POPPING into town? You’re bound to run into these nutters without whom it just wouldn’t be the same.
The badly-dressed old lady. Yellow skirt, pink jumper, ancient pac-a-mac – she’s certainly no slave to mainstream fashion. Strangely endearing, despite the faint smell of piss if you get too close. Unless you get stuck behind her in the queue at Tesco where she pisses about forever counting out pennies, in which case you’ll want to strangle her with her stupid tartan scarf.
The town drunk. In late middle-age and easily mistaken for a tramp, although it’s more likely he’s too pissed to remember where he lives rather than actually homeless. Often spotted in Wetherspoons at 9am already on his second pint. Later to be found snoring in the bus station, a mysterious damp patch on his crotch. Local tourist guides should mention this quirky fellow.
The rapping teenager. Earbuds in and striding purposefully down the high street, beatboxing to himself and spitting out misogynistic lyrics in a faux American accent like he’s f**king 50 Cent. Is it even fashionable anymore to have your trousers hanging off your arse? Scares the crap out of tutting pensioners, despite being as threatening as an angry moth.
The crusty. They never quite died out, and if you’re lucky you’ll spot an addled white bloke with dreadlocks begging for change or putting on some half-arsed performance such as juggling. Get chatting and he’ll happily share his anti-establishment views, at which point even the least conservative person will feel like saying: ‘Maybe you wouldn’t feel so excluded from society if you took those f**king nose rings out and got a job.’
The twat in shorts. Come rain, shine, summer or in the freezing f**king winter, there he’ll be, beetroot-coloured legs defiantly on display. You’d be forgiven for thinking he’d just been to the gym if it wasn’t for the fact he’s obese, in his 60s and wearing hiking boots, like he’s bizarrely worried about his feet getting cold. The only people allowed to wear shorts all year round are postmen, and even then it’s bloody weird.
The angry old man. Obviously totally off his box, given that he’s shouting at anything that moves – pedestrians, dogs, cyclists – but also inanimate objects like postboxes and lampposts. A sad indictment of community mental health care, but local schoolkids love him, following him around doing impersonations like he’s some bizarre Pied Piper. And you enjoy a quick chuckle yourself as you sit outside Costa Coffee – until he gets you in his sights next.
The religious nutter. Armed with a microphone and armfuls of Bible tracts, they’ll attempt to collar anyone passing to heroically guide them off their path to Hell, only everyone’s more interested in the path to Boots. Finding one with a JESUS SAVES banner and asking if Harry Kane put in the rebound offers momentary mirth, you evil minion of Satan.
