Ashford Place, 60 Ashford Road, Cricklewood, London.

They're very “positive” when throwing their weight around.

I had just about made it to the counter in reception and uttered a sentence when the belittlement commenced in 60 Ashford Rd. At the time it was known as Cricklewood Homeless Concern and while I explained to one receptionist why I was there another female (Ms Half-Bake) who was sat in the rear decided to butt in. 

This woman looked to be in her late twenties, spoke with a strong brogue, and seemed a little less than the full picnic. She kept interjecting irrelevantly and ceaselessly; one of her favourites, which she repeated ad nauseum, being, “you have to be living in Brent for six months.” Her completely unreasonable interference made it hard for the person I had initially approached to relate information to me.

It soon transpired that what the unstable Ms Half-Bake was actually doing was muscling in on her colleague. Her sense of self-importance was very obvious as was the fact she was completely and utterly unqualified for what she was doing. But she decided nonetheless to demonstrate her flair by acerbically cutting-in whenever the person I was with attempted to answer me.

Abusing drugs or alcohol? Abuse and
belittlement wouldn't be much
help to those with dependencies.

Eventually the rational receptionist managed to inform me that a person who’d be able to answer my queries would be there after about 45 minutes, and if I waited I could speak to them. 

I had a bag with me and asked if I could leave it in the waiting area for 10 minutes while I got some fresh air – after the bizarre behaviour of the other receptionist fresh air was needed. 

And again Ms Half-Bake butted in, this time with an extra venomousness, and shouted that I couldn’t leave my bag. I robustly told her that she needed to take stock of her manners and openly wondered if management knew that she was acting like she was. Ms Half-Bake didn’t take the rebuke in a lady like manner, instead an enormous rush of blood to her head turned her face a bright crimson – which, I think, may denote an unnatural sense of self-importance.

The person I waited to see told me I’d need to call back another day which I subsequently did. This time the place was busier and Ms Half-Bake was still at reception but now with three or four others. And when she saw me in the waiting area she became unsettled to such an extent that her colleagues commented on it. For what seemed like quite a time she paced back and forth in an agitated way and eventually left and went elsewhere – why she left and where she went became apparent soon after.

I'm sure they've helped a lot of people but,
apart from me, have they insulted
and abused many?

I took a seat in a crowded waiting area and while there the antics of a ginger-headed lady (Ms Mindless) caught my attention. 

She was acting strangely, in a weird child-like manner; when she came to the door of the waiting room to call the next person she’d raise her right foot and excitedly stamp the floor. 

It was how a spoilt child might act on Christmas morning when they received that longed for present, that gift that gave them reason to gloat because they knew it would be better than what their peers had gotten.

Soon enough Ms Mindless, with a thick brogue, called my name and immediately upon us taking a seat at a table it became clear what was going on. Without any hesitation she combatively and sarcastically informed me that, “we don’t do accommodation here.” 

This is like a salesman in a shoe shop informing someone that they don’t sell car exhausts. I quickly let her know that I was aware of what this charity did, and just as quickly realised that I was wasting my time with these idiots in 60 Ashford Rd.

I waited to see if my reply had made any impression or if it had simply run off her. It was the latter, as she once again had a go with sarcasm and aggressiveness; I responded this time by exasperatedly asking her, “I’m wasting my time here, aren’t I?” This didn’t faze her except to cause her to squint around; at least she had the nous to realise that others were now aware that something unseemingly was going on.

What, I believe, was happening here was that Ms Half-Bake (the female who had been incessantly butting-in previously and who didn’t like my reprisal) had motivated Ms Mindless, probably using untruths, to seek revenge; to humiliate and degrade that uppity man who had refused to wholeheartedly and without question accept Ms Half-Bake’s abuse. I think, that in her mind, I had committed a cardinal sin because I had rebuked her in front of her colleagues.

Before leaving I went to reception in order to get the manager’s name and an email address. I was, quite rightly, badly peeved (which was made worse by Ms Half-Bake, who was again in the reception area, squinting at me) at this stage and asked if they’d give me a card, or anything, with contact details on it. The young Asian receptionist asked me why I needed it and if there was anything that she could do. I told her, nodding towards Ms Half-Bake, that I wanted it so I could let management know about the atrocious conduct of her and her friend.

