On tramps and microchip technology
Twitter is one of those internet messaging services that you think is great when you sign up, realise that some people will have a whale of a time using, but dump after the first day when you realise that it is, in fact, an enormous waste of time. And if, like most users, you use it to send txt messages to the intarwebs every time you go to the toilet, enormously expensive.
Duckorange: "Done a poo. LOLOLOL" 15 minutes ago
Duckorange: "Oh spoons. Out of paper" 13 minutes ago
Duckorange: "No worries. Used the battery cover from my mobi… +++CARRIER LOST+++
Twitter? Twatter, more like.
I confess. I have a Twitter account. I signed up over a year ago and forgot about it after the first day. I used it twice, in fact. And the first message read thussly: "Test".
So, it might have come as a bit of a surprise to anybody who might have been following my Twitter stream to have received the following on the electronic device of their choice:
"Going undercover with local winos. Dirty job, but somebody's got to do it."
You will note that even though it was sent as an SMS text message, there's no excuse for dropping vowels and incorrect grammar.
Saturday, then, saw me dressed down in urban tramp chic, going undercover with Weymouth's down-and-outs in the seafront shelters of the town's Esplanade.
My motive? An Attenborough-esque voyage of discovery to establish the behaviour, language and mating rituals of these fascinating, elusive creatures.
"Fascinating. Utterly fascinating. And just a little painful", I told my Twitter followers a few days later, and for good reason for here is what I found:
1. They talk about cider. Cider, and the discount procurement thereof from the Weymouth branch of Asda, where there is a "serve yourself" till that negates the need for actual talking to shop staff
2. They discuss the value-to-paint-stripping ratio of cheap vodka, also purchased from the Weymouth branch of Asda, and where to sleep it off
3. They also pay particularly close attention as to who tops their current list of "I'm gonnur give 'im a fuggin' good kickin'", with particular attention paid to "that wonker from the Job Centre" (which is next door to the Weymouth branch of Asda), and, of course, the security staff at the Weymouth Branch of Asda
4. On a positive note, and contrary to reports from other discredited surveys into the behaviour of derelicts, tramps do not talk about, or indeed, engage in, licking other tramps. The phrase "Rutting away like drunken hoboes", then, is consigned to the bottle bank of history.
Then, my study concluded, I went home, had my annual bath and sent an update to my Twitter pals:
Duckorange: "Done a poo. LOLOLOL"