene and leave. Then at the age of eighteen he left my life. Turns out he was living on the continent. I did a google search for his name a couple of years ago and discovered he’d made quite a name for himself as a web designer; he was officially a success. I checked out his personal website. He had a wife and four kids; I was an uncle and I didn’t even know it.

Then, a year ago, while I was checking out his website out of curiosity, I discovered he’s been officially diagonosed with cluster ‘b’. The statement on his website goes onto explain that this diagnosis came about as a result of him beating his wife to a pulp and getting arrested. She’s now his ex-wife. He’s now a derelict living somewhere in a Scandinavian country (where his wife and kids were born). I found out he was living on the streets from a family member, an aunt, who says he’s not that bad now he’s getting treatment.

Strange thing is I don’t know what to think or feel about this. And to make matters stranger, he contacted me recently via email. He wants to make amends for the shit he caused in the family over the years. He wants to asuage his guilt, I think. He basically wants to give me £100,000 as a ‘sorry’. Not sure what to make of this. It would seem he doesn’t need to live on the streets if he’s got this sort of cash (and he has – he was VERY successful). I just don’t know what to do about it.
(The Keeper of Maps, Mon 6 Jul 2009, 10:25, 9 replies)

One of my friends...
was drunk and made the comparison that tramps were like pigeons. Obviously we called him an idiot and put it down to drunk talk, then I actually thought about it.

They both hang around city centres.
They are both dirty.
They both live on the street or occasionally a derelict house.
They annoy and harass people
and if they don't get fed by food, money or cigs regularly then they will soon move to a different area of the city where they do get fed.
(Ginger_Whinger got in the newsletter!! =D, Sun 5 Jul 2009, 14:44, 1 reply)

the tramps are my friends.
They're blowing in the wind. The tramps are blowing in the wind.
(apeloverage committed the vile act of onanism on, Sun 5 Jul 2009, 13:24, Reply)

It was night and the middle of winter
I passed a fairly elderly, very down and out looking tramp sitting in a doorway.
There was something about his sad blue eyes that really shook me to the core and I stopped and asked, stupidly, if he was OK.
He replied "I am fine thank you" in the poshest accent ever.
I went to the nearest Wimpy Bar (in the early/mid 70's, that's all there was) and bought back for him a hamburger and chips.

I tried to give them to him but he said "no thank you very much, I am a vegetarian". In those days vegetarianism hadn't even been invented, or rather, it wasn't a fashionable fad. I said "Oh crikey, so am I, can't you just eat the chips?" to which he replied "Thank you for your kind thought but I prefer not to eat junk food".

I still think about him to this day and wonder what tragic event caused such a posh bloke to end up on the streets and yet still retain his standards.
( Flowerpot No longer has the vapours thanks to DTH, Sat 4 Jul 2009, 17:39, 2 replies)

Begging...
I own a large, handsome, pedigree dobermann. He is well groomed, shiney coat, shiney eyes, posh teal collar, and a smart leash.

Now, as we all know, dogs aren't allowed in supermarkets. Walking back from the woods with the dog meant that I had to wait outside whilst my housemate popped in for some milk. Being knackered, I sat down and waited. Handsome dog just stands there being handsome. Plenty of people comment on his handsomeness. Nobody comments about me.
Until one. Imagine the nastiest chaviest scum of a family you can imagine. The 'dad' walks up to me and offers me a quid. Naturally, I'd have taken it, but was so taken aback and being mistaken for a tramp that I just stammered that I was fine, thank you...

I mean how many tramps own giant pedigree dobermans anyway?
( Bathory, Sat 4 Jul 2009, 10:28, Reply)

Whatsit just reminded me
Whilst in Amsterdam, stumbling around in a haze and chatting shit with my friends, we noticed something wasn't quite right.

It took us all rather too long to realise that a, presumably, homeless guy was walking along next to us rapping away about us and the surrounding area. He was actually really good (well to us it sounded good for some reason) and we were bopping along to his phat rhymes for a good 5 minutes.

Once he finished he asked if he could have some money for the bars he just laid down. We agreed to give him all of our collective Euros if he'd do it again, but for the camera we had with us. He obliged us magnificently, hand gestures and everything to the camera and finally bowed with his finally.

He's definately my favorite bo and, earned a cool 34 Euros for 10 minutes work! My mate still has the video kicking around somewhere, I will endevour to find it for you viewing pleasure
(Is this a good idea? ... Yes this is definitely a good idea, Fri 3 Jul 2009, 16:34, Reply)

Just this
If you ever find yourself on Leidseplein in Amsterdam and a rather skinny looking fella asks you if you would like to buy some postcards... Please do buy some and/or give generously.

Because Jacques is a lovely, friendly chap who just happened to have had a lot of bad luck in his life. I guarantee you he doesn't spend the money he makes on drugs or booze, but on food, shelter and HIV medication.

Thanks, that is all. Sorry it's not funny, or even a story, but i thought it was important enough to break the rules. Though perhaps i will tell you the story of "smelly Melly" later.
(Whatsit, Fri 3 Jul 2009, 16:08, Reply)

Tramp fun - a compilation
I was out in town once when I saw, what looked like, a couple doing the Can-can down the street. As they got closer I realised they were singing "New York, New York" and high kicking along to it. As they got closer still I realised it was my sister and a local tramp. When I asked her what she was doing she said "He knows all the words!"

I went on a long weekend stag do in Prague, there was this street where all the tramps would sleep. They lay in a line equaly spaced out looking like a row of pungent fish fingers in sleeping bags. Tramp hurdling became a popular on-the-way-home sport. None of the tramps batted an eyelid so I guess it was quite common for them to be jumped over by brits abroad.

I lived in Newbury for a bit. The tramps there are in a league of their own. One of my mates saw two of them bumming... in a church graveyard... in full view of the pub over the road.... on a Friday night.

