The Knives of Brixton

I live a stones throw away from Moorlands Estate and Southwyck House, AKA the "Barrier Block" or "The Prison" (as it is ugly as sin and resembles a penitentiary), so I was a little shocked to hear some poor 17 year old kid got stabbed there the other night. That's just one of them though: there have apparently been 7 other stabbings in the area in the last 10 days. Not to mention a rape.

I read a statistic recently that said this borough has the highest domestic violence numbers in the country, along with one of the highest poverty rates. I didn't really know any of that when I moved here, obviously. I knew it could be rough, but not "8 stabbings and a rape" rough. That's a whole new means of measurement to me.

I remember a scared Polish woman that stopped in where I worked just for a place to sit down and feel safe while she waited for her train. She said she'd been harassed several times just walking down the road to get to the station. She couldn't get back on a train and out of the area fast enough. I took it as a typical response to someone first visiting the area and being paranoid (and wearing weird tights up to her cooch that no doubt brought attention), but she explained to me how she was studying to be a lawyer and was in the courts all day sitting in on trials, and then rattled off some statistics. Something like how 1 in 5 people here were below the poverty line and living on council estates (ghetto housing), etc. I noted that I lived in the area and I didn't think it was all that bad, even if people were poor. She tried to awkwardly back pedal: "Well, of course I don't mean you!" but I just laughed it off. The area really just doesn't seem that bad. Then you look at the statistics and wonder. Maybe I've just been missing it all?

A couple of weeks ago before I lost my job at that very crapshack (AHEM - don't go to the café at Loughborough Station, it's shite - AHEM), there was another stabbing just down the road from me, near the old house we used to live in. My friend/ex-flatmate was visiting me and he ran around the corner to get a cigarette from one of the local night shops as I closed the café. He had to sort of side step a few teens that suddenly took off chasing after another guy.

Apparently they hit the victim right as he ran through a doorway. He survived, but his bloody jacket was left lying on the floor of the place for all to see. It was across from the "The Hole" that we both used to live in, near our favorite chicken restaurant and at the door of the convenience store we used to frequent nightly... Not something we expected to see, but some how not really surprising at the same time. It's not the nicest looking area, but it was our ugly little area for a little while and we'd never seen that happen. We ended up getting a ride in a police car, which I did not like, and my friend had to give a statement. It made the night interesting. Well, for me, anyway. He's Mexican, so I'm sure he's used to stabbings and police. I've heard his stories.

A couple of months prior to that little event, I ran outside of the café because I heard broken glass and screaming. I ran over to the Chinese restaurant next to us and saw the door had been smashed in and a couple teenagers were running around inside. I flagged down a police van (funny how many of those are around), thinking they were robbing the place and maybe hurting the Chinese woman who was screaming her head off, but in the end it was just another fight. One of them apparently had a knife. Days later on a way to give a class, Marine saw a guy being chased and yelling for help. I kind of wonder if that was just the beginning to all of this.

The thing about it is that I don't feel weird walking out alone at 2AM into Brixton or anything. Most of these rapes and stabbings are gang related, most of the gang members being teens. People like me don't really exist in their world. We're just the people who look on, confused. Still, there's a reason most people don't go walking alone in large cities in the middle of the night -- it's because there are weirdos out there. When you go out into a now silent city that was bustling earlier in the day, you are playing Weirdo Lottery. The witching hour and all that.

The other night I wanted to run out and buy something but it was too late. The local shop with the asian owner who talks like a rastafari was closed, much to my chagrin, so I had walk a little further than I wanted to. On my way back I encountered a man in a life or death fight with a road barrier. He was using karate, so I don't know who won, but I made sure to cross the street before I let him use it on me. I'd made the same walk several times before in the dead of night, the streets eerily empty, and was fine. That night though, if I didn't divert to the other side of the road I may have been viciously beaten by karate construction crack man. You just don't know.

There are a lot of good things about walking around the Brixton streets, though. You never know what you might see, or hear, and some times that's a good thing. Marine and I were introduced to the tunes of Dennis Brown by walking past one of those incredibly loud music shops that sell pirated CDs. That will probably be one of my lasting memories of living here... walking home from the market with my wife through the smell of incense and deciding to buy whatever great album was being played. It was a good decision:

And there's the Brixton Village. There's The Cabana (giant steak & rice & beans mmmm), Ms. Cupcake (giant cupcake mmm), London Fast Food (best fried chicken in London mmm) and of course all the other things that aren't edible. Music shops, market stalls, couple nice parks, a diverse mix of interesting and crazy people. It's just the ones with the knives that give it a bad name. Hopefully the kids doing this shit will live to grow up and realize an entire world exists aside from this place and the problems it does have, like poverty. Because you can't enjoy cupcakes or steaks or chicken if you're poor as fuck and have nothing else to do. I can understand that. Unfortunately, the response seems to be "send in more police" which is like par for the course when any trouble happens over here. Maybe the local councils or government could focus on why these guys feel like they need to attack each other and get to the root of it or something. But what do I know

Caffè latte Loco

During one of my first weeks of work at the coffee shop, I had my first, and last big tip. I was pretty nervous working a new job since I hadn't really worked in a public setting in a long time and it probably showed. Maybe I looked a little unhappy.

