Situations Vacant: Senior Vagrant Required


A number of hopefuls pictured last night waiting nervously for interview

A park bench in Shoreditch, East London, has an exciting opening for an experienced gentleman of the road with at least 5 years experience of drunkenness and anti-social behaviour under his string belt

The purple-faced stumblebum we seek should be able to display good muttering skills and be prepared to spend a good percentage of his/her time shouting at traffic or lying comatose in their own piss.

A good working knowledge of staggering through shopping malls with a dog on a bit of string will also be looked on favourably, as will the ability to start fights with yourself in a public library or a telephone box.

The successful applicant will be expected to supply their own ill fitting fetid trousers and battered, sick encrusted trilby, but a pair of old boots with no laces in will be provided and may be collected from one of the dustbins round the back of the shopping precinct.

DO YOU have a proven track record of shouting aggressively in the faces of passers-by?

CAN YOU push a pram containing all your worldly possessions packed into plastic bags and operate a radio with no front on?

ARE YOU a proven drink addled wreck with a long history of soiling yourself in underpasses and sleeping on the London underground?

CAN YOU boast years of chronic liver disease?

If you can answer “Yesh yer fuckin’ bashtas yersh… Fuuuuuuuck!” to all of the above criteria then stagger into Shoreditch Town Hall reeking of stale piss and collapse over the desk of the bloke on security. Then simply ask for a form to shove up the back of your jumper to keep your kidneys warm without delay.

No down and out journalists or disgraced MPs.



Filed under vagrancy

6 responses to “Situations Vacant: Senior Vagrant Required

  1. Reblogged this on SOZ SATIRE and commented:
    No dogs on bits of string were harmed during the writing of this piece…hopefully.


  2. Humps

    Damn. Was doing alright until the very last line. Ah well, maybe I’ll stick to selling fried pigeons to the bloke at the back of the Maccy D’s



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