May 2005

I had been holding things together for a while. There is the odd spillage. I refuse to beat myself up about it, but there is no doubt that I’m not totally comfortable with my situation. Residual pride? Latent potential? Expectation mismatch? Value over-ride? Whatever.

About a month ago I bought myself one of those easymobile SIM cards for an old phone. I swore blind once I was down to a single number that I wouldn’t get another phone, but my need was great and there were no ties to the offer. Until the end of June, I can send a text for 2p and I can make calls for 6p a minute at any time of the day or night. I knew I wouldn’t have a home for a while, but I wasn’t prepared for the length of homelessness. I don’t know if it was naivety, bravura or hubris, or maybe just a case of over-confidence. I’m inclined to believe that I was bracing myself for the kicking I knew life still had to give me. So the pay-as-you-go SIM worked out well. Obviously, I only want one of my numbers to be available, to friends and creditors alike. So whenever I called the girls during the day, I would use this phone, witholding the number.

Only yesterday evening, exhausted, hungry, I forgot to dial the 141 prefix. Not that I particularly want to hide this number, but I’d rather my ex didn’t have it. I don’t want anyone calling me on this number as it’s not always on and more importantly, I doubt I’ll use it past the end of June when the special offer period expires. So standing outside Nando’s, where my sister was taking me to dinner to treat me, I called. Realising my mistake, I hung up and attempted to dial again, this time witholding the number. It was too late. Mehnaz had as quick as a flash called the number back, witholding her own number. I couldn’t divert, as there is no voicemail, and I didn’t want to answer.

You see, Mehnaz is not the only suspicious person in my life. There are others. And they are a fucking pain in the arse. Not only for their double-standards, but because they frequently add 1+1 and get 111. On good days, they just get 11. People like my ex, and the friend of hers who is reading the contents of this site to her regularly, assume the worst. And on the one occasion out of ten when they are proved right, they hold that single example, that pathetic, negative 10% success rate aloft as the trophy signalling their truthfulness. Kindly, fuck off and get a life. You are sad, sad, sad. Mehnaz (and her paranoid, suspicious friend, and maybe others) will hold onto this temporary pay-as-you-go number, bought out of necessity, as some kind of evidence that I am up to no good. Good luck. May you have a long life. Of course, I toyed with the idea of giving her this number to begin with, but why? She would only try and read something into it.

Before you go away thinking I’m explaining all of this to cover up any potential guilt, I should point out that my kids are totally aware of this number and have even used it. When I had a place to live, I let my beloved girls go to the local grocer’s. They took the spare phone and even called me from it. It was scary letting them go to the local shop, but I wanted to show my eldest that I trusted her. I think she was happy using a mobile phone too. Won’t be long before she has one of her own.

Back to the script.

Yesterday evening, I got a couple of witheld calls from Mehnaz. I started to get angry. Not with her. I expected her to do that. I felt angry with myself. I felt like running straight into the road at my own stupidity. I felt like a moron. I felt worthless. I saw red mist. Crimson mist. Black mist. A hunger for death. A rage built up in me. And then I breathed. I calmed myself down and order returned. It was as if a thousand foot wave was about to crush me on the Kenton Road, and just like in the Director’s Cut of The Abyss, it stopped right at the critical moment. And then with sheer effort of will, it receded and faded, like a nightmare, back onto the Kenton Road.

I got through to the girls and kept my composure. I spoke with my youngest first. She had been shouted at by her mother. This is standard “fuck-the-father” protocol. Upset them before they speak with me. They will then associate pain with my voice, no matter how calm I am. In the long run, one hates the good cop too, perhaps more so than the bad cop. Then I spoke with my eldest, with whom I am closer I guess. I love them both equally, but it’s obvious I will be closer tot he eldest, it just works out that way. She was already upset. We lost the connection. I called back. She thought I’d hung up on her. My voice had not wavered from loving and nurturing. But she was convinced. Her mother had given the atmospheric pre-med. The scene was set. She was upset, and naturally, she took it out on me. Once the call had ended, the tidal wave of blackness engulfed me in an instant.

