Due to a combination of indolence, curiosity and extravagance, I embarked on a controversial episode of beard-growth after Christmas. Five days on and the results are somewhat rudimentary and frankly ridiculous. But I shall not blame my chin for this scraggy patch of stillborn watercress, this fetid barbastelle beneath my nose, a disinterested melee of ginger, brown and silvery-grey, as I think it is the consequence of general lack of enthusiasm.

The verb 'to beard' supposedly means to brave or confront. But hirsute chins, along with moustaches, have been denuded of their grandeur and stripped of heroic aspect by the fools of our age. To some the iconic beard would belong to God, or to give him his proper name Leonardo Da Vinci, but he has been sadly absent for quite some time now and the likes of Osama Bin Laden, David Bellamy, Karl Marx have seen fit to further desecrate this once-great monolith to human civilisation.

Likewise, the once ubiquitous moustache, that second brain of Nietzsche, adopted from our Indian cousins and wielded proudly as the emblem of the British Empire, has been ripped bloodily from our lips and ground into the dust by a succession of idiotic, old-style-celebrity pedagogues: Stalin, Hitler, Freddie Mercury and of course Tom Selleck. Who shall reclaim our facial hair for a new era? Who shall lead us out of this Dark Age? Sadly, I must confess that Mister Tramp lacks both the inclination and the beard.

Every tramp desires at some lonesome equinox to be adopted by a devastatingly beautiful Jewish Princess and taken away to her luxurious abode to be soaped and scrubbed and prettified. Bedecked in a tailored dinner jacket he would then consume heavenly morsels from her lavish dinner table, occasionally having to peer around the fanciful candelabra at his host to swap a few eloquent bon mots.

It was not to be so for Mister Tramp. Instead I encountered mine while slaving as a dishwasher in a commune on the far reaches of the Mediterranean sea. She was not a traditional princess, having cropped hair in the manner fashionable some decades ago. However my pique must have been aroused by the nickname she went by among my fellow labourers. In Spanish it was 'Golden Pussy', although I have a feeling this was a toned down translation. I am not sure where I first saw her although no doubt it was while I was assassinating cockroaches in the dining room. For this task I discovered that repeated bashes with a heavy broom was the most suitable method. I was staring into the satanic face of one such insect as its last shivers wracked its spiny legs when I glimpsed up and saw her gaily walking through the hall. I determined to track her down.

And so it was one night that I somehow learnt she frequently occupied a community hall for the purposes of operatic exhalation. I dwelt outside one evening, and there then emerged a deathly wail, so beautiful, so melancholic and full of anguish that I knew it was her. I came up with a fiendish plan to wait outside, using a local dog as an excuse. Endless fun could be had throwing it sticks to be retrieved and then wrestling said stick away from the slavering hound on the grass.

At some point I saw her walking down the path. I proffered a conversational gambit based on the animal and proceeded to try and engage her in further discussion. It did not go well initially, as I was transfixed by her groin region. Not because it was golden, but because she was wearing jeans that displayed the crotch buttons openly, without a concealing modesty flap. Suffice to say I charmed her with my drawing ability and boasts of genius, despite my rather slovenly appearance. It ended with a fond farewell and so I retired to bed, satisfied that battle had been joined.

Of course it ended promptly as the next morning she appeared outside my workplace with a small pet, as if waiting for me to renew our acquaintance. Thinking I would let her stew in fond admiration of my cucumber chopping technique, I waited some 20 minutes before strolling outside to the bench where she had perched. Predictably she had vanished. From that moment on she affected to ignore me at every opportunity. Ah, I thought, the princess sleeps. No longer was I the pea beneath her mattress.

