The Guttersnipe Journals

By Mark Stewart-Jones

I am not homeless- I'm just someone who can't go home

With these words, the young man known as Guttersnipe begins his account of two years spent living on the streets of Canterbury.

Amongst the struggles he must face every day there is one that he never anticipated; that of boredom and how to occupy his time. Acting on a friend's advice on how to combat this problem, he begins to write his thoughts down each day. He records his observations, his ideas, his memories and his own life story.

It is these writings that form the basis of The Guttersnipe Journals.

Guttersnipe's story does not simply focus on the hardships that keep him apart from society - but rather he finds the common threads of human experience that bond us all together.

It is a story that everyone should read.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Jul 15, 2010
• ISBN: 9781452026985

Mark Stewart-Jones

Mark Stewart-Jones has written four novels (published by The Book Guild). For many years he has combined writing with being the primary carer for his disabled daughter Sophie. He has also written graphic novels and the story of the first eighteen years of Sophie's life in Daughter.

Book preview

the

guttersnipe

journals

by

‘guttersnipe’

edited by mark stewart-jones

missing image file

AuthorHouse™ UK Ltd.

500 Avebury Boulevard

Central Milton Keynes, MK9 2BE

www.authorhouse.co.uk

Phone: [phone]

© 2010 Mark Stewart-Jones. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

First published by AuthorHouse 7/9/2010

ISBN: 978-1-4520-2698-5 (e)

ISBN: 978-1-4520-2697-8 (sc)

This book is printed on acid-free paper.

For Elle – Guttersnipe

For Guttersnipe and all the ghosts – MS-J

Contents

Foreword.

I am not homeless – I’m just someone who can’t go home.

I had a long talk with Tom this morning.

For some reason, I was always really good with dates.

Now, I know what you’re thinking.

60 miles is the perfect distance, if you think about it.

I didn’t subject my mum to years of teenage angst and rebellion.

All this and my GCSEs too.

One night In Sidcup.

One of Denny’s theories.

I have some serious issues with God nowadays.

So what exactly was I expecting? You ask.

Funny thing is; I actually passed my GCSEs.

That evening, I built a metaphoric bonfire for myself.

I saw quite a bit of Tom over the following days.

Now, it was my intention to stay with a friend that weekend.

I gathered up my sleeping bag and my rucksack and I stood up.

So that night, I could claim that I was moved on by the police.

Eventually, I got around to buying a note pad as Tom had suggested.

So when exactly did we all get so scared of the homeless?

Some unforeseen circumstances.

The next couple of days were difficult for me.

Ghosts.

I don’t know why we’re all so obsessed with blame nowadays.

Sadly, by this point my once great talent for dates had all but deserted me.

A change of scene.

‘Hey G., wow, nice tent!

‘Knock, knock!’

What a simple-minded creature a young man is.

Walls.

Motor Vehicle Maintenance and Repair.

The fact I’d not been given the time to worry about making such a call was doubtless an advantage.

Breaking the Ice?

I suppose I should say something about drugs.

Guttersnipe goes to college.

Elle was definitely right about one thing.

I walked to Canterbury in just under six hours.

December 3rd 2007.

About the Author

Foreword.

I started this project having agreed to the condition that I would under no circumstances reveal Guttersnipe’s true identity. At all times, I have attempted to treat this request with respect and I fully understand his motives for wishing to remain anonymous. To this end I have changed the names of some of the characters in the text and altered the details of some situations to prevent his true identity becoming known. None of this, I hope, will detract anything of substance away from this young man’s story.

M S-J

I am not homeless – I’m just someone who can’t go home.

That’s pretty much my take on it and if you were to ask around I reckon, for whatever reason, that would probably place me with the majority of people out here. Except you don’t really hear that actual word very often. Yeah, it’s just a word, I know, but it’s a particularly loaded one and most of us avoid it as much as possible. For ease of classification, I suppose, the word has been forced upon us but it is not simply a classification – it is also serves as a sort of judgement. For with the word comes all manner of prejudice and assumption and it is often difficult to see anything beyond it. Sadly, it seems to me that a homeless person is 95% homeless and 5% person. Out here, given enough time, people like me simply fade and vanish.

But the word itself has such power; it is divisive and unequivocal and you quickly learn that there are no grey areas in homelessness! As soon as the word attaches itself to you, it activates a gradual shift in perception and the inevitable slow erosion of identity.

There are probably other words in our language, possibly with greater historical precedents, which function in a similar way – but I would never use those words either.

Marginalised, excluded, isolated … yeah, whatever. We all know those words too; they are the unavoidable realities of our situation – the stuff that we must confront every single day. But the truth of the matter is that, for most of us, being homeless is more of a consequence than an actual objective – it’s the secondary aspect to some other matter of far greater significance. A desperate situation once required a desperate action and what you are seeing is simply the most obvious and lasting effect of that action.