And just as I had this said another member of staff or volunteer – a middle aged woman with a brogue, who probably saw me nodding towards Ms Half-Bake – approached me and proceeded to incoherently rant about me having obstructed her from reaching the counter.

This was a totally rubbish claim, a completely senseless accusation. This twat, when she saw that I meant to complain about her compatriot, was willing to try any idiocy that might deter me. I’ve often wondered what exactly it was she intended doing, or would she have even known herself? Was she going to try and provoke me into doing something irrational which would reflect badly on any forthcoming complaint I might make?

The young Asian receptionist who had been dealing with me intervened; she told the middle aged woman to “shussss” and waved her away with her hand. It was disgusting to see this mature female – an employee or volunteer of Cricklewood Homeless Concern – being saved from making a complete ass of herself, and the organisation she represented, by an eighteen- or nineteen-year-old girl.  

These three ladies in Cricklewood Homeless Concern reminded me of a sentence in Michel Faber’s The Crimson Petal and the White, “Church Lane is infested with Irish … spiteful gossips the lot of them, and Caroline doesn’t want them accusing her of … .”

I made an enquiry of Ashford Place’s CEO, Danny Maher, in connection to what took place there but he never responded.

Crisis, 66 Commercial Street, London, E1 6LT.

Bullies will sometimes strive for
positions of authority.

Being attracted by their educational leanings, and the fact they were running creative writing and poetry groups, I visited a day-centre being run by Crisis in Kingsway College, Grays Inn Rd, over Christmas 2013.

Within minutes of entering this day-centre – when I attempted to order a coffee – I was verbally abused by a loud and pugnacious volunteer who obviously couldn’t operate without also attempting to humiliate those he came into contact with.

There might be some excuse for a person to be a little irascible towards the end of their shift but this fellow was just starting and his shocking manners were way beyond rudeness. I could certainly question whether this fellow might have purposely volunteered just to be in a position where he could humiliate others.

This antagonistic loud-mouthed coffee server set the tone for quite a lot of what was to come in both Crisis’ Christmas day-centre and in their facility at 66 Commercial St.

I was hoping to get to know people who were interested in, and partook of, creative writing and poetry, and with this in mind – and ignoring the insulting coffee server – I attended a poetry group that was presided over by a lady named Anne.

This person wasn’t what I had expected to be heading a creative writing group and, as was made clear, she wasn’t that interested in having me take part. I showed her a poem I had written and, without much ado, she insinuated that I had copied it. She, displaying a very suspicious demeanour, and in childlike manner, questioned me on specific aspects of it, probably hoping I’d show ignorance of basic elements of something I had claimed as mine.

Kingsway College, Grays Inn Rd.

She was so obvious about her doubts that another member of the group picked up on it and made a snide comment about how he “likes to do his own work”. I think that what really influenced this chap was that Anne, while analysing me and my poem, announced that she was “psychic”. 

And of course, as everyone knows, psychics aren’t restricted by normal physical or mental barriers. But considering that I did write every syllable of the poem her paranormal powers were way off course that particular day – perhaps the spirits were on vacation, after all it was Christmas.

Anne then decided that we should write some verses there and then, and this we proceeded to do. I’d have shown her that I was capable of writing what I had already presented but she remained iffy and seemed to have some sort of permanent chip on her shoulder.

I went back to this group the next evening and Anne’s attitude hadn’t changed much; she greeted me by stating in aggrieved tone “I don’t know what we’ll do with you”. I suspect that Anne would be happy to deal only with semi-illiterate persons or, in the least, those who had writing skills that were inferior to hers.

Next I attended a creative script-writing class which was compèred by a fellow who described himself as a freelance teacher. He turned out to be extremely arrogant, so conceited I often wonder what causes someone like him to volunteer his time in situations like these.

No doubt Crisis do a lot of good but
that doesn't condone pugnaciousness.

He had offered at one stage to look over any scripts that participants might have and I waited after the class had finished in order to enquire if I could email him a short story I had written or if I’d need to print it off and give him hardcopy. 

There were others who had stayed with various questions and eventually, seemingly getting annoyed with the overrun, he turned and snapped at me; basically he wanted to know what I wanted – as if I hadn’t sat through his class and, instead, had just wandered in off the street. 