I screamed. On the Kenton Road. Not like a madman. In that moment, I was the madman. I felt for a moment, what it must be like to have a nervous breakdown. I screamed “FUCK”. Loudly. Very loudly. Three times. I had both phones in my hand. I was holding on to sanity by a solitary fingernail. But I was holding on. I wanted to smash my phones into a million pieces. I felt everything worth fighting for disappearing into the blackness. I felt blood coming to my ears, my temples, my nose. I saw stars. Not the kind Oscar Wilde referred to either.

I walked around, aimlessly. Then eventually, calmness and order returned. I guess it was an outpouring of many things. I sorted things out later with my eldest. She was ok in the end. I had allowed perspective to return again. I’m getting better at not allowing madness to engulf me. That’s growth I guess. A lot of what I’m going through is making me realise just how much I have to be grateful for.

I spent much of today in gratitude. I got a shower at my sister’s place, then I took several buses to the court where I filed for my decree absolute. As of today. I am single. I’ll let you know what this means to me on Friday. In the meantime, I am hoping this day has a happy ending. Yes, my team are playing in the European Cup Final.

Some friends are bewildered. They want to know how things could be so good, and then become so bad? How can someone on six figures, an outwardly stable family life and no drink or drugs problem descend to no income, no home blah blah etc etc

It can happen to anyone. This is the moral. It can happen to anyone. Stability is an illusion. There is no stability. We are all on the precipice. It’s up to us how we handle the fall. Some disguise it. Others run from it. I am embracing it. The alternative is to sink further, as I’ve said before, the only rock bottom is six feet under. I’m not interested in that. I’ve found depression to be a poor lifestyle choice, so I’ve decided not to succumb to that, though I admit to the odd dark moment or three.

Anyone can lose their job. Anyone can lose their family. Anyone can lose their home. It happens to many fathers, and many others. (No, I didn’t drop an ‘m’ there, though I have dropped an ‘M’ in another sense)

The question is, do you accept this as your lot? Do you say that a temporary condition is permanent? Just because you share some similarities with a bum, does that make you one? Of course not. That would fly in the face of everything I have taught my children. Their mother calls them “stupid”, “moron”, “dumb” and “idiot”. I’ve taught them that they are talented, creative, beautiful, clever and resourceful. I’ve also taught them that the behaviour is not the person. So why would I now go against all that I’ve taught them and allow myself to think I’ve become a “bum”? I only become a bum when my thinking patterns lead me to a persistent bum state. I have very high hopes for the future. I am grateul for learning many lessons.

I’m more tolerant of the cold. I’ve come into contact with more of humanity. I’ve lessened my dependence on caffeine, and the Internet. I realise that I have to do something every single day to move towards my goals. Standing still is simply not an option. My dearest friend told me in no uncertain terms that losing focus was not an option. That I simply do not have the time, the luxury, or even the right to lose myself in negatively thinking about the situation I have found myself in. It’s truth.

Another dear friend has warned me of mists and martyrdom. Wise advice. I am not allowing a day to pass when I am not learning, or progressing in some way. The way I see it is that if I was a football manager, and I have a poor team, and we are 1-0 down at half-time, there is still a half to go and anything can happen. If I resign myself to defeat, I might as well not come out for the second half.

Nobody gave Liverpool a chance of even progressing past the group stages in the Champions League. And here they are again, with an average team, sitting at the table of the greats, 90 minutes away from being crowned the kings of Europe.

I have had more than my fair share of success in life, Alhamolilah. And I will have it again. I have tended in the past to write off my prospects of living past 40. Now I have to change my thinking in that regard too. I must believe that I am at half-time and only 1-0 down, with everything to play for.

Bring on the second half.

I had Chomsky for breakfast.

Let me explain. On the bus this morning, I was wearing my cap, you know, the one that identifies one as a Muslim. I was carrying a briefcase with a laptop. And I was reading Chomsky. I just found that funny.

I have an Apple G4 laptop. American company. My phone, a Motorola V3 is American. My iPod Shuffle (filled to the brim with Anthony Robbins audio books!) is American. I just found it quite amusing, not necessarily ironic, that my favourite possessions are American, but that I’m reading a book that might be perceived as anti-American. Of course, it’s not. Just as any hatred of terrorism shouldn’t imply a hatred of Islam, a hatred of the neocon hawk ideology cemented by the Reagan adminsration and brought to its extreme peak (nadir?) by the the Son of Satan, Dubya, and his Spiritual Wife - Doctor Rice, shouldn’t imply a hatred of America.

