The scene: A Stairway in
a Hi rise Flat, dirty red painted concrete, covered with a layer of grease,
dirt and the residues of urine, spit and the ash of a hundred thousand cigarettes
and spliffs. By day, it's a kind of community center for kids allergic
to school, a place to spend a couple of hours, somewhere to litter,
vandalise and smash the boredom away. Standing in this sh**hole of a
block is a dumb move kids. Looking at the spelling mistakes in the
graffiti, staying out of school too much is doing you no good.
By night, it's a community center for kids, not as many though; you need
to be hard pushed to choose this as a place to socialise. Even the vandals
get bored and look for something new and shiny to smash up, it becomes a
place to hang out for a few minutes, then ultimately something to just destroy.
You'd like to see the blokes who designed the place bought back and taken on a
tour, let them look at the boarded up flats which were once homes to old folk and
families, let them read the new graffiti and guess at the faded graffiti. See the
pi** stained floors and the lifts which smell like toilets because they are
toilets, without a flush to keep them clean. The blokes who built the flats
should be taken to the top floor and given the choice of jumping or living
there.
It's Christmas Eve and a couple is sat on the stairway. Aged maybe in there 30's,
they sit there planning the next day's chemical menu and the prospects of getting
smashed on Christmas day. They look rough , they always do, this couple are into
heroin and sitting there on a pi** stained faded red stairway on a cold damp winters
night it makes you wonder what the f**k anyone ever see's in taking heroin. Its easy
to condemn them, these people are at best a menace and at their worse they would rob
their mothers and therefore anyone in the community. Looking at them, I wonder if they
could have been sitting in some smart restaurant with nice Jobs had they come from a
different background. Had they been educated would they be sitting here? A picture of
some smart couple drinking a toast in a restaurant comes into my mind, and then I
look at this couple as they are on this Christmas Eve, sat on a cold concrete stair
, not even a cigarette to their name. You may have guessed already, one asked me for
a cigarette. "Heres one for your mate as well" I said as I handed over two silk cut
cigarettes. I held back from saying "All the best" or some similar festive greeting.
It didn't seem right or appropriate to lay on the Christmas Cheer too much; this wasn't
some cosy Xmas gathering around the log fire.
I look at the graffiti; it comes in layers where each fresh lick of cheap
council paint fades out messages written and creates a surface for the next
artist to express him/herself. This month's messages bear few seasonal greetings
or any greetings to people of an ethnic origin in particular and anyone in general.
A message on the 4th floor informs the public that "We wuz ere all fu**ed up" other
messages praise the 'Kirkby Car Robbers' for their endeavors in breaking the speed
limits in built up areas and the misfortune of the police in stopping them. Someone
writes 'f**k the council' followed by the accurate yet humorous observation of
'Housing Trust it should be'. There's a hundred names scrawled or scratched into
the wooden stair banister. Some romantic messages, others more upfront in their
vivid description of all manner of sexual acts. Phone numbers scratched out, names
blackened out, even pictures. Now and again you see a good artist at loose although
the talent is wasted and no matter how good it is, it'll be history. In a few years time
a few licks of council 'el cheapo' paint have finally faded you out.
Not one happy Christmas message though. Even the graffiti merchants
have got no style anymore.
Maybe were all a few steps away from that pi** stained red painted stairway,
it's a thin line between a happy life and a fu***d up world of pain. The
people sitting there could be your brother, your sister or some kid you went
to school with. You could be looking at yourself or your kids a few years down
the line. I thought of this as I walked the last few flights of stairs, past the
graffiti, the discarded spliffs, the cans and bottles and broken windows. I thought
of the Queens speech the next day, the one I never listen to. Wouldn't it be funny
if HRH read this s**t out?
Happy Christmas from Kirkby Times.
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