2012 will be the last year that an abandoned office complex
on Galleons Reach, at Royal Docks, will be used to shelter London ’s homeless for five
days at Christmas. Built
to house a now long departed-abroad-for-cheaper-labour pharmaceutical company, the Ivax Centre actually stands on a sort of giant jetty or reach and
through the large windows you realize you are looking out towards the blazing
sky-lines of Canary Wharf and the central London cluster beyond. To your left,
also directly opposite on the other side of the dark river, the low horizon of
Thamesmead, and directly behind the darker mix of industrial and new build
apartments the windows of which invite you to envy the moneyed people within.
This was the nightview beginning some two feet from the floor to the vast
ceiling.
Tonight, Christmas Eve where were the people I knew? What
were they doing tonight? Fifty years of age in less than a month and I knew I felt more akin to the three hundred men and some women asleep at my feet on narrow
low-slung canvass beds, beneath thin blankets brought up over each face so
that, bar the temperature, the incongruous penthouse views, it looked like a
morgue. I was overwhelmed and choked on sudden tears and a well of sadness.
But where are the people I know? What are they doing and why
does London ,
some several miles in the distance, seem to have its back turned on these lives
spread out here before me.
I had Christmas dinner at home before I began my
10.15pm shift. I had the full
trimmings…I wanted for there to be absolutely no doubt as to why I was
volunteering. I had been invited to a party in Brixton the day before, and
though I was a bit out of sorts and did not go; it was still an invite to
socialize, and to food and drink and in the hub-bub of middle-class chatter you
could pretend in theatrical tones you were keeping your head above water and
list, along with a hundred others, your life in headlines, while a convoy of
mini-buses moved silently away from central London to the derelict Ivax Centre.
Joyce Vincent the young social woman who had laid dead on
her sofa for three years after having wrapped Christmas presents (for whom for
God’s sake?) with the TV on…no one tried to phone, or call round; did everyone
assumed she was having a good time? I have taken evasive action before, gone
away on retreat, but at these events there is a strained bonhomie, which peaks
then sags lamentably the day after the whole dreadful affair is over; the
elephant of loneliness-at-Christmas plonked firmly on the lawn throughout.
Of course, some have gone to visit relatives or having
relatives come and stay; this is not always idyllic and I have noticed in my
youth a sort of kamikaze-type atmosphere in the clubs in the lead up to
Christmas, a collective last-ditch surge of individualism before being once
again slotted back into the family hierarchy as brother, sister, outcast,
ugly-ducking, favourite, resented, disappointment. For others it is a lovely
time. I do not get on with my mum; we do not like each other. Well, I’ll speak
for myself, it takes an enormous amount of pretence to…well pretend. Two
sisters both close to my mum. ITV reruns, fold-up table, side-by-side on the
‘couch’ like sardines; I guess that pre-Christmas hysteria racket is the sound of a
few hundred thousand fantasists and snobs crashing back down to earth.
During my toilet shift where, in pairs, we would sit outside
the male and female toilets and after each one came out we would, with rubber
gloves on, go in and clean the toilet seat and sinks used, a man would enter
the cubicle and stay in there for half an hour or more. With an acre of
sleeping space around him this put his default setting learned on the city
streets into stark relief;. Another sign of entrenched sleeping habits found
some preferring direct contact with the floor, while one young blond
long-haired English guy, we were told, would be allowed to sleep in a cubby
hole on the ground floor under the stairs with all of his belonging in two
bags.
The average life expectancy of these guys is forty-seven’, said one of my partners on the early morning Christmas Eve shift. Forty-seven? Who came up with that statistic? I looked out at the sea of bodies covered with the thin blankets even the face, aged between twenty and around thirty five to guess from those who rose intermittently to go to the toilet. Worn down by rough sleeping I guess. Or you reach an age where the cold kills, even so, a vague selfish feeling that I had passed this age surfaced briefly… I was a survivor…so far.
I asked someone whose flat I went to over a ten year period
and who had been to mine what books he thought I liked. He did not know. My
modest bookcases have been staring him in the face for over a decade. I have a
select number of authors about whom I am passionate and whose works I have a
collection. I knew he was a fan of Nick Hornby and Tony Parson. I had found him
an unread edition by the first author on more than one occasion because I ‘had
borne him in mind.’ I asked this friend a few other questions which confirmed
that all those things I held dear, he had not bothered to acquaint himself
with; it is these ‘frenemies’ who let you slide without noticing or caring that
you have.