I had the misfortune recently to be accosted by a rather unpleasant girl, whose name I care not to remember, and whisked off on a rather depressing date. Although in reality it was more like an audience. I sat there, wondering whether I should quaff my expensive lager in one and order three more for good measure, as she prattled on endlessly about her ex boyfriend with the nice car, her new shoes, her bag and her day at work when I suddenly realised she had asked me a question. Yes, I replied, of course. She seemed satisfied with my perfunctory reply and commenced on what she obviously perceived to be a hilarious anecdote. At this point, two beers to the good, I began fantasising about debauching and defiling her little pert body in the most unspeakable way. She did after all have the appearance of a footballer's girlfriend, what with her petite bottom, slit skirt, large belt and blonde highlights framing a dull but sexually arousing face. I was hypothesising about her reaction to my seminal fluid splashing over her startled countenance when she announced we should go to another bar because this one just didn't have the right atmosphere. Five minutes later I found myself standing outside a conventional pub as she chugged her way through two cigarettes. I fancied to myself that she would continue smoking even as I was spanking her bottom firmly from behind while simultaneously 'invading her privacy'. At this point she suggested that I wasn't showing much interest in her at all. Of course I demurred, insisting that she was very attractive and should consider having another drink. Half an hour later, and by now on to my fifth consecutive mental depravity without a break, she announced we would head towards her home and have a drink at the local pub. We so commenced our walk to the train, when I noticed she was not looking ahead of her in the conventional manner but instead gazing at the wall to our right and protruding, if not wiggling, her posterior. It took me a few moments to realise she was admiring her reflection, and in addition encouraging me to admire her reflection as well. At this I laughed heartily, but she was not disabused of her ridiculous self-aggrandisement and continued all the way to the tube. I had a mind to walk away at that moment, but as usual my second brain countered that something pleasurable might be obtained from this evening if I brought my considerable charms to bear. And so we progressed to the next hostelry, at which events took a rather bizarre turn. In the space of a single minute she not only suggested that I wouldn't be able to go back to her house because her brothers and father would assault my person, but also that I should walk her home and take a look at her bedroom. This contradictory lady then appeared to subject me to some kind of aptitude test, interrogating me on whether I wanted to get married and have children, and if so what they would be named. I struggled on blindly, thinking that this was what this ludicrous creature took for foreplay, only to be confronted with the suggestion that I take her to Barbados. Oh yes, Barbados, of course, I said. We shall go in a few weeks. I admit I had hoped this would allow me entrance to her less-than-sacred chalice but, alas, she was rather taken aback. She then announced that I should walk her home. Thinking I could yet salvage some testicular stimulation from the situation I subjected her to a textbook passionate kiss adjacent to some deserted parkland. We continued to trade tongues and fluids for some time, but as it was a cold night and she did not seem the type to fornicate on a treestump behind a bush, I let her loose. No doubt overcome with emotion and struggling to contain her desire, she bid me goodnight and entered her family abode, never to be seen or heard from again.

Sport is for heroes, that's what I'm told, big menmountains with girders for fingers and Golden Gate Bridges for arms, legs like upturned Eiffel Towers but quick and nimble with it, scorpions' tails for throwing arms and minds dedicated to glory in the name of common man, equality and freedom. And when each of us sets foot upon a football field or an athletic track, we should strive to emulate these heroes even if their achievements make us humble, because through their efforts we are collectively striving in the name of progress, to improve our batting averages and our goal ratios, our golfing handicaps and our tiddly wink high scores....

And so it was that I ventured on to a tennis court, equipped only with a flimsy carbon frame criss-crossed with plastic, knowing that my only task was to hit that rubber furry ball in the right direction using adroit hand to eye coordination. Naturally I felt confident of my ability. I knew that there was nothing so difficult about sending that projectile over the net. After all, it was a doubles match, and our opponents were mere striplings more used to chasing balls like dogs than tennis players. And so I stood at my mark, keenly anticipating the rather feeble underhand serve from my nemesis across the net.

Such was my concentration that, as the ball began its parabolic motion, time itself slowed down, allowing me to nimbly stride into position, forehand poised like a venomous snake, and slam this insolent ball back whence it came.

Alas, I had horribly misjudged almost every aspect of the projectile's flight and the connection, when finally it arrived (the exact moment being unknown as I had my eyes rather tightly shut at that point) propelled the ball at an all-too-hideous 90 degree angle and smacked my doubles partner square in the nose. I was still admiring the pinpoint accuracy of my drive when a red liquid appeared to ooze from his nose and he ran blubbering to the side of the court. Of course, the game was over, but as the opposition offered arms and words of comfort, I remained at the net, wondering if this feeling was not dissimilar to that experienced by Bjorn Borg on achieving his fifth consecutive Wimbledon Championship.