I now live in Bournemouth and we have a whole new level of tramp there:
www.youtube.com/watch?v=b13vsbLgwrs&NR=1
(ralphseviltwin, Fri 3 Jul 2009, 14:20, Reply)

Slightly misleading ticket
During my time at University I had the pleasure of working at the wonderful store Toys R Us. In the summer I'd usually work on the outdoor toys section due to the increased demand. One of the bestselling things at this time was trampolines, particularly the small, junior blue trampolines for younger kids. Now, at Toys R Us instead of having these out on the shop floor we printed tickets so people could collect them after they had paid. These tickets had a character limit for the title which was fine most the time, Junior Blue Trampline fitted perfectly. However, when these trampolines were re-released with a protective net around them the ticket changed its meaning quite dramatically. We now had tickets offering this fantastic deal:

JUNIOR BLUE TRAMP. WITH CAGE - £49.99

I always checked the customers expressions when they recieved their trampoline in the hope that at least one would look disappointed at not recieving a friendly little hobo to take home...sadly, they never did.
(FrightenedRabbit, Fri 3 Jul 2009, 13:25, Reply)

"I curse you!!!"
Last year on a stag do in Dublin on the day we were leaving, we were walking over the Millenium Bridge when a tramp spoke to one of our party, John:

Tramp: "Have you got any spare change?"
John: "No, sorry"
Tramp: "None at all?" *holding out paper cup*
John: "I've only got enough for my breakfast"
Tramp: "I curse you!!! You have been cursed by me! I curse you!"
John: "Ok..?."

Fast forward a couple of hours and where crossing from Dublin to Holyhead on a seacat type vessel and it's really quite choppy. Nothing too unusaul there, but a couple of the seasick feeling in our group start to blame John on account of the tramp cursing him.

Back on dry land we caught our train out from Holyhead and as we pull into Bodorgan "station" the train comes to a halt... and doesn't move again for 3 hours!
It didn't take long for us to realise the cause of the breakdown - the curse the tramp put on John.

Now this curse had further consequences, one was that it seemed to cause another one of my mates Wayne to have excess wind (nothing to do with all the Guinness I'm sure). So we're stuck on a train for (an extra) 3 hours, the whole time Wayne (it's always a Wayne) is expelling noxious gasses into the confined environment.
One 'lady' on the train takes objection to Wayne lacing the air with the warning signs of what must be an imminent bowel movement:

Lady: "You make me sick you fucking animal"
Wayne: *rabbit in headlights*
Lady: "You fucking neanderthal. There are fucking kids on this fucking train don't you fucking realise!?!"
Wayne: "Calm down"
Lady: "You fucking disgusting pig. Just stop fucking farting, we're all stuck here and we have to breathe in your stinking fucking shit. And there's fucking kids on this fucking train."

Though I agreed with most of her arguements, I'm in no doubt that the "fucking kids on the fucking train" learn't a new fucking word that day.

So beware, a tramps curse is powerful enough to cross the sea and disable a train
(Bad_Dogg, Fri 3 Jul 2009, 11:33, 3 replies)

I asked how you-we all were earlier. And, you know, you all obviously responded in the positive. But the answer that you never expect- which admittedly, I've never got- but you live in hope and you don't turn round and say "Actually Jim, I've just been bumraped by a tramp". Yes, I know that's gross humour but, any porn in a storm, right. Especially tramps.
(__, Fri 3 Jul 2009, 1:10, 3 replies)

I entered an all night Co-op in Edinburgh...
...and there was a dishevelled, smelly old boy in there. Quite clearly off his tits on Buckfast, maybe glue and probably other stuff too. No idea what he was looking for, but he went round the asiles like he was in a pinball machine, bouncing off a wall only to collide with a set of shelves, staggering away from that to bash into the next 'obstacle'... you get the idea.

As he navigated through the shop, he growled, barked, muttered and cursed incoherently. The Asian lads behind the counter were looking pretty alarmed as his behaviour and free-form vocalisations became increasingly bonkers. I was starting to get a bit worried myself, and I've looked after violent, criminal psychopaths.

At last the old geezer spots what he was looking for - I can't remember exactly, but something innocuous like a tin of soup and half litre of milk - headed for the counter too fast, triped over his own feet, and smashed to the ground. 'Fuck, that must hurt', I thought to myself. But undaunted, he got up, threw some change onto the counter, waited for them to sort it all out and give him some back, and with an elaborate wave and a'cheers pal', he went off into the night.

You could almost taste the relief from the Asian lads. I finished my shopping and wandered over to the counter. The door bangs open. He's back! Looking scarier and madder than ever!

"My keys!" he shouts, "where the fuck are my car keys?"

I nearly pissed myself laughing.

_{When he'd gone.}
( MisterPunch did it that way on, Fri 3 Jul 2009, 0:10, Reply)

The patron saint of crackheads
My friend Clint is generous to a fault. He can't say no to any homeless person that asks for money. I'm all for charity, but Clint has a kid and makes about 500$ a month on disability. No mater how drunk the bum already is, Clint is more than happy to hand out a fiver.

One time we were pulling up to a 7-11 to buy more beer. 7-11 is the official begging place for the homeless on the west coast of the states. Probably due to the wide selection of single serve malt liquors and fortified wines.

There is a toothless big fat black guy clinging tenaciously to a trashcan. He is so shitfaced that in his mind he believes that if he were to let go he would fall off the earth into space.

As we pass him on the way in he attempts to communicate with us. I think he was asking for money by the way his palm was outstretched and the way he was grunting.

"Not today, but god bless!" I said.

Clint said, "I'll get you on the way out."

We bought our beer and cigarettes and Clint got 50$ cash back.

"If you give that 50$ to that drunk bum out there you are walking home." I threatened.

I knew it was no use. As I got in the car, Clint placed the fifty dollar bill in the hobo's hand. It took the bum a good 30 seconds to realize he was holding something. He puts the brings the money up to his eyes to focus on it. When he realizes what it is his eyes get HUGE and his mouth opens wide. He loses his grip on the trashcan and cracks his head open on the pavement. He's out cold, blood starts to pool under the bum's head, and the fifty bucks starts blowing away. Clint grabs it and puts it in the homeless man's front jacket pocket.

My friend Clint is truly the patron saint of crackheads
(anotherlogan and the whit he shites, Thu 2 Jul 2009, 21:38, Reply)

A while back my second-eldest brother, after a couple of years of doing bugger all
since college, worked at the local ASDA Wal-Mart (he was there for about six months and has been doing bugger all in the years since). Anyway, he used to work the early morning shift from somewhere around 6am to 11am. One morning, he began his usual task of stacking the shelves of the "chilled" aisle with a variety of assorted snacks and deserts. At that time in the morning customers are few and far between, usually late-night ravers, drunks or people that had just come off the night shift. Anyway, whilst he performed his mindless task, my brother noticed, what could only be described as a tramp, shuffling his way up the aisle towards him holding a ginsters pasty in his hand. The tramp approached my brother and spoke in a thick-accented, gravelly voice:

"Wh'as that then? Buy one get one for nuthin'?" As he pointed to the oh-so-familiar slogan on the price tags on the shelf.

