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Barry Sullivan when he took part in a rooftop protest against the eviction of the Camden Town Neighbourhood Advice Centre at Christmas 2003 |
It’s farewell to our first citizen, Barry
SOME people, I have noticed, mark out the neighbourhood they live in and make it their domain.
They become its steward, keeping a friendly eye on the elderly and infirm, running messages for them, picking up medicine from the local chemist.
In the wider world, they are barely noticed. They are known only to those they help. If the expression ‘Good Samaritan’ means anything today then surely Barry Sullivan was such a man.
Nervily active as the years went by, he ended up treating Greenland Road and Carol Street in Camden Town as his little domain, setting up camp in the local neighbourhood centre. Many a time I spotted his distinct figure shopping for neighbours in Sainsburys in Camden Town.
When he wasn’t doing that, he’d be chasing drug peddlers or junkies from Greenland Road or noting complaints residents wanted the Town Hall to deal with.
Locally, he became a legend. A light sleeper he’d get up at 4am, walk up and down the street to make sure all was well with his world, pop into the local newsagent and deliver newspapers, and woe betide any junkie settling down on a doorstep for a joint – Barry would shoo him away.
But officialdom couldn’t come to terms with him. He didn’t quite belong. And he certainly didn’t do things by the rule book.
The fact that he became the heartbeat of the neighbourhood wouldn’t have been understood anyway.
In the end the world of civil servants that lives by whatever is fashionably accepted as being political correct turned on him.
They shut down the neighbourhood centre and drove him away.
To tighten their control they went even further – they smeared him with emails sent to different departments making unsubstantiated accusations.
A sensitive man, easily hurt, Barry became distraught. As is often the case, he probably turned inwards, which probably affected his health.
He’d lost “his” neighbourhood centre, now his good name was being maligned. What is a man if he loses his good name?
Though he had had a bad start to life, brought up in a children’s home, he had made something of his life, achieving heights in good companionship and deep comradeship with people.
He became the kind of man I’d describe as being a first citizen of the borough.
Those at the top are probably too divorced from Barry’s world to be able to understand this.
But the people at the bottom knew what sort of man he was.
More articles on Barry Sullivan:
John Gulliver 11 September
Letters
Obituary
Brit different: US soldiers’ letters fail to address the big issues
IT’S a common truth that America and England tend to do things differently – and never more so than when it comes to war, I learned this week.
I was present at a one-off reading of letters and emails from allied forces in Iraq at Theatro Technis, that soapbox of political debate, on Tuesday evening.
Letters Home, fastidiously compiled by Jimmy Bohr, a theatre professor at The Ohio State University, was chock full of American voices, either waving the flag or professing their horror at war and President Bush.
But where, I thought, were the cries of “oil” and “imperialism”? Where were the stories of the so-called “economic volunteers”, lured by an army wage? What about the British voices? Black Watch and Fallujah, the two British verbatim productions about Iraq which I’ve seen recently, both dealt almost exclusively with the voices notably absent from Mr Bohr’s production.
“I was hoping to put contrasting views on stage,” Mr Bohr told me afterwards, “but the letters from British soldiers have not been forthcoming. In America there have been tonnes.”
Despite broadcasting on the British Forces Radio, no one came forward. According to Mr Bohr, they feel they have been lumped into the same boat as the politicians.
And while we Brits feel awkward or ashamed by our involvement in the war, members of the young American cast spoke of the pride their friends in the army still harboured, which some of them shared.
It’s an opinion seldom seen on these shores; Lesley Ferris, the organiser of the cross-cultural exchange who ran the York and Albany Theatre in Parkway in the 80s, must be commended for introducing that diversity.
George Eugeniou, founder of Theatro Technis, on the other hand, was not so torn: “This is a war that is built on a lie. Young people are losing their lives for nothing, for an imperialist regime, but imperialism will not win.”
‘Queen’s’ plaque
I WAS pleased to note that a plaque has been put up to honour an extraordinary woman, Trinidad-born Claudia Jones.
It was unveiled during the Notting Hill Carnival in memory of Claudia, who is regarded as the “mother” of Carnival.
Hounded out of the United States by the McCarthy witch-hunt in the mid-50s, Claudia founded the first West Indian newspaper in London.
She died tragically young at 49 in her home in Lisburne Road, Gospel Oak, and now lies in Highgate Cemetery. Her grave, I gather, is beautifully attended by those who remember her contribution to the lives of West Indians in the capital.
I have written about Claudia in this column several times trying to persuade English Heritage to erect a plaque on the house she lived in. She spent a great deal of her time in Camden.
Come on English Heritage, give her the honour she deserves.
23 years on, couple get a piece of paper
NOEL Coward once said that every time he thought of marriage, he thought again.
Mae West shrewdly commended the “great institution” but claimed she was simply not ready for it.
For Lesley, 60, and John Scott, 64, of Plender Street, who have been together for over 23 years and were married on Thursday, tying the knot was a great way to celebrate the bride’s 60th birthday.
“We usually go to the races for her birthday,” said John. “This year when I asked her what she wanted to do she said she wanted to get married.”
“It’s just a piece of paper to me. But I think it’s more important for a lady.”
Camden Mayor, Councillor Nurul Islam, attended their registry office wedding at the Town Hall in Judd Street and a stretch limo took the newly weds to the door of the Hope and Anchor pub in Crowndale Road where friends and family put the champagne on ice.
They met when Lesley applied for a position as a barmaid on St George’s Day at the Camden Head pub in Camden Passage, Angel, in 1985. John was the pub manager.
Lesley said: “Most people thought we were married anyway. You don’t want people referring to your partner as your boyfriend when you’re our age.”
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