After a heavily indulgent night to mark the oncoming of the foul Noel celebrations, I was stumbling along the streets by an unfamiliar route when I felt the urgent desire to empty my bladder of its overfermented contents. I cast around for a suitable harbour for my urinary flotsam, and an underground carpark caught my eye by reason of its seclusion and lack of passing trade. I proceeded inside and was just about to select a spot when I noticed a shiny Harley-Davidson bike parked up. I have always had a slight distaste for hairy bikers, so in one Bacchanalian flight of fancy I decided to stagger over and have a closer look. Hmm a petrol cap, look how easy it comes off, I thought, and I wonder if this fine machine combusts properly on tramp effluvium? With that I unbuttoned my trousers and let loose a stream of clear kidney-filtrated liquid into the fuel tank. I had barely completed my task when a loud triple shout of 'Oi, you' reverberated around the building. It appeared I had been caught red handed. Three burly bikers, replete with beards, ill fitting jackets and greasy faces, apprehended me from all sides. At this moment I feared for the arrangement of my facial features. 'Were you pissing in the petrol tank? We saw you on the security camera,' they raged, sending me all-a-quiver. 'No Mister Biker, I certainly did not,' I replied, pretending to be horribly upset. 'Yes, you did,' they insisted. This went on for some time, before they began to take pity on my altogether unappetising appearance and convincing expression of sweet innocence. 'Ok,' they relented, 'but give us back the petrol cap.' This startled me, for I had not realised that it was still in my left hand. In shock I dropped it to the concrete floor. 'Pick it up,' they commanded, once again taking up menacing postures. At once I went on all fours and scrabbled after the metal cap as it rolled away. I seem to remember at one point one of the hirsute beasts propelled my backside forward with his boot. Then, triumphantly, I raised to my feet with the gleaming holy grail betwixt my turgid digits, and proffered it forward to the satanic triumvirate a little like Oliver Twist with his wooden feeding bowl. My gift was accepted and I was allowed to flee safely in disgrace, my flies gaping in the wind.

Midnight feasts have an innate attraction to all small children, and even more so to children who are served only a fetid piece of fish pie for dinner. It was in this hungry frame of mind that I determined I would raid the fridge under the cover of darkness. Except on this occasion I fancied gorging myself on cheese and Maltesers by candlelight. Knowing that the matches were kept on top of a seemingly inaccessible side cupboard, far above the sweaty, grasping fingers of a seven year old boy, I craftily deployed a chair as a makeshift stepladder to snatch my prize. I then gathered a candle from the garage and, clutching my hoard against my chickenwing chest, ascended the stairs to my bedroom. However as I reached the correct floor I clumsily dropped the matches causing an almighty racket of dry twig against cardboard. Quickly I dashed behind my door and held my breath. Nothing stirred. Unbeknownst to me, my parents - those cunning birds of prey - were merely waiting for me to emerge to return to collect the matches. I was trapped. Thinking that they would admire my honesty, I claimed to have no knowledge of the matches lying there on the carpet. Sadly the evidence was all too clear in the candles stood neatly on my chest of drawers. I have only a dim memory of what interrogation followed, but the fact is I was soon ordered to lie face down on my bed with my pajamas around my ankles. At this point father emerged with what can only be described as a leather belt and proceeded to whip my tender buttocks. 'You'll thank me one day,' he shouted, the sweat dripping down his face as my backside began to light up the room with its neon red glow. 'I'm thanking you now!' I screamed joyously, simultaneously ejecting a stream of hot urine into my bedclothes.