My brother nodded. "Yeah? If you buy one you get another one free."

The tramp looked shocked and almost in awe of the words he'd just heard.

"So. Y'ur sayin'...if I buy one of these...I get 'nuther one for nuthin'?"

"Yes, you get a second one for nothing." My brother confirmed.

The tramp smiled happily and chuckled.

"Heh! Them bosses should've got twice as much, but then, they're thick 'ent they? Hahaha!"

The tramp nudged my brother jokingly and shuffled back down the isle, laughing to himself and picking up a second pasty on his way out.

Funnily enough, that very day there had actually been an error with the ordering system and twice as much stock had been delivered.
( St. Defenestration The REAL one, Thu 2 Jul 2009, 20:22, 1 reply)

Trunk dreadlock
Back when I was a student there was a city center tramp in Manchester whos hair was so long it had turned into an elephants trunk like dreadlock that would have trailed on the floor had it not folded over a few times at the bottom to form a dread bellend.
(ceaser42, Thu 2 Jul 2009, 17:00, Reply)

A mate of mine tried to steal a tramp's shoes once

In his defence he said that he thought the tramp was dead, how lovely.
( Naked Ape call me Caitlyn, Thu 2 Jul 2009, 16:28, 2 replies)

having worked in an offie in reading there are plenty of tales
but too long to post now- fifth?

Edit- third- not bad!

Tale 1

While working in reading town centre on a reading festival weekend, the evening was pretty quiet- festie types were all at the site, and the rest of reading were avoiding the town like it was full of zombies (having seen the festie crowd- I can understand that veiwpoint!).

as we had nothing to do we were in front of the store having a fag and watching the tumbleweeds blow past when we noticed a tramp who had been weaving along in the distance stop suddenly. before we could say or do anything he pulled his trousers down squatted and had a big shit- in the middle of what was (pre- oracle) the busiest shopping street in reading.

the funniest part was when my female colleague squealed "I can see his willy- and it's huge!"

No Tracey- that wasn't his willy you could see dangling down- willies don't drop off!


length- 18" of brown curler- he must have been pretty desperate to drop that one off!
(Symball, Thu 2 Jul 2009, 15:49, Reply)

Local tramp
I often see this old guy in the local park, sat on a bench usually. It's near the Kids play area (I cant help feeling hes a bit of a paedo, the way he watches the girls). He's a greasy old git, snotty nose, tatty clothes, the works. He sometimes goes to the Sally-ann too. Still, I think he's on the way out, he's got a horibble cough (Pneumonia?)

I. Anderson.
(kitescreech still here, Wed 8 Jul 2009, 22:45, 3 replies)

There's a voice
keeps on calling me. Down the road, that's where I'll always be. Every stop I make, I make a new friend, can't stay for long, just turn around and I'm gone again. Maybe tomorrow I'll want to settle down. Until tomorrow I'll just keep moving on.

Down this road that never seems to end where new adventure lies just around the bend. So if you want to join me for a while, just grab your hat, we'll travel light, that's hobo style.

bah, it's kinda bindun...
( Vipros. clever got me this far, then tricky got me in, Wed 8 Jul 2009, 15:16, 1 reply)

Designer type I worked with...
Was a lovely guy but seriously scruffy, with long hair, a bushy beard, wore a hat constantly and a long coat and drank DRANK DRANK.
One night after a particularly big session he wandered out of the pub (The Evil, in Surry Hills if anyone's from Sydney) and staggered up to buy a kebab.
Halfway there he stopped at a bus story and promptly passed out.
His next recollection is being manhandled into a Mission Beat van by some caring volunteers who were convinced he was a homeless guy in need.
"Narrrr. narrrr. em fine!" he mumbles to no effect.
"Lookit! em fiiine!"
And for the next few minutes he continues to struggle against their well-meaning grip.
By the time it stopped he was actually in the van and about to be driven to a shelter before he managed to convince them to let him go.
Apparently it was the wad of cash and a cabcharge that finally did it.
( difficultchild, Wed 8 Jul 2009, 3:18, Reply)

CASELOAD 44
back in 2005, My girlfriend at the time and I worked in the Hatchet (pub in Bristol), we both needed somewhere to live other than our parents and so found a nice flat in Bedminster to rent. one of the regulars in the pub was Craig, we had both known him for ages since drinking and working in the pub. Craig is one of those people who thinks the world owes him a living, and having dropped out of University some years ago, had been sofa surfing or sleeping rough (kipping out as he called it) ever since. the inevitble happened and we allowed him to stay on our sofa for a bit here an there, in return he did the dishes, skinned up, want to the shops to earn his keep sort of thing. this went on for the best part of a year before he decided to move to exeter to follow (read stalk) a girl who he got the wrong impression from. some months went past and we heard nothing until one day I got a phone call from craig saying hes out of prison (in exeter) and would be coming back to Bristol soon, could he stay with us. He had been arrested for stalking this girl. we let him stay with us again, same terms. we had parties he came, passed out on the sofa and was jestfully tortured, socks set on fire, glasses coloured in etc it was all good fun. Craig classed himself as a poet, and managed to work the system to get funding to help him create an album (the globe project) and a book of his works (the penfold collection) from the Princes trust. craig had some paid work on and off, and would flit between my place and other friends. My girlfriend and I split and she moved out, Craig then had the spare room, got housing benefit and all was good for a time. until craig went a bit mental, I think all the weed had taken its toll on his state of mind. he met a random equally mad bloke in Glastonbury called seth, they both concocted random conspiracy theories regarding the abduction of madeline mccann, gordon brown and many others. people started distancing themselves from him. I tried to not engage him in conversation about the mad topics and always changed the subject whenever he brought it up. eventually I couldnt take it anymore and he had to go, he went off one day and didn't come back for his stuff. his attitude towards me changed and he added me to the list of people on his conspiracy lists, accusing me of 2 murders and his "attempted manslaughter" (his words not mine), constantly quoting case load 44 and diplomatic immunity, and claiming he had evidence against a gang he called the "glastifari" and that he had regular contact with Gordon Brown and Prince Charles. I managed to offload his belongings to a friend of his, and managed to get in contact with his Dad who understood that craig was a bit unstable and once he was back on the weed ( i had managed to get him to stop drining and smoking for a while) there was nothing anyone could do for him.

