Джеймс Боуэн - A Street Cat Named Bob

Walking around with Bob had always been a stop-start process. Wherever we went around London, we were stopped every few yards by people wanting to stroke him and talk to him or have a photograph taken.

The only difference now was that people would sometimes ask to buy a copy of the Big Issue as well.

As I explained to the other vendors, it put me in a really tricky spot. What I should technically say was, ‘Sorry, you’ll have to come to my pitch or buy one from the nearest vendor.’ But I knew what the end result of that would be: no sale, which wouldn’t benefit anyone.

A few of the vendors I’d spoken to had sympathised and understood. Quite a few others didn’t, however.

I guessed immediately who had reported me. It didn’t take a genius to work it out.

A month or so before Sam had issued the suspension, I’d been walking down Long Acre, past the Body Shop where a guy called Geoff had a Big Issue pitch. Gordon Roddick, whose wife Anita had founded the Body Shop, had strong links with the Big Issue so there were always vendors outside their stores. I knew him a little bit and I’d acknowledged him as I walked past. But then, a few moments later, an elderly American couple had stopped me and Bob in the street.

They were incredibly polite, your classic stereotype Midwestern husband and wife.

‘Excuse me, sir,’ the husband said, ‘but could I just take a picture of you and your companion? Our daughter loves cats and it would make her day to see this.’

I’d been more than happy to oblige. No one had called me ‘sir’ for years - if ever!

I’d got so used to posing for tourists that I’d perfected a couple of poses for Bob that seemed to work best for photographs. I would get him on my right shoulder and turn him to face forward with his face right next to mine. I did this again this morning.

The American couple was delighted with this. ‘Oh, gee, I can’t thank you enough. She will be thrilled to pieces with that,’ the wife said.

They couldn’t stop saying thank you and offered to buy a copy of the magazine. I said no and pointed to Geoff a few yards away.

‘He is the official Big Issue vendor in this area so you should go and buy it from him,’ I said.

They’d decided not to and moved on. But then just as they’d been walking off, the wife had leant towards me and squeezed a fiver into my hand.

‘Here you go,’ she said. ‘Give yourself and your lovely cat a treat.’

It was one of those classic situations where perception and reality were the complete opposite of each other. Anyone who had been there would have seen I hadn’t solicited money and had actively tried to push them towards Geoff. To Geoff, on the other hand, it looked like I’d not just taken money without handing over a magazine, something else which was forbidden, but I’d compounded the crime by telling them to ignore him.

I knew immediately that it would look bad so I headed towards him to try and explain. But I was already too late. He was shouting obscenities at me and Bob before I got within ten yards. I knew Geoff had a fiery temper and had a reputation for being punchy with it. I decided not to risk it. He was in such a rage, I didn’t even try to reason with him and headed off to leave him in peace.

It was soon pretty obvious that the incident must have become, well, a big issue among the Big Issue vendors. After that there must have been some kind of whispering campaign against me.

It started with snide remarks.

‘Floating around again today,’ one vendor said to me sarcastically as I passed his pitch one morning. At least he was vaguely civil about it.

Another vendor, around St Martin’s Lane, had been much more direct.

‘Whose sales are you and that mangy moggie going to steal today?’ he had snarled at me.

Again, I tried to explain the situation but I might as well have been talking to the wall. It was clear that vendors were gossiping to each other, putting two and two together and coming up with five.

I hadn’t worried about it that much at first, but it had then escalated a little.

Not long after the incident with Geoff, I started getting threats from the drunk vendors. Big Issue vendors aren’t supposed to drink on the job. That is one of the most fundamental rules. But the truth is that a lot of vendors are alcoholics and carry a can of extra-strength lager with them in their pockets. Others keep a flask of something stronger and take a little nip from it every now and again to keep them going. I have to hold my hands up: I’d done it myself once, on a particularly cold day. But these guys were different. They were blind drunk.

One day Bob and I were walking through the piazza when one of them lurched at us, slurring his words and waving his arms.

‘You f***ing bastard, we’ll f***ing get you,’ he said. I wish I could say that this only happened once, but it became almost a weekly event.

The final clue that all was not well had come one afternoon when I’d been hanging around the coordinator’s pitch in Covent Garden. Sam’s colleague Steve would often do her afternoon shift for her.

He was always good to Bob. I don’t think Steve liked me much, but he would always make a fuss of Bob. On this particular day, however, he had been in a foul mood towards us both.

I was sitting on a bench minding my own business when Steve came over to me.

‘If it was up to me you wouldn’t be selling,’ he said, real venom in his voice. ‘As far as I’m concerned you’re a beggar. That’s what you and that cat are doing.’

I was really upset by this. I’d come such a long way. I’d made such a huge effort to fit into the Big Issue family in Covent Garden. I’d explained time and again what was happening with Bob, but it made no difference. It would go in one ear and straight back out the other.

So, as I say, I wasn’t entirely surprised when Sam broke the news about my having to go to head office. But it still left me reeling.

I walked away from Covent Garden dazed and not a little confused. I really didn’t know what to do now that I was on the ‘Naughty List’.

That night me and Bob ate our dinners then went to bed early. It was getting cold and, with the financial situation looking bleak, I didn’t want to waste too much electricity. So while Bob curled up at the foot of the bed, I huddled under the covers trying desperately to work out what to do next.

I had no idea what the suspension meant. Could it mean that I would be banned for good? Or was it simply a slap on the wrists? I had no idea.

As I lay there, memories came flooding back of how my busking had been unfairly brought to an end. I couldn’t bear the thought of being denied a livelihood by other people’s lies a second time.

It seemed even more unfair this time. I hadn’t got into any trouble until now, unlike a lot of the Big Issue vendors I’d seen around Covent Garden who were often breaking rules and getting told off by Sam and the other coordinators.

I knew about one guy who was notorious with all the sellers. He was this big, brash cockney geezer, a very intimidating character; he would growl at people in a really threatening voice. He’d frighten women, in particular, by going up to them and saying: ‘Come on, darling, buy a magazine.’ It was almost as if he was threatening them. ‘Buy one, or else . . .’

Apparently he used to roll the magazine up and then slip it into people’s bags as they were walking past. I’d also heard that he would then stop them and say: ‘That will be two pounds, please’ and then follow them until they gave him money to go away. That kind of thing doesn’t help anyone. Most of the time the victims would simply toss the papers into the nearest bin. It wasn’t even as if the money was going to a good cause. This brute of a man was said to be a gambling addict and other sellers said that all he did was pump it straight back into fruit machines.