Coming completely out of the blue his aggression wasn’t very nice, and doubly so to have someone, you’d expect an educated decorum from, practically shouting at you.

Then there was the IT room where computer access could be availed of. Some of the volunteers who staffed this were unbelievable shoot-themselves-in-the-foot conceited types. There were three who were like this and, as far as I could see, they assumed everyone they had contact with were completely ignorant – it was as if they had a hunger to be among those they viewed as being inferior types.

One Asian chap couldn’t speak to anyone without arrogantly raising his voice and I suspect that his reason for volunteering was either for a week's free food or just to be in a situation where he could throw his weight around – or perhaps both. And another chap with a brogue gave signs of revelling in being among those who, he believed, were subject to his authority – and maybe the fact he got free food for a week was icing on top.

Homeless people have quite a lot to
contend with.

The third, a twenty-something lady, displayed a shockingly childish mentality. I was using Microsoft Word and noticed a strange and misleading dysfunction with the spell checker. 

When the spell check icon was clicked a dialogue box popped up informing that the spell check had been completed when in actual fact it hadn’t; if accessed via the menu bar a dialogue box appeared telling that the spell checker hadn’t yet been installed.

I noticed this because I knew had a particular word spelled wrong and was using the spell checker, rather than opening a dictionary, to find the correct spelling. Considering that this anomaly was very misleading, especially for people who wanted to make a good impression with their writing, I informed the young lady who immediately insisted that the spell checker was working.

She was full of herself and completely dismissive of my protestations that it wasn’t. I brought up the relevant dialogue box, showed her it hadn’t been installed, and then told her that I wouldn’t need any more of her assistance. She, probably disliking having been proved wrong, and too infantile to accept her error, became agitated and flounced off in a puerile manner.

She wasn’t content to leave it at that – rather she wanted some sort of closure – and so she had a word with the Asian chap who subsequently strode over to me and, with a little more aggression than usual, demanded to know if I had a problem. I told him I hadn’t but while doing so could see that he was wavering between even more aggression and some innate sense that further aggravation might be a bad idea. I often wondered whether the childish twenty-something had told him outright lies or just greatly exaggerated what had occurred between her and I.

A second twenty-something lady who had a brogue and who was involved in managing or assisting an art group also seemed to possess an innate need to feel superior. Crisis had a makeshift library set up in the vicinity of the art area and having found a book that interested me I sat and read it. 

I’d been there about an 1½ hours when she approached me and announced in her best patronising voice, “you're reading a lot today, is it a reading marathon you’re having?” I didn’t bother answering this twat. And I’d have no problem believing that she had absolutely nothing to give, or to teach, to any type of artistic endeavour.

On my last day to attend this day-centre I was again verbally accosted by a fool who was acting as a doorman. He loudly and aggressively shouted about “house rules applying” while I entered; I assumed he needed to display how he had been imbued with untold authority. Anyway, at that stage I had become inured to this type of egocentric puppetry.

I should point that there were also staff and volunteers here who had decency and who conducted themselves in a commonsensical manner. But that so many of the others could be found shows something lacking in Crisis’ method of matching volunteers to particular roles.

I was given information about courses that Crisis were running in 66 Commercial St and on the 6th of January I very apprehensively attended and registered for one.

While registering I noticed a male staff member with a brogue, in a crowded area, speaking in a shockingly brusque and belittling manner to a youth from Eastern Europe. The youth – probably hampered by unfamiliarity with the English language – was seemingly trying to get information about courses. It was disgusting the way the Crisis employee publicly belittled him; and considering that the brogue speaker was also an immigrant, or the recent descendant of one, it would be thought that he’d show a little respect to those in a likewise position.    

I subsequently – not expecting very much after the previous experiences – turned up on the day the course was to start and registered at reception. Then, after asking directions to a toilet, I made my way there and just as I was about to enter I was approached by a middle aged lady who acerbically demanded to know where I was going. When she was told her reply was to loudly and patronisingly demand that when finished I was to immediately return to the reception area.

It was as if she were in a mental health facility and was instructing someone who routinely made a habit of going to the toilet and then disappearing. I realised then that what I’d experienced earlier was going to be a continuum; and that if I were to continue and do the course I’d have to be able to roll over and show my belly like a subdued dog. I wasn’t going to do this and returned to reception intending to tell them how unhappy I was with their conduct, and that I wouldn’t be taking a place on the course.

