Skip to Main Content

I heard a story about a man who nicked a telly and hid it in a bush

“Talking a load of old crap in there are they?” Danny asked.

I pondered the question for a moment.  “You know...not at all,” I replied.  “It makes a lot of sense really.  It’s pretty good stuff.”

Danny took another swig of his superlager and raised a quizzical eyebrow.  “Oh yeah?” 

 “It’s all about doing things differently in the future,” I continued lamely.  I felt reluctant to divulge the details of how we’d time travelled together, that we were in there cutting up newspapers and sticking cardboard boxes together in a bid to build a better world.  “I mean the world’s pretty mental and messed up at the moment,” I added.  

“You’re right there!” he exclaimed.  He spat on the pavement and took a drag of his cigarette.  “London’s the biggest hell hole of the lot.  I fookin’ hate the place man.”

We’d met a few minutes before when Danny spotted me sitting smoking on the steps of the Battersea Arts Centre as he lurched down the street, clutching his can and swearing.

“You got a light?” he asked.  “Christ, I’m talking to mesel.”  He wiped his brow and grimaced.  “Rough.  Can’t remember fook all about last night.  Only that I  nicked a telly.  Fook knows why.  I don’t need a  telly.”  He laughed wheezily.  I handed him a lighter and he lit his roll up and sat down on the step.

We chatted for a while.  Danny hailed from the Midlands, had lived on the streets, in hostels and been in and out of jail for years.  He picked up on my accent and told me about his Scottish wife who had died in her early 20s.  He’d gone to the funeral in handcuffs, it had been awful.  He’d remarried, had kids, never saw them nowadays, they'd grown up without him, he didn't know where they were.  He’d been in the army, back in jail, back out, on the streets, drinking, drinking for years and years. A fresh start by the seaside went pear-shaped.  He'd ended up London, blind drink most nights, begging, roughing it, loathing the place.

“I’m heading down to the supermarket to beg but it’s Sunday so it’ll be crap,” he said.  “Still, I’ll get a trolley to put my telly in.  If I can find it that is, I think I hid it in the bushes somewhere.”

“What would you do with yourself if you could do anything you wanted?” I asked him.  

SuperlagerDanny gulped from his can, took a thoughtful last drag of his fag and ground the butt under his tattered trainer.  “I’d get on a yacht and go sailing round the world,” he said finally.  “Mind you,” he added with a bitter chuckle, “I’d be too drunk to sail the bloody thing.  Probably fall over the side.” 

When I’d headed out to the steps, back to 2012, I was feeling a bit overwhelmed by the future.  A persistent part of me kicked against the wholesome atmosphere of hope that pervaded the hall.  Sunday’s group process had got a bit stressful; I couldn’t work out where I fitted in.  In the end I’d signed up as a journalist in the Transition Town Anywhere Talking Shop, but my heart wasn’t in it.  Lingering cynicism from 'media career' days had seeped in and soured the scene.  An urge to escape for a roll-up had overtaken me, add a wee bit of nicotine and cyanide to the toxic mix.

Now the cigarette was finished and I'd been away a while. “I’d better head back,” I said to Danny.  “Good luck.”  

“Yeah, I’m off now too,” he replied standing up.  Suddenly, he swooped on the pavement and scooped up a long cigarette end.  “Might as well have this first.”  He grinned at me triumphantly, plonking himself back down.  Reduce, reuse...  I gave Danny a light and left him, peacefully puffing the stub in the sunshine.  I wondered what he’d make of Transition Town Anywhere.

I returned to the future, wandered up the High Street, then went to mind the Talking Shop. I arranged some collaborative projects with neighbours on the street.  Stories started taking shape.  Someone from a wonderful sounding bakery and brewery dropped by for a chat.  We made plans for a feature.  I’d take a wander up there some afternoon, meet workers and volunteers, have a blether, do some interviews, take some pictures, stop for a sandwich and pint of elderflower ale.  

Finally I was getting into it.  Straightforward truth replacing distortion and spin, positive stories, a slowed down world, time to talk, swap tales, build trust.  Maybe I could be a journalist again after all.  One day I might even write a story about a guy called Danny who became a wandering seafarer, sailing the oceans.


Ann Owen's picture

Reality check

Fantastic post, Teen! Didn't know whether to laugh or cry! Wish you could have brought Danny in...

Jo Homan's picture

you should win the prize for the best blog title

I'm with the 'Choose Life' lot in the hall, or would have loved to have been. However I think I know what you mean about the 'wholesome atmosphere of hope' thing feeling a bit self-serving or unrealistic. But I think 'hope' gets bad press sometimes. People like to make out that she's this ditsy, blinking child who wants to click her heels and be magicked home, but actually she's a hard-nosed, gutsy woman who's ready to take responsibility for the whole picture.

Mandy Meikle's picture

More than hope

Your posts are certainly worth waiting for Teen! I'm thinking of doing a blog on 'hope' - maybe we should have a week on it! Whenever I'm getting a bit irritated by the lack of realism in the hopeful, I remind myself that hope is different things for different people. In some ways, hoping is like worrying - neither act will make any difference but hope can uplift people mentally, while worrying can do the opposite. But for some, hope, like worry, leads to negative feelings and for those people, the right thing to do is to give up hope.

I was chatting with a woman recently, who was pretty down about the havoc we are wreaking on the environment (we'd both just seen a play about the Deepwater Horizon). "I just don't have much hope left that people will change", she said. I laughed and said I'd given up any hope of that quite recently and it gave me a palpable sense of relief, if not a sense of renewal. To my surprise, she really seemed to get what I meant. Those who need hope have to realise that others need to abandon it (& vice versa). I still use the word - I hope that Danny does find himself sailing around the world. But he's gonna need more than hope.

And of course you can be a journalist again, Teen. You are the kind of journalist the world needs!

Caroline Jackson's picture

Is it hope?

Thanks for this - a lovely irony that a true denizen of cardboard city should cause us to question our own little cardboard future.  Shakespeare would be proud of you.  For what it's worth I think you are right about giving up the comforting feelings that we associate with hope - real hope is getting out of bed each morning and getting on with making a different tomorrow HOWEVER you feel.  It's a place you keep walking towards unshakeable. Well I guess we all have our shakeable days but you know what I mean.