The buildings are disproportionally tall with windows either boarded up or broken – like the spirits of the people who live in them. Denizens encrusted in a rind of misfortune and poverty. They’re not going anywhere, and they know it. (Only two sure ways of leaving: by winning the lottery or dying.)
It is truly a filthy district. Pavements smeared with dog shit and human vomit. Rubbish cleared only by the wind. Tarmac cracked roads clogged with traffic. An ‘open sewer of the car cult,’ as a poet once put it. What a triumph of civilisation! And recorded (for posterity?) on CCTV. The cameras may be bust but their mere presence means that Josef A could be watching. He thus remains in perfect panoptic control.
At the centre of Utopia Streets is a collection of passageways known as Thatcher’s Lanes, which are too narrow for motorised vehicles. Inhabitants spared their foul emissions and leaking batteries, which is why Auld Archie finds it just about tolerable to live here. The buildings all have double entrances and exits. (Dealer’s paradise, copper’s nightmare.) Low rent flats occupied by desperadoes with serious addictions. Some begin their adult lives as budding merchants of booze, heroin and blow. But trouble ensues when they sample their wares, which, as a general rule, makes for poor business practice.
Worse than the smack artists – in the eyes of the authorities – are the practicing grammarians: linguistics’ outlaws who get their kicks parsing long sentences. Among them are a dissident poet, a pamphleteer friend of Auld Archie, and Mickey’s father. Brave individuals who have mustered the courage to address society’s ugly truths.
Because of its roughness and hectoring holograms, Martha does not want me frequenting the neighbourhood. She cannot deter me though. If i want to see Mickey, i have to come here. Meaning i then get to experience the hurly burly of urban life; the dirt, the noise and the froth of tackily advertised commodities. At the chateau there is great deal of tut-tutting over those goods on sale in Utopia Streets which few locals can afford. The only real business done is by stores selling stale food and ‘vitality’ packs with long expired sell by dates. And, among all this dodgy dealing of mangy products, loiter the down and outs and beggars and charity charlatans. So many living in quasi-medieval squalor, removed from the beauty of the countryside.
Business of begging
Because of increasing competition from the charity charlatans, ‘straight’ beggars must rise early to do any business. Every time i descend the mountain there seem to be more young man feigning deafness and pestering market-goers for the paper. They have minimal start-up costs. Only a (stolen) tablet required. Then they are ready to accost away (in crude sign language) with their bogus e-petitions. Polite to begin with, then less so. “Click here, pay here.” Repeat ad nauseum. Because sooner or later, by the law of averages, someone will click and pay. And, while waiting for Mr or Mrs Gullible to cross their path, there will be opportunities to cadge a smoke or drink. A bi-beg, as it were.
Last week i watched a boy about my age learning the ropes; thrusting an e-tablet into the hands of unsuspecting pedestrians. His mentor, who looked only marginally older, was encouraging his apprentice to gesture manically. He gave a demonstration and, in no time, the younger boy was defrauding with swagger and no little success.
Note to self: In order to eat i have never had to beg or swindle. i was raised in an environment free of raw struggle and competitive existence.