As if to utterly reinforce my belief that a lot of people in Crisis have no respect whatsoever for patrons’ emotions I was again accosted as I neared the reception. A young male – who was manning one of the two reception stations – started to shout at me in a reckless and irresponsible manner; it turned out that he thought I had entered the building without registering. 

If he had bothered to check with his companion he’d have found that she, a very short time earlier, had already signed me in. It was very clear to me then that there was a culture of aggression and patronising belittlement in this establishment. I told them to cancel my place on the course and left.

There was no excuse whatsoever for the way these people denigrated me and I believe that I’m far from the only person that has been treated in such a way. Dealing with homeless people is, almost, perfect for the passionate bully because they know that quite a lot will find it difficult to make written complaint.

And even if a written complaint is made – as I found out in The Connection at St-Martins-in-the-Field and in the Simon Community, Islington – it may very well be treated with disdain and sarcasm. There’s also the age old dilemma of how much it’ll cost you to resist the thug: will you be able to afford it? 

It’s known that people in employment will overlook, countenance and accept bullying in order not to jeopardize their jobs and pay packets – the bully knows this and will work from that perspective when choosing his victims. And some patrons of homeless centres – such as Crisis’s temporary day-centre in Kingsway College – will likewise accept and overlook the thugs lest they be barred and suffer the consequent loss of food, of company, and a warm place to spend a couple of hours.

Another serious downside to bullying is that aggressiveness inflicted upon the homeless person in one of these centres – that disgusting act where the staff or volunteers will inflict humiliation while hiding behind a hot drink, food or a shower – correlates with extra aggression on the streets. 

It’s far from far-fetched to think that some homeless persons will accept the abuse in order to attain tea, coffee, food or a shower but will later – perhaps because of substance or personal issues – seek closure by dominating or hurting someone who’s weaker than them. Bullying can have a ripple effect that goes far beyond its immediate victims.

Would the management of Crisis – and other places where staff’s abusive behaviour isn’t very rare – if they were, for instance,  running a supermarket allow their personnel insult and abuse members of the public who walked through the door. I don’t think they would, they’d be smart enough to realise that if they did that very soon they’d be broke. And that’s the difference with a charity, here you can insult and abuse the public who walk through your door without affecting or offending the people who are keeping your purse topped-up (that is, the people who contribute to the charity’s request for donations).

The Connection at St Martins-in-the-Fields, Adelaide Street, London

On the streets, unlike in The Connection, you'll be treated with respect (Google Street View).

The abuse, that was flung by staff at me in this registered charity, was vile, aggressive and quite unbelievable. These peoples’ stated mission is to assist and advise the homeless but on three consecutive visits I received not support or direction but contempt and loathing.

I made a prearranged visit here one Tuesday to seek advice and information; hoping that I’d be aided in my quest for accommodation. First I had contact with a couple of receptionists who brought contrariness to levels that well might have last been seen in Stalingrad era prisoner-of-war camps. They – showing no fear that anyone in authority might observe or overhear – spoke to me in acerbically belittling tones which left me with the impression that, not only were they competing with each other, but that a condescending attitude had been imbued in them.

Seemingly against their will they informed me to take a seat in a nearby, well populated, recreational area to await a person named Elena who was going to deal with my query. After a short wait Elena made her presence known in a very unconventional way. She entered the recreational room and stood about three metres away from me and, staring directly at me, loudly and condescendingly stated ‘you look surprised?’

In what way, I wondered, am I supposed to reply to an arrogant question like that. I suspected that Elena didn’t actually want a verbal response; that she might have preferred if I threw myself on the floor and grovelled, and then crawled away out of her sight. Nevertheless I informed her that my looks and outward appearance were much the same as always, and that I wasn’t aware I was projecting a surprised look.

She then instructed me to follow her and as she led the way down a stairway she stopped, turned around and again stated to me: ‘you look surprised.’ And again – this time realising that I was in the presence of pugnacious irrationality – I informed her otherwise.

The Connection wax lyrical about decency on their website.

