Today I bumped into the Camp Tramp. That's what I'm calling him. Standing at the check-out in Redhill Sainsbury's buying cakes for the office (it's my birthday today) I engaged the Hal Cruttenden lookalike in conversation. He had bought a box of 18 cans of Stella Artois and was on his way to the beach to drink them. I told him he should have bought the beer from a coastal supermarket and then he wouldn't have to cart them all the way there on the train. Mind you, nowt better than a cheeky can of 'wife beater' on the journey down. I was tempted to ditch the cakes, buy 18 cans for myself and join him for the day.
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| 18 cans of Stella on the beach (or anywhere) would be hard going... |
While he was camp, he probably wasn't a tramp. He was more likely a functioning alcoholic with little in the way of work to distract him from the task of heavy drinking. That said, he sported a smooth complexion, there was no sign of a red nose, he was relatively well turned out and reasonably articulate too. He was mumbling, though, and clearly didn't know the meaning of a 'bag for life'. I was happy to enlighten him. I figured he might live in what a colleague described as 'Benefits Towers'. That said, he could be a well-off eccentric. If I see him again, I'll ask some more pertinent questions – not that I asked any when we met earlier today. Right now, I'd imagine he has a carriage to himself on the 1706 Brighton to Victoria train.
On reflection, I can only assume that the so-called 'Camp Tramp' is in the early stages of dereliction. There were no outward signs of rough sleeping so I'd imagine he has a roof over his head – for the moment at any rate – but there's clearly a building tragedy of some sort. With Christmas approaching, I can only wish him well for the future and hope that whatever it is that's bugging him can be solved by a few beers on the beach and that he comes to his senses sooner rather than later.