I tried to call craig a few times and my calls were met with a torrent of swearing and threats, I persisted and managed to get some info from him, that he was in london and making his voice heard, more accusations of madeline mccann, gordon brown, the glastifari etc.

So I eventually gave up, I did have to report his myspace pages for accusing me of these crimes which were removed by the myspace admins

www.myspace.com/craigwilson27
www.myspace.com/highperformancepoetry

check those out for more info.

I valued craig as a friend for a long time when many other "friends" didn't. I treated him with respect, homed him, fed him and invited him everywhere I went and treated him with respect and shared my wages with him. he never went without. the sad fact is that he was unable to grasp reality or accept responsibilty for his actions or indeed take ownership of the problems he causes other people, always blaming others despite the help he was offered.

I don't know where he is now, last I heard he was in the hatchet still going on about the mccann case (he believes the glastafari did it, whilst distracting the media with a poetry slam in bristol).

so I do have some sympathy for the homeless, its his choice.
(wireless_tommer, Tue 7 Jul 2009, 15:31, 3 replies)

Ginger
Hello.

We used to have a tramp where I lived when I was a student. A ginger haired chap who, rumour had it, had been a successful lawyer with a family and had lost it at work one day starting the downward spiral that ended up with him on the streets.

He died and I believe was buried by the state in a paupers grave. It just takes the right set of circumstances and I guess we are all potential tramps.
(MrHappy, Tue 7 Jul 2009, 12:24, 2 replies)

Tramp juice
I used to have a Head of Department who was, I believe, unique. He the only person I've ever seen drink Special Brew indoors.
( Enzyme is powered by sunlight, Tue 7 Jul 2009, 11:51, 9 replies)

He takes requests apparently.
This has probably already been mentioned, but here goes...

There's a tramp who frequents Liverpool City Centre with his guitar.

Not too uncommon that is it?

Well this guys' guitar not only has no strings, it's made of cardboard.

He takes requests and then air (sort of) guitars' his way into your heart with his commitment and enthusiastic energy.

My sister stop giving him money when he wouldn't "play" a Modest Mouse song by the name of All Night Diner.
Apparently he didn't know it and she didn't consider this to be acceptable excuse.

Oh well.

Anyone know if he's still around?
(tylrdiablos, Tue 7 Jul 2009, 8:03, 4 replies)

So there I was...
In Underground Atlanta with some mates. We were having a great time hanging out, people watching, looking at various over-priced shit, the works. Well, as you see in these places, there were beggars. Not many, mind you, but a few. I have a strict policy never to give these kind of people money, though I do try to help them how I can. So when a nice woman approached me in her torn clothes saying she was thirsty, who was I to refuse? I took her to the nearby smoothie shop and bought her a fruit smoothie.

She was so overcome with gratitude that she planted a big kiss on my cheek, and walked away. As she left, I watched to see if she really wanted the smoothie, or just was looking for cash. Turns out, she did what I expected: she dumped the smoothie in the trash. Then she did something I didn't expect. She removed "her" wig and turned around. I had just been kissed by a tranny.
(DarkSol, Tue 7 Jul 2009, 4:16, 2 replies)

Bournemouth
Me and the ex-Missus went on a little tour of the south last year and ended up in Bournemouth towards the end of the trek.

We were having a cracking time touring the bars in the afternoon and decided to go for an Italian for a quick bite to eat and to sober up a little.

Anyway, we ordered the food and bloody nice it was too, unfortunately the pizza she ordered was way to big for her so we got a doggy bag for her to eat later, it came out in one of those large boxes that you get from the delivery people and it was then that we thought 'we can't carry that around all night' so when we were walking down the road we saw two homeless people asking for change.

We decided to give them the leftovers (there was still over half left and it was huge!) we gave them the box saying Liz couldn't manage it and if they wanted it they were welcome to it but we hadn't got any change, so that was all we could give them, they were really chuffed that we'd been so thoughtful and thanked us for being so generous.

We walked off and within 5 seconds heard cries of 'RESULT' 'Smoked Salmon and Mozzarella' 'Thanks guys, it's been years, we were expecting a Margarita'.

I just wish we did have some change to give them too, we were going too but they weren't there on our way back later.

So if you got a (fucking) expensive half a pizza last year, I hope you enjoyed it and if you're reading this then it means you could be getting back on your feet, Good luck.





(Kip, Mon 6 Jul 2009, 20:04, 1 reply)

Little Pearoast for the king of tramps
For I met him, and it was "all good"

It was summer 2007 and me and a friend have made our merry way to Bestival on the Isle of White. Mid way through the first day, the sun high in the sky, me somewhere alongside but at the same time lying on a grassy hill infront of the bandstand, awaiting the king of tramps (or I guess, ex-tramp now) Seasick Steve.

He duly appears and I get that tingly feeling you get when you see one of your idols at reasonably close range. He starts warming the crowd, wandering round, shaking peoples hands and generally getting closer and closer to me and my mate. Then he gets to me, I extend my hand... and he ignores it! I am crest-fallen, that is until he whips out his slide and starts the show at my very-freaking-excited feet!

It was a truely awsome gig and my favorite festival moment of my life. We met him later that evening sippin' his hobo wine and he was a thoroughly wonderful guy. He even signed my friends sandal with (almost) his favorite phrase "its all god"

Pics in replies if I can find it out
(Is this a good idea? ... Yes this is definitely a good idea, Mon 6 Jul 2009, 15:47, 5 replies)

Sheffield's "Finest"
Some time ago, I used to work for that fine purveyor of fast food, MacDonald's. I guess a good number of us here have done our time at the Golden Arches, or similar, when we were students.

For my sins, and ability of dealing with large numbers of people on a superficial basis, I was on the tills. Well, it beat being in the kitchen running round like a loony flipping burgers for 8 hours a day.

Of course, with the smooth, also comes the rough, or in this case, Sheffield's fine selection of tramps, drop-outs and other housing-deprived individuals.