I was sitting on a leather bench that ran the length of the wall having a break. A large and rather talkative black woman with giant locks of hair sat across the room from me drinking a coffee I had made her.

"Come here, darlin'!" she said.

That's not a common request. Usually people just want to know where the sugar is, or they want a napkin.

"Sorry?" I said.

She repeated herself, and so with my fellow employees watching I sheepishly stood up and walked over to her, unsure of what to expect. She started to reach in between her enormous breasts as if she was going to pull one out as a gift, and I stood ready to accept, as it would be impolite to refuse. Rather than a giant nipple popping out to greet me, however, came a 5 pound note that had just moments before been neatly tucked into her cleavage. She handed it to me and said, "I want you to have this. You deserve it."

"Oh no, that's too much!" I said, looking confused.

"Take it, baby."

So I took it.

Every once and a while after that I'd get a one pound tip and I'd be thankful, but never again did I receive a 5 pound cleavage bill as a form of thank you. Not even a regular 5 pound note. I don't think I ever will.

Interacting with people in such a busy place meant there was always something interesting that could happen at any given moment. Most of the time, they weren't good things, though. For example, on a different day I was, again, sitting down taking a break (this does not reflect upon my work ethic) when a skinny Sarah Connor-lookin' woman ran past me towards the bathrooms. It took me a second to realize that she had 3 butcher's knives in her hands that had passed inches in front of my face. I looked up at one of the owners as if to ask, did you just see that? I stood up, thinking maybe she was going to hurt herself and we should do something, but then she stuck her head out of the bathroom and began screaming about how her boyfriend was just shot and how they were going to kill her too, "But don't call the police!" She popped her head back in. This went on for some time. I remember nervously pacing the floor when a woman approached me and kindly asked if she could use the bathroom. I kindly told her that a woman had just run into the bathroom with a set of very sharp knives and that maybe now would not be the best time. "I think I'll go somewhere else then," she replied.

My landlord/boss decided that he'd let her be, because "If you do something for one of them [lunatic or drug addict], they will do anything for you!" he laughed. Which sounded psychopathically messed up: he literally meant it as in, if you help out a desperate person who can use them later. He was the type of two faced, narcissistic person that would do anything to have anyone like him for that very reason, so it wasn't surprising. Me, I went and found a cop car, but by then she'd run off.

Crazy is crazy, but crazy with a knife or three changes things. Only weeks before, a woman in London had randomly ran into a shop, grabbed a knife and stabbed two random people, so I think I had reason to be concerned.

Then there were the crackheads who demanded chicken sandwiches and tea "Not too hot! I'm a crackhead, you know!" as if I was supposed to know what that meant in terms of hot tea. All free, of course. I gave it to them, until the day one of them kissed me for a pizza. Kind of threw me off the whole charity thing.

And finally you get your 7 foot tall giants showing buttcrack who politely order their lattes, sit down, and begin talking to themselves, making you and the rest of the staff (my poor wife) incredibly uncomfortable ("American? Yeah well fuck off back to where you came from. That panini looks good. Yeah, it does. I do like New York, though."). Between him and the guy that came in and demanded 5 pounds, sat down and started talking into his mobile phone as loudly as possible to no one, there could have been an actual conversation going. Organize your days, guys.

Worse than any of that though, was the woman who requested a "Babycino". I don't know who invented that word, but it instantly made me understand some of the random knifings going on in the world.

So let's all give thanks that I do not have to put up with requests for that or anything else any more. So long, Loughborough Junction. Stay classy.

I Am a Sucker

I stayed late at work tonight, just taking my time cleaning and using the internet. You get different people in the area at different times of the day, and at that time of night one of the local whatever-heads happened to be outside aggressively begging. What I mean by aggressive is yelling "Oi!" and quickly marching up to the person with a "PUH-LEASE give me 20p, PLEASE?!"

When you reject her, she sometimes screams a frustrated "Fuck!"

