Alan Coleman

The woman opposite me on the train is reading The Daily Mail, flicking through it leisurely reading the strap lines and looking at the pictures of angry white people from the home counties – I paid, I want, I deserve, I need.

She’s eating Snack a Jacks which are low in fat but have made her breath smell of farts, the packet is folded and pressed neatly between the seats. Unwanted rubbish left for the invisible army of young black men to clean up, all because putting it in the Tate Modern vinyl bag and taking it back to Clapham is just too much trouble.

It makes me laugh when I see people dropping litter neatly, as if gently placing that Starbucks Coffee cup under the seat is somehow more acceptable that simply chucking it down in full view.

The silk scarf round her neck makes her look like a cross between cabin crew and princess Anne as she peers over that paper at the five young girls on the facing seats across the train.

The eyes are inquisitive, occasionally narrowing for a split second in what could either be jealousy or anger. The five girls, no more than 16, wear Heat magazine style tracksuits, scraped back hair, jewellery and make up. They swap text messages and laugh uncontrollably without care, about who said what to who and what they got up to last weekend.

I can’t help but smile at the happiness on their faces, and warm to the genuine friendship and lightening quick sense of humour. A lifetime away from the sour faced sneering opposite, and everything it stands for.

I watched a bit of TV before I went to bed last night, Britain’s Streets of Vice, presented by the pious Sally Magnusson. Only the BBC would have a joyous Songs of Praise presenter front a program about something deemed so unholy.

Like the program before it, Skint, it provides BBC viewers like myself with an almost smug insight into the lives of the dispossessed, the unwanted, the ignored.

The familiar Police talk about “These people” and the side effects of their trade on the all important “Community”, but not the dangers faced by the young girls involved. Rather, the effect it has on the families of the punters when they knock on the front door. Their priorities lie firmly with the law, the taxpayer, and constructs of a ‘decent’ society like the family, and men.

The somehow familiar story of 21 year old Maxine is tragic. A childhood of abuse that led to prostitution at the age of 16, she had two children removed to which she is allowed to write two letters a year. Maxine is young, shy and little more than a child, whilst at the same time a kind, funny and thoughtful adult trapped in a desperate world of abuse and lost souls.

Facts and figures about drug use flash up on to lonely shots of her in unimaginably dark and dangerous places. Sheffield, a million miles away from the ridiculous Julia Roberts and Richard Gere. I contemplate over and over the kind of society that we live in, one that could see Maxine earning a merge living by submitting to dirty old men on a piece of wet carpet in derelict flats. That’s somebody’s daughter, sister, mum. I think about how Maxine’s life will pan out when the cameras leave and return to Barnstable for next weeks Songs of Praise.

It is a truly terrifying and saddening thought.

I think about Maxine’s place in Blair’s grotesquely conservative Britain, his infatuation with the middle classes, and about how the basic life privileges now considered a birthright are denied to her because of circumstance and class.

I think about tabloid exploitation of sex and it’s counterproductive scapegoating of the disaffected, Daily Mail and Guardian readers wondering out loud why she didn’t work harder at school.

But most importantly I think about how Maxine has got nobody to look after her, and how we managed to let a human being end up in that utterly diabolical situation in the first place.

Fantastic to see Private Johnson Beharry, a young black foot soldier from South London, awarded the Victoria Cross For his acts of bravery.

The right wing tabloid press fell over themselves to print the biggest headline, strange that not long ago they were using the same hysteria to heap hate on immigrants. Now one of them is a hero its “FOR VALOUR”, “The BRAVEST of the Brave”.

You could just see all those Hate Mail journos nodding approvingly, “Well that ones alright, seems like a nice enough chap too”. The confusion is all too much – To hate, or not to hate? It depends on how many papers it’ll sell.

Make your mind up, your readers are easily confused don’t you know.

The Guardian didn’t know how to react either, the fact that a man of such courage hadn’t been to University threw up all sorts of contradictory questions,”We couldn’t possibly put a picture of a soldier on the front cover as it’s obviously a political gesture. Besides, it’s the 11th Italian film festival this week and that must take precedence”.

I’ve spent most of this weekend thinking about the woman I saw getting beaten up outside my flat on the early hours of Saturday morning. Horrible, the sight of a big strong man repeatedly punching someone smaller and weaker while her friends watched, terrified.

There are few sounds more repulsive than that of a bony fist meeting a fleshy cheek with force – half thud, half crunch. His equally sizable friend could have intervened but like me, choose instead to do nothing. I should have called the Old Bill straight away but was overcome with the terrifying thought that Mandy was due home at any minute, that was the reason I was looking out of the window in the first place.

After partying all evening with work friends, and probably worse the wear for lager, she would undoubtedly try to do the right thing and intervene. The thought of this bullying piece of shit smashing his fist into Mandy’s nose made me feel physically sick, even worse would be me stood by utterly powerless to do anything.

I turned Pharoah Sanders off, the repeated lyrics “It’s all about peace and love” now sounded stupid. The woman got in her car and tried to drive off, but was too upset so just sat and stared at the steering wheel.

I regretted not calling the Police almost instantly, and now can’t stop thinking about my lack of action and that bloke, who probably didn’t think he did anything wrong.