It's been sixteen years which are gone forever, and I'll never have again

[davywavy]

I arrived in Manchester to study at a pretend University in mid-1990. On (I think) my second day in town I was strolling down the main road (Oxford Road) when I was approached by a well-dressed man of early middle years.
"'scuse me, son?" He said, so I 'scused him. "I wonder if you can help me. God forgive me, I'm trying to get to the men's hostel in Wythenshawe and I've not got my fare for the bus and, God forgive me, I was wondering if..."
Well, undoubtedly you can see where this was going. The upshot was that I was pretty callow and naive at the time so he got some cash out of me. I wised up pretty sharply when two days later, I was walking down Oxford Road again when he came up to me: "'Scuse me son, God forgive me, I'm trying..."

As time went by I realised that this man and a compatriot would walk down opposite sides of Oxford Road, accosting everyone who passed with the tale that, God forgive them, they'd lost their fare to the men's hostel in Wythenshawe and could they be spared some change? This went on for the entire five years I lived in Manchester. A couple of times a week, "'scuse me son..."
You know how it goes. Sometimes they got some money out of me if I was feeling flush, sometimes not. I learned the location of a Mens Hostel which was literally a hundred yards from Oxford Road and went through a period of directing them to it with all appearence of helpful cheer and goodwill, saving them the trouble of getting to Wythenshawe. They didn't like that much, because apparently the central Manchester hostel didn't have the right facilities. Perhaps the pool wasn't of the right quality, or the central Manchester hostel didn't give complimentary chocolates in the rooms and Wythenshawe did. I don't know.
The most striking thing about this bloke was that he didn't give any appearence of being your average homeless man. Whilst not smart, he certainly wasn't a bum, either. He plainly took care of himself; shirt and tie, personal hygeine, he made an effort, which was enough to at least predispose me to listen and sympathise and occasionally cough up.
I did wish he'd occasionally use a different story, though.

Eventually I left Manchester. A couple of weeks before I left, I had been walking through town in a pretty poor mood for reasons I've mentioned on these pages before when: "'scuse me, son, God forgive me, but...". I turned to him and replied:
"Look, you've been trying to get to the mens hostel in Wythenshawe for five years. I really think you could have walked it by now."
And then I left town. I thought that was that.

A couple of weeks ago I was staying in a central Manchester hotel whilst up there to see neilhist and vulgarcriminal and on Saturday morning I took a walk down Oxford Road to the Manchester Museum, one of my favourite places. As I was walking, a familiar figure approached me.
"'scuse me, mate*? God forgive me, but I'm trying to get to the mens hostel in Wythenshawe..."
I was so shocked I put my hand in my pocket gave him a quid.
Subsequent to this, though, I've been thinking. I'm now fascinated by this man, and what his story must be. He's spent the last sixteen years walking up and down Oxford Road in Manchester, asking people for money to get to Wythenshawe. What could make someone think that this is a good way to spend all that time? I stop and think about the thimgs I've done since 1990. I've got a degree. I've started my own company. I've seen the view from the top of the Pyramid of the Sun, the Temple of the Jaguar and the Space needle. I've seen attack ships in flames off the shoulder of Orion and T-beams glitter at the Tannhauser gate...
In the same period this guy, come all weathers, has been hanging around outside Whitworth Park. Is there a good living to be made on Oxford Road panhandling from students? Or is he on day-release from a local Sanitorium and knows nothing else? Or is he a tragic figure like King Pellinore or Sisyphus, doomed by the gods ever to quest for the mens hostel in Wythenshawe but never to find it?
I think the next time he collars me, probably in 2022 the way things are going, I'm going to offer to buy him a drink and ask him his story.

^{*I've been upgraded from 'son'. It must be my respectable demeanor.}

Comments

[tooth-fairy.livejournal.com]

I think they must only approach men. I've walked up and down Oxford Road for the last 3 years and no one has approached me.