We then made our way to an office where Elena continued with a disdainful and arrogant attitude. After about 5 minutes of her irritating stupidity I mentioned that recently while trying to make similar enquiries elsewhere I had been on the receiving end of abuse; and that I had made a written complaint about the perpetrator. I told her this just to see if it would persuade her to control her atrociously abusive manners; it only worked in so far as it temporarily disrupted her sarcastic oral flow.

She responded to this unconsciously solicited piece of information by saying: (here I paraphrase) ‘you were just making enquiries, you should have been able to do that without getting abused.’ Then, feigning decency, she asked: ‘what are these peoples’ name, I’d like to contact them to find out what went on, of course I couldn’t contact them without your permission, is it OK with you if I contact them?’

Elena had me pegged as an illiterate lowlife, a scuzzbag who’d be unable to write my own name, let alone put a complaint in writing; she suspected that I might be lying, trying to bluff her, and wanted to see my reaction by threatening she could expose me.  

I gave her the name of the organisation I had complained to (Cricklewood Homeless Concern (CHC)), and told her that, if she so desired, she could ask them to reveal details of my grievance. I then waited in wonderment to see if she’d have the neck to ask me to sign something to that effect. She never asked, and if she did I’d have refused. I’d never have given this weirdo written consent to delve into any of my correspondence, but if offered something to sign I’d have gladly kept it as a memento.

The Connection's staff can be very hostile.

It was clear to me by this time that I was in the company of an extremely unqualified (in every sense of the word) person. Elena had no right, without my written consent, to contact CHC and seek information about complaints I had made to them. And CHC would have no right to furnish information to a third party without the correspondent’s written consent.

After this surreal exchange Elena decided – probably because she was apprehensive about my willingness to accept abuse – to bring the meeting to a halt; and informed me that I’d need to pay another visit to have my queries answered.

I again met Elena the following Friday and her demeanour and temperament were still quite nasty. She told me that her colleague, Steve, would now be dealing with me and that she’d inform me when he was ready to do so. Knowing already her pugnaciousness, and other staffs’ general rudeness, I made a point of asking her where I should wait. She answered by telling me that as long as I remained on the premises she’d ‘find me.’

In the meantime – having seen a notice and having checked with a very uncivil lady at reception – I was informed that a creative writing group were just about to commence a meeting in the art room. Being interested I went to the art room and was invited by a chap named Chris to join in, which I accepted.

After Chris wound up the session I proceeded back downstairs and on the way met Elena. She was in a disgustingly combative mood; irate beyond belief because she hadn’t easily found me. I exasperatedly told her I had been attending a creative writing class in the art room and that this room was ‘on the premises.’

An extremely arrogant Elena brushed aside what I’d said and patronizingly told me: ‘you might have fun with the class but you should have been where you could be found.’ At this I decided I’d had more than enough of this childish nimcompoop and told her so. I then, intending to inform her managers about her behaviour, asked her name. And, true to form, she gave me her name with all the petulance you’d normally associate with a sulky 5-year-old. This attempt at researching my rights ended with me being told to return three days later.

And the following Monday, as I passed her on a stairway in these premises, Elena reinforced her aberrant mindset. As we passed each other she emitted a short sharp grunt that clearly indicated both her arrogance and intense dislike for me. Later this same day I saw her, in a domineering manner, walk up to another client and grab him by the arm while loudly telling him: ‘I want to have a word with you.’

‘But should you do so you will be denied entry to our building.’

Just after Elena had removed from me any doubts she wasn’t completely obnoxious I met Steve. This was the person who had been designated to deal with me due to Elenas’ sudden cessation the previous Tuesday, and the person I’d missed meeting on Friday due to my having partook in the creative writing group. Steve approached me with a swagger and athletically announced he was from north west Ireland. And from then on his way of speaking vacillated between self-importance and antagonism.

He started by informing me he wasn’t happy with the ID I had shown to his colleagues on two previous occasions. It seems, according to Steve, that two of his colleagues, Elena and Chris, aren’t capable of judging, or checking, whether official ID’s might be fraudulent or not. He eventually backtracked when I pointed out that it was actually official ID and that the police had never had any problem in accepting it.

