Down And Out In Sydenham

Sydenham has more than its fair share of beggars. If my memory serves me correctly, there were none at all when I moved here nearly four decades ago.

One fairly recent arrival is a guy who, well, I’ve always been a poor judge of ages, let’s just say he is quite a bit younger than me but doesn’t look it. He sits on the railway bridge and begs in a very half-hearted fashion. He has a weather-beaten look due to his sleeping in a tent. He also has quite a few tattoos – the disreputable kind – and a drink problem.

When I spoke to him today I asked if he was still living in a tent. He said he was. In summer, that may be passable, but although we may have another few fine days, summer is well and truly over.

I told him the local authority had a duty to house him (even if only in an inhospitable hostel). He said he didn’t qualify because he isn’t from the area. Where are you from? I asked. Winchester, he said, adding that when he applied for something there, all they gave him was a return ticket to London.

Is it any wonder that when our own kind are treated like this, even those near the bottom of the food chain, that people the length and breadth of the country are angry bogus asylum seekers are given priority, moved into at times quite luxurious accommodation, and even given money to spend? Of course, only the far right would point this out, according to the Starmer gang. Strange then isn’t it that the mostly black denizens of certain American cities express exactly the same views about their own manufactured migrant crisis?

Charity begins at home. So does justice.