Poverty Safari, page 1
DARREN MCGARVEY aka LOKI grew up in Pollok. He is a writer, performer, columnist and former rapper-in-residence at Police Scotland’s Violence Reduction Unit. He has presented eight programmes for BBC Scotland exploring the root causes of anti-social behaviour and social deprivation.
Liaison Cooardinator
efturryd geenuz iz speel
iboot whut wuz right
nwhut wuz rang
boot this nthat
nthi nix thing
a sayzti thi bloke
nwhut izzit yi caw
yir joab jimmy
am a liason co-ordinator
hi sayz oh good ah sayz
a liason co-ordinator
jist whut this erria needs
whut way aw thi unimploymint
inaw thi bevvyin
nthi boayz runnin amock
nthi hoossyz fawnty bits
nthi wummin n tranquilisers
it last thiv sent uz
a liason co-ordinator
sumdy wia digree
in fuck knows whut
getn peyd fur no known
whut thi fuck ti day way it
Tom Leonard
Poverty Safari
Understanding the Anger of Britain’s Underclass
DARREN MCGARVEY
This book is dedicated to my beautiful and fragile siblings, Sarah Louise, Paul, Lauren and Stephen. Encoded in this book is everything I’ve learned about life in 33 years. I’m sorry for the times I wasn’t around and for any time you’ve felt let down by me or anybody else. I love you and look forward to the day we can sit around a table again as a family.
PS: Don’t do drugs.
First published 2017
ISBN: 978-1-912147-03-8
eISBN: 978-1-912387-01-4
The author’s right to be identified as author of this book
under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 has been asserted.
© Darren McGarvey 2017
Contents
Acknowledgements
Preface
Introduction
1: Crime and Punishment
2: A History of Violence
3: The Call of the Wild
4: Gentlemen of the West
5: The Trial
6: No Mean City
7: Nineteen Eighty-Four
8: A Question of Loyalties
9: On the Road
10: One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest
11: A Tale of Two Cities
12: Wuthering Heights
13: The Outsiders
14: The Trick is to Keep Breathing
15: The Cutting Room
16: Great Expectations
17: Children of the Dead End
18: The Stranger
19: Tales From the Mall
20: A Disaffection
21: Garnethill
22: The Way We Live Now
23: Housekeeping
24: Waiting for the Barbarians
25: The Naked Ape
26: The Sound and the Fury
27: Frankenstein
28: Trainspotting
29: The Moral Landscape
30: The Metamorphosis
31: The Changeling
32: Rules For Radicals
Acknowledgements
If not for the kindness, patience and good faith of others, not least the support and encouragement of my partner, Rebecca, this book would have been impossible to complete. The final push required me to take a couple of weeks away from home, leaving her with much to deal with at a time of considerable upheaval in our lives. Thankfully we have a lot of support, particularly from Linda and Edward Wallace, her loving parents, as well as the rest of her family, who are a source of constant support. I don’t know what we would do without you. Thank you for your kindness and your example. I also thank Auntie Rosie and my sister Sarah Louise, who are the glue that holds our family together; and Uncle Thomas, for always being there with the heavy lifting. Thank you all for teaching me how to be useful, as well as opinionated. Your support never goes unnoticed.
To my close friends, who I don’t see as often as I would like – I always write with you in mind. Once we clear the wreckage of our 20s, we’ll hopefully find new ways to be with each other without Lady Carnage looking over our shoulder.
Acknowledgement must go to David Burnett aka Big Div, the first person to recognise and nurture my talents when I was a wayward young person; Hip Hop has given me the opportunity to live an extraordinary life and much of what I have achieved can be traced back to those early days in Ferguslie Park. Thanks also to Sace Lockhart and David ‘Defy’ Roberts, for being the big brothers I never had and for supporting me throughout my life.
Special thanks to Gavin at Luath Press for trusting my vision and for being intuitive to my needs as a budding (I want to say young) author. Also to Jennie Renton for her input towards the end of the editorial process (I wince at the thought of what I was prepared to release prior to her involvement), and to Hilary Bell, who was a great support at the outset when I had no clue what I was doing.
Many thanks also to Neu! Reekie! for being one of the few safe spaces currently open to me in the Scottish cultural landscape. Much of what ended up in this book came from explorations I was encouraged to embark on at Neu! Reekie! events – it’s nice when people introduce you without apologising for you in advance. Thanks are also due to the editors, directors, journos, professionals and mentors whose support, guidance and constructive criticism have been fundamental in the progression of my writing, in particular, Mike Small, Paul McNamee, Claire Stewart, Stephen Daisley and Karyn, Graham and June at the VRU. I also wish to thank my college lecturers, Kathleen, Felicity, Karen, Mary and Charles, for teaching me the difference between opinion and journalism, and my long-suffering classmates, especially Cat, Conor and Anna-Roisin, who got me through the course after a bad relapse into drinking.