My wanderings around this fair conurbation are sometimes, but not frequently, accompanied by a female hominid. On the occasion in question I had agreed to meet her for what is known as a blind date, an event usually masterminded by the most manipulative of people for their own voyeuristic ends. I had been shown a picture and was indeed impressed by her smooth long latino legs and apparently proportional physiognomy. However, one should never judge a human being by their photograph. Such was the disparity that I failed to recognise her approach and had to be jolted out of my ignorance by means of a phone call. 'Is that you?' she said. 'Yes. Where are you?' I replied. I looked about, but could only see a woman with a somewhat older and haggard appearance. On seeing my handsome visage she broke out into a wide smile and revealed one of the largest set of mandibles seen outside the equine community. I struggled hard to maintain a polite disposition but greeted her and enquired as to her wellbeing. We then commenced walking down a cobbled street towards the delights of the local market and its nearby hostelries. After two seconds or thereabouts I told myself that I did not find this lady attractive in any way, even if she had satisfactory legs and hindquarters. And so continued my inner argument: Is she nice enough to abominate sexually, if nothing else? If not, should I see what I think after a few pints of alcoholic beverage? Should I just have one pint of alcoholic beverage and, if nothing stirs or her personality does not compensate for her appearance, then make my excuses and leave? Or should I just divert her for a coffee and then leave? Or should I just lose her in the coffee shop by pretending to go to the lavatory? I was just considering the question of how I could get out of this date in an orderly fashion, while simultaneously feigning interest in the narration of her day so far, when out of nowhere a large, rickety cage-like contraption approached in our direction at speed. I had merely enough time to shout 'Watch out!' when this vehicle, by now identified as some kind of rubbish cart, slammed straight into the lady and swept her off her feet. My brain was still considering the possibility of putting out a hand in some kind of gesture of assistance when the said lady was hurled backwards rather roughly towards the ground by transferred velocity. Her head clearly and rather canorously banged on the cobbles. A shriek was emitted, but as I stood there, perhaps admiring this unexpected development and wondering how I escaped this sinister attack by a reckless filthwagon, she struggled up to her feet apparently unharmed. At this point I may have let out a dry chuckle of amusement. After all, these bizarre events which enliven our shared experiences should be appreciated in my opinion. The man pushing the rubbish cart, who by all accounts was not looking where he was directing this savage beast of steely danger, offered his fulsome apologies, which I accepted by proxy, and we again commenced on our way. The drama was not yet over, however, as when she felt the back her head her fingers came away stained with luminous red blood. Yet again failing disastrously to offer any sympathy of any kind, I stood by as she embarked on an hysterical stampede towards the nearest bar to staunch the flow. Unsure of what to do, I waited outside this establishment as it would have been ungentlemanly in the extreme to pelt at full speed away from the scene. She emerged some minutes later to announce that there was a hole in her head. I pondered whether I should perhaps ask if it was a genuine hole in her skull or maybe just a split in her scalp, and whether I should ask to see it for myself. She allowed me no time for such investigation and promptly announced she would seek further treatment. 'Yes, that is probably best,' I concurred, and gallantly offered to walk with her to a taxi. We reached a suitable cab in short order and I ensured she was safely in the back before raising the question of whether I should accompany her to the hospital as well. To my all-too-apparent relief she refused, in addition to turning down my peremptory offer of a monetary contribution towards her fare. As the car sped away, I wondered whether I should perhaps send a textual message by mobile phone to wish her well and apologise for my unwitting role in her downfall. But as ever, these thoughts were merely for form's sake. Instead I made my merry way home, reflecting on my lucky escape in more ways than one. Since that day I have made a point of relaying this anecdote to potential paramours, as if to issue a general warning: 'Thou shallst not trifle with Mister Tramp.'

As my age progressed towards seven or eight, my mind turned to my future occupation. Nothing appealed to my idle imagination. Until one day I hit upon the answer. I would become a tramp. But not just any tramp. A tramp of means. And so I counted all the money in my assorted piggy banks and gathered all the other necessary information about my life and scribbled it down in a note. I placed my letter in an envelope and marked the envelope 'PRIVATE TOP SECRET DO NOT OPEN UNTIL 31ST JULY.' It seems I did not fill in the year. No doubt because if I have a secret note then I want to open it as soon as possible. I doubt I even lasted until the due date.

When I excitedly ripped it open I was astonished to read: 'My name is... We have 10 people in our family. On Mondays, Tuesdays and Fridays we get some sweets. I have got £22 pounds because I have got two banks. My brother has got one bank. When I grow up I am going to travel around England and take £54,000 with me and be a tramp.'

