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)

Sorry, dead man
As a selfish student in Manchester, I once walked past what I assumed to be a passed out tramp in Piccadilly Gardens. He was laying there, one hand outstretched, under a sleeping bag.

Three hours later, I walked back and he was still in the same place, in the same position.

I assumed he was dead, but didn’t really know what to do. So I did nothing.

Sir, myself, and everyone else that walked past what I still assume to have been your corpse owe you an apology.

I hope you’re resting better now.
( scarpe We Stole Bikes, Fri 3 Jul 2009, 14:01, Reply)

...can be choosy
When I first moved into London, about 10 years or so ago, I landed a job near London Bridge. Nice place to work, not bad money, lots and lots of bars to go drinking in every evening.

I suddenly had a better paid job than I'd ever had before, was living gratis with a very generous mate and I did what any self respecting individual would in those circumstances: I went out drinking every single evening.

I got into some pretty hideous states, but none more than on the night when the beggar got choosy.

I'd already rightly and politely been asked to leave a restaurant as my excessive use of the word cunt was offending my fellow dinners. This wasn't helped by my very loud mouthed Kiwi friend bellowing "You can't say cunt in here" at me each time I said it.

This was followed by my mistakenly meandering up the escalator towards the Northern Line before realising it was nowhere near where I needed to be; I choose to yell this at the top of my lungs, interspersing what should have been a simple sentence with a gratuitous array of profanities, then barged my way back down the escalator, stumbling to a drunken heap at the bottom.

Having picked myself up again I went on a mini adventure as I tried my best to find my way onto the overground platforms, while swigging at a can of beer and swearing at unsuspecting tourists. Once there I did everything in my power to find my platform and finally slumped in a doorway marked private while rolling what I assumed to be a cigarette, although I couldn't really tell.

Only as I lifted my hand to my face, fist clenched as though grasping a lighter and my thumb curled ready to strike the wheel, that I realised my hand was bereft of flame and I would need to engage with a stranger in order to add fire to my fag.

I scanned both the platforms that were waving in and out of view before my eyes and spied a tramp at the foot of each of the sets of stairs that seemed to be swimming in and out of each other. "I'll ask them" said my face and I stumbled to where they were swigging from their can of Special Brew and shouting at the pigeons.

"Eshcushe me, mishter" I managed, "would you be sho kind ash to add fire to the end of thish, pleashe?"

They eyed me curiously, simultaneously mumbled to themselves about just how disgusting it was demonstrating such unnecessary drunken behaviour, then barged past me and wobbled up the platform, only narrowly avoiding both the trains that were pulling in at precisely the same time.

I think I slept on those stairs for some minutes before I was asked to leave the station; either train or the exit would suffice, so long as I fucked right off and didn't return until I was in a state more fitting with being in a public place.
( Moey, Fri 3 Jul 2009, 14:00, 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)

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)

Staggered out of a nightclub at 2 am...
Got about 20 metres down the road and decided I needed a rest, sat down against a wall and promptly fell asleep.

Woke up about 15 minutes later to the sound of a woman on the phone to her friend: "Hold on a minute I'm just going to give some change to this homeless man."

I was too pissed to object and it payed for my taxi home.

(To be fair, being in a metal band, I did have quite a large beard at the time)
(dubzy182, Fri 3 Jul 2009, 13:51, Reply)

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)

Freak one out
25 years ago I had a leather coat that I got in a surplus store in New York that came from the New York City Transit Police Dept. Real thing...still had the NYCTP patch on the sleeves. Was outside the bar where I worked chatting with the doorman/bouncer when a tramp wanders up, sees my coat, sez "Are you a cop?" "I was, but got kicked off the force." "Why?" "I shot a tramp on the subway platform at 135th Street." Tramp proceeded to make himself rather scarce...
( HairyTwatter certified eel and sodium salesman, Fri 3 Jul 2009, 13:31, 1 reply)

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)

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)

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)

London personified (I feel)
I was working just off Picadilly Circus, and one day on my lunch break saw a beautiful, beautiful girl coming out of one of the side streets.

