I grew the most savage beard I could muster in four days – 1.5mm of brutish fluff. I was, after all, going to spend a night sleeping rough in this old and quirky town; and as we all know, vagabonds are masters of that esoteric science of facial hair. It was important that I kept things authentic. However, I must be clear on one thing: this was not a grand gesture.
No, to assume that a single night on a bench in the faintest of rains could symbolise any level of solidarity with people who dine out from the garbage strikes me as vulgar. Not dissimilar to importing a child from Cambodia and dressing it up like a Pokémon. Gestures are important, but this was simply a challenge, a mini adventure, an experiment in pure Gonzo journalism.
I grew the most savage beard I could muster in four days – 1.5mm of brutish fluff. I was, after all, going to spend a night sleeping rough in this old and quirky town; and as we all know, vagabonds are masters of that esoteric science of facial hair. It was important that I kept things authentic. However, I must be clear on one thing: this was not a grand gesture.
No, to assume that a single night on a bench in the faintest of rains could symbolise any level of solidarity with people who dine out from the garbage strikes me as vulgar. Not dissimilar to importing a child from Cambodia and dressing it up like a Pokémon. Gestures are important, but this was simply a challenge, a mini adventure, an experiment in pure Gonzo journalism.
Suiting up was easy: stokies, too-big-for-me pants and a mothballed sports jacket. An old walking stick I had once painted black with flames (à la Dr. House) for a fancy dress was just the trick to tie this ensemble together. I had also considered a half-jack of brandy in a brown paper bag. However, all I had was the remains of bottle of Pimm’s. I sort of liked the juxtaposition of tucking this bourgeois drink into my homeless kit, so I grabbed it too.
Having suitably terrified a neighbour on my way out, I began a sort of gangster slide into town. It was intended to be the gait of an elderly vagrant, but lacked any degree of subtlety – think Jay-Z meets Quasimodo.
I continued up High Street where all was quiet bar some distant voices; the remnants of the night’s razzlers as they made their way home from dying parties. Tempted to analyse how awful it must be to watch this frivolity and then sleep under a box, I remembered I was not out to make a statement.
My thoughts turned to Settlers' Monument. I wondered how eerie it was at night and started up the winding road to find out. Suddenly the legal implications of being caught loitering on a university campus with no identification, half a bottle of spirits and a stick painted with flames sounded very real. But I trekked on, confident that campus security had seen loonier sights than this.
Atop the hill in the dead of night with an orange-brown sky and just a breath of drizzle, I could only think how ideal the scene was for occult rituals.
The wind rattling a rope against a flagpole was just the auditory accompaniment to convince me the place was too creepy to sleep in. I turned and shuffled back down the hill to the relative comfort of town and that most traditional of vagrant resting spots: a bench in the town square.
With my scarf as a handy pillow, I rustled about on the hard struts till my hip bone lodged in somewhere only marginally painful. And, do you know what? I drifted off jolly pleasantly. The trouble was the occasional grumble of passing vehicles.
Each one woke me and conjured up images of police wagons bursting with baton-happy cops, out to rid the streets of scum like me. Well, no, not like me. I mean the real tramps. I was sure I’d leap up and explain my field trip long before any night stick came within a swipe of me, although just the thought corrupted my snooze. But again, I imply no social comment.
Some time in the wee hours I concluded one too many growling engines had ruined my kip for good. I had things to do that day and this stuttered sleep would not do. I pried my spine out from between two planks and gathered up my chattels. I stumbled back down Hill Street to my warm bed in an angry daze like a grizzly disturbed mid-hibernation.
I hadn’t made it the whole night, but close enough, I thought. And what a pleasure to pour into bed without fear of any form of spinal clamping between lengths of rotting timber… without any naïve gloss on the plight of the poor, that is.