One that always sticks with me is an elderly gentleman who looked like Gandalf, but smelled worse than Foul Ole Ron. You could tell when he was about to enter the restaurant because the metalwork started to tarnish and the air was filled with the sharp odour of something like TCP and urine. He'd always order the same thing- a small icecream and a coffee- and spend up to an hour just watching the world go by. I never did find the time to get his story, as he seemed like such a lonely individual, rejecting and rejected by the world around him.

And then one day, he didn't come in. And now to my shame, I was at the time relieved. I wouldn't have to endure the smell and the complaints from the customers.

He never came in again.
( jim_bob can herd cats., Mon 6 Jul 2009, 14:04, Reply)

Poke!
After a night out on the town a few weeks ago I was sat in the never ending line for a taxi ride home when we noticed a homeless bloke complete with dog sat on the floor begging for change. Due to the fact that I had enjoyed the night out I gave the bloke some money (and some of my takeaway pizza) and got chatting to him.

Turned out he had lived on the streets for a few years due to a number of horrid incidents at home. Despite the past and his current situation he still remained upbeat (I never did find out where he got the dog from). As our conversation continued my taxi turned up so I bade him farewell. As I headed for the door my vagrant friend yelled to me “Are you on Facebook? you can add me asa friend if you like.”

Due to the drunken state I didn’t realise until halfway home what he had said. How the hell does he have internet access? Does the blanket he was wrapped in have Windows Hobo edition installed on it and the starved looking Jack Russell act as a Wi- Fi receiver?

I could not add him as he never gave me his name but I will be looking out for him the next time I am out.
(mon bison powered by magnets, Mon 6 Jul 2009, 13:58, 2 replies)

On being a statistic.
I've been homeless myself once. Hard to think of now, but for a while I was one of the hidden statistics- a sofa surfer, living on the very kind auspices of my friends. I was able to wash, eat and clothe myself, and I had a job, but being of no fixed abode on a sofa in the living room does make you suddenly realise how great my friends actually were.

But for them, I would have been staying in a shelter somewhere, afraid to fall asleep, just in case someone tried to get me addicted to crack cocaine (as happened to another friend of mine- luckily he was able to stay awake and eventually got himself a flat).

I'm a very lucky man indeed.
( jim_bob can herd cats., Mon 6 Jul 2009, 13:46, Reply)

8p mate?
As you walk down the ubiquitous yorkshire hills of Huddersfield into the industrial town centre towards the only attraction the place has to offer - Bars - you will be approached by 1 of 3 homeless northern scallywag bastards.

Either chavman, chavwoman or dirty old bugger will approach you and in the thickest of Yorkshire accents will ask...

"Scuse me maaate, ave yu got aaaate pee?"
For those who dont speak Yorkshire thats...."excuse me sir but do you have 8p that you could possibly spare me?"

I know what you are thinking and I have asked the question countless times...Why do they want 8p? If asked, the beforementioned will reply with some sort of predetermined and ambiguous answer...phone call/train/coffee etc etc.

After 3 years of the same question on a daily basis, a few of us began to get wise to these 3 particular people. On 2 occasions with side splitting consequences.

My housemate Tom was approached by Chavman who asked the usual

CM: "Scuse me maaate, ave yu got aaaate pee?"
T: "Sorry mate ive only got 7p on me" and proceeded on his way with me in tow trying not to fall over laughing.

This was only bettered the following day when Chavwoman unknowingly approached the same sharpwitted housemate.

CW: "Scuse me maaate, ave yu got aaaate pee?"
T: (checking his pockets for change) " ahhh damn, sorry luv, ive only got 10p, you got change?"

Her response never came and she walked away looking very confused whilst my laughter filled the smoggy Yorkshire air.
(Eggstrovert isnt patronising you...honest..., Mon 6 Jul 2009, 11:03, Reply)

Tramps
The town I am from is a shithole.
It doesn't really suffer from tramps or begging just the usual old alcoholics from the New Connection Centre littering the town with empty cans of Special Brew.
However one year the pub I worked in seemed to have an influx of tramps popping in to use the toilet/have a wash/sleep etc. I didn't have a problem with this. My attitude was simple-I didn't get paid enough to care.
Here is a few that stand out-
* Father Christmas, a lovely old man that looked like Father Christmas,he appeared around the start of December(weirdly!). He was very well spoken and obviously well educated and used to sing 'slow boat to china' to me. Told me about his life and how he became homeless when his business went bust 20 years previously. Used to let him sleep in the corner, occasionally waking him up to give him a free coffee. After xmas he disappeared! But he was nice, clean and didn't drink!

*Skate boy-this guy was the opposite to F.Christmas. A horrible little twat to be honest. Blatantly on some sort of drug he was rude to the customers and stole anything that wasn't screwed down. Eventually got banned from the premises for pissing all over the toilet walls.

And finally vomit lady, one of the customers came to the bar saying that the female tramp who had just left the toilet had a slight accident. When I went to look it was like a horror movie. Slight accident my arse. There was fucking puke everywhere, on the doors, toilet, ceiling, window, sink, needless to say I had to clean it up. It smelt like shit and took about 2 hours to clear up.

Funnily enough after the last incident I found a job that paid better.
(Jayde bored of shit tv!, Sun 5 Jul 2009, 20:33, 5 replies)

long, sad story time
There's a woman who lives in our village, I'm not sure she's a tramp exactly but the rumours have her bouncing from one halfway house to the next.
As a younger woman she was quite the looker, a model, married with kids, good house etc. Unfortunately her husband had a problem with drink. The problem of course being that when he got pissed up he would come home and abuse the living shit out of her. Stories abound of the torture she had to put up with and it took its toll on her health but she stuck by him for love.

Until the time he locked her under the stairs and left her there for a week. She was only rescued when the neighbours wondered why the kids were going mental. He was arrested, they thankfully divorced but she was never the same. Her already fragile mind just snapped and she developed what can best be described as a serious multiple personality disorder. She lost the kids and house and began to turn up around the place over the years getting more and more dishevelled and more and more crazy.

Her day is spent walking the four miles into town and hanging around at the bus station, swearing to herself and shouting out the most random things at the top of her voice. Her favourite seems to be "RABBITS!" or possibly "RABBIS" I'm not sure but every person who passes by her is treated to a conspiratorial "YEAH HAHA! DON'T I JUST KNOW IT."

