Writer's Cock

Don't piss in your dirty little panties you filthy whores, I've been on a shitty fucking holiday and will get back to documenting my sordidly dull life presently.

In the meantime, here's a picutre of what the M1 looks like at 120 mph.

And one of what happens when Peter is left unattended for a few minutes.

And one of a really fucking fat bitch.

It's a bit like Pictionary, ins't it?

Peter O'Phile's Tramp O'Files (God, I'm So Sorry For The Title)

As with almost everything else in this universe, the homeless and Peter O'Phile do not mix well. Many an unwitting societal parasite has made the mistake of asking Peter for money and instead paid out a little of whatever self respect they had to give. Nothing they can eat, either way.

Peter O'Phile And The Chip Shop Beggar:
A brief stop for necessary fuel during a mammoth drinking session ended badly for one street-living oxygen waste as myself, SB and JL stood eating some chips.

ST: "'Scuse me lads but I've been trying to get a bag of chips all night..."
PO'P: (Interrupting) "Well thank fuck you found us. They're in there." (Points into chip shop)
ST: "..."

The hapless street-wanderer stood silently as first SB then JL turned away from him in fits of laughter. I continued to stare at him until he turned and walked slowly away. A sore on the festering cock that is humanity, I hoped he fell under a bus at the nearest junction.

Peter O'Phile Gets A Taste Of His Own Medicine:
One sunny afternoon I was walking through town, already intensely irritated as I needed to get passport photographs taken, an activity I had arbitrarily decided I hated. The usual "I got mugged and need 30p to get home" street artist approached and gained my attention.

ST: "Oh, thanks for stopping, you're the first person who's spoken to me today."
PO'P: "You were just talking to that pair." (Points at couple walking away).
ST: "Yeah, you and them are the only people to have stopped."
ST: "I don't know if you can help me but thanks for stopping..." (Tramp begins his heartbreaking tale of love lost, buses gone by and money needed)

At this point I tried to think of something funny and abusive to interrupt this leech with. Sadly, I experienced the familiar scenario of drawing a blank. Thirty seconds later I had still not spoken a word since the fucktard started talking at me. I decided to see how long his bullshit story could go before he ran out of begging phrases.

ST: "Help me out...Chuck a few pence my way...Send you a cheque when I get home...etc...etc"

Approximately three minutes into the speech the poor little street urchin started to tail off.

ST: "So...er...er...can you give me any money then?"
PO'P: "Oh! No." (Starts to walk away)
ST: (Somewhat irritated and shouting) "You ugly fucking cuntbag shit fucking time bastard wasting..."

In all fairness to this worthless piece of scum, it was an impressive display of constructive swearing. A good 20-30 people stopped to see who this mad smelly guy had decided to vent his spleen on. I walked away, laughing like a little girl.

SB Takes The Baton:
One nice sunny afternoon a few of us were sitting, drinking and discussing homosexual rape as usual on the terrace of a favourite Nottingham bar. We were approached by a now familiar sight - a dirty looking man holding a rolled up newspaper in a parody of a microphone. He then proceeded to reel out around five minutes of awful stand-up to our group. Not being a fan of the sit around and beg scavenger, I am decidedly less found of those who have the audacity to bother people when they are enjoying a quiet drink. Or any kind of drink for that matter - fuck them, they should all swing by their dirty fucking necks.

However, this time it was SB who (briefly) became a hero in this situation.

ST: "Only four fingers hahahaha...Seriously though,"
SB: "Excuse me mate. What the fuck do you think you're fucking doing? Get the fuck away from this table."

The little shit's body language changed instantly from confident stand-up comedian guy to whining, beaten dog guy. I laughed like a drunken drain as he dragged his stinking carcass away. SB soon spoiled this great work but I'm not going to recount that bit as it distresses me.

Mr Blues Ain't So Happy:
A famous Nottingham figure is the "Blues Man" who busks around the city centre on Saturday nights - with an electric guitar, portable amplifier and microphone, he cuts a professional figure. He also has clearly not hit the cardboard ceiling, making me like him rather more than most buskers. Being rather a fan of the blues myself and in a somewhat cheery mood one night, I approached the man with a shiny pound coin.

PO'P: "Hey, do you know any John Lee Hooker tunes?"
BM: (In a thick (possibly) Jamaican accent and without stopping his song) "No - fuck off mon."

Priceless.