The World According to Bob

Bob, as always, had spotted the danger and was hissing at him already. I knelt down and got him to climb on my shoulders before there was any trouble.

I wasn’t going to be intimidated and stuck my ground.

‘I’ve got a right to sell here and I’ve just got these few magazines to sell,’ I said. ‘You know what you are doing is wrong. You are nothing but a leech, you are forcing him to beg for you.’

He didn’t like this and warned me again.

‘You’ve got two minutes to pack your stuff up and f*** off,’ he said, temporarily distracted by his mate who was waving to him for some reason. He then pushed his way into the crowds.

People were flooding in and out of the station, so I lost them for a few minutes. I knew the score. They were both drug addicts and were only running this scam until they had enough money to head off and fix themselves up. I was hoping that his mate’s signal indicated that they’d hit their target and were going to disappear. No such luck.

In hardly any time, the big guy reappeared, looking even angrier than before. He was literally frothing at the mouth and spitting out expletives. ‘Didn’t you hear what I told you?’ he snarled.

The next thing I knew he had hit me. He just walked up to me and punched me on the nose. It happened so fast, I didn’t even see him pull back his arm. He just jabbed a giant fist into my face. I didn’t have a hope of deflecting the blow.

‘What the hell?’ I said, back-pedalling, Bob hanging on for dear life.

When I drew my hand away from my face I could see that it was covered in blood. It was gushing out and my nose felt like it had some broken cartilage in there.

I decided it wasn’t a fight I could win. There was no sign of the Police so I was on my own against a pretty nasty pair of individuals.

Working on the streets was risky, I knew that. But there were times when it was downright dangerous. I’d heard stories of Big Issue sellers being killed. There had been a case up in Norwich where two or three guys set about a vendor there and kicked him to death. I really didn’t want to add to the statistics.

‘Come on, Bob, let’s get out of here,’ I said, grabbing my stuff and heading off.

I felt a mix of anger and despair. I was desperate for a change in my fortunes. I didn’t think I could take much more of this life. But, try as I might, I couldn’t see how on earth I was going to break free. Suddenly all that talk with my father of jobs and training seemed ridiculous, a complete pipe dream. Who was going to pay a recovering junkie a decent salary? Who was going to hire someone with a curriculum vitae as barren as the Australian outback where I spent part of my childhood? On that day, feeling as low as I did, the answer was as plain and bloody obvious as the nose on my face: no one.

Chapter 11. Two Cool Cats

One lunchtime in September 2010, I arrived at Angel tube to be greeted by Davika. She was a ticket attendant and had been one of our most loyal friends since Bob and I had started working in Islington. She often brought Bob a little treat or something to drink, especially during hot weather. Today, however, she simply wanted to deliver a message.

‘Hi James, there was someone here looking for you and Bob,’ she said. ‘He was a reporter from one of the local papers. He asked me to call him back if you were willing to talk to him.’

‘Really?’ I said. ‘I guess I don’t mind. Tell him he can come and see us during our regular hours.’

It wasn’t the first time someone had paid us attention. There were a couple of films on the internet about Bob and I that had been viewed by a few thousand people and a couple of London bloggers had written nice things about us, but no one from the newspapers had shown any interest. To be honest, I took it with a pinch of salt. I’d had all sorts of weird and wonderful approaches over the years, 99 per cent of which came to nought.

A couple of days later, however, I arrived at Angel to find this guy outside the tube station waiting for us.

‘Hi James, my name is Peter,’ he said. ‘I was wondering if I could do an interview with you for the Islington Tribune?’

‘Sure, why not?’

He proceeded to take a picture of Bob perched on my shoulder with the Angel tube station sign behind us. I felt a bit self-conscious. I hadn’t exactly dressed up for the occasion and was wearing a thick, early winter’s beard, but he seemed happy enough with the results.

We then had a bit of a chat about my past and how we’d met. It wasn’t quite the Spanish inquisition, but it clearly gave him enough ammunition for his piece which he said would appear in the next edition of the Tribune. Again, I didn’t really take it too seriously. I worked on the principle that I’d believe it when I saw it. It was easier that way.

It was a few days later on a Thursday morning, that Rita and Lee, the co-ordinators at The Big Issue stall on Islington Green called me over.