[davywavy.livejournal.com]

Perhaps they went into retirement and staged a comeback when they heard I was back in town.

[tooth-fairy.livejournal.com]

Nah, I reckon they just harrass men.

In the early 90's I was loitering round Manchester, being teenage and generally annoying and no one approached me then either...

I may go searching for them

[blue-cat.livejournal.com]

Perhaps they earn enough like that to pay for what they want - and they want fairly little?

Equally some people have managed to earn more begging that they could on social security or even a low quality job.

[davywavy.livejournal.com]

Apparently a talented busker on London Underground can pull in £300 a day.

And then there's the Sherlock Holmes story - "The man with the twisted lip."

[miss-s-b.livejournal.com]

there's the Sherlock Holmes story - "The man with the twisted lip."

I was thinking of that!

[davywavy.livejournal.com]

Gosh, do you have an enormous, pulsating brain like mine too?

[miss-s-b.livejournal.com]

I do. Strangely, it seems to be enormous and pulsating 99% of the time, but for the other 1% it defaults to tiny and walnut-sized and gets me into trouble.

This I attribute to being female.

[davywavy.livejournal.com]

Well, I tend to make sure my brain is on tip-tip form by listening to the 'wom wom wom' noise it makes when it's ticking over nicely. I worry about it at other times.

[miss-s-b.livejournal.com]

Mine goes more like "b-dum, b-dum, b-dum" when it's on form. Like the sound of a Triumph Triple on tickover. Tis my daddy's fault for giving me biker genes.

[davywavy.livejournal.com]

Ah, you have an internal combustion brain, that explains it. I upgraded to fusion power quite some time ago.

[miss-s-b.livejournal.com]

Oh, I'm an old-fashioned girl with a sentimental attachment to the infernal combustion engine. And it might not be the newest, flashiest brain around, and it certainly doesn't have all the bells and whistles, but it's sufficient for me.

Perhaps if one day I get a Proper Job I might upgrade, but not for the moment.

[davywavy.livejournal.com]

If there's one thing you don't need an upgrade for it's a proper job.
I only upgraded so I could run Quake 4 on my Medulla Oblongata.

[miss-s-b.livejournal.com]

Never having had a Proper Job I wouldn't know ;)

I haven't played Quake IV. I loved the first one; thought the second was OK; never played III. It would be handy to be able to filter gossip through my amygdala without having to engage concious thought though.

[davywavy.livejournal.com]

Quake 4 is ok. It's based on the Doom 3 engine, which I really don't like.
My game of the moment is Far Cry. Play it now, for it rocks!

[miss-s-b.livejournal.com]

I would, but sadly I must venture to my place of Improper Employment. Woe.

[colonel-maxim.livejournal.com]

'Scuse me, mate. I wonder if you could help me. God forgive me, I'm trying to get back to my blog in cyberspace and I've not got the fare for bandwith and, God forgive me, I was wondering if you could put a few thousand quid in my Swiss bank account?

[davywavy.livejournal.com]

Here's a quid, my good man. Now be off with you before I thrash you for mendicacy!

[applez.livejournal.com]

Classic. Mostly, the 'needy' here (as well as the authentically needy) just hang about and grumble their monetary needs, or sit silently with a sign.

Thankfully, my city has been cracking down on 'aggressive panhandling,' for what that's worth.

I particularly remember one rather inventive guy who was trying to get money from people waiting for the train on BART after 11 Sept 01, showing his military ID. I directed him to the nearest Veterans Administration building.

[vampyrefate.livejournal.com]

Was talking to a friend today and she saw a begger get given about 30 quid in notes by a "posh woman".

Beggar said, "Er... are you sure?"

Posh woman said, "Yes, it's not much".

[davywavy.livejournal.com]

If that's her attitude, I hope you got her phoen number...

[gwaunquest.livejournal.com]

So you've not read "Neverwhere" then?

[davywavy.livejournal.com]

I saw one episode of the TV series and it really didn't do it for me, so I never bothered...