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John O'Leary
-" I didn't go to school much" |
In your face: voices of the dispossessed
in our wealthy city
A unique project is recording the life stories of a homeless hostel’s residents in their own words
DESPITE its size and prominence, Arlington House is not seen by many.
The building, the last in a chain of hostels built by the Victorian philanthropist Lord Rowton in 1905, retains an austerity most people overlook in favour of the glitz and hubbub of nearby Camden Town.
Its 100 or so all-male inhabitants are people on the margins of society – “the excluded” in Blair lexicon. Once a dosshouse for Irish labourers, today’s Irish contingency has been joined by refugees, the mentally ill, the homeless and alcoholics.
Many have lived there for decades but they remain, for the most part, invisible.
George Orwell wrote about their predecessors when he stayed there; Suggs of Madness sang about them briefly; but it is only now, thanks to a unique MP3 project masterminded by community charity and Arlington owners Novas, and former resident Andrew Moran, that the men of Arlington House have finally found a voice of their own.
A pirate radio DJ in his twenties, 41 year-old Moran jumped at the opportunity but found himself out of his depth.
“A year ago I didn’t know how to switch on a computer,” he recalls. “Every interview I’d be learning how to do it. It was nerve-wracking for everyone. And they’re stuck in their ways, the residents, so you’ve got to tread carefully.”
Thirty interviews later, he is more sanguine: “When I was living in Arlington House I kept myself to myself. But doing the interviews has taught me a lot about the people I lived with. I appreciate them more, they’re so open and honest. I’d like to show other people that you can turn your life around and come out of your shell.”
Below is his story, and those of four other men of Arlington House.
SIMON WROE
Lee Rudkin
I was born in Leicester, so I guess you could say I’m a Leicestonian.
My father was a bastard, to be quite honest. He used to hit me as a child and I’ll tell you something else, I hit him back. I sure did! I got him in the end.
I’ve got one brother and one sister; I’m youngest in my family. My mother used to be a barmaid and she liked the lager and lime, she sure did.
I did tarmacking with the Travellers. Hard work. And I worked for the Asians, lifting 50-kilo bags of chickpeas and flour. I had my own flat. I was alone; I didn’t know what to do. I was drinking on my own, talking to myself.
I was so knackered I couldn’t even sleep. I used to buy big packets of sausages; when I cooked them I was too knackered to eat them. When you cook for yourself, it’s not like when your mother cooks for you. I used to drink lots of cider.
I’ve been in Arlington House four-and-a-half years. If I’ve got money I’ll be drinking and watching TV.
In five years time I’ll probably be dead. I’ve got cirrhosis of the liver. This is what Oliver Reed died of and this is what’s happening to me. What goes around comes around. Life is a mystery and no one can predict your future, not even you or me.
Geoff McCrory
I was born in 1969 in Chelsea and grew up in Streatham.
My parents divorced when I was 14 and there was mayhem because my mum went to live with a man across the road.
I didn’t go to school. I pretended to, but I didn’t. I started drinking when I was 14, and smoking cannabis; my mum and dad smoked it and they let me do it in front of them. My dad got me working for him because he was a successful builder. I was working on the Docklands and Broadgate doing steel fixing and shuttering and I was paid good money.
Then I broke my back in five places, I got run over, I fractured my skull, and got epilepsy. I started drinking a lot more. I started heroin and crack, and started injecting it. I’ve been dead on arrival twice.
I went to rehab and got kicked out after eight months because I had a joint of cannabis. Then, fair play to Arlington House, they took me in because there was nowhere else that I knew of. They took me in and I’m still here today.
My mother and sister came over to visit me last year. I felt a bit ashamed, because my sister’s a millionaire, my dad’s a millionaire, my mum’s well off, and I brought them here. I used to have a mortgage and a car but since I broke my back I’ve been on benefits.
I broke my back at work; I bounced off three scaffold poles from the third floor in Maida Vale. My wife and I lived in West Norwood in a nice flat, but when I lost my job we both became heroin addicts and things got pretty tough. She fell pregnant with a beautiful little girl, Samantha, who she loved to bits, looked after and cared for. But after eight months, I didn’t know it at the time but she was suffering from postnatal depression, and she threw herself off the eighth floor with my baby. And I cut my wrists. It really shattered me.
Sylvester Phelan
I was born in Ireland. I have a sister; my brother died last year.
I didn’t go to school much, only for a couple of years. I was working on my father’s farm as a young lad, then I went away to a racing establishment and I got rides in races, and then I got to be a regular jockey. But then I got too heavy. I was knocked unconscious for two days and two nights. I got very bad hurts – my back mainly. So I left and went stud farming, breeding horses. I had a good job there.
I fell out with my family and came to England and worked at lots of jobs. I worked in a Holborn rest washing glasses. And then I worked with a florist for a while. Then they let me go because there was a depression, so I got a job at the Savoy Hotel, washing dishes in the kitchen. Then I left and went to Australia, New Zealand and South Africa – spent the money I made. And then I came back to England in ’74 and worked at various jobs.
Arlington House in ’74 was like a concentration camp – terrible. Filthy, bribery, corruption, then there were backhanders. There was a lot of drunkenness. When you were in bed at night, people would kick the door as they went down the passage.
Now there are strict rules, there’s no fights, no drunkenness. The rooms are kept clean and the people come to see how you are every morning. To tell the truth I haven’t made many friends. If you make friends half the time they want money off you. They think you’re soft and you’ll give them money.
But I wouldn’t ask to find a better place.
Andrew Moran
I broke up with my girlfriend; I had two children.
I was living on my own. It was a bad day; the day after it might not have happened. That day I just decided: that’s it, I’m giving up. Packed my bags up and moved to London.
I stayed at some of the best places. I slept at the Ritz, in the garden. I slept in Green Park, Berkeley Square – all the posh places. I’d only go round Leicester Square if there was a premiere. I met the Queen and Arnold Schwarzenegger.
There were some scary times, but I wanted to go through a bit of pain, and I did.
I love Arlington House. I moved in three years ago; I was depressed, and the people who live here have more problems than I could ever think of. I thought to myself, I’m not really depressed at all; I’m basically all right. I’m a bit crazy, but we’re all a bit crazy.
I’ve had the funniest time here, I’ve cried laughing. For people who have nothing, they are the happiest bunch of blokes I’ve ever met.
It’s a hostel where you can drink so it’s basically a party every day. These people need company. If you give them a flat, they won’t know what to do. You’re never lonely here.
I feel like I’ve got more friends now that I’ve moved out than when I was living here.
Just because they live in Arlington House and some people might stigmatise them, saying they’re drunks, believe me they’re human beings and deserve a chance like anyone else.
John O’Leary
My name is John Francis Joseph O’Leary.
My parents are both dead, and both my sisters are dead. I have two children but I don’t see them. I’ve seen my daughter over a year ago, I haven’t seen my son for 10, 12 years, something like that. I miss them. I should imagine they’ve got their own children now.
I was homeless for a while, but I could always nip round to my sister’s for a bath.
They tell me I moved into Arlington House about nine years ago but I can’t remember the first day. I can’t remember last week, never mind the first day I moved in. I never go out these days. I don’t know Camden at all.
If I had my life all over again, would I change anything? That’s a hard question. Some things I suppose I would, but nothing springs to mind at the moment.
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