It only takes a little bit of sunshine for all the nutcases in London to come out to play. Oh, won’t you come out to play? It is still bleak mid-winter but we have had a couple of spring-type days, perfect weather to spend a day in the park.
Tramps and nutters awaken in their stinking sleeping bags or abominable abodes, see the sun shinning and think, “Wow, I feel the joys of the world today. I feel resplendent in my dirty, smelly glory. I shall put on my best rags, purchase a two litre bottle of cheap cider and spend the day in the park, chatting with colleagues and being generally convivial.”
They then transmit this thought over the cosmic psychic mind wave communications network to all the other London scumbags. Gathering in London’s open spaces they spend their day laughing and imbibing, chatting and relaxing. “Ahh, the outside life, what fun old chap.”
By the time I leave work at 5.30, after a very stressful day, they are now all extremely drunk. Their crazy drunken gene kicks in and they stand between my home and me. Oh look, there’s one lying on the floor, covered in his own urine. There’s one shouting obscenities at random cars. There’s one doing a dance in the park, and then kicking a dog. Here’s one who wants to be my friend, “‘Ere mate, ‘ere mate, ‘ere mate.” Leave me alone!!!
As darkness falls and the temperature drops all the nutcases congregate around the steps of the Royal London Hospital, swearing at passers-by. If only a rain would come and wash this scum off the streets.
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‘There but for the grace of God . . .’
Yeah, not half. Eh?
Not half!