I love London, but London does not love me

I was speaking to a couple of homeless Polish men recently.

One of them said he was very tired: he's working as a porter for a Mayfair hotel, for which he has to get up at 5.30am to receive deliveries. He had been to work on the Friday from 5.30 til the evening, and had then slept for two hours that night because he couldn't get a hostel place and was out sleeping rough, and then went to work from 5.30 all day again. I guess it must be cash in hand, otherwise he'd need a bank account and therefore an address. He said London isn't what he expected. He had a little bit of the dinner the shelter was serving up and then conked out on the camp bed.

I had a much longer conversation with the other guy. He said he's scared of the BNP. Not because of the possibility of them getting some political power (which even he didn't think was going to happen) but because of their influence on the ground. He said he encounters people who, as soon as they hear him speak Polish, or with his accent, they hurl abuse, or their fists, at him. Apparently he's encountered some charities or social services people who won't help him because he's not British.

He said he loves London but London does not love him.

Ou seule un sourire

I was in Paris for the day a while ago and whilst there I walked past a beggar bearing a sign reading “Un piece, un ticket de restaurant, ou seule un sourire” – “A coin, a restaurant coupon or only a smile”.

I think that's probably going to be more successful than some of the snarling rottweilers beggars in London sometimes accessorize with.

We have a distinctly romance-less begging culture. In Prague, beggars assume a position bending forwards on their knees with their elbows on the ground, holding their hands up in a cup shape in a sort of semi-religious pose of supplication. It looks awkward and uncomfortable, and perhaps works on the basis of utterly lowering their status in the eyes of passers-by, making them more inclined to throw a coin their way.

God Loves You *update*

{This is an update for this post: http://justaplotofearth.blogspot.com/2009/12/god-loves-you.html}

So, yesterday I had an hour and a half to kill, but no cafes to go to because it was the Bank Holiday and everything had closed already.

So I decided to go to Victoria train station to sit in their foodhall bit and do a bit of reading. As I was going up the escalator, I happened to turn around, and behind me was God Loves You man.

I was fairly surprised.

I told him I knew him and explained why; it took him a while to place me but I think he eventually did. We went to a table and sat down. There was a family next to us delighting in a KFC chicken bucket who looked a little taken aback. His denim jacket was much more torn than in December, and his hair a little longer and more knotted, but aside from that, he looked much the same. He didn't smell at all and his hands were only slightly grubby.

And so, he has big news: He is off again this week to Israel, hoping to complete the pilgrimage he attempted last year. He showed me the Eurostar ticket, tucked safely between the pages of his Bible. It was a new Bible, the Jewish Bible, and he had underlined, highlighted and annotated it comprehensively, mainly in blue and pink. This time, he says he will either make it to Jerusalem, or come back in a box. He is going through several Muslim countries with his Jewish Bible and a Jewish Bible quote written on his backpack. He laughed and said that they're going to kill him. I think he quite likes the idea that there is an end in sight, of some sort.

As we were chatting, I noticed a tattoo peeking out from under his right sleeve. I asked him what it was of. Disconcertingly, he proceeded to partially undress, and showed me a fantastic inking all the way up his arm and shoulder - patterns intertwining around three dates and a face, and the letters RIP, with a name emblazoned below. They are the birth date, death date, and cremation date of his wife. She was 23 years older than him and died of cancer in 2002. She wasn't religious but had been becoming interested in it close to her death, but he had told her it was a load of bollocks; this was, of course, before his conversion.

There's something rather charismatic about him, something knowing; the way his eyes crinkle at the sides and his willingness to talk about how many sugars he likes in his tea (about 12 as far as I could see) as much as about the Mark of the Beast. I worked out that he's about 44, but you couldn't work that out just by looking at him with his overgrown straggly hair and beard, and slightly stooping gait. He said he tries to eat as little as possible.

He has lots to say about religion; not all of which I could follow due to my own lack of Bible knowledge. He believes that no matter how Godly one's life is, if one doesn't observe the Sabbath (on a Saturday) then one's back is turned on God. He calls the Catholic Church the Harlot Church, says that Jesus was the same as the angel Michael, that there isn't a heaven and hell as such but different realms of sleep until the Second Judgement.

When he talks about this, although it's hard to follow, it's not like the ramblings of a mad man; more like how any intelligent person might speak about something they've only just understood and feel passionately about.

I suppose I won't encounter him again; hopefully he'll make it safely to Jerusalem and live out his days as a sort of holy man there.

