Mister Tramp

I tried to flee the country at night, little realising that people only notice when you don't want them to notice. Suddenly everyone was eyeing me up, dressing me down, working me out. So I had a bad feeling when I walked up to the check-in desk at the airport. Particularly as I had developed a rather painful erection.

To my utter dismay the check-in clerk informed my passport was invalid, in that it ran out a month hence. He would not be budged from his idiotic standpoint, even when I licked his earhole. As a result I was refused passage on to the airplane. I thus retired disconsolately to my luxury cardboard box to contemplate my next move.

Bright the next morning I turned up at the passport office. Again I had a turgid sensation in my undergarments. The reason soon became clear as the official informed me that my photographs were insufficiently clear, given the stainage thereon, and my identity documents were falling apart. I informed him that the stainage was actually upon my face, and therefore could not be removed easily. He refused to accept this explanation.

I was thus forced to insert my application form, complete with pictures, old passport and £114 in cash, into his rear passage. My boot was then deployed smartly on his backside. Almost immediately a brand new passport issued from his mouth. I grabbed it and kissed it with glee, paying particular attention to the Royal Crest.

No sooner had I got on the bus to the airport when I saw this one-eyed midget shouting the word 'Now.' I said: 'For what reason?' and he said: 'How?' And I said: 'What does this mean?' and he screamed back: 'You're a cow ... give me some milk or else go home.' And I knew something was happening here, but rather than investigate further I ran into the terminal to claim my aisle seat and complementary sick bag.

My groinbell tolled loudly as soon as I presented my documents to the staff on duty. I was immediately interrogated as to the purpose of my visit. It appeared that possessing brand new travel documents are indicative of terrorist urges. And it was indeed true that I had a strange compulsion to detonate an explosive of some sort in my trousers as I regarded the ape-like security guard don rubber gloves with aplomb. Not only was my baggage thoroughly raped but my person was also patted down with excessive vigour. I was only fortunate that he did not detect the tumescent growth between my legs.

I thus finally escaped from Britain bowed, broken and humiliated. Truly I was the hobnob biscuit upon which Kafka, Freud and Pavlov had profusely ejaculated.

One fine summer I decided to abandon my restless wanderings around this detritus-ridden metropolis and bum a ride on various modes of transport headed for the continent. Forty-eight hours later I was tossed at the side of a layby in Southern Spain like a worn-out sex doll. Summoning my last reserves of energy, I limped into a small conurbation near Valencia. I forget its name now, but I have not forgotten the Bacchanalian scenes that greeted my optical nerves as I arrived. It appeared that there was to be a festival that day, and hordes of people were crowding into the centre of the town. I followed, convinced that this could only mean free food and drink and possible a woman of the loose variety. Imagine my delight when I discovered countless dreg-laden plastic cups littering the streets.

I was just savouring my 100th swig of wash-back when I heard a loud roar erupt. Heads swivelled, eyes lit up and no doubt organs were aroused. It appeared that a large truck was approaching, containing a mound of red vegetable matter. Several human beings of both sexes appeared to be distributing said foodstuff liberally without requesting payment. It was only when the vehicle drove past that I realised the items being dished out were tomatoes. I gleefully gathered up as many as my oversize hands allowed. Yet such was my confusion at receiving this unexpected windfall that I spent countless seconds musing on the true nature of the tomato - fruit or vegetable?

Erring on the side of fruit, I decided that I should gobble up my loot greedily before it was snatched away by one of the hundreds of marauding omnivores among the crowd.

This was of course a fatal mistake. No sooner had the last tomato slithered down my gullet than I realised nobody else was eating. Instead they were flinging their cargo at each other zealously, with no thought for the food wastage involved. It appeared that this was the true nature of the festival. I immediately determined to join in with gusto.

Alas, just as I wound back my awesome throwing arm - developed through years of onanism and glass tilting - when I experienced the unpleasant sensation of a missile slamming directly into my eyeball. I can assure you it felt more like a depleted uranium shell than a tomato. Mortally wounded, I slumped down to the street, which was by now a foot deep in crushed organic matter.

Unable to see, I was forced to crawl through the maze of legs and the sea of red mush back the way I had come. Ah, if only Moses were here, I thought. Half an hour later, as if a walking Bloody Mary, I finally surged into daylight and dry land. As I staggered away, vowing never to eat another tomato again, I realised I resembled something like the lone survivor of a US high school massacre.

