Blaming the Turks

A strange-looking young bloke has just walked past at speed, his head wobbling with the effort and his right arm up with his thumb out, as if he was trying to hitch a lift. Why do junkies who have nowhere to go walk so fast?

I know this person from about two years ago. He had fried his brain with all sorts of awful drugs, but - in his own terms - he seems to be somewhat better placed in society since his last trip to the drugs council.

When I first encountered him, I had just put out our rubbish for collection when he staggered past, swearing at inanimate objects and fellow pavement users. As he walked by, he booted my black plastic bin liner full of a week's worth of domestic detritus into the path of the oncoming traffic with one almighty swing of his leg, without stopping. I halted the cars with an upraised hand and retrieved the bag, putting it back where I originally left it.

He must have done the same thing a week before, because I arose to complaints from the neighbours that a fox or seagull had ripped the rubbish bag open and strewn it down the street. I thought that it must have been a hell of a gull to have got the bag so far down before splitting it open, but agreed with my neighbours to buy stronger sacks in the future. It is quite shaming to see all your dirty Kleenex and coffee grounds lying in heaps in a neighbour's doorway. I always remember an event I witnessed first-hand some years ago when I had a workshop in town.

I noticed my friend - another marble carver - walking very strangely across the yard in the direction of the toilets, and asked him what was wrong.

"I've just done a Turkish fart", he explained.

"What's a Turkish fart?" I suppose I could have guessed, but I wanted confirmation.

"It's when you think you are going to fart, but then you shit yourself". I wondered why he had to blame the Turks. Are they renowned for this sort of thing over and above all other nations?

After he had cleaned himself up he came back, furtively clutching his soiled underpants.

"I'm not taking these home", he said, then he faced the nearby river and flung them with all his might at the water.

He was too high and they became entangled in the branches of a tree and swung there in full view,  just out of reach.

My friend began collecting small twigs and sticks, throwing them at the pants in the tree in a vain attempt to knock them down.

This went on for so long that he attracted quite an audience, and - one by one - they all asked him what he was doing.

"I just shat myself and tried to throw the pants in the river, but they got stuck in the tree," was all he could think to explain himself.

Everyone stayed for the half hour it took to get them down, and cheered loudly at the final successful shot before drifting away back to work. That was a great afternoon.