20 years ago I worked part-time in a mental asylum.
4 years ago, I was admitted to a different mental asylum, temporarily.

In neither of these did I meet as many nutters as I did when I worked as assistant manager of the Kent Connection bar (now, I believe, the Boadicea) at Charing Cross station. There was an endless parade of them, in amongst the usual commuters and pinstriped cunts.

A chap I remember fondly was Karl, who stood around watching the world go by, and would occasionally bark out something random. Twice. "The British are coming, the British are coming" was a regular cry, although my personal favourite was "Stoke on Trent, Stoke on Trent" in a tone of surprised joy.

I won't bore you with the full list, but I do feel the need to mention "Mad Mary", the sympathetically titled scizophrenic lady who lived next door to the sweet shop in the early 70s when I was a child. She frequently had furious shouting arguments with her invisible companion while walking down the high street; but I remember her most from the day when I went past her house and she was sitting on the doorstep, with her black labrador facing out between her knees. While she wanked it.

I always went the long way round to the sweet shop after that.
( godstar, Thu 16 Sep 2004, 14:21, Reply)