Who are the people who kick rough sleepers, and sometimes
piss on them? It’s that the ‘I’m alright hubris of alcohol’. Outside, fiery in
the distance that cruel London spilling out of the clubs and bars, rising up
way beyond Galleon’s reach; but it is the London of the variously lit skyline
of the banking area, the Gherkin, that Saurean’s tower symbolisms of a global mammon
and a sold-out city, The Shard- it was that London that had gone astray, had
disconnected from it’s own reality a reality which lay hidden well out of view,
here on the industrial thin carpet of an ex pharmaceutical company, itself
having fled Britain in search of cheaper labour.
No one could find the thermostat on Christmas Eve and the
building was stifling, none of the main of the wall to wall windows opened and
there was a musty smell of wood-fires and stale sweat, but not unbearably so;
there were showers here. The centre had been open since 22nd of
December and the last night would be the 29th, a seven day reprieve
from the hunt for somewhere warm to sleep, a respite from ferreting for food,
and a holiday from being insulted, victimized and murdered.; on the shift later
on, gaurding the bottom of the stairs the human spirit in some reached heights
of childish skittishness as they slid down the banisters and caught themselves
skipping, like wildebeest who prance and careen with joy once they finally
reach pastures green after a long and dangerous migration.
Over excited not all had gone to bed, some sat around
socializing in the wide-Awake room somewhere in the first floor.
Some of the homeless seemed to come up from the wide-awake
floor in groups of two’s and threes, all ethnically the some and whose beds lay
side-by-side; a strange pact; ‘let’s go to London for and stay at a refuge for
the homeless, ’ although... Obviously, it is more complicated than that. For
one, you have to be referred. Referred comes with the condition that you won’t
be any trouble. Although from the several fight broken out around the Brazilian
Beach Bar, or sheltered drinking area, that particular some have slipped
through the net. Many North African had needed to flle from Tunisia and Morocco
during the Arab Spring, and although most now inhabit the parks and squares of Paris and other French cities, some made it across to the UK and this
group of cleanly dressed young men in the corner sharing Magrebin music through
a phone may well be the lucky ones.
The lost generation; between, well, where to start? Where
the baby Boomers end? I can not guess what it is like to be young and in
competition with thousands, nay millions of others for jobs that are not there,
to be told constantly by an over-privileged out-of-touch banker/proxy Prime
Minister with an obvious sadistic and craven streak, that you do not deserve
the pittance you get, and that he is clearly willing to exercise a mercantile
and mercenary instinct by employing the dog-eat-dog divide and rule and set the
‘mob’ against itself. If we are going to maintain our dignity it is best if we,
to a man and woman, ignore David Cameron’s inane utterances and all reports
thereof completely. To pit neighbour against neighbour and stoke up resentment
and ill-will by saying, at the budget announcement in Parliament. ‘You go out
to work and your neighbour is still in bed’ and to receive a cheer in the house
from these dogs of divide and rule also fat-necked bankers, and, furthermore to
use terms like ‘Strivers and skivers’, is irresponsible in the extreme; It is a
relentless decoy away from their own affection-starved money-addicted selves.
All bankers, meaning David Cameron and his ilk, I believe, should be imprisoned
for treason; end of.
I have slept today, intermittently, know that my sleep
cycles will be temporarily upside-down due to night shifts, yet surrounded by
three hundred slumbering souls…Of all the things offered over Christmas, the
company of fellow human beings, homeless and volunteers alike, Christmas
dinner, sleep, deep unguarded sleep is the one luxury prized the most, and
some, if not most lie in as late as they can, or come to their little space
early to catch up on and indeed store up on sleep as though it were a basic
commodity like rice, our flour. At debriefing one of the middle-aged male
co-ordinators held back his tear. “A young man came to me and said ‘Thank you,
It’s the first time I’ve slept well in six months’ “. Reminded of our roles on
day two, Christmas Night as ‘floaters’, walking around silently, like
protective angels, instead of sitting, my partner, a well-preserved forty-seven
year old who West Indian guy from Ilford who had cared for his ailing mother
and father until both had died- “ you may feel like you aren’t doing anything,
said our co-ordinator, but just by being here allows them to feel safe enough
to sleep deeply”. On the last night, I was told by a co-ordinator, before they are let out into the hostile world again, you can hear the anxiety in their sleep; alot cry.
