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)

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)

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)

not a story but

I read this book years ago 'The Grass Arena' by John Healy and decided as a small service to all on b3ta to find this

www.thegrassarena.net/ which contains a small biography

and this

www.moviesumo.com/The-Grass-Arena_30378.html which appears to be the movie to download...

went looking for the text but couldn't find it but I remember it being quite a good book and a rarely seen perspective... how many winos ever publish their story ?

good on you Johnny boy !

j
(The Cats Twat, Fri 3 Jul 2009, 1:22, 1 reply)

I once saw a tramp in Glasgow shouting at something in an amusement arcade window.


As I walked nearer the arcades I found out he was hurling all sort of abuse in the direction of this little teddy bear who was just sitting there minding his own business.

something about fuckin' [something] basta' been drinkin..[something]
CUNTS THE LOT OF YE!

the little guy looked like he was holding his ground in the shop window and just gave him a steely look..

I didn't see what started the argument.
( prodigy69 broke b3ta and made everyone leave, Fri 3 Jul 2009, 1:11, Reply)

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)

november 5 2007
was waiting with some friends for a tram to don valley in sheffield to watch the fireworks.

when we hear some slurred shouting going on behind us and turn around jus in time to see a tramp attempting to steady himself against a low wall with one had while taking a piss with the other, the result of which is him slipping and turning to face everyone at the tram stop while mid flow, pissing everywhere and shouting.

followed up a few moments later by my mate dave saying "i dont want to end up like that, but i just know some day i probably will" with a massive grin on his face. thus ending the awkward silence with a dry smile
( Reme Philips laid an epic dump on, Fri 3 Jul 2009, 0:26, 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)

Thirtypockets
There was a tramp in Inverness back in the 1940s known as thirtypockets, on account of the fact that his coat had a silly number of pockets on it.

Local school legend had it that he carried a knife in each one. And parents would say to their badly-behaved offspring that if they weren't good, thirtypockets would get them.

We bought my late mum one of those "back in the day in [your town here]" books (in this case, Inverness) for Christmas one year.

When she was flicking through the book and saw his picture, it's the one and only time I ever saw her terrified.

And I'm including both times she was diagnosed with cancer - the second one terminal - with that.

(Maybe I should add, she was a career nurse - very matter of fact about the cancer - but the childhood bogeyman, no.....)
(Capo, Fri 3 Jul 2009, 0:18, Reply)

There is a tramp that hangs around on Chiswick High Road
Funnily enough, in a bus stop near Sainsbury's. I only saw him do anything but drink twice:

First time was when I was about to go into Sainsbury's, and there were two coppers telling him that he can't sit in the bus stop, and he'd have to move. Apparently this has happened multiple times.

The second was when he staggered onto the bus (E3). He was complaining about his left knee as he got on the bus, so I moved from the front seats to the one behind him. He thanked me profusely.

Then the stench came. The foulest fucking stench I've ever smelled. Everybody else on the bus was gagging, as at the next stop, he was groping a schoolgirl who was about to go upstairs. The driver called him up to the front, and the man was just complaining about his left knee, though pointing to the right.
In the end, the driver said he HAS to get off, else he's calling the police. He reluctantly moved, only going when he realised the bus wasn't going anywhere.

The driver just shouted at us to open the windows, apologised and requested that if anybody had deoderant, he would be obliged if we could spray a bit.
( Methylene Blue - electrohead, Fri 3 Jul 2009, 0:14, 2 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)

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)

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)

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)

Sainsbury's Tramp
My sister and I used to live near to Sainsbury's in West Ealing where a very loud and pissed most of the day tramp lived. He was okay most of the time, apart from the odd bit of shouting, and lived outside the supermarket sometimes getting hand outs of food from shoppers, had a trolly full of random crap, etc. However, my view of him was totally ruined one night when on my way home he chased me up the street shouting 'What's your star sign? What's your fuggin' star sign??!?! Cuuuunt!!!'.....

Shortly after that the police came and took him away. After that experience if I ever I was asked my starsign by someone with a very bad chat up line I would look behind them for any trollies full of general crap just in case...

Leo btw.
(Senora Veranos cannot and will not so ner..., Thu 2 Jul 2009, 23:06, 2 replies)

the tramp outside john lewis
on oxford street. in the wheelchair, with the tin whistle. a distinct lack of lower limbs from what i recall. everytime i see him i feel like going up and telling him he might possibly 'earn' a few more pennies each day if he didn't just play the same two notes over and over and over
(TheManWithThePlan cussed your mum on, Thu 2 Jul 2009, 23:05, 1 reply)

This is somewhat true
Tramps are smelly
(b3tard Has converted to Reason, Thu 2 Jul 2009, 22:39, 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)

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)

ABC
I embarrassed her greatly.

