James Bowen - A Street Cat Named Bob

‘Get a bus to Vauxhall and get off by the train station. It’s across the road from there not far from the river on the one-way system,’ she said. ‘Once you’re badged up, just come back here and see me and we can get you going.’

I took the card and headed home with Bob. ‘Better get ourselves organised, Bob,’ I said. ‘We’re going for a job interview.’

I needed to get some paperwork sorted before I could go to the Big Issue office, so the next day I went to see my housing worker. In any case, I was supposed to see her regularly. I explained my current situation and what had happened with the Transport Police. She happily gave me a letter saying that I was living in ‘vulnerable housing’ and that selling the Big Issue would be a good way of helping me get my life back together again.

The day after that I made myself look respectable, got my hair tied back, put on a decent shirt and set off for Vauxhall with all the bits and pieces I needed.

I also took Bob with me. Part of my thinking was that Bob might help me sell magazines in the way that he’d helped me make money busking. He was going to be part of my team, so I wanted to get him registered as well, if that was at all possible.

The Big Issue offices are in an ordinary-looking office block on the south side of the Thames, near Vauxhall Bridge and the MI6 building.

The first thing I noticed when I arrived in the reception area was a large sign saying ‘No Dogs Allowed’. Apparently they used to allow dogs in there but they had banned them as so many dogs had started fighting with each other. It didn’t say anything about cats, however.

After filling in a few bits of paper, I was told to take a seat and wait. After a while I was called in to have an interview with a guy in one of the offices. He was a decent bloke and we chatted for a while. He’d been on the streets himself years ago and had used the Big Issue as a stepping-stone to help get his life together.

I explained my circumstances. He was sympathetic.

‘I know what it’s like out there, James, believe me,’ he said.

It took just a few minutes before he gave me a thumbs-up sign and told me to go and get badged up in another office.

I had to have my photo taken and then wait to get a laminated badge with my vendor number on it. I asked the guy who was issuing the badges whether Bob could have an ID card as well.

‘Sorry,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘Pets aren’t allowed to have their own badges. We’ve had this before with dogs. Never with a cat, though.’

‘Well, what about if he is in the picture with me?’ I asked.

He pulled a face, as if to say, I’m not sure about that. But in the end he relented.

‘Go on then,’ he said.

‘Smile, Bob,’ I said, as we sat in front of the camera.

As he waited for the photo to be processed, the guy got on with the rest of the registration process. When you become a Big Issue seller you get assigned a random number. They are not issued in sequence. If they did that the numbers would now be running into the thousands because so many people have signed up to sell the Big Issue over the years then just disappeared off the face of the earth. So when someone fails to show up on the records for a while the number comes back into circulation. They have to do that.

After waiting about a quarter of an hour, the guy reappeared at the desk.

‘Here you go, Mr Bowen,’ he said, handing me the laminated badge.

I couldn’t help breaking into a big grin at the picture. Bob was on the left-hand side. We were a team. Big Issue Vendors Number 683.

It was a long journey back to Tottenham, involving two buses. So I whiled away the hour and a half it took us reading through the little booklet they gave me. I’d read something similar ten years earlier but hadn’t really retained any of it. If I was honest, I’d not really taken it seriously. I’d been too out of it a lot of the time. This time around I was determined to take it more seriously.

It began with the magazine’s main philosophy:

‘The Big Issue exists to offer homeless and vulnerably housed people the opportunity to earn a legitimate income by selling a magazine to the general public. We believe in offering “a hand up, not a hand out” and in enabling individuals to take control of their lives.’

That’s exactly what I want , I said to myself, a hand up. And this time I’ll accept it.

The next bit stated that I had to ‘undergo an induction process and sign up to the code of conduct’. I knew the first bit meant that I’d have to work at a ‘trial pitch’, where my performance would be watched and assessed by the local organisers.

If that went well I’d be allocated a fixed pitch, it went on. I’d also get ten free copies of the magazine to get me started. It made it clear that it was then down to me. ‘Once they have sold these magazines they can purchase further copies, which they buy for £1 and sell for £2, thereby making £1 per copy.’

The rules went on to explain that vendors were employed by the Big Issue . ‘We do not reimburse them for magazines which they fail to sell, hence each individual must manage their sales and finances carefully. These skills, along with the confidence and self-esteem they build through selling the magazine, are crucial in helping homeless people reintegrate into mainstream society.’

That was the simple economics of it. But there was a lot more to it than that, as I would soon discover.

The next morning I headed back down to Covent Garden to see Sam, the coordinator. I was keen to get on with my ‘induction’.

‘All go OK down at Vauxhall?’ she said, as Bob and I approached her.

‘I guess it must have done. They gave me one of these,’ I grinned, proudly producing my laminated badge from under my coat.

‘Great,’ Sam said, smiling at the photo of me and Bob. ‘I’d better get you started then.’

She began by counting out my ten free copies of the magazine.

‘There you go,’ she said. ‘You know you’ll have to buy them after this?’

‘Yep, I understand,’ I said.

For a few minutes she studied a sheet of papers.

‘Just trying to work out where to put your trial pitch,’ she said, apologetically.

A moment or two later I could see she’d made up her mind.

‘Found somewhere?’ I asked, feeling quite excited about it.

‘Think so,’ Sam said.

I couldn’t believe what she said next.

‘OK, we’ll give you the training pitch just here,’ she said, pointing in the direction of Covent Garden tube station, a few yards further up James Street.

I couldn’t stop myself from bursting out laughing.

‘Are you OK? Is that a problem?’ she said, looking confused. ‘I can look to see if there’s somewhere else.’

‘No, it’s not a problem at all,’ I said. ‘It’ll be great there. It’ll be a real walk down memory lane. I’ll get started right away.’

I wasted no time and set up immediately. It was mid-morning, a few hours before I’d normally have set up busking, but there were lots of people milling around, mostly tourists. It was a bright, sunny morning, which, I knew from experience, always puts people in a better and more generous mood.

When I’d been busking I’d always felt like I was running the gauntlet of the authorities by playing here. Selling the Big Issue was a totally different prospect. I was officially licensed to be there. So I placed myself as close to the station as possible without actually being inside the concourse.

I couldn’t resist looking inside to see if there was any sign of the ticket officers who’d given me grief in the past. Sure enough, I saw one of them, a big, sweaty fat guy in a blue shirt. He was too tied up to notice me at this stage but I knew that he would at some point.