Sadly I was quite unable to find any TV camera crews to give a first-hand account of my horrific ordeal.

The locks were long and cumbersome when I meekly shuffled into the barbershop. It was time for the yearly cut. This particular establishment had caught my eye by virtue of offering hair-dressing for only £5. My hair certainly needs dressing, I thought, as my subconscious added an unnecessary 'So do you'. However I had no time for such childishness and quickly subdued my inner voice with a swift punch to the chops.

Ensconced in the chair I awaited the game of chance that is 'Barber roulette'. On this occasion I was alloted a lady of Eastern European extraction with rather too many years under her belt. 'Too many pies you mean,' added my subconscious. I was forced to poke it in the eye vigorously with my right forefinger until it begged for mercy.

By this time I was attracting quite a fair few complimentary looks from the surrounding staff and patrons, but I did not let my head swell one-sixteenth of an inch. Instead I turned my attention to the immigrant worker admiring my reflection in the mirror.

'What you like?' she asked, her accent strangely reminiscent of The Count on Sesame Street. I replied in my usual manner, as befits a man accustomed to having the same haircut for his entire life (barring one unfortunate incident with a salad bowl).

'Just a trim with a four on the back,' I said. She looked at me as if I had just tweaked her nipple. I hoped this was not my subconscious at work. 'What?' she asked.

I repeated my request, a little more forcefully this time. She remained ignorant of my desires. Thus I was forced to pick up the electric razor and demonstrate, enunciating 'Number Four' very deliberately while holding up four grubby fingers. The lady recoiled in horror, raising her scissors in self defence. Perhaps I had just insulted her mother.

At that moment I realised that I would not receive a satisfactory haircut. She clearly had never encountered electrical devices before in her life. In frustration I bade her use her scissors, fearful that otherwise I might lose all my hair as well as my patience. 'TRIM!' I bellowed. 'SCISSORS!'

Half an hour later I emerged looking like a choirboy, albeit a choirboy in the process of being buggered by a member of the Catholic Church. She was clearly a conceptual artist of some kind. I paid up and left. Needless to say she did not receive my customary 10p tip.

The Beggar's Opera descended grime-ly on one sandy shore that day, Crook Finger'd Jack at point, Mrs Peachum with the heavy artillery and Mister Tramp bringing up the rear, bashing an old drum with scabby fists.

As the sea heaved into view we took out the croquet set and began to enjoy a short knockabout. Not satisfied with this, Jemmy Twitcher suggested we mount each other's backs and turn it into a gruelling game of Polo.

Fortunately for my vertebrae we were then interrupted by a passing swarm of Ladybirds. It was not a mere smattering of these red-flecked fiends, but a vast Mongol horde. No sooner had one been flicked away than ten took its place.

'Attack, attack!' screamed Matt of the Mint.

Our contingent then plunged headfirst into the fray in an attempt to drive them away. We were unprepared for what followed. Each Ladybird began to bite and nip at our exposed skin. With the flowing of blood the insects became more frenzied, chomping on limbs and faces with apparent glee. As I screamed a score or more fell into my mouth and I had little choice but to mash and crunch them before they devoured me from the inside.

'Retreat, retreat,' screamed Lucy Lockit, and we needed no further excuse. By now we were little more than walking Ladybird colonies. Movement was slow, but with each step away from the cloud more and more of our shell-winged tormentors detached and returned to their brethren.

My wailing band finally emerged bloody and broken, each of us shocked by the ferocity displayed by what we had naively believed to be friendly creatures of the garden.

At last I caught enough breath to speak: 'I say, they must have mistaken us for some sort of aphid.'

I talked to the flowers, they wilted and died, I talked to the butterflies. They shivered and curled up and fell to the ground, I looked to the heavens and cried: 'Lord, is this Death from within me? A cancer growing inside?' The sky turned black, the cold wind sighed. 'It comes from your heart,' came the booming reply, 'Now fuck off, your breath stinks.'

One of my most attractive habits is to stagger along the road, bottle of oxygenated hydrocarbons in hand, surveying the sidewalk for inadequately smoked cigarettes. Such is the wasteful nature of mankind that one can easily accrue a bagful before lunchtime, ranging from the barely-dragged reefer discarded at the bus stop to the ground-out cremations of the profesional fumigant.