I feel grateful to the Scottish writers and performers, professional or otherwise, who have been a source of inspiration and support to me, in different ways, and in particular, Tom Leonard. Deep thanks are due for his encouragement, wisdom and sincerity – and for reminding me exactly what I’m up against as an aspiring writer from Pollok. I also thank him for giving permission for me to include his poem ‘Liaison Coordinator’, originally published in Ghostie Men.
A tip of the cap to the Poverty Truth Commission, class of 2009 – the original and best. Our time together fundamentally changed the direction of my thinking and, thus, of my life. I hope I’ve written a book that reflects our hopes, fears, dilemmas and contradictions. Special thanks to Paul Chapman for his thoughtfulness and compassion; when people ask me if I am a man of faith, I still say the same thing: ‘Do I really have a choice?’ On that note, thank you to my sponsor, James, for showing me a new way to live. None of this would be possible without sobriety.
This book was also made possible thanks to the donations of 228 people, whose support me through a crowdfunded appeal allowed me to focus on writing for a year, knowing that my family would not be adversely affected and, crucially, that I did not have to justify myself to anyone. I am grateful to all of you for affording me the time and space to write Poverty Safari – your support has been a point of light in moments when my confidence has dimmed, allowing me to find my way through a thick wood of self-doubt while embarking on my first year of fatherhood – my son, Daniel, being the greatest gift of all.
Finally, thank you to my father, who always believed I could be a writer. You might be right. X
Darren McGarvey, July 2017
Preface
THIS BOOK, WHICH began as a side project to my work as a rapper and columnist, slowly consumed every waking moment of my life until eventually I had to draw down or stop all my other commitments to get it finished. It has taken over a year and a half to complete. On 14 June 2017, two days before my final deadline, I awoke to news of a fire in a tower block in west London.
Like everyone, I was shocked, horrified and devastated by the images. As the morning progressed, more news emerged from the now smouldering shell of Grenfell Tower. We heard stories of people being trapped on the upper floors, forced to throw young children from the building before being consumed by the flames themselves. Then there were the tales of heroism and sacrifice, of people who ran into the building to alert their sleeping neighbours with no regard for their own safety. I kept thinking about the phones that must have been ringing in the pockets of the dead.
Later that day, we learned of the farewell messages posted on social media from victims who knew they were about to die. My eyes filled with tears at their courage in such hopeless circumstances. Trapped within the envelope of smoke and flame that had engulfed their homes as they slept, these brave souls faced their final moments with incredible dignity. I thought of my own son and imagined having to choose between throwing him out of a window on the slight chance he would survive, and keeping him in my arms until the flames consumed us. Just contemplating such a choice is terrible enough. Residents in Grenfell were forced to make these decisions.
This ferocious blaze, which started in one flat before leaping up and around the entire building, was not caused by someone looking to inflict harm. This fireball was not a consequence of a terrorist act. This inferno was a preventable disaster; a confluence of human error and industrial-scale negligence. In the days that followed, the United Kingdom, already destabilised following an election result that had severely weakened central government, stood on the very cliff-edge of civil unrest
In the absence of any concrete information, angry, grief-stricken members of the community began filling the void with speculation and recrimination. When crowds gathered to make their presence felt at Kensington and Chelsea Borough Council headquarters, officials retreated behind the scenes to their very own Forbidden City where they remained concealed, out of public view, like all the mechanisms of power in this community. Despite talk of riots, the people of Grenfell behaved in exemplary fashion. A week after the fire, as the death toll climbed, survivors were still sleeping in cars or in public parks.
The extent to which the voices of the Grenfell community had been routinely ignored played a key role in the sequence of decisions that led to the fire, not least the choice, made in the name of cost-saving, of flammable cladding and insulation materials that encouraged the fire’s rapid, deadly spread through the building.
The materials proposed will provide the building with a fresh appearance that will not be harmful to the area or views around it. Due to its height the tower is visible from the adjacent Avondale Conservation Area to the south and the Ladbroke Conservation Area to the east. The changes to the existing tower will improve its appearance especially when viewed from the surrounding area. Therefore views into and out of the conservation areas will be improved by the proposals.
Planning Application, 2014, for the refurbishment of Grenfell Tower
I feel a strong sense of connection to the people of Grenfell. I know the hustle and bustle of high-rise life, the dark and dirty stairwells, the temperamental elevators that smell like urine and wet dog fur, the grumpy concierge, the apprehension you feel as you enter or leave the building, especially at night. I know that sense of being cut off from the world, despite having such a wonderful view of it through a window in the sky; that feeling of isolation, despite being surrounded by hundreds of other people above, below and either side of you. But most of all, I understand the sense that you are invisible, despite the fact that your community can be seen for miles around and is one of the most prominent features of the city skyline.
