blackpool
back in the olden days when i was nowt but a boy (1983) an before the days of shit tramps we have now, we had real tramps who would sit round the city centre with cheap booze in a gang. Anyhoo there was one fella who had a tattoo upon his forehead. it started roughly above his right eye and though it might have been planned to have stopped somewhere above his left it continued round the side of his head to his left temple... it said BlAckPoOL in wonky diy tattoo letters.. I shit you not.. It was kinda sad but also used to make me and my mates piss ourselves laughing when we saw him in Leeds on a weekend..

can anyone in west yorkshire confirm this outlandish allegation I have made? Have you seen or are you the 'blackpool' man?
(TROLLING AWAY living under a post ironic bridge, Thu 2 Jul 2009, 20:56, 1 reply)

Johnny walker
Sea point (where i live) is famous for its rich assortment of tramps, bergies (homeless people living in caves on table mountain and lions head) and strange mental community care types. We used to have Old Sandra, whose jilting at the altar sent her into madness and who used to walk around in a bridesmaid's dress, makeup smeared all over her face, smoking sobranies and muttering to herself. Johnny Walker, though, takes the cake. He's an old guy, must be in his sixties, probably schizophrenic, who walks up and down the main road from end to end (about a 6km walk) unceasingly. He sometimes dances a strange two step that looks like a dog forcibly emptying its anal glands. All the while, he whistles the tune from Johnny Walker whisky ads. I tried to find out why he's walking. All he said was 'got to get away' and danced off. Strange... One day i hope he manages to get away. Apologies for lack of funny.
(Tiktock Beating off flamers with a shitty stick, Thu 2 Jul 2009, 20:44, Reply)

Piss bag woman
There used to be an old female tramp by us who wore a humungous leather coat stuffed with empty carrier bags, you could see them peeping out of the seams. I'm not talking just filling the pokcets here, I mean in the lining.Everytime you saw her (which was only now and again, where had she been hiding?) the coat was a little more tatty. She also used to stink of piss and mumble. No one knew her name, or where she came from, she was known as 'piss bag woman'. I felt sorry for her in a way (very small way) as all the local kids would chuck stuff at her and take the mickey, shouting 'pissbag woman - what's in the bags' and that...

I was on the bus one day, many moons ago, and she got on, (she was well known in the area and most drivers wouldnt let her on the bus), sat at the back and literally pissed herself, all over the back seat of the 11C.

Anyway, rumour has it that she got eventually run over by a bus. It's unconfirmed if it was the driver of the 'wet-bus', acting out his revenge for soiling his seats...
(annimal, Thu 2 Jul 2009, 20:43, 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)

johnny wellies
local legend.

someone linked me to this video of him.
it pretty much sums him up
www.youtube.com/watch?v=kz6aFY22DYw

i'm assuming he's not going to be the only homeless person mentioned
this week who is rumoured to be secretly rich and just doing it for a laugh.

.
(stitched, Thu 2 Jul 2009, 20:01, 1 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)

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 have a lot of stories for this topic
but suffice it to say that I know almost every homeless person (to some degree) in the Bronx, New York City, and for a good long time wanted to be one of them, and then I woke up, but before that I had a lot of fun in the streets of New York.
( Arsonade is saving up for a new box of hummus, Thu 2 Jul 2009, 19:38, 1 reply)

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)

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)

Rudi
There's a middle-aged black guy who wanders around Harrogate centre.

I don't know for sure that he's actually homeless but he certainly has at least a whiff of the mendicant insane about him.

His full name is actually Rudi Son of God, apparently changed by deed poll, and he habitually wears a dirty denim jacket with "Rudi Is God" picked out on the back in tatty rhinestones (Son of God, or God himself? Even his alter ego has an identity crisis).

Often he'll just sit down next to people and yabber at them fairly amiably, but it's most entertaining when he totters into town with a full microphone and amp rig, wandering up to old woman and screaming at them down the mic.

Reminds me a little of Aphex Twin's 'Come to Daddy' video.
( Boss Keloid Got your mother's maiden name tattooed on my arm, Thu 2 Jul 2009, 18:48, 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)

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 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)

I work along Tottenham Court Road.
And here lives the Tramp King.

He has FOUR trolleys, filled to the brim with all manner of wondrous tramp items of historic note.

When he isn't surveying his kingdom (stretching as far as the eye can see down Tottenham Court Road) and wandering among his subjects, he'll often set up his trolleys as a sort of fort/palace and write in his magical notebook. Nobody knows what he writes. Perhaps this is where he records his royal decrees.