I feel a bit silly for constantly having to defend myself, but I know that this site, like millions of others, is monitored. And the last thing I want right now is to be linked to a suspect organisation.

My anger towards my children’s mother has diminished. My dislike for her has not, but anger hasn’t helped anyone achieve their goals. So I have been patient and refused to be drawn into argument, even when I have been insulted on the phone. I’ve just ignored it and focussed on the children. There’s no changing some people. Insanity is defined as expecting a new result from the repeated application of the same inputs. I guess I’ve decided to give up on insanity. If a personality cannot be changed from within a relationship, I must have been barking mad to expect any change from without! So I even bought her a coffee. After all, she is the children’s mother. If I dont’ buy her a coffee, out of spite, or a sense of revenge, or whatever, my kids will think less of me. The decree absolute happens tomorrow. Life is changing this week. I must change along with it.

So after buying coffee for her mother, I helped my younger daughter yesterday afternoon with a fun approach to subtraction in Starbucks, Maida Vale. She began the afternoon carrying her prejudices of recent parental tuition experience. She half-expected me to be impatient. She was half-susprised when I reminded her of how I used to teach my daughters. Her recent, “alternative” home tuition method included shouted taunts of “moron”, “stupid” and “bloody idiot”. You know, the kind of life-affirming, nurturing support in teaching that you expect from a mother, the kind that makes you cry, and to believe that you are less than you are.

Within a few minutes of her time with me, she was smiling, laughing, participating and learning. Within half an hour, subtraction was no longer a terrifying subject. It was fun! I can’t tell you how much I love teaching my kids. My younger is especially receptive, as she has had less time with me than I would have liked. Towards the end of the maths lesson (she had also read a couple of chapter of her English homework assignment to me), she drew a picture of a girl crying, with the subtitle “I don’t want you to go”. This breaks my heart, as it would the heart of any father I’m sure. However, I appeared (and it’s appearance that counts) healthy, confident, funny and clean! (Only I was aware of my personal ming levels, and my standards are pretty stringent!)

And for those who are taking an interest in my personal hygiene, I had showered and shaved the night before, and my clothes are clean. I believe that a short period of privation is an important lesson. My relatively happy acceptance of a difficult period should not be misconstrued as a voluntary embrace of ascetism, or God forbid, martyrdom.

Sometimes, things are not as they appear. I’m sitting in Starbucks, Maida Vale, with my Powerbook 17″ in my lap, having set up a T-Mobile “HotSpot” account which allows me to access various wireless broadband hotspots for £1, charged at the beginning of every 15 minute session. I have a beautiful briefcase, a Bill Amberg gym bag and a Dunhill shoulder bag by my side. Most of my essentials are contained therein. Style, pose, and yet, I am not what I seem.

This is the beauty of Great Britain. I’ve fucked myself, the system has fucked me, and yet I’m still able to do this, to appear to be something I’m not. I like writing, and I am able to continue doing that, albeit in short bursts. I’ve just had my first food and drink for the day, it feels great. I feel like I have dined like a king.

Talking of kings, earlier today, I met a great friend. I was helping him help a friend to get a laptop. We completed our mission in an hour. He was kind enough to buy me a travelcard that let me ride the tube. Never have I felt so happy at being the recipient of a four-zone travelcard. I never thought the day would come when I would consider the tube a ride of princes. Today, the tube has saved me a lot of time, and I’m grateful to my friend for helping me out.

The sun is out, as is Star Wars. Despite the hideous week, I still feel a sense of release and joy at the prospect of a weekend ahead, full of possibility, and perhaps even more improbability. I am actually enjoying the challenges that life is throwing at me. This character-building through bum-rape is not so bad you know. I will not be beaten.

The caterpillar thought it was dying. Then it woke up as a butterfly…

You know, some of my former Ahmadi friends would rejoice at the current turn of events. They would see my slide into bad times as evidence of their truth and my departure from it.