The guy you don't expect to cry

This post is about Alan. He wasn't technically homeless, but destitute in every way except for a shoddy roof over his head.

Alan didn't look like somebody who'd start to cry on my shoulder. He had a shaven head and wore a dark blue tracksuit and was 40 years old.

He had a wide smile and blue eyes, and I could really read the pain he was going through in them when they met mine.

He was married for 15 years. He grafted his way up from a council house upbringing to a big home in Southampton with a swimming pool. He was a carpenter by trade. He had children. His wife split up with him for another man - he really seemed devastated by it, so much sorrow in his eyes. He came back to London to care for his elderly father, who's since died. And now his wife is saying she's going to move to Australia with her new man and the children. That was when he started crying, discreetly.

I don't know what happened with his work, if he felt he couldn't cope with it after she split up with him, but he seemed to feel he couldn't go back to Southampton and that he'd lost everything. He struck me as someone who would be ok, in a year or two, if he could stay away from drink during the bad times.

That's one way to keep a pet!

Somebody told me that a particular man in the homeless shelter I was working in had a pet rat with him.

There was a rule of no pets allowed at this shelter, so I went to have a look. I went upstairs and identified the man by the clothing I'd had described to me. But where was the rat? I could see both his hands - no rat - he had no bags etc, and he was wearing fairly tight fitting cream jeans and a cream tank top tucked into them.

As I was looking at him, he turned around, and then I saw, at the bottom of his top a slight bulge just before it tucked into his trousers. And so there is was, snugly snoozing against his skin. Apparently, it always lived on him. And no, he didn't smell at all. I turned a blind eye - well, you've got to give points for ingenuity!

To Robert... whoever and wherever you may be

I never spoke to this person myself, which I regret.

I first saw him when I was 18, and I was far too nervous about approaching him.

This was partly because of the sense of dignity he gave off.

I was told by somebody else a couple of years later, when I saw him again, that his name was Robert. All I knew that first time was that he was taller than average, and of quite big stature, in an impressive way. He had a very dogeared, dirty suit on, and when he sat down and crossed his legs, which was invariably how he sat, the trouser leg rode up so that I could see large, dark red sores up his legs. His hair was an unkempt salt and pepper. He had an Independent newspaper under one arm.

I saw him a few times after that, always with the Independent, which he'd then sit down and read in silence.

The shelter that I saw him in was only open over Christmas, and on the last day, I was on the servery helping to pack up. As we were closing the doors, he asked somebody if they could pass him out a cup of water. I was nearest the tap so passed it out to him.

That small moment was quite an epiphany for me. Just a cup of water - something so basic and yet he can't get it. It hadn't occured to me before that something so simple as a drink of water was out of reach for him, now that London has basically no water fountains. I went home to my nice warm house and mother, and felt a profound guilt.

I didn't see him for the next couple of years.

When I next saw him, it was terribly sad. He was wearing a suit again, possibly the same one; at any rate it was more dishevelled than I remembered. He was bearded. His posture was a world away from the dignified bearing he'd had previously. But it wasn't the hunching that was the most shocking thing; it was his pallor - he was yellow. I can only assume he had cirrhosis of the liver. His degeneration was a big shock.

I felt even less able to speak to him now, older and more confident as I was, he was in no state to be chatted to. He had to be helped to a chair, and helped out of it at the end of the day. That was the day somebody told me his name was Robert and that he had been an engineer.

I don't know where he'd come from, what had happened, or where he is now.

For a while I had a silly, romantic notion: He bore a resemblance to a favourite artist of mine, who died in the year I saw him for the first time - this artist, Robert Lenkiewicz, was also something of a practical joker, and just the type of guy to pull off a fake-death. And of course, they shared the same first name. I suppose it was my way of making this terribly sad human story swallowable; more of a fairy tale.

Broken Britain

A couple of years ago, in a homeless shelter, I met a young man, a boy really, who really seemed to exemplify 'broken Britain'.

He said he was 17, but I didn't believe him; you had to be 16 to get into the shelter (otherwise social services have to be notified) so I think he was playing it safe.

He wasn't particularly clean, but not massively unkempt. He seemed really suspicious about everybody around him. He had shortish brown hair, and was quite tall and skinny, and had really wonky front teeth.

He was living in a squat somewhere. As we chatted, he seemed to loosen up, probably because we were a similarish age. He was from Plymouth where he'd been living with his mum, but had moved to London a couple of years ago to live with his dad - he didn't say why he made this change.

