The call of the wild
Friday April 21
The city is a jungle.
But not in any mean or violent sense of the word.
No. It is the animals. Savage. Territorial. Hunters.
Like worker bees with their pouches of pollen. These beasts carry pouches of a different kind. Glossy shopping bags. Big logos on the side. Expensive items neatly folded inside with security tags removed. Sometimes by force.
Nature of all kinds uses force. Even in the city.
The call of the wild – London style.
“Standaaard!”
They are a common breed here.
Multiplying faster than the pigeons.
“Standaaard! Standaaard!”
Will the Greater London Council (GLC) instigate a culling program to kerb their numbers? Like Ken Livingstone did to the poor, helpless, diseased, deformed, stumpy-legged and cancer-ridden pigeons?
Killed them off.
Full scale annihilation program.
Poison.
Like the Nazis did to the Jews, the gypsies, the gays and the invalids.
And just like the Nazis, Ken failed.
Doomed to anti-Semitic “Standaaard” headlines.
6.04am.
Last night bus home.
It has been a cold night.
In weather and money.
Work was slow.
11 hours work for £75.
I had two punctures at the start of the evening, both in the same wheel.
No rides for four hours.
Riding round like a madman. Ringing my bell. Yelling, “Rickshaaaw”. Trying to hold a smile when inside the desperation is rising up to the point that I want to grab a rich theatregoer, shake them violently and yell, “Look, fucker. I just want to pay my rent. That’s all I ask. Is that too much?”
But it’s not all been bad.
My housing benefit finally turned up today. After months of scrimping, borrowing, begging and stealing.
After months of phone calls. Months of benefit letters demanding the same information over and over again. The same information I passed on to twice before.
And out of the blue, a cheque of £412 pounds arrives in my letterbox today.
No warning.
Just there.
And I met and chatted with Euan from filmmakers against war.
I was asked for drugs twice tonight.
“I need some information,” says the man.
He had a very bad East European accent.
“Where can I buy some crack?” he asks.
I was expecting him to ask me for directions.
I guess he was, in a way.
I say, I’m a Rickshaw rider, man, not a drug dealer. Get the hell away from me.
His accent was fake. He and his friend, I am sure, were undercover.
I saw two other undercovers later, rough-looking, talking to uniformed police and directing them.
On the way to the bus I meet a man, I think he was homeless. He says he has been mugged and has no way to get home. He wants money.
I say, I’m a Rickshaw. No one begs money from us.
His face is heavily battered and bleeding everywhere, like a character from Tokyo Fist.
He says he just wants to go home.
I say, you need a hospital, not home.
As I wait for the night bus home a Spanish kid asked me for a cigarette.
Then he asks, “Can I buy some cocaine?”
I ask, do I look like a drug dealer?
“Yes,” he says.
“I haven’t slept for two days,” he says.
No wonder you’re asking for coke, I say. You don’t need more drugs. You need good, honest, healthy sleep. Go home before you hurt your head.
Dawn now.
Coming up to Neasden.
Only a few more stops.
Then stretch, shower, hot and good. Better than sex. Or maybe I’m just getting old.
I have beer. One beer. A smoke. And settle down to some riot porn to send me off to the land of nod.
The city is a jungle.
But not in any mean or violent sense of the word.
No. It is the animals. Savage. Territorial. Hunters.
Like worker bees with their pouches of pollen. These beasts carry pouches of a different kind. Glossy shopping bags. Big logos on the side. Expensive items neatly folded inside with security tags removed. Sometimes by force.
Nature of all kinds uses force. Even in the city.
The call of the wild – London style.
“Standaaard!”
They are a common breed here.
Multiplying faster than the pigeons.
“Standaaard! Standaaard!”
Will the Greater London Council (GLC) instigate a culling program to kerb their numbers? Like Ken Livingstone did to the poor, helpless, diseased, deformed, stumpy-legged and cancer-ridden pigeons?
Killed them off.
Full scale annihilation program.
Poison.
Like the Nazis did to the Jews, the gypsies, the gays and the invalids.
And just like the Nazis, Ken failed.
Doomed to anti-Semitic “Standaaard” headlines.
6.04am.
Last night bus home.
It has been a cold night.
In weather and money.
Work was slow.
11 hours work for £75.
I had two punctures at the start of the evening, both in the same wheel.
No rides for four hours.
Riding round like a madman. Ringing my bell. Yelling, “Rickshaaaw”. Trying to hold a smile when inside the desperation is rising up to the point that I want to grab a rich theatregoer, shake them violently and yell, “Look, fucker. I just want to pay my rent. That’s all I ask. Is that too much?”
But it’s not all been bad.
My housing benefit finally turned up today. After months of scrimping, borrowing, begging and stealing.
After months of phone calls. Months of benefit letters demanding the same information over and over again. The same information I passed on to twice before.
And out of the blue, a cheque of £412 pounds arrives in my letterbox today.
No warning.
Just there.
And I met and chatted with Euan from filmmakers against war.
I was asked for drugs twice tonight.
“I need some information,” says the man.
He had a very bad East European accent.
“Where can I buy some crack?” he asks.
I was expecting him to ask me for directions.
I guess he was, in a way.
I say, I’m a Rickshaw rider, man, not a drug dealer. Get the hell away from me.
His accent was fake. He and his friend, I am sure, were undercover.
I saw two other undercovers later, rough-looking, talking to uniformed police and directing them.
On the way to the bus I meet a man, I think he was homeless. He says he has been mugged and has no way to get home. He wants money.
I say, I’m a Rickshaw. No one begs money from us.
His face is heavily battered and bleeding everywhere, like a character from Tokyo Fist.
He says he just wants to go home.
I say, you need a hospital, not home.
As I wait for the night bus home a Spanish kid asked me for a cigarette.
Then he asks, “Can I buy some cocaine?”
I ask, do I look like a drug dealer?
“Yes,” he says.
“I haven’t slept for two days,” he says.
No wonder you’re asking for coke, I say. You don’t need more drugs. You need good, honest, healthy sleep. Go home before you hurt your head.
Dawn now.
Coming up to Neasden.
Only a few more stops.
Then stretch, shower, hot and good. Better than sex. Or maybe I’m just getting old.
I have beer. One beer. A smoke. And settle down to some riot porn to send me off to the land of nod.
posted by Oscar Beard at 6:09 AM
2 Comments:
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