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There, Shula comes across the corpse of her Uncle Fred, lying in the gutter.

"He used to hide them in the gutter above his bedroom window and in the toilet cistern - I'd cut open his old teddy bears and he'd stashed them in there - my husband and I didn't know what to do."

We're going to play in the gutter.

There, the Wildean axiom “We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars” is viscerally felt — and it’s a sentiment that pulses through the cultural blood of the city.

The whole thing is a harsh reminder, to his face, that Trump is more suited to wallowing in the gutter than sitting on a throne.