I was talking about to her a work colleague many years ago and he admitted she sounded familiar, I asked him to take a walk into town that lunchtime and have a look for himself. He reported back with much disgust that he passed by her as she was "sitting on the town hall steps, shit smeared tights around her ankles, literally pissing into the air."

I find it so sad how people can fall so far, sometimes through no fault of their own... but to my shame, I also laugh, I guess I'm a horrible human being.
(Suddenly, zebras Safe and sound for eternity, Sun 5 Jul 2009, 15:56, Reply)

Homeless Profiling
This tale lacks any sort of funny and is just more just a profile of homeless types.

I'm assuming most of you know what the UK homeless are like, often smelly, many fallen on hard times, alcohol, but quite often you can see they're in need of some food, water and maybe even a little small change if they seem the slightly more trustworthy type of hobo. It is very rarely that I see a homeless guy or girl and think "she's just lazy".

Very rarely, that was, until I went to Montpellier last week. I have never seen such a collection of lazy 'bohemian' bastards in my entire life. Now, there are those that are obviously addicts to some substance or other (how you can get off your tits on anything in that heat I just don't know, there's no motivation to when you make squelching noises everytime you try to peel yourself out of bed), but there are also those that no doubt spend all the cash you give them on weed and baggy trousers; someone needs to teach them the difference between bohemian and parasite.

There was one on the street regularly pestering me and the lady friend as we went by for a few euro each time. What put me off giving the cash to him in particular, even worse than the rest? The two sticks of incense burning next to him. There are people who are generally down and out and you have tossers like this taking the money that they otherwise may get and spending it on incense. One packet of incense costs the same as a litre bottle of water.

Fucking hippies.

(Aside from that, Montpellier, Sete, Nimes and Avignon are lovely cities, hell, the whole Languedoc Rousillon region is, and if you're strapped for cash you can always eat in the kebab shops that litter the region - South of France, not just for rich types!)


Tale 2: The fat little shit.
They start them young in Montpellier. Maybe it was the summer holidays or such, I don't really know the French school time table, but there was this around 13 or so years old Algerian kid - see the title - who would pester people on the street for "dix cents!". There was no reason that could be seen for this tosser to be on the streets hanging round the train station and nearby tramstop, he was well clothed, evidently very well fed, he was just an all round little shit. The thing that tops it off is when there's some lady walking through the train station eating a baguette and the kid adopts puppy eyes and points to his mouth whining, did I mention this kid was fat? She hit him.
(Frozen_Banana Shaved against the grain; thoroughly unrewarding., Sun 5 Jul 2009, 15:17, Reply)

Mistaken identity
I always was a scruffy chap, but neither really realised or cared. Until the day I sat down to sort out my shoelace in town and an old dear put 20p in my Fanta.
(DownhillGardener no-one does it like that anymore, Sun 5 Jul 2009, 8:26, Reply)

A Better Class...
Picture the scene: it was Rockness 2009, and there I was sat with Dave and Russ in Chris' Mate. (I should probably explain that Chris' mate was what we christened our tent, in honour of the mobile phone we found on the bus to said festival. The only identifying features were 2 texts: one from mum saying how proud she was, one to a man called Chris. Hence Chris' Mate. I should also point out there was a video of the phone's owner fapping in the video gallery...)

But I digress...

There we were sat, in Chris' Mate, lighting our barbeque using some smuggled in lighter fluid. Cue the fireman coming over and telling us to move our (now burning hot) barbeque to one of the designated cooking areas. We enquired where this was. He hadn't a bloody clue. So we moved the fire next to the fence, which was apparently good enough for him.

It was then that we noticed the tent. I say tent, what it really was was a couple of bin bags tied to the fence in a rudimentay bivouac-like fashion. And it was held together with chopsticks. Looking over towards a group of casual stoners, we discovered the dwelling's owner: a tramp of questionable origins, wearing a hat saying "Shit happens" and open-toed sandals revealling the blackest toes ever seen on a white man.

We later got chatting to said tramp, and what a nice fella he was too. His voice lilted with a West Country accent, and, as it turned out, he was touring the festivals of the United Kingdom. As he always did. Apparently.

So we gave him a lorne sausage, and continued merrily conversing as he tried to sell his 'tent' to passing piss-heads. He offered to include a free puncture repair kit (a bin bag) and would take anything he was offered. The reason for him selling his cushie abode, apparently, was that the aforementioned stoners had decided to let him stay in their tent for the remainder of the festival.

As we left to see the first band of the day, no-one had taken him up on his offer. However, he had errected a sign which read "Tent for Sale" and had a mobile number on it.

We never saw him again, but in his own words, he was "a better class of tramp". And do you know what? He really was...

P.S. If you're really that keen, here's a pic of the grubby chap himself: picasaweb.google.co.uk/herculesmoments/Rockness2009#5352686576181407698
P.P.S. Pop...
(beetlejuice Go and boil your bottoms you sons of silly persons, Fri 3 Jul 2009, 16:05, Reply)

The District Line Buskers
There's a couple of buskers that get on the district line at Gunnersbury/Turnham green, playing guitar and singing nice songs in their hoarse but tuneful voices. They're busking for cash to stay in a hostel every night. They brighten my day after a few mindless hours in the office. Sometimes you'll see tourists beaming at each other, nodding in time to the music, but as most people on the tube are commuters, the lovely buskers hardly ever get a reaction. I try to give them a couple of quid if I have it, and they're always nice and polite. The last time I saw one and gave him money, he said "thank god, I thought everyone hated me!" I reassured him that it was lovely, and I hoped to see him soon.