The community around Grenfell Tower is like many with which I am familiar: communities regarded as ‘deprived’, where there is a pathological suspicion of outsiders and of the authorities; where there is a deeply ingrained belief that there is no point in participating in the democratic process because people in power do not care about the concerns of the ‘underclass’.
What really struck a nerve was the news that locals had been warning about the safety of Grenfell Tower for years, and the knowledge that the fire had been avoidable. By midday on the day of the blaze I had discovered the Grenfell Action Group blog where scores of detailed articles, covering a broad range of complex community issues, had been published. I discovered that residents had specifically warned of the fire risk because of the inadequacy of fire safety procedures, and had questioned the ‘stay put’ instruction which came to national attention following the blaze. Disturbingly, the blog had foreseen that it would take a catastrophic loss of life before attention was paid to the situation.
As the days passed, a window opened up into Grenfell and by proxy, into the lives of the underclass. Countless newspaper articles, bulletins and radio programmes attempted to capture what it was like to live in a tower block. Having been ignored – and dismissed – for so long, now suddenly everybody was interested in what life in a community like this entailed. But most people, despite their noble intentions, were just passing through on a short-lived expedition. A safari of sorts, where the indigenous population is surveyed from a safe distance for a time, before the window on the community closes and everyone gradually forgets about it.
This is a pattern I have seen repeated in my own community for as long as I can remember, and so my intention has been for Poverty Safari to resonate with people who feel misunderstood and unheard, that the book might be a sort of forum, giving voice to their feelings and concerns. The themes and issues explored here are clearly pertinent to those communities – like Grenfell – where people are routinely ignored by decision-makers who think they know better, even when they are fatally mistaken. What I explore here might lend context to the outpouring of rage that followed the Grenfell Tower fire and, crucially, an understanding that this rage is not just about the fire and tragic loss of life. In communities all over Britain where people experience multiple levels of deprivation in health, housing and education and are effectively politically excluded, anger is felt. And this anger is something we will all have to get used to, unless things change. In Poverty Safari, drawing from my own experience and expressing my own political perspective, I have attempted to set out what some of that change might look like.
Introduction
PEOPLE LIKE ME don’t write books – or so my head keeps telling me. ‘Write a book?’ it sneers over my shoulder, ‘you haven’t read enough of them to even attempt such a thing.’ It’s true. I am not a habitual reader of books though I am a regular consumer of words. Since my schooldays, how words look, sound and what they mean has been my primary interest. As a child I was keen to engage grown-ups in conversation, always trying to collect new words to add to my growing vocabulary. I’m told that by the age of five I was precociously correcting my mother’s terrible grammar, much to her annoyance. By the time I was ten, I was formulating my first short stories, borrowing heavily, as one does, from my main influences at the time: Granny and Batman.
But I don’t remember reading any books. I do recall occasionally picking them up and flicking through a few pages, or delving for a specific piece of information, such as the capital city of Turkey – which is not Istanbul. I don’t remember the moment so many people speak of, when they finish the life-changing book that ignites their passion for reading. I do, however, retain vivid memories of struggling with books and being intimidated by their physical size and word-count. Just the thought of a big book was enough to defeat me.
In secondary school, when my ability to write put me in the top English class, I was out of my depth when it came to literature. People would tell me I just hadn’t found the right book, that I should persevere. They insisted that all I had to do was work my brain like a muscle until reading became less of a chore. But I secretly resented this advice – and those who dispensed it. Instead, I settled on the belief that there was some unseen barrier preventing me from connecting with literature. It’s not as if I was the only one at my school who struggled. Regular readers were the exception. Reading was not regarded as a leisure activity, more a necessary evil, something to be endured. Where I diverged from many of my classmates was that I privately longed to read every book I picked up. However, to my frustration and later, resignation, I always found, not long after starting one, that I could never see it through.
Lightweight paperbacks were deceptively small, often luring me in with an interesting cover, but I’d quickly return them to the shelf when I discovered the absence of illustrations. Those books were so crammed with words that they appeared cluttered and chaotic to my eye – filling me with the sort of dread an imminent house move triggers when you think about it for too long. Tiny lettering, coupled with tight paragraph spacing, provoked a sense of impossibility that only got worse as time went on. Only a few pages into Lord of the Rings and I was demoralised. I was always being told that Frodo’s famous quest across Middle Earth. I’m ashamed to admit that I always had to nip off before the end of Bilbo’s party.
Hardback books appeared much easier to read because the letters were bigger, but I found their bulk and weight off-putting. My English teacher insisted that I read and review John Irving’s A Prayer for Owen Meany for my Higher English qualification. It was nice to know he thought me capable of such a feat (with a 617-page novel!) but his generosity wasn’t enough to stop me from balking violently at the idea. It was a misreading of my abilities, akin to sending a toddler up a mountain. We compromised on Tennessee Williams’ A Streetcar Named Desire, which I found less challenging because it was a playscript and therefore appeared less messy on the page. There was the additional benefit of having a film version to turn to when my stamina began to wane.
