The ghosts of Christmas present

Christmas is always a time of heightened emotion in Britain. The airwaves are filled with pop songs specially composed for the festive period and the same irritating tunes are endlessly looped in supermarkets and department stores. Short of total isolation there is no escape from the Christmas vortex. Families get together again and work colleagues get drunk at office parties as the country winds down until the New Year. It is a time for relaxation and excessive eating and drinking. However, as happiness is on the order of the day and enjoyment is in great demand such heightened expectations also produce their opposite, as the lonely, the excluded, and the poorest are confronted by the stark contrast between hype and reality. 

At London’s busiest shopping intersection in Oxford Circus, Danny, a former Speakers’ Corner regular wields a megaphone. He stands self-confident and righteously appeals to the bustling mass of passers-by not to buy any Christmas presents. Videos of his antics go viral. But the wheels of consumerism march on despite his surrealist performance. 

According to English folklore, Dick Whittington escaped from servitude in a lower class family in London. But as he fled the city, the chimes of the church bells of Mary-le-Bow triggered a vision that he was destined to become the Lord Mayor of London. This medieval tale is the origin of the phrase the streets of London are paved with gold. Fables of meritocratic advance, where a pauper, by a combination of luck and opportunistic genius becomes rich and influential are part of the popular psyche. They reinforce the idea that anyone can make it. The real Richard Whittington (1354-1423) was a wealthy merchant who served as Lord Mayor of London four times. However, he did not rise from penury to become wealthy, rather he used his wealth, at least partly, to help the poor. And he left his mark by financing philanthropic works: a hospital ward for unmarried women; swamp drainage in poor districts; public toilets, libraries and similar charitable deeds. 

Temperatures in London rarely fall below zero, but its damp winter weather seems to seep through the thickest clothing. In the main shopping districts, sleeping bags and cardboard boxes litter the streets, where, clustered together in sheltered nooks and crannies, the rough-sleeping homeless continue to follow Dick Whittington’s dream. However, at least 554 of them died on the streets of Britain over the last year.

London’s street sleepers are made up of a wide variety of humanity. Ghost-like creatures wander around Piccadilly and Soho pleading with each passing stranger for money for food. Some have weather worn and decaying faces, which reveal that their endless begging is dedicated to their addiction to Crystal Meth. These poor souls resemble the undead. They struggle daily to contort their miserable descent into the abyss into a facial expression that can appear, in the eyes of their potential donors, as hunger. And hunger it is. Hunger for an ecstatic escape that blanks out their miserable existence.

Whole families of Roma migrants from Romania also inhabit these spaces. They sleep in groups for self-protection. Ideally, they find spots that afford some shelter from the rain. Despite not being locals, these people are certainly imbued with Dick Whittington’s energetic and entrepreneurial Geist. However, they tend to be more grounded in reality. Thus, rather than aspiring to becoming rich merchants and Mayors, they beg and rummage through rubbish bins. They play accordions, sell homeless newspapers, and are prepared to scour the more outlying districts of the city for an abandoned garage to sleep in, if only for a few weeks, unnoticed. They rapidly learn to identify the most bountiful rubbish bins, and they assiduously return to reap its fruits. 

The zombie drug addicts and the Roma are just the most visible archetype of street sleepers. Begging, after all, is an entrepreneurial art. It requires constant innovation and an unending search for new markets. No one gives to the same beggar every day, or to beggars who use the same pitch for money that they have heard many times before. It is an old, outdated and unfashionable profession. The fact that it is thriving is a sign of decay. 

Central London hollows out at Christmas, as British and European migrants return to their families. This year, the usual fears that forgotten family tensions will spill into the open over Christmas dinner, will be combined with the inevitable family Brexit argument, creating conditions for the perfect storm. Such tensions over the Brexit Xmas table are likely to generate irreparable animosity and conflicts. 

Everything indicates that Prime Minster Theresa May cannot win a majority for her Brexit deal with the EU, either in her party or parliament. This political paralysis comes as the deadline for Brexit on 29 March 2019 draws near. As a consequence the views of the whole nation on the issues are reaching peak tension, and they have no outlet except in arguments with family and friends. No resolution from above is coming. Indeed, the dominant trend amongst parliamentarians is now leaning towards asking the people to vote on the same issues again! 

A couple of days ago I noticed a woman staggering down the street late at night. She was totally inebriated. However, with considerable determination, she attempted to march on to reach her destination. But her unstable legs and wobbly ankles balanced on two-inch stiletto heels, struggled to follow her will. Also worrying was the fact that her handbag was wide open, so any passer-by could dip in and help themselves to her wallet or phone. My friend and I helped her to get to the nearest underground train station. There she sat down on the floor and rummaged through her handbag to find her travel pass. And, to our surprise, she pulled out her work ID card, which revealed that she is a police officer. After helping her up she once again attempted to march off towards the platform, all the while staggering from side to side and in danger of falling down the stairs or worse. This comical representative of state authority was unable to coordinate her mind and body to do the most elementary things. She was a real danger to herself, yet nevertheless she swore that she was certain of her ability to get to where she wanted to go. I put her on a train going towards her rather distant destination, and asked a young East European woman if she could keep an eye on her. She agreed. Afterwards, I could not help thinking that the state of this police officer, unable to walk or think straight, yet declaring to the world that she is sure of where she is going, bears an uncanny resemblance to Theresa May and her government this Christmas.

—Heiko Khoo, 21 December 2018