However, the man who stands at the bottom of the steps at the back of the RFH, who threatens to rape everyone within earshot, is not a nice tramp. Not a nice tramp at all.
(The Empress it seems you CAN polish a turd!, Fri 3 Jul 2009, 15:50, 1 reply)

Tom the Tramp

When I was 17 a mate and I used to work at Domino’s pizza ( I got to drive the dodgy Honda Cup 90’s before they got rid of them) in my home town Welwyn Garden City (Hertfordshire) which is quite a middle class town.
My mate and I used to walk through the shopping centre to the shop and one day this guy appeared at the bottom of the slopes of the centre asking for money, we ignored him a few times but every day he was there with his sign and sleeping bag.
He looked in a sorry state and us being inquisitive 17 year olds looking to skive out of a bit of work, we decided/dared each other to talk to him (having never seen a homeless guy before). Turned out his name was Tom and he had just been kicked out of his house by his missus, it was her house so he had no way of getting a share of it, then he lost his job so he ended up on the streets.
We felt really sorry for him so instead of giving him money, we used to take him a pizza everyday and a cuppa, and have a chat with him.
We must have looked really odd, sitting with this homeless guy in our uniforms esp as WGC doesn’t really do tramps. He used to tell us what he did for a living and we felt really sorry for him. He used to disappear every night but be back in the morning. A few months later he got himself a dog and then started selling the big issue and a room at the local YMCA. My mate and I were chuffed that he was starting to turn his life around. He used to thank us a lot for helping him out when he needed it most.
Sadly a few months after that, he was back to his begging cup. He didn’t really talk much after that. Shame.
I’ve not lived there for 5 years but I’ve been told that there hasn’t been anymore tramps there. They all go to Stevenage instead to pick on the emo kids.
(Soaps Roller derbying your way since, Fri 3 Jul 2009, 14:03, Reply)

Jacko the Bottlo
A year or two ago, the respectable architecture firm I work for was based in a small, falling-apart terrace in Darlinghurst. For those un acquainted with the so-called urban planning of Sydney, Darlinghurst is Sydney's armpit, situated right next door to King's Cross (Sydney's groin).

Our terrace had a rear lane, with a couple of trendy-but-squallid restuarants backing onto the other side of the lane. I could see into their kitchens from my desk window - rats playing in the salads yum yum!

Anyway, the resturants put their bottles out the back, messily, in crates which blocked effective use of the laneway, awaiting the council collection truck.

Enter Jacko the Bottlo.

Jacko was your typical tramp, and would scour through the piles of bottles, tipping the dregs into his hooch bottle, a filthy old 2L plastic milk bottle. He would then smash all the bottles against the back wall of our terrace, creating enough broken glass to make the laneway unpassable. He had a lair made of cardboard and shopping trolleys down the end of the lane, and the glass gave him privacy. for some bizzare reason, the Thai restuarant fed him, probably Bhuddist guilt about beggars and all.

This tramp did my head in with his bottle smashing - it would go on for about 2 hours, longer if he had collected a few trolleys-worth from other lanes. 'Normal' residents of Darlinghurst seem oblivious to this din, but I didn't live there and it bothered our clients.

So I called the council. "We don't deal with HOMELESS PERSONS, call the Salvos"

I called the Salvos. "Nah, mate, we only help em if they come in to our shelters."

Great. Cops? "We'll send someone 'round". They never showed, likely stopped off to buy some drugs from the dealer whose favourite corner was right outside Kings Cross police station.

The Matrix Gang?* Disbanded after all realising Darlo & Paddo are fucking awful places to live.

Ok, we'll have to get creative ourselves. Let's see, it's winter - pneumonia! I set up our small garden sprinkler system with an extra-fine mist spray that I could turn on when Jacko was nearby. On occasion, I would actually use the full hose and give him a full dousing with cold water. I found I could reach his cardboard lair too; and keep it nicely damp.

There was much screaming and yelling; the Thai resturant-full-of-rats gave him an umbrella, the bastards.

All good fun, and after a couple of months Jacko the Bottlo disappeared.

Little bit after that, getting my hair trimmed around the corner I mentioned where I worked. They woman trimming my hair asked if I was involved in always hosing the tramp.

Oh, shit, I thought, a bloody bleeding-heart hippie who thinks tramps aer a vital part of Our Vibrant MultiCultural Urban Village.

"Thanks for that, he used to piss & shit on our door step and harassed me and some of the other women around here. He also kicked our cat and broke it's ribs."

It's nice to do a good deed and be appreciated for it.

* - The Matrix Gang. Back in the heady 90's a parts of Darlo & the neighbouring Paddington became very trendy places to live. Quite a few of the fit young things who dropped $2mil on a trendy terrace were then rather miffed to find that the council is run by a raving PC pseudo-lesbian who wears a dog collar and face to match, who thinks tramps a vital part of the Vibrant Urban Village Cluster Micro Ecosystem. Thus formed a gang of fit blokes who dressed in long black 'Neo' coats, dark glasses, large boots, who wandered around at the witching hours offering tramps the choice of the Blue Pill, the Red Pill, or a bit of the good old-fashioned Ultra-Violence.
(corinoco is waiting for the revolution., Fri 3 Jul 2009, 13:57, 4 replies)

Paedo tramp
Last year I was going through a phase that had me sporting long curly shoulder length hair and a beard (yeah I looked the shit like a slightly overweight ginger jesus). It was the winter months and I put on my long grey duffle coat and headed off to the shops.

When I got to the shopping precinct there were a couple of unwashed scally oiks drinking irn bru and wanking each other off (probably) whilst shouting abuse at everyone who entered the little express supermarket.

It must have been a splendid afternoon for them, full of excitement and really engaging their brains to come up with new and exciting things to shout at everyone. Hanging outside the door of the "setco" express and shouting "Paedo" at every single person regardless of age, gender or appearance.

That was until I approached the door. I can only imagine evolution kicked in and the spot stained little shites suddenly developed increased cognitive capacity and came up with a new variation of their insult... "Paedo tramp" and proceded to barrage me with it over and over, until they realised I wasn't going to get riled.

They then reverted to the "Paedo" insult for all of the new lucky customers.

So thats how I was not only mistaken for a tramp but a paedo one at that... best day ever!
( hygor gyrates with animatronic emptyness, Fri 3 Jul 2009, 13:48, 1 reply)

On a slightly lighter note to my previous post…
One of the volunteers we get helping us setting up our temporary homeless centres is a mega ‘A list’ global celebrity musician. He volunteers pretty much every year unless his band is on tour at that time of year. (No names as he always volunteers without publicity which in itself deserves some respect I think).

