I'm jealous of tramps

Discussion in 'Now That's What I Call NAAFI Bar' started by convoy_cock, Oct 22, 2004.

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  1. Wouldn’t it be fcuking great to be a tramp.

    There I was at eight o’clock this morning, in the middle of Whitehaven, dying for a sh-i-t. I eventually found a Tesco that had just opened. After dropping a monster log into trap one, I ventured back out to my car, taking the time to have a good laugh at the “Just cleaned” sign. The ‘Billy the Kid’ that I’d left on the back wall would be well petrified before the bog scrubber came back on his rounds.

    As I walked across the car park, I spotted an old geezer sat near one of the trolley bays. I could smell him from 15 feet away. The reek of wazz coming off him made my eyes sting. He caught my eye and nodded, so I called out to him,

    “Alright, mate?”

    “Fcuking champion, son.”

    As soon as he finished speaking, he popped the top on a can of Tennants Super and necked about half the tin. I was gagging while I checked my watch. Five past fcuking eight, and he was on the lash. I shook my head, getting in to the motor, thinking, ‘what a poor old turps nudger.’

    As I drove on to my appointment, I got to thinking about what it must be like to be a tramp. I started off feeling sorry for them, but by the time I’d gone through another sh-it-e meeting with a load of fat ratbags who liked the sound of their own voices, I’d come round to being jealous.

    Those ba-s-tards have got it made, I tell you. I accept that trampism does have its downsides like an early death and an almost complete rejection from society, but think of the plus sides.

    You are unskiffable. There is no combination of arrse or smeg rummage that could make your upper lip smell worse than it does already.

    No shaving

    Life becomes one long session, therefore rendering hangovers a thing of the past

    You can wank in public

    You don’t need another person in order to have a punch up. A bit of shadow boxing with yourself in the Boots window and no-one gets hurt.

    You don’t have to wipe your arrse, in fact anal filthiness is encouraged.

    I’m seriously thinking about turning my back on my life and applying to the guild of Harry Ramps for membership. As a trial run, I’m going to spray a few cookies pink and stick them to my face to get that ‘repeatedly-beat-up’ look.

    Next time you see one of ‘em, don’t pity him, sit down next to him and have a good long chug on his electric soup. Just make sure not to swallow any of the ‘croutons’
     
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  2. You can w-a-n-k in public
     
  3. ViroBono

    ViroBono LE Moderator

    A few months ago I was walking, mid-afternoon, from the Underground station (in the dark days when I was an unwilling commuter), when I saw one of the local tramps taking a dump in the doorway of the local scummy nightclub. He was not at all bothered by the appalled attention he was receiving from the not inconsiderable crowd of onlookers. As I drew level the police arrived, and told him to move on. Grumbling, he pulled up his filthy trousers and shambled off, leaving a stunningly yellow Mr Whippy on the step.

    That evening, as a few of us from the Mess were passing en-route to curry, I noted with some satisfaction that a couple of the local chav types were sitting on the exact spot pushing burgers into their faces.
     
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  4. I've often thought of discarding all and persuing a life as a 'Parafin lamp'

    AFKAC is right, no standards to live up to, go to the bog where you want, even where you sit, no need to shave, no need to press your kit.....etc.

    There is a draw back though and its a bit of a show stopper. I'm a bit of a keen thrapper but a day without a shower and the old mutton musket begins to ming..... Its OK being able to knock one out in public, but the scent of your own minging gammon gun is a bit off putting.... and those fingerless gloves would soon matt up.

    Is there such a thing as a tramp with clean bollox?

    Can you opt to only be a good weather / summer tramp.... there is fcuk all funny or appealing about squatting in a sex shop doorway in the freezing cold with only a breeze block to keep you warm... even with a belly full of 'special brew central heating' its got to be chilly, and is bound to cause a far more serious argument with your shadow than you thought, which end up in tears (tattoed to face) and an evening in the cells for smashing up a shop front for the prospect of a porceline dump and a bowl of Porridge
     
  5. I know that seems like a bit of a clincher, but I forgot to mention one of the outstanding positives of being a tramp.

    You can give yourself a great name, like Glasgow Sally, or Three Toes Jimmy.

    If I was truly serious about this venture, i'd change my name to

    "Horsep-i-ss O'Shaughnessy"

    I'd be beating the lady tramps off with a shi-tty stick. No, really. I would be beating them off with a shi-tty stick. Nobody gets there hands on my Buckfast.
     
  6. we had an old guy called Barney lived round my way , he was a f*cking legend , you could tell what season it was simply by checking wether Barney was in "summer order" (off white ...well filthy actually , sun hat) or "winter order" (wooly hat that smelt like , er , a tramps head!) always pished , always muttering to himself , but always had a funny little grin on his face , my mum used to work in the sandwich shop in town and told me Barney walked in one day , purple tin in hand , muttered something incomprehensible like "gissabaconsarniebroonsoshen" and promptly did a double legger in the shop , then calmly stood in his own puddle waiting for said sarnie , about turned smartly , drove one in ,splashing several people in the queue and marched out.... i've got a million stories about this guy , i always had a sneaking admiration for his simple rocket fuelled existence , and devil may sh*t his own pants attitude !! gawd bless him . :)
     
  7. The savings in being a paraffin lamp must be enormous; all you need is a couple of bob for the cans of p1ss/meths blackcurrant cocktail (would Tennants go out of business if there were no tramps?). No worrying about the price of petrol because the Austin Allegro you live in has not run for 20 years – and they come cheap (ie free) so no worry about where the ackers are coming from to pay the mortgage either.
    Biggest saving has to be at Crimbo – no cnut to buy pressies for and every devil-dodging-dogooder for miles (who would not come within sniff range during the rest of the year) feeling sorry for you and you get a slap up feed of turkey, plum pud and all the trimmings at the local Sally Army hut. Easy life

    PS.Not seen Flash for a while, is he on advance party for trampism?
     
