HOMELESS WEEKToday is the day I, host blogger Andrew Donegan, feature in The Big Issue, thanks to editor Kevin Gopal, who agreed to print an article about some of the more sober highlights of my life to date, with a focus on my writing. I know having one or more of my books published and available to rent in the local library won’t solve all my problems, but aims and goals aren’t always financially-driven, and don’t even always make sense. They are personal, like today’s article.
Soon after my submission was accepted, I consulted several people who had been there and bought the T-shirt when it comes to stressing about homelessness, to help compile some guidance for anyone finding themselves on the streets and shed some light on how daunting it can be (this will be posted tomorrow). Fortunately, most people don’t experience this, but spare a thought for those vulnerable souls with nowhere to sleep tonight.
I am reminded of something a foreigner once said on TV while visiting Manchester for the first time after living in a poor African village all her life. She said she couldn’t understand how such a wealthy country could have so many of its citizens sleeping rough on the streets. It was not the tower blocks, fine architecture, or department stores that struck a chord with her, but the many tramps and beggars she encountered on the pavement.
(Of course, tramps and beggars are stereotypes, but we won’t get into that just now. I am contributing to a website about such exact matters as that called BACK ON TRACK, specifically for homeless, which will hopefully be up and running soon.)
I am also reminded of a fellow in my home town of Widnes from way back when. He was thee local ‘tramp’ of all local ‘tramps’. He would sit on a town bench outside the old Kwik Save swigging cider from a green bottle. He was an old, loud, animated drunk who was always dirty and dusty. He sported a huge red boil on his forehead the size of a golf ball and one day resorted to wearing the BELT FROM HIS TROUSERS tight around it in order to reduce the swelling. We nicknamed him BILLY BELTHEAD and simply couldn’t believe how ridiculously funny he looked, but no one was laughing when he died.
That was my first impression of what a homeless man looked like. Plenty of the public still think that way.
(Another note on today’s article: It isn’t ideal reading for my friends and family and others who know me, because the cat is out the bag now, but, touch wood, a despairing teenager might read it somewhere and nod his or head at some point with understanding.)
A.D
Soon after my submission was accepted, I consulted several people who had been there and bought the T-shirt when it comes to stressing about homelessness, to help compile some guidance for anyone finding themselves on the streets and shed some light on how daunting it can be (this will be posted tomorrow). Fortunately, most people don’t experience this, but spare a thought for those vulnerable souls with nowhere to sleep tonight.
I am reminded of something a foreigner once said on TV while visiting Manchester for the first time after living in a poor African village all her life. She said she couldn’t understand how such a wealthy country could have so many of its citizens sleeping rough on the streets. It was not the tower blocks, fine architecture, or department stores that struck a chord with her, but the many tramps and beggars she encountered on the pavement.
(Of course, tramps and beggars are stereotypes, but we won’t get into that just now. I am contributing to a website about such exact matters as that called BACK ON TRACK, specifically for homeless, which will hopefully be up and running soon.)
I am also reminded of a fellow in my home town of Widnes from way back when. He was thee local ‘tramp’ of all local ‘tramps’. He would sit on a town bench outside the old Kwik Save swigging cider from a green bottle. He was an old, loud, animated drunk who was always dirty and dusty. He sported a huge red boil on his forehead the size of a golf ball and one day resorted to wearing the BELT FROM HIS TROUSERS tight around it in order to reduce the swelling. We nicknamed him BILLY BELTHEAD and simply couldn’t believe how ridiculously funny he looked, but no one was laughing when he died.
That was my first impression of what a homeless man looked like. Plenty of the public still think that way.
(Another note on today’s article: It isn’t ideal reading for my friends and family and others who know me, because the cat is out the bag now, but, touch wood, a despairing teenager might read it somewhere and nod his or head at some point with understanding.)
A.D
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