I welcome this adversity! I was warned to expect tests and trials. You see, I take great comfort from the Qur’an:

Ye shall certainly be tried and tested in your possessions and in your personal selves; and ye shall certainly Hear much that will grieve you, from those who received the Book before you and from those who worship many gods. But if ye persevere patiently, and guard against evil,-then that will be a determining factor in all affairs.
The Noble Qur’an - 3:186

And the most important:

Do men think that they will be left alone on saying, “We believe”, and that they will not be tested?
The Noble Qur’an - 29.2

Had I been younger, perhaps I wouldn’t have felt so resilient. But no roof, no money, no car, no job, it means nothing. I have the love of my friends, family and children. I still have (some) dignity, and let’s face it, I’m in a veritable paradise compared to many in the world. It’s only temporary, and you know what? I say bring it on!!!

I’ve had a poor week. You know when a salesperson makes half his target for a week? And he calls it a “bad” week? You know when a bus driver gets into an argument with a passenger and then describes he day as “bad”? You know when some student nurse misses her train and gets to the hospital 2 minutes late and the sister gives her a mild rebuke and then she goes home and tells her colleageu that she had the “day from hell”? Well, these people would find my week several shades of shit worse than their pain threshold.

I wore my socks out in a day. I have worn the same pair all week. My underpants have been washed once, but otherwise, they’re the same ones I put on Monday morning. I have worn the same t-shirt for four days. Despite a wash, it mings. The same jeans and jacket is not much of an issue, but when you’re practically living them, the ming factor breaks the mingometer.

It’s 3:40p.m. I have been on the go since this morning. I’m tired, very tired, and I’ve only just realised that I have eaten nothing today, and it took until 2p.m. before I had my first glass of water.

I’d like an umbrella, but it would be pointless given how many bags I have with me.

Today was particularly bad. OK, so was yesterday. And the day before that. And the day before that. And the day before that. This morning, as I made my way towards my brother’s office where I know nobody knows about my plight except for my brother, and where I can get an Internet connection, I got a call from my eldest, who was sobbing her eyes out. She was incoherent, but I managed to calm her down enough so that I understood what she was telling me was that bailiffs had got into their flat. Further questioning revealed an impasse, much like the end of Lock., Stock and Two Smoking Barrels. The bailiff, from Drakes, had managed to jam his foot in the door as the mother was leaving for the school run. The mobile phone which is almost never used to call me, was for once, used to call me. My eldest had to call from where she was able to get reception, nowhere near the front door. Mehnaz was holding the door. Apparently, she was being threatened with arrest.

I managed to get some details. The bailiff was there because Mehnaz had not paid for the TV licence, and much like the 16 years we were together, she was smart enough to argue my bollocks off, smart enough to come up with witty and evil ripostes, smart enough to siphon money away for times such as these, but left all the paperwork, including TV licences to me.

Needless to say, she expected this arrangement to continue once I’d left. She has time to go to Ann Summers parties and pubs, clubs and restaurants. She has time to visit her friends all over the city, and the money to take black cabs to school and back if necessary. but not the time to appear in court for non-payment of a TV licence. So you’re getting the picture. It has come to bailiffs, they have persisted, and my eldest has been asked to call me to sort it out. My children are terrified, so what is a father to do? I got off the bus, caught with such difficulty, a seat found with luck, and stood somewhere along Church Road. Do you know Church Road, between Willesden and Harlesden? Possibly the most soulless and run-down road in the whole of London, where people only go to get run over or mug someone. The bailiff spoke to me. I was calm throughout. I asked him if he had taken “walking possession”. He hadn’t effectively done that, but since he had gained entry the once, he was at liberty to return at any time to break down the door. So he informed me that my card didn’t work, they didn’t accept Visa Electron, the card given to losers who don’t even qualify for the So-Lo-It-Won’t-Go card. We came to an arrangement whereby I would pay the balance of £365 tomorrow morning, thus avoiding further such incidents.

And while I was doing this, some shit on a bike came up behind me and whacked the back of my head and made an attempt for my phone. I clung on and stepped after him, but I had bags, lungs full of tar, no energy and he had a bike, fitness, experience and a long descent down the hill of Church Road. I called out after him “come back here you motherfucker! Come back here you slimey little fucker! Come here and I’ll show you how to mug someone!”. He stopped, turned around to look at me, saw someone clearly off their trolley, and I continued. “Come on, come back here and have another go you fucking shit! Let me show you how to mug someone!”. He departed.

That was my morning.

I have faced a week of walking and hypos, of estate agents and landlords speaking to me like shit because I mentioned that hated German organisation, D SS. I have had officials and solicitors talk to me as if I was a rapist, and I’ve been told point blank that the fact that I have kids means nothing.