A person like me could find that endearing, because I believe when she shouts "fuck" that it is sincere and she is desperate for whatever it is that she needs -- but I have rent to pay, I make 4 pounds an hour, and have a hole in my pants and problems of my own and I know the next time I see her she'll recognize me and swarm me like I owe her something like all of the others have done, so I'm sorry. Leave me alone. I have anxiety issues and being yelled at with fucks and shits just makes them worse, lady.

It's a pathetic sight and with her unkempt hair you peg her immediately as being down and out, but when she starts charging at you begging for money you sort of go into evade-mode and don't give her anything at all, even if you might have been feeling generous. The bravado involved is sort of shocking. Here's this 90 pound girl and she doesn't look scared or humiliated, just... frustrated and intent.

I heard her shouts of "Oi!" and watched her through our glass doors thinking Why can't you go away? I want to go to the grocery store after this and I know you're going to harass me on my way and make me feel uncomfortable. Learn to beg better and do it somewhere else. Put on the lame show about how you need 10p for rice and lie if you have to, but just leave me alone. Sincerity doesn't work in this world.

I made a dash outside to gather the chairs and signs, hoping she wouldn't see me, lest my anger or even pity get the better of me. She didn't bother me though, just kept begging the passer-bys.

Two lost, clean looking women came out of the station. The dirty girl charged.

"WHERE DO YOU NEED TO GO?", she demanded. "THE CLOSEST STATION IS THAT WAY!" Only to follow it up with more begging. Then a few more people: Do you have a cigarette? What about 20p then? She failed and failed, and failed then finally some Brixtonite told her to "Fuck off" and she said "No, fuck you."

Everything was finally done in the shop and I packed up and left and headed to the store. I lucked out, she was no where in sight. Good. I want to get my beers and go home as usual and sit in the dark and watch TV and forget all of this. I didn't see her until I got to the entrance of the shop.

When I looked inside I saw five of the guys who run the place struggling with her. There are usually around 10 Pakistani men inside, either standing at the door as security, working the register, or continually restocking. One of them must have seen her try to steal something. As I turned to walk through the doorway, they pulled her inside and swarmed on her. One managed to slam her to the ground on her chest and lay on her back holding her arm behind her like a policeman. She must have coughed up what they wanted because after her repeated shouts of "LET ME GO BRUV!" they finally pushed her out the door. People in line just sort of watched the mayhem. The guys went back to their registers or their other work, business as usual. I just went inside and bought my beer.

A weird sort of conflict went through my head as they wrestled with this girl and then violently threw her down -- a part of it was "You are getting what you deserve" and the other was "Just let her go, why did you have to do that?"

On the way back towards my place I passed by my work and saw I had forgotten to throw away a trash bag. So I grabbed it and went down one of the nearby alleyways to put it in a can. There was the girl again, but this time huddled in the dark against a wall with her knees up to her chest. She was spitting on the ground and looked like she might be crying, but she didn't say a word when I walked by. All I could think of was how she might not deserve whatever she wanted the money for, but she also didn't deserve where she was right now. So on the way back I reached into my pocket to give her the only change I could find. Before I could give it to her she managed to ask "Please, do you have 20p?" But this time it wasn't loud or confident or aggressive, just desperate and nothing else.

"Here's 50," I said, and went on my way.
"THANK YOU!" she said. "Oh, THAAAANK YOUUUU!" she shouted around the corner.

I guess she won in the end.

I love French newspapers

These two caught my eye the day after Bin Laden died and I felt compelled to clip them out. You would never find these published back in the States. Nobody has the guts

Courtesy of Charlie Hebdo

The death of the King of Pop

Porn videos in Bin Laden's hide-out

Begging for Compliments

Ah, spring. When the birds take to the air and sing, and all the people in the restaurants below my apartment sit in front of the door and get really loud all night long.

A couple of minutes ago I was sitting in here with the window open, the sound of music playing and people talking in the background. It was about 1 AM. Then, a noise.

I'm not sure how to describe the scream other than primal. It made me think of Native Indians dancing around a camp fire. It was high pitched and started out with "Ayy-haaaaaayyyy..." and then got progressively louder until the it ended with a loud "-HIY!". It was funny the first few times because I assumed somebody was really drunk and loving it. The people outside started to mimic the screamer in groups and laugh.

It seemed he or she was making their rounds through the neighborhood and entertaining the onlookers who sat relaxed in their chairs, sipping on their beers until finally, somebody got tired of it. A man bellowed something in a deep, angry voice, as if he was trying to shoe away an animal from his garden. Seconds later a beer glass shattered to a chorus of "Ooooh!"s and "Hey!"s, and everything went quiet. Slowly the talking began again as normal.