Dressed to the nines in expensive gear, it was pretty clear she was a model and just leaving her agency. I reckon she was probably wearing over £500- - maybe even £1000- - worth of kit, though I know nothing of labels, fashion or prices. She seemed to glimmer of a world of Happy People, Winning Smiles and Contentment, where everything is new and functions properly, and where everyone is terribly witty and fun.

As I watched, a sordid, horrid, stinking piece of the human flotsam and jetsam of everyday London - of the type that we all walk past each day trying to ignore - staggered up to the girl, growling about spare change, and the look of fear, but ultimately disgust in her eyes will never leave me.
( Je suis un vagabond is an unfunny, up your own arse middle class knob, Fri 3 Jul 2009, 13:22, Reply)

Tramp Fishing
Nothing like a spot of Tramp Fishing to get the blood up.

It’s a sport I devised but never indulfged in in a competitive basis-all you really need is some cans of cheap but powerful alcohol, and sturdy rope and a high building (a multi storey car park would be ideal) in or near a city centre. Some friends and possibly some drugs might be useful as well.

From a few storeys up, dangle a can of alcoholic beverage within grasping range of a passing tramp-as soon as they grab hold, heave as hard as you fucking can and see if you can “land” them.

In concordance with good sporting etiquette, if they are under 5 feet tall throw them back.
(Fat Edgar, Fri 3 Jul 2009, 13:17, Reply)

Neatly combining two QOTWs at once
This clip, 2.55. I know that guy. He's a singing tramp on the London underground. It's amazing how it can brighten your day when he waltzes into a carriage full of grumpy people and starts singing.

His hair's a little more grey now, but I'm fairly certain it's him.
( MatJ LOOK, Fri 3 Jul 2009, 13:10, Reply)

Where Creepy Jesus came from
I grew up in slough and there was this raving tramp that looked like jesus and all the kids called him creepy jesus.. so my internet/gaming name is a tribute to ole creepy who I later retconned as the actual jesus who just hadnt regenerated after being tortured to death and coming back to life.. in one incarnation he becomes a werewolf who wreaks revenge on the kids that persecute him.. in another he rises up against the roman oppressors with an army of undead..

remember jesus saves but creepy jesus raves

doesnt every town have a creepy jesus?

and a simple simon?
(creepy jesus, Fri 3 Jul 2009, 13:08, Reply)

Freelancing
A while back, about 15 years ago, I used to work in a fairly miserable job in Birmingham town centre, before it was done up. Since the place I was at was on Smallbrook Queensway, I could at least walk into the city centre and get to various book/record shops. Whilst round there, I noticed that many of the homeless who were begging often had dogs, as they were perfect for getting sympathy and keeping warm. One of the dogs was a greyhound, who was brilliant at pulling the required soulful-eyed expression of misery.

So brilliant, in fact, that over the week, I saw him with about six different beggars.

I reckon he freelanced - the going rate is apparently one tin of Pedigree Chum per day.
( Stevedix http://www.stevedix.de/blog, Fri 3 Jul 2009, 13:06, 2 replies)

Egg and Stealth Hobo
I sat on one of those flat stone benches around the side of the British Museum a few years back with a mate. We were just having a couple of sandwiches and chatting. I opened my egg mayo sandwich and thought it smelt a bit off, I offered it to Kev to smell and he thought he got a funny wiff too. It was a bit of a vinegary sort of spicy type smell. I took a tentative bite and it tasted fine. I spent the next 10 minutes eating the sandwich really slowly and constantly sniffing it. Kev gave several more sniffs and he too couldn't figure it out. It smelt really weird and tasted fine.
Just as i finished it I caught something out of the corner of my eye and spun my head around. Sitting behind me on the bench no more than 6 inches away was a bushy browed big bearded old hobo (Imagine gandalf with a drink, drug and personal hygiene problem and you'll get a good idea). When I met his eyes he just raised his massive brows and dropped them again letting out a loud nasally exhaling of air.