I have tried what I can to stop this getting to me. The system is broken, but I am not. I can’t tell you how depressing and soul-destroying this is, but I prefer to look at it as character building. I certainly feel that as I am not broken by the abuse, privation, humiliation and rape, I must be strong enough. Which probably means I will have to endure a lot more yet.

I’m getting to know the buses quite well. My beard is impressive. My smell would compete with a Camembert left in the sun for a month. My phone keeps running out. And I have run out of insulin and had none all day. Or food. And now I have to leave, so sonn, to head back across half of London to try and get some insulin.

I don’t want to talk about the rest of the week. It doesn’t make for pleasant reading.

What is the light at the end of the tunnel? I’ll tell you what it is. It’s that elusive white light people see just before they die.

There is no rock bottom. Rock bottom is six foot under. There are no limits to how much one can allow oneself to sink.

Throughout the last 48 hours, I have not lost any faith. That’s the interesting thing. When things were really fucking bad, I was praying and smiling. Madness? Some might see it that way. I saw it as the hope that things do get better. They will. But if I try and put things into perspective, it was probably not as bad as one of those jungle survival reality TV shows. With a major difference. On those shows, people get to go home at the end, or before if they choose. I have nowhere to call home.

That’s not what the council think. The council asserted that I had made myself intentionally homeless. I was treated with contempt, given less respect than a common thief who I’m sure has more rights than I do. You see, when you’re arrested, you’re read your rights. I wasn’t even read the riot act. They just tore into my arse and kept tearing. It’s no wonder that the agency that is supposed to ensure your security when you have paid over £100,000 in taxes in two years, is called The SS. Oh, of course if you say it in a German accent, it sounds like DSS. The “Derailers of Shahid’s Sanity”. Or “Destroyer’s of Soul and Spirit”.

Intent, honour, dignity, they are all perverted by these scummy bastards to look like Deceit, Chicanery and Fraud. I was told that this is just their strategy. To wear you down. To see if you’re really up for it. To assess, in their own way, whether you’re in need.

If I was Bangladeshi, or Arabic, or Somalian with 4 kids, no tax paid, no wish to contribute to society and no English, they’d stick me in a palace in St. John’s Wood. I know people like this, so it’s no stereotype. These gangbangers even told me to move back in with my ex. Can you imagine? They were not interested in my priority need - I suffered hypo after hypo lugging my stuff around from office to office. But to them I was a crook who was trying to cheat the system.

I can’t begin to describe how soul-destroying this whole experience has been. I thought I had already been humiliated. Back in the early 90s, I had a tough patch. Despite crippling debts, I refused to accept any help from the state with my rent or income. People were thrusting forms into my face, from the council, literally begging me to do it as the money was there for my benefit. I refused. Somehow, I got out of it and things just kept getting better and better. This time, I had no choice.

Tonight I’m staying on the floor, but I have Internet access. I spent all today (Tuesday) and all yesterday (Monday) on the streets. At one point on Tuesday, I had a hypo outside the solicitor’s office. I was muttering to myself, and I stank. I saw a tramp walk past. He was muttering to himself, he stank. This brought my thinking into stark relief. After all, was this all I was worth? All this begging, pleading, demanding, just for a poxy council flat in an area I had no choice over? To be condescended to by my own fucking solicitor?

She told me that my case was already weak, because I had been honourable, and that staying at a friend’s for the night would prove that I was not homeless. I pointed out that I did not actually have a home. That didn’t seem to be important! In the eyes of the law, when I left my flat in Maida Vale two years ago, for which I had diligently paid rent for 11 years without mishap, I left a perfectly good home in which I should have stayed. The fact that my marriage had irretrievably broken down is of no consequence to the law. This is equality? And women complain? It doesn’t matter that I have an arrangment to see my children overnight every week, as far as they’re concerned, I’m still a fraud, a charlatan, and a liar who “colluded” with my landlord to make myself homeless. Yeah, like I enjoy being on the fucking street all day, or some dingy B&B where the heating doesn’t work and the door can be opened with a credit card for some drunk to force his way into my room and then up my arse.

