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A Christmas gift

Prospect's prisoner celebrates a parody of a traditional Christmas, sleeping rough in a London park

By Peter Wayne   January 2004

I was on my hands and knees scraping a four-inch dog turd from the entrance to my bivouac in a small public park when the call came: “Oi! Get yer arse out of there you fuckin’ tramp.” The words came from a pair of angelic-faced young boys standing astride a pile of rubble. The message was clear. I had once again fallen on the road through life, this time to a new low. And, to make it worse, Christmas was just around the corner.

The pursuit of money (read: heroin) had become a Sisyphean task. Each day began and ended…

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