Back in 2008 I was a street fundraiser, something I was doing previously in the summer months during my degree, and then as a full-timer post graduation. In three years I represented Sense International, Cancer Research, Oxfam, Greenpeace and on this particular September morning, Shelter on Shepherd’s Bush high street. I’d barely arrived on site when I spotted him standing by the tube station entrance, mobile pressed to an ear and a bundle of papers tucked under the non phone holding arm. Without thinking, I grabbed my clip board and pounced
‘Boris!’ dispensing with the script
‘Bah!! Shelter!’ he offered his hand. And yes, he did talk like that
‘Can I sign you up?’
‘Of course!’ Before either of us could say anything else we were flanked by two P.A’s and a photographer. One P.A tried to usher him away, he refused saying he wanted to meet the rest of the team. As he moved to meet the team, the photographer tracked and circled and I was left to deal with one of the personal assistants. After more hand shakes and much enthused thumb raising the circus moved on.
Later that day I was asked by Shelter if they could use the picture above, taken by a team mate, on their website. Of course I agreed. The incident did leave me feeling good at the time. It was later when on my way home I started to wonder if the meeting had been staged in some way and I had just fallen into the trap, it was an election campaign after all. And BJ was in his pomp and on the rise. I mean anyone with a contact at the PFRA could find out what teams were fundraising and where. The fact that the meeting didn’t appear in the then London Paper nor the Metro, nor the Evening Standard made me think again. Either way I guess we’ll never know.
There was a one off donation from the Conservative party of £3000, which works out at £250 per month over 12 months or £25 per month over 10 years, way above the ask of £10-£15 a month, it was still a good amount. However I wanted his money. He or his P.A had facilitated the donation that much was clear and very welcome as it was, it left me feeling slightly cheated. On reflection, if someone can facilitate the distribution of money to help others that’s not a bad thing, is it? This is the dual edged butter knife right there. With Boris’ leadership in question, like it never wasn’t, we do as we always do in these circumstances, rely on opinion because after all, we don’t know Prime Ministers personally, generally, so we go one what we’re told or on our personal feelings toward them. I guess it also depends on whether we care or not or where we might be in our own lives at any given time. Don’t we? Surely we don’t succumb to gossip and titbits in the current bun or enquirer? or worse, the village pub…
Or we choose to see what we want to see. There used to be a phrase that we only had a second to make an impression. All rational thinking, which takes considerably longer than a second, unless you can freeze time to an eternity or however long it takes to come to that conclusion, suggests that that phrase is pure bunkum. He was, to me, breezy, upbeat and non committal. Not enough for me to go on. Its not his personality that I care about. In a nutshell, to me he is someone who wouldn’t know hardship nor what really matters if it punched him in the nads and dragged him off to a gulag. That might work but hmm.
As the PM appears to be once more on the ropes, leading with his hair and blustery charming phone nabbing bah ways, I reflect on that chance, or chance not, meeting and what has become of us both since.
In thirteen and a half years, he has been London Mayor (twice), the Foreign Secretary and the Prime Minister. I on the other hand have been homeless twice, washed countless dishes ( in mostly horrendous kitchens, I said mostly for those couple that were not and may be reading..insert grovelling smiley) seen my degree become useless, battled long term depression and alcohol addiction, left the country only three times (yes I know there are people who’ve never gone anywhere due to lack of means or choice), left London only a few more times than that, missed weddings, christenings and funerals; and found myself in far worse situations, mentally, emotionally and physically than I care to discuss on this page.
It was during that first Lockdown however that my mental and emotional recovery began but only because I had the space and time at long last.
I left Ealing, where I studied Music Technology and first lived for four a bit mostly happy years, in early 2009 only to return to four stops away, twelve years later (via most of the rest of London, a brief stint back up North, Berlin and Brighton before returning). A full Chinese (Lunar Year) Cycle. One Rat year to another ( just). And in my book, Rat years mostly suck. 2008 was the year of the last major financial collapse and the final death knell of the music industry. 2020… let’s not go over that one again.
I guess, aside from saying this will be my last post under this particular blog, I’m trying to say that for the first time (consistently) since meeting Boris, on his way up, I’m no longer on my way down. Unless there are more than seven levels to hell, in which case Dante is a lying mofo! Just kidding. He was a neighbour down there. Quite charming but with a nasty habit of picking his nose and flicking the contents onto the walls. No really.
My body is in need of some repairs/alterations and I could do with some decent money like most of us could, yet my mojo is vibrating and consistently so, which was lacking in the false dawns of the recent past. Not that I stopped writing nor playing guitar. The writing though is mostly on paper and anyone that knows me, knows I write like a drunk spider doctor in the multiverse of mescal. So it’s like, really legible. But am sure I’ll cobble it together into something tangible. Or just say it’s avant garde.
Boris and me may meet again. On his way down perhaps? As it appears he’s heading that way, despite having a Rockyesque ability to take the punches. ‘Ain’t so bad!’ And if he asks me for a donation, I’ll point him in the direction of some very nice people who helped me out. They could use your help right now, I might say…
Thank you to everyone who has read and supported this mostly random space for my mental health ramblings. I hope you have been entertained at least. Or at the very very least, have come across a random bot from another part of your Universe that has validated why you are sane and they are not. To those friends and strangers who have shown me love, in small and large amounts, listened, provided a roof over my head, offered financial support, encouragement to not give up, you know who you are and know I love you deeply, the friends anyway, most of those strangers have passed like them ships that do. But I remember them. I remember those in the same boat with no paddle. We made each other smile for a while..and perhaps kept each other warm and offered light on cold dark nights.
I hope, though I know some will have not, most of you have come through with your sanity, with love in your hearts and lives, family (be they blood or from another mother/father) and friends by your side and with some hope for the future. We’re going to need all the strength we have and can muster in the coming years. I hope you will find me standing (if sober) and fighting with you through it all, not that I wasn’t at least trying in the ensuing years hence. Some of you know, you can always rely on me to bring the party at least. I may of course, when free travel is available again, just fuck right off and hope none of you hold that against me. I wouldn’t hold it against you…
And remember this, we are one species amongst millions upon this Earth, not many races but multiple beautiful breeds. Misaligned, malfunctioning, misguided, imperfect, yet all worthy of you love and understanding and second or third chances. Unless we’re complete c**** of course. We can’t take it with us, so why grasp so greedily. One person’s hell is another’s heaven. Own your beast, you may need it to get you through and it most definitely needs you. And remain open, can’t get no bread to break at a closed shop. Unless you bake your own that is…
Much love friends, take care and thank you. No Genre, No Gender x x x
marktedlord 