I was in a friend's car going through Finsbury Park once
when there was a sickening bump/crunch as we pulled away from the lights.

Looking out of the rear windscreen it was apparent that we'd driven over a tramp, who was decked out in the road, wailing, in a horrible puddle. The cunt had been lying in the road, in a dark coat and was nigh on impossible to see (luckily there were plenty of witnesses to support this).

It was fucking sickening - this dark pool around him getting bigger and bigger and the geezer moaning and groaning like one of Emvee's spasticated 'I'm a zombie' prick mates. Convinced we'd done for him we walked nearer to check, when we realised the dude was licking at the puddle - what we thought was blood was a burst can of Kestrel Super. The sense of relief was overwhelming, and I've never been so pleased to be verbally abused by a smelly vagrant in my life.

Luckily we had still broken his pelvis so it wasn't a total loss. But fuck me I can still instantly recall the thud and the crunch when we drove over that slag, and it freaks my nut out to this day.
( Monty Boyce, My cheese game is strong, Thu 20 Dec 2012, 15:33, 1 reply)

It's freaking my nuts right now.
I might have to pop to the bogs to relieve them.
( Dr. Shambolic je suis charlie, Thu 20 Dec 2012, 19:27, closed)