And then, somewhere further into the neighborhood, barely audible...
"Hay-yi-yi-yi-yi-yaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa-YA!"

The crazies really do come out of hibernation in the spring time. Thawed and rested, they have an ample amount of lunatic energy to put on display. There's the guy who stands in front of McDonalds laughing maniacally and babbling to himself; the old man mysteriously called "The Professor" who likes to shake hands and then ramble nonsense with vaguely racist overtones, and that one guy who lies down in the middle of the sidewalk with all of his belongings splayed out in front of him neatly like on a bed side table: cigarettes here, lighter there, broken watch neatly next to those, beer always close by. Matonge's slogan seems to be "colorful" and well, they got that part right. It's not just the super bright peppers and exotic fruits on display...

It's the other exotic fruits on display. Of the cake variety.

Speaking of hot peppers, Africans like spicy food and they use those extremely hot peppers to make really good pimento sauce. Which I love. However, you have to be super careful with the things when cooking because they will burn the shit out of your eyes and any sensitive areas you touch, like your penis or vagina. Which I touch a lot while cooking.

Now, I've mentioned Maurice, our local homeless mascot who lives in a small one-car parking garage in front of a kebab shop. He keeps to himself normally and talks to no one unless approached, just a quiet "Merci" when given food or money. But lately I have noticed he's some how acquired a radio, which he uses to listen to non-stop 80's hits such as Phil Collins and Michael Jackson... and I don't know if rocking out to Nostalgie FM has bolstered his spirits or something but he's been up to shenanigans. On my way back from the store one day I saw him walk up to one of the many shops with fruits and vegetables on display, peer into the window to make sure no one was looking, and then snag three bright red and yellow peppers from the stand.

I wish I saw what must have happened next. I didn't hear any screams but I can only imagine his silent pain. If he didn't eat them and writhe around in excruciating pain, I have no clue what his plans were. Maybe he put them on his shrine to the statue that is perpetually "relocated for cleaning".

There used to be a statue depicting an African woman carrying her child made entirely out of bullet casings. It was dedicated to those from war torn places like Congo and Rwanda. Since it's been taken away, I've noticed random crap piled onto the concrete block where the statue used to be, like offerings to a God. Three rocks and a beer can. A backpack. Sticks. All stacked, some like pyramids. It's right next to Maurice's pad so I can only imagine it's him, but who knows. There are lots of weirdos around here.

The other night I was out running to get something for dinner and a guy asked me for some money. Yadda yadda, the whole routine in French.

Une petite pièce? Spare some alms for an ex-leper?

I said no, sorry. But I was going into a night shop for a drink anyway so I thought Ok, I'll get this guy something because I shouldn't judge people and just assume they're drug addict leaches or scum begging for a living, and I bought him a beer. So that he could be a drunken leach instead.

So I came out, didn't see him and said screw it, I'll just keep it. I walked two feet to the left and there he was in front of me.

"Oh, you have money to buy things there but not enough for..." and then I stopped him and offered him the can of beer to get him to shut up. He reversed his pity story, thanked me 10 times and I walked off.

I was outside waiting for my food to be cooked, just looking around, and there he was again asking for a light and to say that it really was nice of me, and then to ask if I wanted to have fun tonight and if I liked cocaine. You give a mouse a cookie, and soon enough he wants gay sex and coke.

"No," I said, "not interested in that stuff."
Then he asked me how much the beer cost. I told him.

Well, he said, can you go back and exchange it for this and that, I like it better and it has more alcohol. Blah blah. I was hesitant to walk anywhere with the guy, but it was close by and there were a lot of people around so I agreed. Fine, whatever, give the mouse his preferred cookie with sugar on top. I got it for him and he then asked, "Well, can I just have the euros for it?"

"No," I said "I can't do that. Here you go, enjoy."
"Are you Flemand?" he asked. I suppose my accent gave me away.
"No, I speak English."
"British?"
"No, American."

I don't really care if he knows where I'm from to be honest. It's pretty obvious when you see me with my various t-shirts or what have you.

"I have a sister in Washington, DC!"
It hits me that he sounds exactly like Tracy Jordan with an accent and I try to stop myself from laughing hysterically.

"Yeah ok, that's cool. I'm not from there. I'm from Tennessee, in the south" I said.
"They're racist there, aren't they? Are you racist?"
"No. I just bought you beer, so obviously not."
"You're not racist! Thank you!" he said.

Then, he motioned with his shoulders and arms and said,
"You're a very big strong man!  Lots of muscles!"
I told him not everyone agreed with him, but thanks, and went on my way with him giving me lots of "God bless you's".

