Angry Jack don't givva shite
In the midst of mounting financial chaos in the UK and abroad, the homeless of London are smugly celebrating their vagrancy in the face of a situation that won't affect them.
Angry Jack, a tramp who recently moved to a park bench in Soho Square, has been predicting the current crisis for some years, having read discarded copies of the Financial Times, before making quickly soiled underpants out of the pages. We chatted over a can of warm Kestrel Super as Jack explained his theories. "The fuggin' bazzas been spenning too much, taking chanzes, yahh" he said spitting detritus and strong lager at me through his enormous beard. "Me and the boys, we ain't got shit, not gonna lose shit, don't matter shit." He explained, gesturing toward a group of red faced men on a nearby bench drinking from 3 litre bottles of strongbow.
These views were replicated further east where Crazy Tom, a hobo with 20 years experience living near Blackfriars Bridge put forward a similar view. "Cunns and fuggers the lot of 'em," he told me whilst on a break from shouting at female commuters, "A'll fuggin kill 'em, but dey wont get me, nahhh, Tom nose the truth, and Tom ain't no fuggin prick" He then began a frenzied act of public masturbation in order to more clearly demonstrate his point.
However, not all the vagabonds we encountered shared this view. Smelly Ellie, a baglady who resides in a cardboard box near the Globe Theatre, was more sanguine. "I luv dem little boyz walkin by over the bridge, they don know whats what, But I luv em I doo" she confided before vomiting on a dead pigeon.
The current homeless may be insulated from the economic downturn, but the rest of us are not. The ranks of London's rough sleepers are swelling daily, as even the well-to-do and upper classes lose the fortunes they hold in shares and property. Sir Cyril Smythe is one of those to end up on the street, despite having been a multi-millionaire with 17 houses around the world last Thursday. We caught up with him on a patch of waste ground behind St Pancras Station and found him to be fitting in well. Still in his pin-striped suit, and clutching a half empty bottle of Moet Chandon, he explained his feelings to us. "Fuck orf, you fucking barstards," he shouted, "I'll have you fucking killed don't you know, you fucking cads." He aimed a punch at this reporter but tripped over an empty crate of Fortnum and Mason produce, before collapsing on the floor.