Five years ago we were setting up a centre at the Dome. Mr X is volunteering. I didn’t recognise him (despite having a couple of his bands albums) & am introduced to him while we all having a tea break by his first name only. I have no clue who he is. We’re chatting about the charity & the PR value for the charity of getting such a high profile location for a centre. He then asks me what I do for a living. I tell him & then (as you do) asked him what he did… he went a bit quiet and then said “I’m a musician” to which I ask if he’s ever done anything I might of heard of to which he replied “erm, yearh, I’m a member of XXXXXXX”. How fucking stupid did I feel? Extremely fucking stupid. All I could think of to say was “Ah” before wandering off to carry on doing some work. I see him most years now & we are able to joke about it but fuck me I felt a right twat at the time.
(lkjshaglkasjdhglkhjz lkcvl; g;aodh;owih, Fri 3 Jul 2009, 12:32, 3 replies)

400 years later, and what advance?

“Poor naked wretches, wheresoe’er you are,
That bide the pelting of this pitiless storm,
How shall your houseless heads and unfed sides,
Your loop’d and window’d raggedness, defend you
From seasons such as these? O, I have ta’en
Too little care of this! Take physic pomp;
Expose thyself to feel what wretches feel ...”
( Farmer Geddon - is on his way., Fri 3 Jul 2009, 12:08, Reply)

My boyfriend
Used to be some kind of media big shot.
But it all went pear shaped and now I was living with a bitter drunken lazy slob with a huge chip on his shoulder.
He didnt come back one night and I though he must be having an affair.
Seems he encountered this loony tramp who stopped him from committing suicide.
Everything went weird from then, he brought the tramp back to our place, fed him, tried to clean him up and even get him a girlfriend.
She was as mad as bag of badgers, got right up my nose with her weird ways.
But anyway we all went out for a chinese meal and they seemed to hit it off.
And things between my boyfriend and I really took off that night.
Then he went and broke into some rich guys house and stole a trophy for his tramp friend, and we split up.
Then he gets all rich and famous again, decided he does love me and comes back.
He still sees this tramp guy and they hang out naked in the park, purely platonic he assures me
(insomniac-surfer oh go on then, just this once, Thu 2 Jul 2009, 21:22, 5 replies)

Ah lovely
Cork isn't a tramp mecca but it still has its fair share. I was driving along the quays of the city one day. As the traffic was busy I was momentarily stopped. Something caught my eye and I looked to my side up some stone steps. To my surprise my gaze was met by two arse cheeks and about 10 inches of turd hanging from them. Yes a tramp had decided that the most discreet place to go for a shit was mid way up a flight of steps during rush hour. Which was nice. Strangely I thought afterwards that if I had decided to do a shit on a flight of steps I would be facing down at the time. Shitting backwards just seems a little too haphazard.
(MagicMoose, Thu 2 Jul 2009, 21:06, 1 reply)

Ferguson's Eulogy
In November 2002, my cat Ferguson died, but life was busy, temperatures were cool, and I wasn't in a real hurry to bury him at first. For a time, I drove around town with a dead cat in the back of my car (similar to how I put Sylvie the cat in the freezer so she'd keep when she died the previous summer).

When burial day came, I started digging a hole just off the driveway when homeless J. came down the alley. At his insistence he finished digging the hole.

J. was in a lot of pain. He had been in a pitched fistfight with several other homeless guys the night before and had bruises on his head, his face, and his ribs. His hand was badly swollen, perhaps even broken.

J. put poor silent Ferguson in the hole, tamped the cat down with his foot, looked down, shook his head, and solemnly said "Shit Happens".

And does it ever!
(Perv With A Dog had his eyes pecked out by scrub jays on, Thu 2 Jul 2009, 20:58, Reply)

Fred the Tramp
I once had a bit of a brush with a drunken old tramp.

He wanted £1, so he did, ostensibly for a cup of tea. I let him know that I was skint myself, in the curious manner in which middle class people stick out their bottom lip, tilt their head to one side, and raise both hands in a ‘got nothing’ gesture. I might have even half heartedly patted both pockets after that with just less than sufficient force to induce a telltale jingle.

He chased after me slightly, so I peered around for my voice, dusted it off, and in a slightly forced cajoling manner, told him that there was always change on the ground near the bus interchange. He shambled off after that.

Later I read in the news that a man ‘of no fixed abode’ had been critically injured as he was squatting down grubbing for change near the bus stop in town.

Thank God for that, I thought, that would have been a wasted 20p that I would never have seen again. It might have also had no date and been worth fifty pounds.

Incidentally, the tramp managed to recover and then went on to managed a quasi- successful bank called RBS. ‘Fred’ the tramp's current location is now unknown.
(powervator and NONE SHALL PASS, Thu 2 Jul 2009, 19:48, Reply)

I used to work in the city
back in the 80's and the homeless guys used to really piss me off. I'd spend long days in the office and the last thing I needed to see on the way home, hanging around downtown, was the dirty fucking winos. This one cunt had a dog, a yappy little fucker. One night, after the little runt had tried to bite me for the 6th or 7th time that week, I stamped on it with my heel. The look on the vagrants face was a delicious mixture of repulsion and sadness. He barely noticed as I slid a knife slowly, but firmly into his neck and watched him bleed out. People walked past and never even noticed. This is not an exit.
( I have run out of coke is a little sweaty, Thu 2 Jul 2009, 17:48, 4 replies)

saw two tramps fighting once
really vicously too. truely terrible to see two people who are already at the lowest point you can get to in life knocking the shit out of each other.

i say saw, i actually encouraged them to fight with the promise of money and alcohol. then filmed it. then did it again with other tramps.

made a film of it in the end, you may have seen it.
(TheManWithThePlan cussed your mum on, Thu 2 Jul 2009, 16:38, Reply)

Semi-related
'Noon b3tans.

While our yearbook was under production at school there were "awards" we could vote people for. One category was "Best male bum".

Big D, a friend, misunderstood it and thought it meant "Best tramp" and voted my best mate for it.

In all fairness though his stupid beard does make him look a wee bit of a tramp.
( unsey a frizzy haired fruit since, Thu 2 Jul 2009, 16:02, Reply)

A taxi driver called me a tramp once.
But I think he was talking about the other kind of tramp.
( girlinthehole, Thu 2 Jul 2009, 15:54, Reply)

I did a project
on Sweden in the eighth grade. I was up all night doing it.

Then next day in gym class I was on the mini-tramp and I got diarrhoea.

I really wish I hadn't told you that.
(cypherspace is not a toaster, Thu 2 Jul 2009, 15:52, 1 reply)