I see a lot of muggings in this fair city of ours, but until last night I had never fallen victim to one. One should never walk unprepared along a quiet, dark road, especially if two figures in hoods are approaching on the same side of the road. Yet before I had made a firm decision to take evasive action, there they were, two young men of non-white appearance blocking my way threateningly, an undernourished finger jabbed in my solar plexus. I considered asking from which region they originated, but they had no truck with naive questions like that. In retrospect there was something of the Bosphorus about them, but before I could put it to them the leader of the pair began patting down my person quite menacingly. Before I could utter a vague 'What ho, are you interested in anything in particular?' they had commenced what can only be termed as a strip search. In fact, one of them insisted on inserting his grubby hand down my pocket, which in reality held only my mobile phone but as far as I was concerned represented a trouser-based orifice. Yes, there he was grappling around my groin area like a demon possessed. Until now I had not realised how crime was such a homosexual activity. Of course, I fought him tooth and nail, even though my nails are so bitten down to the bone that I doubt either of them felt anything remotely like pain. And I had little chance to use my teeth as I was too preoccupied trying to prevent him divesting my trousers of what worth they contained. I do believe I uttered a feeble 'Help' or two but my cries were useless in such an upper class area. I should perhaps have shouted that someone was uprooting the bougainvillea in the neighbouring garden, as that is what truly motivates that kind of person. As it was I had a hard enough time fighting off their attempts to remove the folded newspaper in my jacket pocket. As the second mugger successfully removed it, only to examine it in disgust and dash it against the pavement, I barely had chance to say 'But I haven't yet read the review of the latest National Theatre production!' before he returned with the threat: 'I've got a knife.' Thinking the best policy was to show interest in his endeavours, I believe I replied: 'Good man, take it out so I can have a close look at it.' He refused this entreaty and was about to rejoin the fray when his compatriot finally wrested my phone from my pocket. They seemed satisfied with this meagre haul and promptly began running away. I chased after them for a few paces, shouting: 'I say, you didn't even take my money, what kind of muggers are you?' It was useless. They were far fleeter than I and disappeared down the road. Suffice it to say I had my own revenge five minutes later when I informed the phone company of my tragedy and removed the thieves' right to use my phone to call up their retarded uncles in Istanbul. Initially I was enraged at my plight and considered stalking the neighbourhood with rather large kitchen knives in both hands, but gradually I attained tranquility and realised that my missing phone had been the bane of my life. Truly it was one of the worst pieces of technology that I have had the misfortune to become intimate with. I trust the muggers will be as annoyed as I was with its ridiculous sliding action and antiquated display. And so I raise a toast, to the muggers! May you fail at life as you failed at robbery!

A most confusing business, pubescence. Maturity, sexual awakening... call it what you will. But when I was a young boy of six or seven I was quite clearly instructed that girls were smelly, stupid and unworthy of acquaintance. If one was caught talking to a girl, or looking at one or calling said girl anything but 'her' in a disdainful fashion, then one was immediately outcast as a nancy boy or some kind of homosexual gay character. So powerfully was this drummed into me that when I happened to mumble a few words to one of these strange creatures, my younger brother and his friends saw fit to lambast me in such insulting language that I was forced to run away and cry. What I mostly remember is not the girl or my brother and his idiotic companion, but the dinner lady / playground supervisor looking at me pityingly, with such concern. From that day forth I vowed to have no more truck with girls and their daisy chains and fake marriages.

Yet three years later, in the last year before the dreaded move up to Big School, there was an event akin to a revolution. Now girls were to be charmed, stared at, nay stalked around the playground. One was to join in thrilling games of spin the bottle or kiss chase. Once kissing was achieved, a boy should ask one to be his girlfriend, buy her a present and walk around hand in hand. Despite being utterly dismissive of this hypocritical behaviour, having dedicated myself to disgust with the opposite sex, I did indulge in a game of spin the bottle. I do not remember the bottle, or who spun it, or even if it really did come to rest pointing in my direction rather than being cruelly manipulated by the bottle spinner. No, what I vividly remember is the beastly girl I was paired with. She had more mouth than the 4-1 favourite at Doncaster and a face already starting to swell with pus. This kissing game was not a fashion I was prepared to follow. I was unprepared both physically and emotionally. I ran away in great haste, my as-yet-undeveloped tail between my legs.

I knew then it was to be a long road...

Beastly things, cigarettes. The first one is a revelation, the last is like sucking the fetid air out of a corpse. I have often thought that one should devise a smoking book, linking the right foods to smoke with and the right cigarettes to smoke with the food. Hence a steak tartare should be accompanied by a hand-rolled Drum, or a kedgeree with a plain old Marlboro Light. Tis not an exact science, but I think people should experiment and compile their favourites. All I know is such a list does not exist. I would dearly love to know which food befits a Hamlet cigar. Or perhaps it befits its theme tune, namely Air... while examining a G-string.

