The Tramp

I’ve not written much of late. For no apparent reason my mood has been low; draining any motivation to indulge in literary projects. 

Perversely, annoyance at myself for being in a low spirits for no reason has sent my mood even lower. It has got so bad, yesterday evening GJ Strachan had a word with himself for this groundless depressive outlook. Telling myself in no uncertain terms I should count my blessings… So, I did… There was 17… 18 if you count the stray bag of crisps I located when craving snacks.

I am unsure why I am in low spirits, after all yours truly has a pretty decent existence. Although, I’d venture part of my mental health dip is because I’ve not been writing. Practising penmanship ordinarily a sure-fire strategy to keep the unwelcome dark visitor from my door. 

As I am always chirpier in the alternative universe I tread when writing, perhaps I need to adhere to late American author Ray Bradbury’s advocacy about his craft “You must stay drunk on writing so reality cannot destroy you.”

Instead, of late, I get drunk on Sauvignon Blanc; in association with watching YouTube streams of 1970’s football, Beatles songs, crappy tik-tok influencer videos and comedies from my youth. Topics perhaps indicating I yearn for my boyhood; once again living among the bosom of a family. Which, if true, is utterly futile

Within the last week my only written output has been an unfinished fictional short story about a tramp called Melvyn Shanks. An individual who has chosen to sit quietly on life’s periphery, leaving centre stage to misguided and less worthy individuals. 

His reticence to engage verbally meaning his interactions are fleeting. Melvyn’s only real utterances being a “Thank you.” to benefactors furnishing his cup with coins… Well, to those donating into the empty cup; not the one full of coffee. Those individuals, instead, receiving an unfavourable grunt when their dirty coin plops into his skinny latte.

Despite his undemonstrative behaviour, Mel absorbs everything taking place around him. This awareness resulting in him acquiring a lifetime of sage-like wisdom, along with the full set of Panini football stickers from the 1986 Mexico World Cup. Although the latter was admittedly more luck than judgement.

In many ways this down on his luck fella suffers the same treatment as the misunderstood outcast in The Beatles song ‘Fool on the Hill’. As Paul McCartney wrote:-

“… Nobody seems to like him
They can tell what he wants to do
And he never shows his feelings

But the fool on the hill
Sees the sun going down
And the eyes in his head
See the world spinning ’round.

He never listens to them
He knows that they’re the fools
They don’t like him

The fool on the hill
Sees the sun going down
And the eyes in his head
See the world spinning ’round…”

Sadly, sitting quietly against a city square wall, Melvyn has been targeted by a cabal of teenage ne’er-do-wells. The yobs bullying this harmless man, who has fallen on hard times. A musky old sleeping bag, his rucksack (containing his Panini stickers and a ‘lucky’ cheese grater), along with his stuffed dog the only pavement bedfellows.

The canine his beloved sheepdog Rex whose recent visit to the taxidermist followed his passing during a harshly cold Yorkshire night outdoors. This episode meaning Mel is no longer welcome to shelter overnight in hostels with ‘no stuffed sheepdog’ policies… A bizarre edict which makes no sense; but, hey I wrote it so what do you expect?!

Anyhow, the cruel teenagers torment the hobo mercilessly about his deceased dog. Dragging it around on its rope lead and taking turns at riding on its back. The fact Mervyn has Rex’s paws welded onto a skateboard so he can still walk it, assisting his tormentors to drag the hapless mutt around at alarmingly high speeds.

While his late hound was being abused in this manner, Merv sits unmoved on the sleeping bag which had seen better days. One of those days being the one before last Thursday when, following excessive brandy consumption, he peed the zipped quilt.

These disrespectful kids severely test his patience. Puce of face and tense of knuckle at witnessing his dog’s tail being pulled from its body by gang leader Greggsy, he is on the cusp of flipping. 

Sadly, at this juncture in the tale I have hit a creative wall as immovable as the city square barrier the tramp leans against. Consequently, I am currently unable to think of a suitable denouement for the yarn; meaning the teenagers are yet to receive their comeuppance.

As I write this, the story has a start, middle, but no end. If readers can think of a suitable finale in which the yobs get swift retribution for their cruelty, I am all ears… Well, not literally all ears. I have several other body parts; it is just my ears which are all ears… Errrrrr, but you know what I mean.