It seemed that he hadn't really liked London, had struggled here a bit and missed his mates, and at some point he'd gone back to his mum in Plymouth. But again, that hadn't worked out so he'd come back to London but not told his dad. He spoke to his mum from time to time. He told me he makes around £40 a day - he didn't say what from, but I guess it must have been drugs or stealing. I asked if his mum asks how he's earning that money - he's told her he works on building sites.

That was about 2 or 3 years ago - he's one of those people that I have a horrible feeling about, that he's dead or in prison or has descended into doing terrible things to other people. Hopefully not.

It's Just Life.

I met a Polish homeless guy in Kensington recently.

There are a surprising number sleeping rough in that area - I would have assumed such an affluent neighbourhood would 'clean them up', or, shock-horror, donate some of their wealth to helping out their destitute neighbours.

Anyway, this guy was sitting in the cold (it was during the snowy patch at the end of 2009) with a cup out for begging money. I had crouched down next to him to tell him about a shelter he could go to if he needed to.

Like practically every nomadic, homeless type of person I've encountered, once I showed him I was friendly, he had plenty to say. His English wasn't great. He has children back in Poland, but said he can't go back there because if he does, he'll get sent to prison!! I'm not sure why - there seemed to be money involved in it though. He makes a little money now by 'doing pizza papers' which I finally worked out meant sticking take-away pizza leaflets through doors.

He said he's an alcoholic, and isn't sure what he's going to do from here: at the moment, he's quite inclined to go back to Poland, and just go to prison, and 'be finished'. I think I must have pulled a sorry face or something because he patted me and said "It's ok, it's just life." And then started talking about cutting his leg off.

Frequent Flyer

I just met this guy on the tube two days ago. I've learnt how to spot someone destitute now - though perhaps he wouldn't appreciate that word being used about him - dirty fingers, unshaven, lots of layers of clothing - scavenged and kept in the safest place; on him, and multiple bags stuffed with everything else he owns. There's also often a particular odour that people have after not washing for a while - I can't really put my finger on what it is, but it's very distinctive and always makes me think of the colour yellow.

Anyway, this guy got on the Piccadilly Line tube where I got on, and sat down opposite me. I smiled at him sheepishly, and he seemed pleased to see a glimmer of friendliness. He had a cut on his hand that looked quite bad - the sides of it were all raised up like it was getting infected. I said to him that it looked pretty bad. People in our carriage who saw me speak to him looked like I'd just revealed a tail.


We got chatting.

He's Australian, from New South Wales, and is called Richard. He came over here in March 2009. He's going back in February 2010. He works on building sites usually but said that this time he hasn't had much luck with work. He looks about 55. I asked why he came over here, and he said that in 2002 (or was it 2003? I can't remember) he flew 17 times between various countries - to Israel, South America, America - all over - and so he now has loads of frequent flyer free airmiles to use up!!! So he popped over here for a year.

He's travelled widely - he said his hardest time was in Peru but didn't go into detail. He said he often crashes at a friend's but this year he ended up spending Christmas night in a graveyard in Pimlico because there was no transport so he couldn't get to the friend's.

I hope he carries on travelling safely.

A side of compassion, please

A couple of years ago I briefly met a man who was sleeping in the doorway of a Prada shop in central London. He had a pair of chef's checked trousers in his rucksack, which I saw peeking out, so I asked if that was what he worked as; he said yes, but he'd recently been fired because they found out he was homeless.

Dave the Prophet

He had a greying beard and a khaki cap. He is actually the inspiration for the title of this blog, because he said that all he wants is a plot of earth to grow hemp on and a horse, and he'd be sorted. But that is not something he can have here in paved Britain. He wants to get to Australia or New Zealand where there's more space, more wilderness, where he might be able to just have a little plot of earth...

For now, or at least when I met him which I think was 2006, he's living in Peckham, sleeping out in the warmer months and on night-buses in the colder.

He was extremely eloquent. He often spoke in rhyme - in fact the first time I met him he bent towards me where I was sitting and he rhymed about Ken Livingstone! He spoke to me about the dishonesty of the world, and described himself as the little boy who points out that the Emperor has no clothes on - too truthful for society.

He spoke about the virtues of weed and the evils of the poppy.

He told me how he hates any sort of game; that there is no point to most of our forms of entertainment - we ought to be making something not being anaesthetized.

An incredible man, unable or unwilling to play the game society requires of him.

Linguist in disguise

This is just a short one - I encountered this guy twice, and he didn't seem to have a very good memory because he couldn't remember meeting me previously, despite it only being an hour or so ago.