I caught her out, behind the bins at the back of the faculty library, focused, repeating, in a hard-won, desperate scrall against the paper,

again and again:

ABCDEFGHIJKLMNOPQRSTUVWXYZ
abcdefghijklmnopqrstuvwxyz

She was about my age: 22

Who failed that brave girl?
(HaHa!Snakes! was last seen on, Thu 2 Jul 2009, 22:04, 1 reply)

The damed dog!! (go easy, it's my first time!)
Now, I'm not the most compassionate person when it comes to beggars an tramps.
Whenever I used to go into the town centre for shopping, there was always this one particular tramp (I named him Jeremiah in my head) who used to beg outside the River Island with his dog, a German Shepherd, in his sleeping bag. This guy never said a word when he was begging, he just had a little card board sign declaring his poverty, which is to my mind better than those who stop in front of you and beg, especially on trains.

Now, I always used to think (mostly out loud to friends) "if he's really that poor, how can he afford to keep a dog?"

As I said before I'm not especially compassionate about our monetary impaired friends, but I've always been a bit skeptical about the extent of their poverty when they're with small children or animals, especially when they look otherwise healthy.

So when I would see "Jeremiah" and his dog, I was always a bit suspicious... After several weeks of ignoring him every time I happened across his path, I was out in town one fairly chilly afternoon with a friend of mine who stopped and gave him some change. As he was routing through his pocket I noticed the dog was missing. I quite heartlessly assumed he decided to keep him home today as, but my friend was not so callus and asked him "hey where's you dog today mate?", turns out the poor bastard had died a week earlier from what he guessed was the cold and no fat on him from having nothing to eat...

I still tend to ignore the tramps I see, but I do it with a bit more sympathy for them!
(Dutch Lover! roses are red, violets are stupid and so are you, Thu 2 Jul 2009, 22:01, 2 replies)

I live in North Wales
and in and around where i live there are a few tramps/winos/crackheads etc.
There’s the man who rides his bicycle up and down the promenade singing continuously for hours on end, The Issue sellers who played the penny whistle in exchange for a friends cake on their birthday, and the CCTV Guy (perhaps more on him in a later post.)
But best of all there is Chris, who is the typical tramp, long scruffy beard dirty clothes etc. Over the years he’s been subject to a number of rumours;
1.) He’s a tramp due to his wife’s death/child’s death
2.) He’s actually a millionaire and just does it all for laughs
3.) He was once a genius, really high paid scientist or something who for some reason left his job and took up a life on the streets
Of course there’s no way to verify this aside from asking him, and due to his fantastic levels of inebriation this is difficult.
Im just wondering as to whether any one else has heard rumours such as this about the tramps around them?

Apologies for length
(Mister Negative Who watches the welshman??, Thu 2 Jul 2009, 21:56, 3 replies)

Professor Tramp
I honour this fine upstanding (albeit at an angle) gentleman with such a handle because I'm not entirely sure if he is one or 't'other.

I concede that he is commonly to be found drinking fortified wine from a brown paper bag at the back of the number 5; but I live in Oxford and such things barely carry the burden of "eccentricities" as far as the higher academic orders are concerned.

One dull, grey forenoon, when I was at my lowest ebb, he settled his reeking bulk next to me and proffered me a wilted Bluebell, with the accompanying admonishment that I was 'as pretty a little thing as might attempt to smile'.

This beam of wisdom engendered sufficient fortuitude in myswelf as to fully go about my day as the lowest of office temps to the cruel and preposterous Mrs Sedgewood. For this, I salute him.

Being quite the character about town I shall be sure to further you with additional remembrances of his antics, as they occur to myself and through the medium of my good friends, and wholeheartedly recommend you to sit next to such amiable personages yourself in future, so as to best reap the fruits of their sagacity.

Yours,

Miss C. Snakes.
(HaHa!Snakes! was last seen on, Thu 2 Jul 2009, 21:53, 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)

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)

Glue sniffer
Sorry.. just remembered the body popping glue sniffer who used to wear a really shitty sony walkman A la 80's and was sporting a bag o' glue busting robot and body popping moves.. oft seen either at the bottom of Leeds near the lloyds arms/bus station or on the Headrow... he was nuts...

Again do you remember this dude?? or are you in fact he??
(TROLLING AWAY living under a post ironic bridge, Thu 2 Jul 2009, 21:02, Reply)

Gemma, Ye Olde Trampette of Sheffield
Over a course of a few years I had the misfortune to bump into Gemma, a foul mouthed, bedraggled and substance dependant gentlewoman of the road, as I bimbled my way through Sheffield.

She would regularly sidle up to folk with that wretched junkie whine of "Can you lend us 50p?", anything else other than a swift production of a gleaming coin of the realm would be met with a torrent of filthy invective seldom seen outside a Tourette's ward. I've seen her chase people down the road screaming obscenities as she stumbled.

But the best ever sighting had to be what has been refered to as the tramp AGM. approximately 15 or so ne'erdowells, bums and hobos were gathered on West Street and conducted the most violent meeting ever with Gemma at the head. All of them shrieking, baying and accusing each other of nicking methadone/cider/tabs it was a fucking sight to behold.

A few of us on here have a tramp army (b3tards) on this game www.dossergame.co.uk/ we're relatively tasty and would welcome new members from b3ta.
(SpunkyMcSpunkbubble Diddled your nubbin on, Thu 2 Jul 2009, 20:59, 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)