The World According to Bob

When you are homeless or selling The Big Issue you know you aren’t contributing to society — and you know that society resents you for that. A lot of people take great pleasure in telling you so. To your face. ‘Get a job, you scrounging git,’ had been a common refrain for me for a decade. The result of this is that you become gradually more marginalised by that society. People don’t understand that the lack of self-esteem and general hopelessness you feel when you are homeless, busking or even selling The Big Issue is partly down to this. You want to be part of society, but that society is, effectively, driving you away. It becomes a vicious circle.

Paying my way was the most tangible sign that I was once more ‘a member’ of society. And it felt good.

There were so many other positives to the book’s success.

It improved my relationship with my parents. Among the throng at Waterstones on that March evening was my father, who I’d persuaded to come partly out of curiosity and partly for moral support. The bewildered but delighted look on his face when he witnessed the queues will live in my memory for a very, very long time. After all the disappointments, I felt like I’d given him something to be proud about. At last.

He was touched when he was shown the note I’d written thanking him and my mum in the acknowledgements. Apparently he shed a tear when he read the book back at home. He called me up to say well done, and said the same thing again on other occasions. He still told me to get a haircut and a shave, of course, but at least he stopped nagging me to ‘get a proper job’.

We didn’t talk about our feelings about the past in huge detail. That was not his style. He’s not the kind of person to have a big heart to heart. I suspect I knew what he was thinking but I also knew that he couldn’t express it. He couldn’t formulate the words, but that was fine. Knowing was enough for me.

I also travelled to Australia again to spend time with my mother. She’d read the book and wept as well. She told me she felt guilty about many of the things that had happened but was honest enough to say that, as a teenager, I was a nightmare who would have challenged even the most sainted mother. I accepted that.

We were open and honest with each other and realised that we’d be friends from now onwards.

Another satisfying aspect of the book’s success was the impact it seemed to have on people’s attitude to The Big Issue sellers and the homeless in general. Schools and charities wrote, telling me how the story of Bob and I had helped them to better understand the plight of the homeless.

Bob and I were on Facebook and Twitter. Every day it seemed we got a message from someone explaining how they no longer walked past The Big Issue vendors. Many told me they now made a point of always engaging them in conversation. I knew I’d had my difficulties with the magazine, but I felt a huge sense of pride in that. It is a fine institution that deserves everyone’s support, especially in these dark economic times.

On a more profound level, our story also seemed to connect with people who were facing difficult times in their lives. Hundreds of them wrote to me or contacted us via social media. Some read our story of survival and drew their own strength from it. Others recognised the power animals possess to heal us humans. Again, I was immensely proud every time I received a message of this kind. I never in a million years expected that I’d touch the life of one person, let alone thousands.

A few people got a little carried away and bestowed some kind of divinity on Bob and me. Bob might have been a saint but I wasn’t, that was for sure. You can’t spend a decade fighting for your day-to-day existence on the streets of London without being shaped by that environment. You can’t live a chunk of your life dependent on heroin without being damaged by that experience. I was a product of my past.

So I knew it would take me a long time to iron out the rougher edges of my personality. And I would never quite shake off my past, not least because people would always pop up to remind me of my lost years. Medically, I still carried the scars of my drug-addicted twenties too. The punishment I inflicted on my body would continue to extract a price. In short, Saint James of Tottenham didn’t exist. He never had and he never would. The person who most definitely did exist, however, was someone who had been given his second chance in life and who was determined to seize it. And if I ever lost sight of that, I now had constant reminders of why that second chance was so important.