So I’ve had enough. I worried that I was “giving up”. Then I realised my thinking was all wrong. I’m not giving up “anything” except the rape of my soul by the system I put so much into and from which I took so damn little. There were times I should have been in hospital, I didn’t go because I didn’t want to be a burden. There were times I could have claimed benefits from the system, I didn’t, because I didn’t want to be a burden. There were times when I could have defaulted on my debts. I honoured them, because that’s what I believe is the right thing to do. I’ve always tried to be as honourable as possible. Ask me ex, even she will agree - honourable to the point of utter stupidity. And now, at a time of genuine need, the system that I am trying to use to help me back on my feet so that I can start afresh treats me like a cunt. There’s no other word for it. Well actually, there are probably far better words. But I am far too tired, far too drained and far too homeless to give a flying fuck.

I will pick myself up. I will dust myself off. I will find a place, a job, a life. I have lost a lot of respect for the system. It refuses to send my daughter to anything other than a borstal of a secondary school and refuses to house the father who put in more tax into the system in his last working year (2003) than many earn in 5. I will do everything I can to become ridiculously wealthy, not because I covet money, but because I refuse ever to lie down like this again, for my dignity to be walked over roughshod by some council cunt who can’t string together a coherent sentence, who doesn’t understand civility (I was at all times courteous) and who lies and then walks away from a meeting, protected by bullet-proof glass windows which in my opinion, are utterly warranted. Because these people deserve to be shot. And Tony Blair is a monster who has perpetuated this system. I know this sounds ridiculous, but things were never this bad under the Tories. Never.

Today I am alone, jobless, carless, moneyless and homeless. Before the end of the year, insha’Allah, mark my words, I will have a nice place to live, a great job, a fuck-off car (yeah, fuck the bus, I’m tired of hoodied teenagers trying to impress the passengers by talking about AK’s, Tazers and donkey-raping. Actually, I thought the last bit was rather funny, and it happened on a 220 today). And I won’t be alone. My goals are more specific than that, but I want these things with a vengeance. And I will do everything in my power to pay as little tax as I can legally get away with, exploiting every penny-pinching tactic that a great tax lawyer can help me with.

Things will get better. And I will damn well wake up from this nightmare and seize my life by the throat and MAKE IT HAPPEN. Insha’Allah.

I will resume normal post activity probably towards the end of this month. So put a note in your diary to start checking back on June 1st 2005. In the meantime, posts will be sporadic at best, depending on my Internet access.

Friends have my mobile number, which remains unchanged. My home telephone will be disconnected in a day or two. My flat is empty. Zen chic. I had the urge to purge. A desire to retire. A need to bleed. It was cathartic getting rid of so much life-detritus.

It’s amazing how little we need to live. Hell, if hygiene in London’s cheap eateries was better, we wouldn’t even need kitchens. Of course, not that long ago, people went to public baths. What an idea. When I was growing up in Gosfield Street, our bath was in our kitchen. Our “sitting room” was actually a room where my mum worked on her industrial sewing machine while me and my sister slept on our bunks. The “bedroom” had the TV and served effectively as a living room. There wasn’t much room in there for more than the bed, a TV and my baby brother’s cot.

I had a choice between going to Westminster council and the London Borough of Hammersmith and Fulham. I have opted for the latter. There are a number of reasons for this. First, the area is fantastic. I like living here. Despite the preponderance of night-time drunks and loud Australians, demonstrating their zest for life by screaming from atop their rooftops (literally), whilst getting the barbie on (literally) and getting smashed on Fosters (literally), it’s a nice borough. The council is helpful and genuinely improving year on year. The streets are clean. The shops have character. There are two football clubs here, but I can live with that now as I don’t have a car. Transport is great.

My neighbours are selfish trustafarians, but that’s ok, they keep themselves to themselves generally, even if their music often outreaches their personal space, and my personal bedtime. Westminster boasts the drug-infested Mozart Estate, the fringes of Kensal Rise, the crack-racked-corners of Queens Park, the vast expanse of Communist-chic Lisson Green Estate, and other such insalubrious environs. It would be all too easy to get housed there, and then get mugged, raped and killed, though not necessarily in that particular order.

Yes I’d be closer to my beautiful daughters. But I am a 414 bus ride away, door to door. And they have already made it clear to me several times that they want to spend half of their time with me. So that could, and should happen.

I’ll keep you posted if I can post with ease.