Tourniquet in a manger: An unusual setting for a cracking Christmas

Drug addict Bubbles: May or may not have been one of the three wise men I encountered

The walk from Brixton Tube station to my home down the road never fails to bring a smile to my face.

Whenever I journey down the high street I am amused by the juxtaposition of two groups hawking contradictory yet equally omnipotent wares to a crowd of commuters who would rather be left well alone.

These commodities? Religion and drugs.

First you encounter a megaphone-wielding, sandwichboard-sheathed preacher extolling the power of God and the futility of life (or just repeating the word "redemption" over and over).

Then, just as these noises ebb away, a cacophony of whisper-shouts* uttered by dealers promoting skunk outside KFC begins to flick at your ears.

Each opposing promotions posse seems oblivious to the heads-down lapels-up attitude adopted by everyone in the vicinity and carry on regardless.

But rather than a nuisance, I bracket these rather awkward throat-ramming sales tactics as a characteristic 'liveliness' that can usually be kept at arms length by moving speedily on.

But last Friday the liveliness was unavoidable.

My girlfriend and I were finally staging our flat-warming party, a whole four months after we'd moved in. To give it a sense of contempraneity we also christened it an 'end-of-term' bash and a 'Christmas' do but in truth we just wanted an excuse to get pissed.

We have a one-bedroom place situated among a fairly new block of twenty similar apartments and as such felt inclined to warn the other residents of our forthcoming event. This we did by distributing hand-written notes cunningly disguised as invites that very morning.

Surprisingly, one couple actually turned up with wine in hand but soon left as the crush of bodies escalated.

Flash forward to 4am. As the dregs of the party drained away I shoveled all the rubbish I could find into a bin-liner and went outside to the dumpsters.

As I approached the double-doors guarding the big bins I noticed a light shining from within.

I opened the door to see a guy and two women setting up all the paraphernalia required for a spot of serious socialising.

Which specific drug they were about to enjoy I couldn't say (as in I don't know whether it was crack cocaine, heroin or some potent mixture of the two, not that I'm too squeamish to utter such names) but they were using spoons and were most likely addicted to it.

I surmise you must really love something if you're willing to share an intimate space with rotting food and broken bottles - at a time more disposed to sleeping in a comfy bed - just to score a hit.

Taken aback, I said a startled hello and, in a clear case of carry-on regardless (echoing the dealers and preachers of the high street), proceeded to try and open the lid of the dumpster.

Soon realising my doing so would spill their well-prepared items on the floor I stopped and looked kind of lost.

Then: "Give 'em here," one of the girls offered, "we'll put them away after we're finished."

And so a strange exchange ensued where it seemed like the most natural thing in the world to be assisted with the disposal of trash by a trio of addicts who were probably only being obliging so they could get high sooner.

We uttered a few words by way of conversation (I resisted the temptation to ask the knee-jerk "Having a good night?" though). When I tried to hand over a semi-full can of lager the woman returned it to me with the guidance to empty its contents down the drain, ever mindful of the destruction such fluid can cause to a mountain of solidified garbage.

I found her environmental awareness endearing.

"You from up north?" The other woman asked.

"Yeah. Stockport," I answered, warming to this bizarre interchange.

"Me too," she said. "I come from Preston."

"Oh really? My dad worked in Preston for a long time."

"Yeah. Bit shit in't it."

"I believe so," I laughed. With that it was time to leave them to it.

But a thought flashed in my mind: how are you supposed to end an encounter as unusual as this? With a sort of disarming, please-don't-kill-me-I-won't-report-you-promise: 'Lovely to meet you?' Or a buddying-up kind of self-parodying jostle: 'Don't do anything I wouldn't do?'

No.

What I said instead, while slowly closing the door behind me, was the cringing: "Have a good time!"

It was like I was a parent gawkily telling my offspring to enjoy a new computer game I have absolutely no idea how to play, as I edge out of the living room to avoid further embarrassment in front of their friends.

The whole thing gave me a glimpse of the kind of feeling I'll get when I actually am a parent. And that thought scared me more than anything else.


*I feel that while appearing paradoxical it perfectly encapsulates the sound emitted. Namely something mumbled at an ironically large volume.

The fun in Brixton

Below is a little narrative from one of the more bizarre encounters in my life. It demonstrates how looking for a house in a new city is always an adventure.

“Do you like the smell of fish? Raw meat? The stink of rotting veg?” a round of verbal bullets sprayed from the woman’s mouth with an intensity intended to petrify. Her face contorted to such a level of disgust that anyone passing by might have thought I’d just declared an admiration for Alesha Dixon’s critiquing approach. I had in fact made the mistake of asking whether a two-bed flat advertised in the agency window was still available for rent. “‘Cause that’s what you’ll have to put up with every time you step awt your front door; a God awful stench,” she concluded as I dived for cover behind the nearest brochure.

As a postgrad fresher and London novice under pressure to find an abode I was a walking pay cheque ripe for the cashing. But Collette the Letting Agent was apparently oblivious to this. Rather than the hard sell she was giving me a hard time. (“I don’t bullshit ya,” was her preferred way of putting it.) And yet bizarrely her disregard for usual salesman spiel was refreshing to the point of sparking a curiosity within me: I wanted to see this horrible flat.

“Oh right,” she responded clearly taken aback by my ludicrous decision. “Well, err, I shouldn’t really do this but…” She threw a set of keys over to me. “There’s only me in here and I can’t leave, so you can just show yourself round,” she said while offering directions with a flick of her index finger.

Throughout my brisk search for shelter I had been treated to a kaleidoscope of customer courtesy from all manner of would-be letters. From feeling like I was auditioning for a role as an extra in a house share (“We’ll let you know our decision”) to being driven round nearly all of South London at a moment’s notice, the styles employed have been as varied as theories on Derren Brown’s Lotto trick.

And Collette’s renegade method was the one I found most endearing.

As it happens the flat was let down more by its dilapidated state and reportedly reluctant landlord (“What do you mean will he do it up? He already has”) than the exotic aromas coming from the market on its doorstep. But Janine’s style got me thinking; it sure would’ve been a whole lot easier if that Dubai-based landlord I found on Gumtree had trusted me to look round his flat on my own too. Rather than demand a scanned Western Union receipt be emailed as proof of finance and seriousness of intent before he would fly over to guide me himself (“I’ve had my fair share of time-wasters”). Oh well, I guess some people just aren’t very accommodating.