I'll try and have a chat with him to find out more...
( mrlogic is copying your beard, Thu 2 Jul 2009, 18:19, 1 reply)

Crazy pigeon "lady".
There's this terrifying entity, living in the heart of Newcastle's town centre. This horrific street-stalker goes by the single name of; "Crazy pigeon lady". Sadly, I've bumped into 'her' a lot of times. One time was a little too close for comfort.

It was a warm summer day, and I was with two buddies from College. We'd just went to see a movie, and one of them decided to go and grab a frappa-caramel-marshmallow-chocolate-mushroom-turtle-accino from Starbucks. Since it was a bloody hot day, we let him go inside to get it himself. My other pal and I didn't want to go inside with the sweltering coffee fumes, and be crippled by the amount of people inside. So, we sat on a bench, chatting about our lives. It was a nice, invigorating chat, but it was all interrupted when a pigeon fluttered down by our feet. Our conversation continued, but I could see my buddy staring at it. He was talking to me, but his face was turned directly to the pigeon this whole time.

Eventually, he went and did it. I knew he would. He's done it every time he's witnessed a pigeon landing since day 1 of Secondary School. He stomped by it, to made it squawk, and fly away. Never saw the amusement in it, but I try to stay open-minded. Anyway, after he does this, there was an almighty rustle from behind us. We turned around to see what it was, and it was this really ugly bearded guy with huge, bulging pockets (I'd later discover it was in fact, crazy pigeon LADY) who was staring at us intently. "You shouldn't do that. They've done nothing to you. Go on; bugger off".

Now, normally I wouldn't have moved, but when this entity of pure FEAR is in your face, you'd be surprised what you'd do to get away. So, my friend and I ran for dear life. We ran to the end of the street, and waited for about 10 minutes. We looked back down the street, and s/he appeared to be gone. We stealthily snuck back over to Starbucks, where our dear chum couldn't be seen. Had he been eaten or killed by her? No. He was sitting in Starbucks, sipping daintily on his cup of chocolatey goodness, chilling out while this whole thing happened. Bastard.
(almightyjoey is most likely listening to Electric Wizard on, Thu 2 Jul 2009, 18:04, 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)

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)

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)

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)

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)

...
A tramp in Chester once told me I looked like Kelly Osbourne. This was years and years ago when I was 15 and had very short hair, so in all fairness, I did resemble her a tiny bit [how unfortunate for me].

I did wonder how he knew who she was though, considering he lived on the streets and didn't have a tv.

Theres a couple of tramps round Sheffield that recongnise me after I drunkenly gave them pizza one night after I'd been clubbing, I have quite distinctive hair so it's easy for them to pick me out of all the drunken crowds on a saturday night. They have a dog called Milky who I just want to take home with me... if he didn't look like he had fleas of course.
(Little Miss Vivica, Thu 2 Jul 2009, 17:21, 4 replies)

Mate of mine
Used to live opposite the park. He came down for brekkie one morning, glanced out the window, and saw a tramp curling one out in broad daylight across the street.

Put my mate right off his coco-pops.
(Cylon Bum Raider already knows how this will end, Thu 2 Jul 2009, 17:15, 1 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)

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)

American banks.
I recently holidayed in America, Chicago to be precise. Not sure why I went there, but it happened.

I had to go into the bank downtown to do some boring money related task as I had ran out of beer tokens, when the cashier (or as they are infuriatingly called over there "teller") turned out to be someone I was spent a while talking to in a bar the night before. This man was brilliant, had more prostitute anecdotes than anyone I had ever met before, and he soon launched into another one.

He told me about his aim to fuck someone from every nation on the planet, and had spent a fortune to achieve this. He told me about the time he came across (fnarr fnarr) a Thai prostitute. Apparently she smelt a bit funny but he thought "fuck it, I'll just double up"

After brief negotiations he took her to a motel and low and behold it turned out to be Kathoey [ladyboy]. That smell? The hideously green length that had just been unfurled in front of him.

This is my Teller's Ho-Bo tail.
(ste_mc_efc, Thu 2 Jul 2009, 17:11, 1 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)

Apparently...
...tramps don't like it if you say "Wow! You're a tramp!" in their face, as evidenced by the bearded wonder that chased my chum and me down the street one fine summers day.
(Cylon Bum Raider already knows how this will end, Thu 2 Jul 2009, 17:04, Reply)