I once had a sidekick whose name was not dissimilar to Prick. His party trick, once a suitable thimble of methylated spirits had been consumed, was to expose himself with a wild leer, a 'Hoo hooo' and a leprechaun's jig. As for the item that was revealed, it was rather insubstantial but still unmistakeably gonadic.

This facility of his was once used to shock the bride's grandmother at his cousin's wedding. But its most damning revelation took place on the night I accompanied him to a basement watering hole not far from St Paul's cathedral. It had a smug disco and a slimy dancefloor full of suitlings jiving to the jismic sounds of Billy Ocean.

I was just ordering another round of lighter fluid when I heard a disturbance behind me. No sooner had I revolved to admire this development than I spotted my sidekick gyrating wildly in the middle of the arena with his flies undone and a small gerbil poking out. It verily seemed to be nibbling the air, hungry for nuts or a dark hole in which to burrow.

Rather surprisingly the feeble-minded patrons of the establishment fled in stark terror as this corybantic midget whooped, swung his todger skywards and unleashed a gleaming arc of silver.

Alas the landlord was not as impressed as I and began chasing my sidekick around the circular bar at least three times. Naturally I applauded their feats of athleticism heartily.

Sadly my sidekick stumbled to the floor with his trousers tangled up in his boots and was captured. To our amazement we were then both swiftly ejaculated from the pub and barred for life.

To this day our pictures hang on the wall, a stern admonishment to anyone who might dare extricate his pinkie from his pants in a public place.

A tramp has enough problems walking down the street unhindered by slow-moving pensioners, pygmy children on steroids, crapulous monkeys with spiky hair talking birds, breasts and beavers, beat-obsessed webbed-footed dance freaks with no head for melody, ghouls in more chains than ever burdened the black man, pink-headed pig-squealers, rent-boys, Medusae caught in their own reflections, two-legged sanitary towels, and a vast progeny of Gargantua scoffing Big Mac McFlurrys, without blundering into a field of dog faeces.

Not just a little drop, a Poodle plop, but a shit worthy of Cerberus and his litter eaten, digested and re-shat by Satan himself across the entire span of the sidewalk, wall to kerb. It had already claimed scores of victims but as I was rather preoccupied with my inner diatribe I realised only when it squished up between my toes.

The resulting hop-skip-stagger resembled St Vitus' Dance in its complexity and fervour, and also for the amusement it provided for the surrounding locals, although at least I did not topple over and encumber my entire person with excrement.

As I stood there with a sole caked in brown bowelmuck, a quotation from the Marquis de Sade came to mind. Thus:

'What the devil is a woman's tongue for if not to wipe assholes? I frankly cannot think of any other use to put it to.'

After pondering that this might be of use in the cleaning of my foot, I enquired for assistance from the local populace. Keen not to appear misogynistic I extended my invitation to all regardless of race, age or gender.

Alas I could not even find a passing household animal on which to wipe away my troubles.

This is a cautionary tale of what fate may await those with too much money in their pockets.

It is not often that Mister Tramp is in possession of a crisp £20 note but on such occasions the rich thrill obtained from one invariably results in a staggering and bewildering loss of control. No, not of my bladder and sphincter, but of that part of the brain utilised in the purchase of unnecessary goods.

It was in this frame of mind that I wandered past what appeared to be a melancholy bag salesman one grim Saturday morning. In hindsight I should have been alerted by the suspiciously obvious delight and furtive trouser scratching he demonstrated on my arrival to peruse his wares.

Unwittingly I picked up a few cheap items, content to browse and chuckle at their shoddy construction, safe in the knowledge that I was effectively rich and could purchase them and still have enough left for a bucket of Diamond White. Perhaps I do need a bag, I thought, although there is little here that takes my fancy.

At this point the merchant unfurled a petrifying array of sales techniques that left me gasping fishlike on the pavement. 'You like that one sir? That is a cheap bag, I have a much better bargain!' Oh, you oily-skinned manipulator, how easily you ensnared me!

He pointed, gestured, nay all but knelt down and gazed upwards in religious ecstasy at a satchel hanging innocently on the top shelf. 'That is the bag you want, sir!'

I examined it. I asked how much it was, still naively thinking I was in control of the situation. He told me it was £25. A gasp of relief, I could not buy. But then he grandly produced his turgescent secret weapon. 'For you, £20!'

Lord, how easily I handed over all my cash. How meekly I slunk off, each step bringing growing realisation that this was no marvellous carrying case, no holy grail of baggage.

It was only later in the comfort of my abode that the full putrid, poncified purpleness of my purchase eviscerated my eyeballs. Thus:

Egads, you taunt me even now!

Having barely escaped alive after my near-mawling by the scrawny old goat, I decided to hotfoot it to the quaintly perilous city of Jerusalem, where unreal men grow real beards and little curly sideburns that hang down like Christmas decorations.

During my journey there I was told by a swarthy Palestinian taxi driver that there had been a bomb explosion. Hackles rising with excitement I increased my speed and soon reached the marketplace where it had occurred. Roadblocks and police tape were already in place and I glanced disdainfully at the crowd gathering at the scene as one does at other men in a sauna.

My curiosity sated I departed via the bus station and was crossing the car park in search of the number 52 when I was accosted by a small boy no older than eleven. Such was his tiny stature that he appeared much younger. I smiled amiably as I passed, thinking nothing of it.

Yet again my peaceful perambulations were disturbed when the lad in question approached me and shouted impertinently: 'You want fuck? Only 20 shekels.' A pause and a hopeful look similar to that demonstrated a dog desiring walkies. 'I fuck you hard.'

It was at this point I found myself making a mental calculation: 20 shekels at rougly five shekels to a pound. I had to admit that this was perhaps a bargain price.

However I have never been one for a bargain, and certainly not one for being buggered - let alone by a boy barely old enough to shine my shoes. I gracefully declined, bid him good day and continued on my travels.

I was minutely examining the contents of my navel using a large electron microscope one day when a shadow fell across my person as I sat upon a bench in an urbane construction of what may now be termed Israel. 'Hello, may I borrow your newspaper?' he asked, sitting down mere inches away. I nodded assent and continued in my task. However my peace was soon disturbed again when he began conversing about the nearby confluence of surging seawater and golden sand. Like a low-hanging branch of grapes in Hades he suggested we might purchase an illegal substance and enjoy the sunset puffing makeshift pipes admidst a host of flirtatious nubile girls.

I accepted with little thought as to his true motivation.

This soon became clear when we failed to find any of the fabled herbs of which he spoke, nor encountered a single Venusian beauty. Instead he lay down upon the sand and attempted to gain my confidence by means of philosophical discussion. However he accompanied this verbiage with a rather obvious manipulation of his groinal appendage.

My first thought was to ignore such base behaviour and treat it as some kind of anecdote I might catalogue for use at a future social event. He then uttered the phrase: 'I'm feeling really horny.'

Seeing my combined look of disgust and bemusement, he suggested that a ladyfriend of his might be interested in an interaction commonly known as a 'threesome.' I played along for my own amusement. No I have not yet had the pleasure, I said. No I have never touched a man in that way, and certainly would not when there is a naked woman already in view. And no I will not lower my face to your midriff and open my mouth.

At this the wily satyr invited me to examine his vinyl 'music collection' back at his 'luxury flat'. Knowing full well that there was only one groove he wanted me to place my needle in, I declined with venom and abruptly walked off into the aforementioned sunset, my innocence untroubled.