There is a process I suppose, one which we all must go through – although I wouldn’t say it’s actually a conscious one. To be honest, I feel as though I played no active part in it whatsoever and that homelessness was just something that happened to me.

But it’s a very gradual and incremental change in a person’s thinking; I would call it desensitization for want of a better word. It’s nothing particularly defined. I couldn’t face going home one night so I didn’t. The same thing happened the following night and then the night after and then at some point I just stopped thinking about it. It was an escape; an alternative - I didn’t want to be out here particularly it was just at that moment I couldn’t think of anywhere else to go. It sort of just happens and the same scenario applies to the vast majority of people out here.

You see, this is the place where everybody has a back story – it’s the one thing we all have in common! Everyone out here has got a tale to tell and they are usually happy to share it with you. Some stories are far, far sadder than mine, some are genuinely tragic, some tales might be blighted by fate or misfortune and by comparison mine might seem dull indeed.

But it is the one I know best.

I had a long talk with Tom this morning.

Tom is about 30 I suppose. I know he has a family up north somewhere, he talks about them and as far as I’m aware he still has some contact with them. I’ve never asked him any direct questions; I’ve just sort of gleaned this information during our talks. I’d say 30 but guessing ages sometimes can be incredibly difficult. He always calls me ‘kiddo’ but that’s probably not a fair reflection on how old I look either - that’s just his way. Sometimes when I catch sight of myself in shop windows I think I might look about 24 or 25, something like that, even though I’m still only 17. I tell myself it’s the goatee but I’m not entirely convinced. Tom might actually be a few years younger too but I don’t feel inclined to ask him - I’m sure if he thinks it’s ever relevant or important he’ll tell me.

But I enjoy Tom’s company, I like his take on things and I often find myself taking something very like comfort from his general philosophy on life. It was a warm sunny morning and we walked along the river together. As we skirted the edges of Sainsbury’s car park, we watched a young couple loading their shopping into a big 4X4. They smiled a lot and seemed generally happy and content with their car, their shopping and each other.

‘You know something, kiddo?’ asked Tom, in a quiet voice, just loud enough for me to hear. ‘You know what separates them from us; all that from all this?’ He put a curious emphasis on the word but the implication was clear enough.

‘No.’ I replied.

‘Just two bad decisions,’ he said, shaking his head ominously, ‘maybe three but no more than three.’ I nodded but said nothing. ‘That’s all it takes, kiddo.’

The couple started their 4X4 as Tom began walking off. I thought about what he had just said and followed him. Maybe he’s right, he usually is.

Later on, he told me that there is a process he refers to as the ‘institutionalisation of the street’. Although not unavoidable, it is depressingly common. He said I should always be on the look-out for any signs of it happening to me and to do everything I can to resist it. The longer a person spends out here, he said, the more that person will start to divide his or her life into smaller and smaller fragments. Not years or seasons or terms anymore. It all shrinks down to days and then to hours – as we just look ahead from one morning to the following evening and then nothing beyond that. In that respect we are like long-term prisoners, he said, we protect ourselves from the reality of our situation by not looking beyond what is immediate and tangible. We focus on our fatigue, our hunger and our most basic needs and we think only about today; not next week or next year. He said that even the idea is preposterous. Tom became quite animated at this point.

‘Think about it,’ he suddenly demanded. ‘We live in our species’ most natural basic state. Our lives are so pure and untarnished; far truer to our own biological instincts! Just think, we are governed by the need to rest or the need to eat! Our days divided only by light and darkness. Think about it - we are quintessential human beings!’

I wasn’t sure if he was being serious so I just chuckled.

He said the future belongs to everyone not just to other people; like those with shopping and nice cars – it belongs to people like us.

We fell into a comfortable silence for a few moments as I watched him roll a cigarette. Then I told him about my problem with boredom and how I still spend a lot of the day just thinking about things. I tried to make light of it but I could sense that he recognised or even sympathized with the particular condition.

He smiled. ‘Be careful,’ he said, ‘you’ve got to really watch that boredom there, kiddo, OK?’

I nodded but must have looked unconvinced because he continued.

‘You see, leaving aside all the obvious things – like we’ve just been discussing; a bite to eat and a safe place to sleep, it’s the boredom that is often a real issue. To be honest it can be a major problem for some of us.’ He paused for a moment and gathered his thoughts. ‘Actually, you know, I’m pretty sure it’s one of the main reasons why some of us drink so much – it’s just to fight off the fucking boredom! I’m absolutely serious;