Steve wasn’t at all interested in simply giving me the information or advice I desired; mostly he seemed intent on displaying that he had a much superior intellect. At one stage – within less than two minutes of him having said it – I questioned a statement he had made and he had the gall to deny having said it. There were no if’s or but’s, no sidestepping, just a point blank denial.

Another weird habit he displayed – which I found totally out of place in the circumstances – was when he took a pen in his hand and, as if to stress a point, started to jab it towards me. When I saw the pen dart back and forth towards my forehead the thought drifted through my mind that this was probably a man who had the full box-set of the Apprentice tucked somewhere near his DVD player. And every night, with pen in hand, he’d refine, what he believes is, the way moguls treat and patronise their underlings. Steve wasn’t so much a bully as an annoying idiot with a grand sense of self-importance. My short meeting with him was one of those occasions when a candid camera would have produced massive hits on Youtube.

I suspect that on the previous Tuesday Elena had cut short her meeting with me because she feared I might make a written complaint; as if bullying was encoded in her DNA and she couldn’t act in any other way. My two later encounters with her, though, appears to show she had overcome any anxiety about her vile behaviour being related to others. And I believe that unethical words passed between her and Steve regarding me; that Steve was programmed with the belief I was an uppity trouble maker that needed subduing.

It was bad enough that two receptionists had an 19th century type orphanage rudeness but the way the two senior staff, Elena and Steve, carried on was disgusting; my encounters with these two people left me traumatised and distressed. It’s disorientating and depressing to be suddenly without a home but words cannot describe what it feels like to have the personnel in a registered charity – an establishment that is specifically dedicated to advising homeless people – treat you worse than an animal.

A complaint I made to this charity, about the behaviour of these two people, elicited a response from its Advice and Housing Manager, Anna Norton. Ms Norton let me know that she wasn’t pleased with analogies I used to better relate a description of Elena and Shane’s conduct and personalities. She also informed me that these two had denied my allegations of wrongdoing; that they insisted they had not said or done anything that was inappropriate. Ms Norton finished her response by stating: ‘I can confirm that your complaint has not been upheld.’

An interesting aside to Ms Nortons’ response was how Elena tried preempting me lest I was to bring up her sly request to enquire about my complaint to CHC. I hadn’t mentioned in my complaint to The Connection that she had made this improper request; Elena, anticipating that I might bring it up in future, was trying to outflank me by falsely telling Ms Norton that she had: ‘confirmed with you she would liaise with the Cricklewood Homeless Concern regarding your last contact with them, again to establish what the best opportunities were for you.’ The crafty and boorish Elena, having left herself open to several allegations, was cunningly trying to shoot one down before it was launched.

If Ms Norton had bothered to check she’d find that, other than my complaint, I’d had no other interaction with CHC; and that this organisation would have been unable to relate anything other than the fact I’d forwarded remonstrations to them.     

Elenas’ initial sarcastic statement, ‘you look surprised’, was loudly made within earshot of other staff and clients in this premises’ recreational room. And her stopping halfway down a stairs and making statement to me would have been recorded on CCTV. And when she walked up behind a person and aggressively grabbed them by the arm would also have been captured on camera. Her body language in the latter two incidents would have said quite a lot about Elenas’ gross arrogance at the time.

In hope of coercing a more adequate investigation I forwarded my displeasure at Ms Nortons’ curt dismissal of my complaints.

This drew a response from The Connections’ Director of Services, Mick Baker, who seemingly didn’t like some of the adjectival phrases I used, and who informed me that: ‘it is my responsibility to give you the Connection’s final response to your complaint about our 2 staff members,’ adding, ‘that both staff members denied dealing with you in the way you claimed.’ He then went to to tell me: ‘you had been treated no differently to the way that the Connection needs to respond to all new people.’

Mr Baker winds up his email by surmising: ‘I find it extremely unlikely that you would return to the Connection,’ and then warning, ‘but should you do so you will be denied entry to our building.’

This reminds me of what could pass between two children who had just fallen out in a school playground. One sulky child might say to the other: ‘I know you won’t come to my party on Saturday but if you do my daddy will tell you to go away.’ But this is what young children do, they test boundaries, they’ll take each other’s toys, they’ll bully each other, and all the while their teachers and parents will strive to cultivate them.

And the teachers and parents will nearly always be successful, but there’s exceptions to the rule.