Now, dude's a little creepy and I know his comments were to either get more from me (one way or another) but I took the comment and went on my way because I've been feeling like shit lately, especially after the mother in law's comments about how I've turned into a fatty over the winter months. So what if he just wanted a cocaine party with dongs everywhere? At least he thought I wasn't a fat bastard and said so. It was worth the price of a Leffe.

Now to just avoid him, forever.

Royal (Wedding) Twats

I was watching a BBC segment on the family tree of Kate Middleton, the girl that married one of the princes. Harry, Larry, Barry, who gives a fuck. Anyway, they traced her family tree and showed that her family worked in coal mines or, as one of her cousins does now, works at a fish and chips shop. Oh, how quaint! They focused a lot on her grandmother, I believe, who reportedly had great drive and aspirations and "always strived for more in life" or something like that, and noted that she died 5 years ago -- but not before seeing where her granddaughter was then. With a prince. Oh, let me wipe the tears from my eyes.

So, grandma, your goal was to be rich without merit? It was literally to win the national royalty lottery? Is this what people still want in the 21st century?

Where IS her granddaughter now? What is the point in the royal family and most importantly, who gives a shit aside from old British women with collectible Princess Diana plates? Really, it may be a "rags to riches" story, but don't try to inject it with a bit of working class spirit, American dream stuff -- she's literally just fucking a prince. He saw her one day and thought, "I'd like to get inside of that", and because he's a prince with a yacht he now has, and that's about it. She's done nothing except open her castle gates and let a rich novelty inside and well, good for her, I guess... Why this is on the BBC is my main question, along with How anybody finds this to be heartwarming or interesting aside from Britain's board of tourism.

At least Belgium's just got a shoddy king that nobody cares about and the Manneqin Pis to show off. The Belgians seem to prefer more important things in life like making delicious beers and fries. Leave it to the Brits to romanticise the class differences like life really is some fairy tale and it's worth being in the gutter because some day, you too, might live in a castle paid for by the underlings of the country.

Wankers.

Use Your Head

When Marine leaves I often end up neglecting myself for whatever reason, and so I may not eat all day but then wait until the last minute, drag myself out the door, and eat something bad for me. It makes no sense, because when she's here she doesn't really cook that much. In fact, it's me making sure that she eats otherwise she will get angry and fatigued like a small baby. I just seem to lose all energy and I don't do anything, and today was a good example. I pushed through the hunger, gave an English class to an architect (which I couldn't avoid as he was coming to my house, there's not much else I could do), and then when I felt as though I might pass out I decided to descend the stairs and get something to eat.

I've talked about African food and how much I love it. Goat, chicken, rice, beans. Whatever. It's cheap and local and I know that when I move I'll probably not have the opportunity to eat it again, so I decided why not, 5 bucks, I'll go get some African. As is normal in Belgium, the place I frequent decided to close for no reason other than that they did not want to open that day. I backtracked and thought about the place across the street from me -- it's good but I prefer a specific type of chicken with sauce called moambe and, not being from Congo, the guy doesn't usually make it. But again I said screw it, I don't have the energy to be bothered looking for anything. Went there, got some goat (it's odd to use that casually, like for example he was telling me what was available and I said, "Mmmrrr.. I think I'll have the chicken -- wait no, the goat." -- you don't get to say that often) and he speaks fluent english so I had a little chat with him.

It's a new place next to a parking garage and he has nice new glass doors, but one was put out of commission and he had a chair behind and in front of it with a giant sign saying, Do Not Use This Door, as if a lot of people had tried and he had to barricade the thing in to stop them from shattering it and hurting themselves. I asked what had happened, just out of simple curiosity. I mean, he's basically a neighbor and I'd like to know the goings-ons in my neighborhood. "Well," he said, "They broke it and so I went and replaced the door. Then they broke it again the very next day. I said to them, It's ok, but give me the money to replace it!" He laughed and I tried to imagine it in my head.With the parking garage, I just made an assumption and asked "Did a car back into it or something?"
"No, with his head! He pushed the door open with his head".
That made no sense to me so I asked him and he explained a guy was coming in, twice, and broke it with his head. That simple.

I have no idea how someone does that and doesn't horribly maim themselves in the process, to be perfectly honest. He just continued to smile and said "It's Matongé, you never know what's going to happen!" I laughed with him, cause, well, it's true. People push open doors with their heads.

Sure it spices life up, but lessons should be learned here. Just as you shouldn't throw stones if you live in a glass house, you shouldn't own glass doors if you live in Matongé. There's plenty of evidence of that, unfortunately.

I just wished him good luck and went home and ate my goat.