In any case my preferred place for a cigarette is the toilet. Such is the association that even the thought of nicotine brings with it the desire to shit my life away. And so I invariably smoke in a seated position with my buttocks exposed.

They say childhood experiences are the key to a man's personality, so I hereby reveal a few short anecdotes.

At the age of four or five, as my brain began the process of logging significant events in my long term memory, I had a little post truck. It was made of plastic and had a big yellow steering wheel and little yellow wheels. It was driven by means of straddling it with my little legs and using my feet to propel myself forwards, negotiating turns by means of the steering wheel. My younger brother had a rather more sleek blue car, of which I was slightly jealous. My envy increased further when my father slapped a tax disc on this blue car, thereby registering it with the DVLA. My post truck remained unregistered.

In pre-school I was good at mathematics, but there was one thing that distracted me from my endeavours. There was a child there, a boy my age, who had the most wonderful buckle I had seen in all my years. It was made of plastic, but still there was something fascinating about it. It had a unique clasp design that I wanted to reach out and fiddle with. On no account think I am confessing desires for the same sex. After all I was a mere five years old. It was the beauty of the belt that attracted me. I have never seen a belt like it since, despite scouring my nearest shopping centre in repeated half hour bursts every weekend.

I would like to say I have outgrown such petty jealousies, but a short walk down the high street often sends me into apoplexy, particularly if I see an attractive lady walking down the street with an unsuitable gentleman. Even more so if they refuse to meet my penetrating gaze.

I received a letter from a ladyfriend this morning. In common with the female sex in general her handwriting was extraordinarily neat. However I was not interested in the contents of the envelope. My curiousity was instead aroused by the possibility my ladyfriend had cause to use her tongue to seal the envelope. Given that I have never met this enchantress, let alone had any direct oral communication with her, I must acknowledge my curiosity was aroused. It cast me back more than a dozen years, to the flowering of my youth so to speak, when I happened upon a stack of loveletters in the wardrobe of one of the most beautiful ladies of the village. The fact that I was in her home uninvited and had not received permission to slip the bundle of correspondence into my duffel coat is strictly irrelevant, but my excitement was impressively evident. Once back at my poorly furnished bedroom, I had occasion to examine the letters in detail. In short this beautiful lady, who appeared so aloof pushing her trolley around the supermarket on a Sunday afternoon, and even more so when she retired to bed alone at nine o'clock every evening, was revealed to be a passionate and indiscriminate lover. I counted twelve different signatures on those letters, and at least four were of the female variety. It was at this point I felt compelled to draw my fevered tongue along the edges of these envelopes, imagining that I was tasting the essence of the sender, whether she had been eating excessive amounts of onions, or smoked, or wore fragrant lipstick. Of course, the envelope may have been licked by a lowly butler or servant or errand boy, but the possibility of other bodily substances being employed as an adhesive was also in my thoughts. Thus today I sat on my little convenience at a half past ten and fervidly licked that letter from my ladyfriend, as if I could imbibe her soul itself. In so doing, I ensured that she was bound to me for evermore...

I was born on a Sunday, I'm told, and so had more reason than most to pray upon my entry into the world. However it soon became apparent that putting one's palms together was not the best way to go about life. Indeed, I quickly discovered that separating the hands was conducive to a whole host of activities, such as eating, whittling wood, reading a book and, dare I say, masturbation, although the latter took many years to perfect. Once this breakthrough was achieved, the possibilities seemed to yawn before me like an overfed cat. My potential increased still further when I realised that by placing one foot in front of the other the perception of motion could be obtained. Of course I cannot remember this event, but most likely it was received ecstatically in our household. Instead my first memory is of posing for a photograph on a little green in the centre of the small village we helped to populate. As father readied the camera and urged me to utter some banality or other, I crouched down on my haunches and felt the overwhelming urge to soil myself. Sure enough I felt the warm glow of urination spread throughout my underclothes. Flash went the camera and the deed was done. No doubt somewhere this picture still exists, but it matters not. My life as Mister Tramp was underway...