Sunday Whatever – No Mean Mercy by Geraint Jonathan

Take this down, Brother Slycup.

Beggars can be choosers. The procedure is very simple. Apply to the skin a generous layer of fatty soap, sprinkle with vinegar, wait a minute or two, and, tantara: there it is – as any mirror to hand will confirm: your face is a veritable mass of yellow pustules. Then all you need do is develop a graveyard wheeze, adopt a drool, take up trembling, swivel the ol’ eye and speak a little bedlamese. Trust me, hearts will move, stones’ll weep.

You do believe me, don’t you. If I were you I’d believe me. But then I’d know the consequences of not doing so. Look around you: consequences everywhere. Honest Tom and Hardworking Kate: look at them go. By which I mean, look at them barely able to make it across the street without stopping for breath. They’ve been had. And they’ve cottoned on to the fact. We’ve been royally had, they say. And leave it at that. It’s their leaving it at that makes the very cobblestones bleed.

Consider it theatre if you must, Brother Slycup, but beware: these people are driven to act. The more pity they elicit, the bigger the chunk of bread. Or if it so happens that the pennies earned are for the drowning of their brains, so be it. Should you give a penny to such a beggar, Brother Slycup, know that you’ll have helped ease their coming night. No mean mercy, that. Don’t let the do-gooders tell you otherwise. How something looks is how it is. Reality is not enough. The situation must be shown, its authenticity enacted. Having nothing is not enough, Brother Slycup. Being in a bad way is not enough. The reality of a given situation must be embodied, made more real by its enactment. If you are sick, it needs to be seen. A sick mind needs pustules on the skin or some other outward manifestation to act as signal of what is inwardly the case. If you’ve no roof, it needs to be seen. It’ll be in the matted hair, the dirty fingernails, the besmeared neck; it’ll be in the leathery shine of clothes too long unwashed. That those with a roof over their heads – but not much else – take to plying the beggar’s trade is no surprise. And there are known to be workers so poorly paid they moonlight as beggars, earning extra if they add a little non-violent psychosis into the mix.

It’s the way of the world, Brother Slycup. Needs must. Slivers and scraps, morsels, crumbs, slops, driblets, dregs: how the slightest bit of anything at all is in the order of miracle. Take this bar of soap, this bottle of vinegar, Brother Slycup, and apply to your face and hands forthwith. Choose a street. Report back in a month’s time. Bring with you every last detail, every noted nuance. The light will tell. Go well, Brother Slycup. And may God be with you, even though He can’t be, not existing as He does. But the thought is there.

Geraint Jonathan