I may then spend a pleasant afternoon either completing the smoking process or cannibalising the remains for the creation of my own distinctive brand of fags, washed down with a swig of de-icing fluid.

Never let it be said that Mister Tramp does not recycle. Read my packaging carefully. I am an altogether Green Free-Range Fair-Trade Organic Fat-Free Tramp and no mistake.
Caution: Unsuitable for Vegetarians. May contain nuts.

One of the benefits of roaming the city streets is the lack of babies lying about the place. I have enough trouble traipsing through the detritus of humanity as it is without overgrown foetuses clinging to my ankles. Invariably, when these goblins do emerge grimacing into the sunlight they are surrounded by an oestrogenic gurgle of illiteracy. The babbling crowd increases, sucking in all-comers like an old Coney Island freak show until each visitor has paid their two-cents worth of 'Ohhh isn't he adorable!'

It seems incumbent on me to point out that in no way are babies aesthetically pleasing. They are podgy bundles of lopsided, under-developed, ill-fitting limbs. They are adorable to the masses only because they are helpless, utterly dependent and incapable of expressing their simplest desires by means of language. They weep more pathetically than any Hollywood starlet could manage in the arms of Cary Grant. Their only obvious output apart from noise is a tidal wave of filth that reminds me chiefly of the Thames under Battersea Bridge, replete with supermarket trolleys, rotting corpses and discarded boots. I could almost admire them for this last quality, if it were not for the fact they have absolutely no idea what they are doing.

And so it was that an acquaintance of mine approached me with news that his loins had finally sired offspring. He immediately began reaching for his mobile phone, and asked if I wished to see a photograph of the little fiend.

'Nahh,' I replied, recoiling in disgust. It took great effort on my part not to add: 'I'd rather see a picture of your last shit.'

Two hundred tramps riding supermarket trolleys down the High Street flinging garbage at the respectables, howling at the scrapers, downing cocktails of Chanel No 5 and White Spirit as they pass a giant advertising board dominated by the words 'Chi non fotte e fottuto!' and singing their favourite anthem:

Alone on the clouds all blue,
lying on an eiderdown,
Yippee you can't see me, but I can you.

Lazing in the foggy dew,
sitting on a unicorn.
No fear, you can't hear me but I can you.

Watching buttercups come to light,
Sleeping on a dandelion.
Too much I won't touch you but then I might.

Streaming through the starlit skies,
travelling by telephone.
Hey ho, here we go, ever so high....

[(c) Syd Barrett]

Now, you sees, moustaches don't grow on trees, the old man said, as I polished his head with the pith of a Valencia Orange. If you come across a specimen, detach it immediately, before it flies away. He flapped his hands like a bird and laughed. You missed a spot, he added, and with a gouty finger indicated the bony protusion on his Crown. I applied the garlic paste with vigour.

He took me to the Square, a pair of binoculars dangling from his truss. Seconds later we spotted our prey, an Austrian gentleman with curlicued whiskers, brown loafers and epaulettes of dandruff.

We cat-crawled quietly behind him, striped stockings protecting both arms to the elbow. The Austrian was preoccupied talking to a girl in soiled white shoes. Gently, said the old man in my ear, gently. I reached out my quaking hand, my fingers sweating minty Vaseline. NOW, shouted the old man a moment too soon, and as I leapt the Austrian turned in alarm, my fingers clawing at his mottled face.

I fell to the gutter heavily. In my right hand was the Austrian's nose. It contained a modicum of hair but no moustache. With that my prey turned and ran, his whiskers flapping with great elan, phut-phuttering noisily until finally he took off and drew up his undercarriage. I attempted to pursue as he hovered above the ground in a sitting position but with a great Whoop he soared 100ft in the air and disappeared over the Palace wall.

We ran bow-legged back to camp, the snout still clutched in my right hand. Damn damn damn, said the old man. He handed me his catheter and in return took the Austrian's nose. But at least we have this, he added. He put it to his mouth and blew forcefully through both nostrils. I heard nothing. The old man licked his lips and tried again. Nothing. He cocked his ear and said, Listen, listen. And then the ground began to shake.

It must be admitted that little about its design is anatomically correct. Its performance was also slightly disappointing. However, it is only a prototype. These things take time.