Poo-dar
I have a terminal problem recently diagnosed as ‘poodar’. If there is a tramp ready to curl one out in the streets, fear not, for the hairs on the back of my neck will stand and I will be first across the scene, retching. It should be known that I work with a homeless charity, but I draw a sympathetic line when the tramps shit on me.

On my first day at a new job in Camden, I was stood at a cash point on Camden High Street when your classic (trousers held up by a rope, pong like a chicken farm, and ohmygod that’s a compounded urine stain) trundled near me. As I am big and wooly, I jangled around in my pockets looking for a quid to give the man. He stood next to me, squatted down, shat and caught my trouser leg in the splatters. He pulled up his trousers as I whipped around to see most of Camden backing away from me, mouths covered a mixture of terror, panic and repulsion. Crowds of goth tourists parted as I ran through the streets. I sat outside my new office crying until one of The Brave hosed me down and delivered a new pair of trousers. Shitting tramp made me spend my first day of work half naked and covered in a stranger’s detrius.

A short period later, I was spending a bit of cash at Tesco Express when one of the more colourful street characters came in. I’d become familiar with him, as he often smoked crack under my stairs. He stripped naked next to the sandwiches and shat on the floor. Some quick thinking types shoved him out the door, but not before he got a handful of his own feces, which he proceeded to smear all over his undressed form. We were all trapped inside the store as a naked tramp covered in his own bowels rubbed himself against the glass windows. Gonads on glass is difficult enough to stomach, poo-ey balls leave a person with a permanent twitch. My God, people, he left snail trails of poo with his penis.

I fled Camden and moved to Oxford, assuming that said part of North London was the root cause of all this public shitting. Surely, Oxford - the city of dreaming spires and abominable toffs – would have more decorum than to allow such things. It is an honey-coloured emporium for young men who non-ironically wear pastel trousers and have lazy chins. One might assume that we would perform a termly cull on those less fortunate – the tramps – but we live in a modern world where murder is generally frowned upon.

I was crossing Magdalen Bridge, when a woman pulled down her trousers and shot fetid bottom steam from her backside. I was the only witness. Of course, I told everybody I knew (excitedly, arms waving,) how could I not? I didn’t see her again until I was out with a group of friends. She quite kindly asked for change and my friends obliged, dropping spare change into her open hand while I stood back having terrible flashbacks. No, no, I will not give you money, I said as my friends angrily accused me of betraying my liberal background. “That’s the bridge shitter,” I said. Just as they put the chips in their mouths.
(TheSnark oh, c'mon, like you didn't see me coming, Mon 6 Jul 2009, 11:52, 1 reply)

Public conveniences?
I think that this can be put down to a lack of free public shit houses. In more civilized parts of the world (Bourke, Australia, or ancient Rome), they have these free crap-places and you simply do not find people defecating in public .

Social welfare benefits everyone, no?
( Sextant goes to him is emotionally erect, on this day, Tue 7 Jul 2009, 10:14, closed)