  8. If someone can write pages about a short dog, then why not a stinky tramp.
     
  9. LAst night I sampled life as a tramp.

    I cut holes in my remembrance day Crombie, rolled it round a field full of cow shit, cut the toe cap off an old DMS boot, and sliced the sole off the Nike air trainer on my other foot. I wrapped an old dressing gown belt around me (not fashionable for a parafin to have matching attire)

    I put a let off a firework in my piss soaked socks to give the desired frayed effect

    I awoke on the park bench this morning, smelling like a taxi drivers seat, swearing at passing trucks and pedestrains..beating off two youths that were trying to set fire to me.

    This morning I am going to wander around the shopping centre grovelling for pennies with a jack russel I swiped this morning and kicked fcuk out of to make it limp.

    I have three tins of Special brew and a three litre bottle of white lightening.... I'm waiting for the missus to come downstairs and wipe her hoop on my beard then I can go
     
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  10. Barney's dress sense was the envy of tramps all over hertfordshire and north london , not for him the greatcoat tied up with string , he always wore a suit jacket , even if it was paired with a pair of p*ss stained trousers , and dunlop green flash with no laces ,and a proper overcoat in the winter , which he would amaze you with his pocket capacity , i swear i've seen him pull a 4 litre bottle of white lightning out of the inside pocket , and i know he had the remains of a fish supper in another one , because i'd just watched him take it out of the bin outside the chippy , but barneys crowning glory was always his headgear , the aforementioned woolly hat had was difficult to describe , nondescript yet totally unique , i have never seen one like it before or since , and i suspect it may have started out life as a tea cosey.
    His summer order hat , was a white "beanie" type number , stained beyond belief , i dont even know if barney had any hair , or even a top to his head , because i NEVER saw him without one or t'other, occasionaly when he was reclining on his favourite bench outside the offy , he might unbutton his suit jacket to reveal a collection of cardigans ,jumpers and shirts in various shades and hues , Barney was a big believer in the "onion skin" system , but had taken it one step further by actually smelling like them aswell. gawd bless him.
     
  11. I have found myself somewhere seemingly safe to sleep tonight.

    There is a skip outside Sinbads, kebab house.... I can spend the evenign tanked up windmilling at no-one, calling any willing donators to my 'white lightning' fund my best mate.

    I can then retreat back to my open topped steel fortress, tuck into any scraps, lick the chilli sauce and mint sauce dressings off disgarded papers before sleeping until midday in a puddle of my own p1ss
     
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  12. so no different from any weekend for you then MDN :wink: :lol:
     
  13. Right, you can stay the f*ck out of that skip: thats the one where I take all my "special" ladeez... :evil:
    I have many fond memories from childhood, of the picturesque Gentlemen of the Road drinking Olde Englishe in the local park and telling magical tales of life on the open road, and waggling their schlongs at passing Nuns from the local convent school.... :D
     
  14. I spent the night last night in a cell on my own after the other detainees complained of 'A mad shadow boxer singing a fcuked up version of Rough Diamond' while picking lumps of roadkill out of his beard and scoffing it.

    I awoke smelly, warm happy...... there was steam coming from my socks and gloves where the damp ever present scent of p1ss and BO filled the cell to give it a homely feel.

    At 10 am when they put me in front of the magistrate I'm gonna chuck a wheelybin at him and call him a cnut in an effort to spend an evening on a rubber mattress instead of a wet Kwik save box in Wollies front door.
     
  15. I had another opportunity to be jealous of a tramp last week.

    I was staying in Carlisle last Thursday. I stopped in a newsagents to buy a bit of bathtime reading. I'm still too much of a scaredycat to buy any real filth in public, so I bought one of those soft jobs that masquerades as a serious magazine. Whilst perusing my FHM, a paraffin-lamp stumbled into the shop. He was a proper big geezer, probably in his early fifties, with a massive winter coat on. He had a beard you could have lost Brian Blessed in and a big set of dreads that looked like they were glued together with sh-it. I instinctively held my breath as he came past, but some of the smell got in anyway. It reminded me of the time we got one of the camnets out of the troop stores and found two dead hedgehogs. Sad to think that the last words they ever heard were "FCUKING ENDEX"

    I think he might have had a few drinks earlier because he was struggling to get the fridge open. As soon as the proprietor saw him, the counter was up, and he started trying to shoo him out of the shop, shouting,
    "C'mon, bloody p-iss off." With this thread in mind, I was on the tramps side, thinking, 'His coin is as good as anyone elses' and was even considering saying something. But the tramp had one up his sleeve. As he got near the door, he did a titanic vom into the crisp stand. There was loads of it and it was all over the monster munch and nik-naks. It smelt like Chernobyl. The shopman went nuts and the lamp left, swearing and gibbering all the way, taking with him, I noted, a bottle of Bulmers that he'd got out of the fridge.

    Hat's off to you, mate, I thought.

    The shopkeeper came back in and started looking at the crisp stand, pulling a face like Charles Hawtrey on vinegars, whilst all the semi-digested skip-chips the tramp had regurgitated fell on to the floor like brown slugs.

    He was giving me filthy looks whilst I paid for my mag, as it was obvious to him that I was suppressing the urge to p-iss myself laughing.

    That'll learn him. Don't fcuk with tramps.