The funny smell mystery was immediately cleared up, it was stale hobo. Stealth Hobo had somehow shuffled down the street unnoticed by me and Kev and quietly sat down behind us where he proceeded to quietly whiff.

Myself and Kev just burst into fits of the giggles and left. I'd love to think of a new breed of superhero....Stealth Hobo, stalking around kings cross in the evenings, keeping people safe! Brilliant.
( sneep used to date Freddie Starr's hamster, Fri 3 Jul 2009, 13:06, Reply)

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)

One Christmas
I visited the lovely electronic giant Currys local emporium. The whole time I was there I was tailed by a security guard. For about 20 minutes. Then I left as i felt really uncomforatble that I was being eyed up as a theif.

Its ok though, It turned out that I wasn't followed because they thought I was shop lifting, they just thought I was a tramp coming in to cause havoc.

Which is a bit unfair (although I did stink of piss and fags, so...)
( useless_rocker twitter.com/phillipteague, Fri 3 Jul 2009, 12:57, Reply)

I haven't got any direct stories, but a few friends have regaled me with some classics
No 1:

A friend of mine, who after dissappearing off the face of the planet turned up in woods just outside Plymouth, living in a tent. Apparently he decided that paying rent wasn't for him, so he became a free loading hippy. I only tell you this as his story was borne from his time spent in a hostel at some point in his past......... The hostel was populated by the homeless, drunk, derranged, and in some cases the heavily retarded. A character described to the author as "Slaggy Maggie" apparently a drunk former prostitute, used to "offer out" all and sundry for sexual favours, in exchange for cans of Kestrel. A thoroughly upstanding member of society. Apparently there was one heavily retarded guy staying at the same hostel, one day he came running in to the main room of the hostel where everybody was hanging out screaming his head off, and completely uncontrolable. After calming him down somewhat everyone started to enquire as to how he came to be in such a state, he would not however divulge any of the particulars of the incident that caused him such distress, but cited Slaggy Maggie as the source. Salggy Maggie turns up a few minutes later, and being in jovial spirits, is more than happy to divulge the circumstance behind the young mans demise......... apparently she'd been giving him a blow job and whilst in the full throws of the act her false teeth had come off and had been left basically clamped to the root of the poor blokes cock.

No. 2:

A friend of a friend was out on the piss on evening, and having spunked all of his cash on the hardest drinks available, was in the unfortunate position of being completely and utterly incapable of making his way home. It being a fine summers evening a stagger home seemed the only option available, and thus he began his crusade for bed, and the subsequent hangover....... Our hero eventually gets to a park, he some how manages to scale the fence and begins walking through the park. After a while he resigns himself to defeat and lays down on a bench. He falls into a deep and peaceful sleep. Whatever tomorrow brings, let it be............. Our hero wakes in the night with a distinct feeling of wet around his groinal area. In the drunken half slumber he leaves it a minute and tries to gether his thoughts.... he opens his eyes and sits up to find a male tramp giving him a blow job........... eventually our hero made it home, apparently the tramp did not manage to withdraw his salty prize.
(Randyqueen Hangin' out the back of Lady Boys, Fri 3 Jul 2009, 12:56, Reply)

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)

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)

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)

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)

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)

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)

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)

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)

Ben...
My mate Ben, who I know is an occasional b3tan, spent some time living in the big smoke last year. We had an awesome time. Ben would love to go out on the booze and get into states... quite often.

Best morning after story was. "I was in such a state last night, walking home, a tramp gave me his bottle of sherry and told me I needed it more than him" ... so he went home and drank it.

Ben. You've changed!
(CornishStanley can't post hyperlinks, Fri 3 Jul 2009, 12:08, Reply)

What's that in the sky?
Is it a bird?

Is it a plastic bad caught in an up-draft?

Is it some kind of swamp monster, come to rid the world of Tennants Super?

No, its... (you guessed it)... SUPERTRAMP
(Is this a good idea? ... Yes this is definitely a good idea, Fri 3 Jul 2009, 12:07, 2 replies)