Walk around almost any town or city in Britain and you will encounter a rough sleeper, pleading for coins. You’ll probably come across a cardboard and polyester encampment too – they are pretty much ubiquitous across the country; ghostly faces peer from fragile constructions under bridges, in foul doorways and beneath church porches. Sodden blankets and damp sleeping bags offer scant protection against the bitter November winds.
The statistics are bleak: rough sleeper numbers in England rose in 2017 for the seventh consecutive year. The ‘official’ tally – the number of people likely to be out on the streets on any one night – was put at 4,751. But the real figure is likely to be far higher once the ‘hidden homeless’ – people whose homeless situation is concealed by the fact they are squatting or sofa surfing or living in extremely over-crowded accommodation – are factored in.1 On average, a homeless man dies at the age of 47 (for women it’s 43). And they are nine times more likely to commit suicide than the rest of the population.
It is, though, the human stories that brings the full horror of the crisis to life. While living in Blackpool two years ago, I met Gary, a 42-year-old former painter and decorator. Gary was sleeping rough in a doorway a few blocks from Blackpool’s famous promenade. He was also receiving chemotherapy for Non-Hodgkin’s Lymphoma. After every session in the cancer clinic, Gary would have to sit out the ill-effects of the poison in a filthy restaurant doorway. In the evenings, he would make his way to the nearby library to wash in one of the ‘20p hotels’ – or the public toilets to you and me.
The street brought physical challenges beyond having to deal with cancer: he was regularly the victim of random outbursts of violence from drinkers who would spill out from the nearby bars and clubs in the early hours of the morning, as well as abuse from angry passers-by. Rough sleepers are far more likely to be attacked by strangers than any other members of the public. Over a third of them have been deliberately hit, kicked or had things thrown at them, while nearly one in ten has been urinated upon.
For precisely that reason, Gary had positioned himself beneath a CCTV camera: “If a camera’s there they can see anything that happens; they know what’s going on,” Gary told me. “People spitting on you, or people throwing bottles at you drunk at night… I’ve been spat on, I’ve been attacked. They just don’t see you. They just don’t believe in you.”
Blackpool had changed a great deal since it was described in 1789 as an “abode of health and amusement”2. In 2016, in Central Drive, a long undulating road that runs past Blackpool FC’s stadium, almost twice as many people were on some form of unemployment benefit as were in full-time employment. Half the children here were living in poverty. And then there was the homelessness. The number of rough sleepers in Blackpool was higher than in some London boroughs. Around 2,500 local households every year were seeking help from the council because they had either lost their accommodation or were at risk of losing it.
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