His name was Carl and I'm not sure how old he was; he could have been 30, 40 or 50, I don't know. I also don't know what was 'wrong' with him - a smattering of autism? tourrettes? - he had tics and obsessions. He spoke like it wasn't a very easy physical process and his body moved awkwardly. I was with a French man and an Italian woman when I met him. When he realised that was where they were from, he started saying words in those languages. He later did the same thing to a Chinese speaker. It was a really interesting insight into someone who comes across like their intellect is somehow not fully operational, like their body, but he retains all these bits of languages.

He said something to me which was slightly hard to make out, but the jist of it was that if you read and work too much, your brain burns out. I wonder if that's what happened to him.

God Loves You

Yesterday, I met a man who wore a sleeveless, denim jacket with "God Loves You" emblazoned across the back.

I approached him and asked him if it was something he'd found which happened to have that on it, or if he'd put it on himself. He said that he had had it put on by somebody for him. While he was telling me this, I noticed a little wooden cross around his neck just peeking out from under his shirt. He had medium length hair that was implausibly healthy looking, of a rather lovely burnished brown colour. He had a beard too, which seemed to begin as the same hair as his head and become a wiry mass the further away from his face it got. His teeth were browning, his gums receding, and the finger and thumb he held his cigarette between were streaked with terracotta stains. He had laughter lines around his eyes.

He started to tell me his story. This is what he told me.

He worshipped the devil for 30 years - drink drugs depression schizophrenia - and was reduced to his lowest point in early 2006. He decided that there was no way he was going to wake up alive the next day, that he just couldn't face going on. He drank a bottle of vodka, but still couldn't find the courage to end it. He went to a Wetherspoons. While he was there, three men offered him a drink and to sit with them. One of them said to him that he looked like he was on a mission for a big night; he corrected him, explaining that he was just trying to end it, didn't want to live anymore. The man told him that he had terminal cancer.


The next day he woke up round the back of a supermarket. He was shaking like crazy and he saw himself in the reflection of a door and knew it was time to make a change. He went back to an area where he knew two people he trusted, who were part of the Salvation Army. He said they'd tried to help him the previous year. The woman, who was one of the two people he trusted, came along and asked him what was wrong. He told her he just wanted to end it. She stayed with him all day and took him home later, let him shower and eat, gave him some clean clothes.
She and her family were going to church that evening, and so he went with them in order to get the lift back into the part of town (I think this was all in London but he didn't say) where he sleeps. He went to church, and didn't think much about it.

The next morning he woke up, and the first words out of his mouth were a prayer to God. From then on, he says, his whole outlook changed. He says from that moment on he has had no dependency on drink, drugs, no depression, and that he knows God changed everything for him at that moment. He did say he'd had one relapse with drink, for 3 months a year or so ago, because of woman trouble!!

He is an intelligent man. He now lives on the streets, sleeping in a carpark, and believing and trusting wholly in the religious maxim "God will provide". I said to him that we can't all live according to that - because then there wouldn't be the people walking past who get him a meal etc. He said that it comes at different times for different people. He asked me if I'd trust my father to feed and clothe me - that is how God is for him. He mentioned that demons walk the earth, but we didn't go into that further.

He told me that he recently returned from an attempt to get to Jerusalem, where he wants to live for a month or so and then go to work on a Kibbutz. He set off with no money or anything, after a 'copper' helped him out and bought him a Eurostar ticket. In 5 weeks, he had made it to the Turkish-Syrian border. And there he got turned back, because he didn't have a visa. He doesn't beg - he takes what people choose to give him, but doesn't ask for things - so he hung around in Turkey a bit, but people only gave him food, no money, so he couldn't raise the money for a visa. So he's back, and he's going to try again in March, this time with a visa (he has a passport, I checked).

There was a funny moment where I said he sounded like he collected alms, like Jainist monks, and he started doing a Monty Python impression - "alms! alms for the poor!"

The way he spoke about the world's geography was probably the most beautiful part of our conversation.
It was how I'd speak about going from Charing Cross to Covent Garden - left here, down to here, right here, through here - but his 'here' was replaced with France and Hungary and all these countries. A true mendicant holy man of the 21st Century.

I didn't get his name. But he did tell me where he tends to hang out in London, so I'm going to make sure I pass through sometime soon and have a cup of tea with him.

About this Blog

Today I am starting this blog to record and share with whoever might pass it by stories about the homeless characters I have met in London.

I don't intend to invade these people's privacy, but just to repeat to you freely told stories and philosophies from some of the most interesting people I've met; the London homeless.