BEGGARS AND BARGAINS

BEGGARS AND BARGAINS

Those who know me appreciate how much I like a bargain, and that I am an unashamed fan of charity shops, where I can regularly acquire some gem of world cinema on DVD for £1 (recently that flawless masterpiece Three Colours: Red by Kieslowski with Jean-Louis Trintignant), or world literature ditto (two weeks ago The Zafarani Files by the Egyptian genius, the late Gamal al Ghitani). I am even of such unbelievably low scruples that I like going into pound shops, where being a keen cook I can find bargain casserole tins for a pound apiece, meaning 5 of the buggers for a fiver or 10 for a tenner, catering quantities no less, now we’re talking eh. However, 2 days ago I truly excelled myself by discovering in a pound shop in Hackney a pristine and massive brand-new boxed DVD set, containing no less than six DVDs on the History of the Second World War, with a total playing time of 12 hours. The whole lot cost me a pound, meaning each DVD cost me 16p, which these days wouldn’t even buy you a bit of bubble gum. It is an American production (hence they refer to Ay-dolf Hitler), is full of rare archive footage, has an incisive and intelligent commentary, and is giving me an education and even making me ashamed of my relative ignorance. I thought for example that the 1939 invasion of Poland by the Nazis on the west and the traitorous Soviets on the east, was all over in 5 minutes, but not at all, the Poles kept on fighting bravely for as long as they possibly could, and with scant timely assistance from the Allies. Nor did I know that the hideous Josef Goebbels (1897-1945), Nazi propaganda minister and Final Solution enthusiast, was a rare Nazi inasmuch as he was highly educated and had a PhD in literature. He was also only 5 feet tall and had a congenital deformity, a severe limp due to childhood illness, which perhaps partly explains the rabid savagery of his demented antisemitism, PhD or not.

As I roam my favourite East London charity shops, I bump into 2 things on a regular basis, namely beggars and dogs, and of course sometimes the two are combined. There were only a handful of dogs on the Isle of Kythnos in the Greek Cyclades where I lived for 6 years, whereas London is bursting at the seams with them, especially if you spot someone who exercises other people’s for a living, typically a thin young woman with up to 10 canine charges, everything from lofty Afghan Hounds to squawking Yorkshire Terriers scampering alongside, a boon for me as I have always been dog daft and always want to pat every one I see. As for the beggars, the bulk of them are seated on the ground, either next to a supermarket or a cash machine, with an empty plastic cup as receptacle for coins, their typical age being early to mid-30s. Those squatted on the ground are unfailingly polite, offer eloquent thanks for anything you give them, and they usually invoke God’s blessing on you too. Maybe about a quarter of these unfortunates also have a dog, and whereas the sight of a dogless beggar on the ground with a coffee or often a can of lager for sustenance, can instantly alienate some folk, a beggar plus dog nearly always melts the heart of everyone, Daily Telegraph readers included. This is very likely because the homeless dog wears the true and painful vulnerability of its owner on its face, for it is an animal that cannot feign nor dissimulate its feelings. The dog also knows in every nerve that it is homeless, that it does not have a house to sleep in, no more than its owner does, and to that extent like all stray animals it has a poignant aura of forlorn abandonment, so that the non-beggar, me and you that is, feels not just morally but cosmically obliged to alleviate that arctic feeling of cruel dispossession. 

Beggars on the move are a different phenomenon, and it is partly the fact they are mobile and active, meaning there is a subliminal suggestion they could work or somehow support themselves if they tried hard enough, that makes them less effective in their task.  A few days ago, as I was walking through a busy thoroughfare, a young Caribbean man of about 30 with a hectic nervous energy about him, came lurching up and informed me he hadn’t eaten anything for 10 days, which seemed to me overdoing it as the usual fasting quota never exceeds 2 days. I fished out a pound and without a word of thanks he staggered off. Belatedly I called him back as I had discovered more small change, and I told him he could have that too. Again, he offered no thanks, which perhaps explains why when he begged from a second white gentleman who was walking behind me, he got short shrift.

“No mite,” said the man, with a nasal tone of scornful incredulity. “Juss fack off will you.”

The beggar fucked off and in doing so rolled on, and the man who’d refused alms kept on walking behind me, obsessively ranting, possibly at me the gullible giver. But his voice had become lower so that he was mumbling unintelligibly and I could only guess at the contours of his particular misanthropy. His babbling suggested he might possibly have been drunk by 11am, and of course a large proportion of beggars have some sort of serious addiction, cheap drugs if not cheap booze. But this seeming drunk was not a beggar, for he had money which he would not part with, and the gulf between the moneyed and the unmoneyed is more absolute than any other.

The next post will be on or before Saturday 30th November

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