I don’t mean to blow my own altruistic trumpet here, but me
and the West-Indian guy were both elected by accident to be patrolling
guardians of the sleepers or ‘floaters’. The days prior to Christmas night this
role had been reserved for the head co-ordinators while pairs of volunteers
were placed in strategic angles to watch, sedentary, over the snoring covered
rows. It was between the briefing and the selection of
groups of twelve that I had the urgent need to pee. On my return from the
toilet, which must have taken less than five minutes, all the teams had been
selected and had departed for their various sectors; I was suddenly a spare.
The head co-ordinator looked a bit baffled then told me to find Sue on the
second floor, they were apparently one short. Joining the group who waited
silently to relieve the day shift, even though I was now indistinguishable
within the team, I noticed the late arrival of the West-Indian guy, who also
had been distracted at selection having checked on his belongings for what was
a nano-second, (the selection and turnover is necessarily rapid)-again , every
one was selected for designated seated surveillance posts and, miraculously, we
found we were spare again. ‘This is a very special role’. We were told.
Thus on Christmas night we did two three hour stints walking
up and down separated but keeping an eye on each other, in the vast darkened of
the abandoned ex-pharmaceutical offices, surrounded by the incongruous duality
of penthouse views and mass homelessness.
I don’t know how many miles I walked that night within that space, alert
to every sound, nocturnal muttering, groan of anxiety, involuntary yell, fart,
chorus of snores, but my body seemed to slick into a solid mode, almost primed
like a predator; something had set like a statue or benevolent gargoyle or
stone angel; my back had long began to ache, in the middle, either side of my
spine…as though to counter-balance my relentless vigil.
The feeling that I, were I in their situation, would be
dealing with it with less grace, haunted me throughout. Would my pride and
arrogance render me the barking street orator railing against a general public
who had abandoned me; no doubt. I would lack the humility for a quiet demise.
Homelessness is in direct contrast to the naïve premises that everyone is
basically there to rescue everyone else, the fact that this is a basic fallacy
was illustrated recently at Hammersmith station during evening rush hour six
months ago. I was meeting a friend to see Edgar Allen-Poe stories at The Lyric
Theatre and had arrived early. On exiting the ticket barriers I noticed gangs
of police in the main hall of the station. Each gang of threes and fours had
surrounded a man or a woman who they were in the process of literally
strip-searching. It could in no way be mistaken for a London transport ticket inspection; it
targeted ethnic minorities. Contents of bags were spilled over on to the
concourse, trousers were half way down revealing underpants, skirts lifted up
the owners were Pakistani, blacks. A group led an old Eastern European Big
Issue seller away in custody. Flat-jacketed men and women patrolled the scenes
of mass search and arrest, jack-booted chests puffed up, while, to my
astonishment hoards of commuters poured into the station from the offices
around and refused to acknowledge the Nazi-style round-up acting itself out
before them; they were literally sleep-walking en mass! Not one person stopped
to enquire why individuals were being thus humiliated in full view. The scene
was horrifically reminiscent of public humiliation of the Jews in pre-war
Germany or Lithuania, the photographer catching the victim kicked to the ground
while smart shoes, trousered and stocking-ed-legs rushed by; Sleepwalkers. I
went to Rymans on Kings Street
, bought a huge piece of cardboard a black marker pen and wrote, WAKE UP. THEY
ARE STOPPING PAKISTANIS, BLACKS AND ETHNIC MINORITIES, SAY SOMETHING. REMEMBER
NAZI GERMANY ,
REMEMBER LITHUAN.
Like a walking sandwich board I approached the general area
of the search carried out hitherto totally unchallenged by the hoards of
Londoners on their way home. Done
searching one man a group of five police men and women approached me and my
orange one-man protest. As soon as they were next to me one said, “Can we have
a word about that sign”. My goal was to stir protest not provoke the police; it
was beyond that…I was beyond that. I immediately began yelling the content of
my protest for all to hear. WAKE UP! THEY ARE STOPPING PAKISTANIS, BLACKS AND
ETHNIC MINORITIES! SAY SOMETHING! REMEMBER NAZI GERMANY , REMEMBER LITHUAN! The five
police officers, as one, all jumped away from me as though by attempting to use
the crowd I had shown them a sudden and clear refection of themselves and they
had been instinctively jolted out of the mirror’s and their own hideous line of
sight.