IN NEW SOUTH KENSINGTON

Greg Maddox plumbs

the abyss of life in Earls Court

ON arriving at Earls Court station, one can head out of the Warwick Road entrance and encounter relative civility, or one can descend into the pits of humanity and place oneself on Earls Court Road.

Earls Court Road is a cultural mish- mash junkyard. It is street life at its best and worst. What does it consist of? It is a blend of Arab millionaries, sharp street- wise hookers, who with a quick, cold stare can ascertain your needs, Pakistanis run- ning self-service stores with several guards, each watching closely the down-and-out junkies and travellers attempting to fill their stomachs at minimum cost. It is also a popular mixing-ground and meeting-place for the antipodean population of London. The lucky are just passing through while the unlucky are slogging it out with no fare home and €2-an-hour jobs. The Prince of Teck Hotel is a rallying point, where you can rebel against the English and tell your mate to 'go get fucked' without raising too many eyebrows. The laundrettes seem to be full of men and Benji's serves for £2 a huge plate of carbohydrate rubbish, con- sisting of an egg, piece of bacon, beans, fries and toast.

Hostel accommodation gives you the rare opportunity of sharing a room with six others at £40 a head per week. The rooms are a mass of travellers' packs, dirty clothes, empty shampoo bottles, people going in and out, disruptions from a lack of privacy, and deprivation of sleep from different peoples' snoring habits.

My room is on Penywern Road, which is just off Earls Court Road. In the room we have a Yorkshireman called Nigel, a Frenchman called Yves, a Kiwi girl, myself and two brash Aussies. We are on the second floor and Nigel develops a habit of dropping waterbombs and old fruit on the murky street life as they walk by under- neath. Hookers, homosexuals, sleazy businessmen are all his targets. As his weapons hit their targets he breaks out with a squeal of glee and ducks his head back behind the curtains, leaving the vic- tim angry and swearing below. However, Nigel is safe. At three a.m. no doors are opened for anyone and if there's a disrup- tion the police are immediately called.

It is a reasonably common occurrence to wake up at four in the morning and hear someone running around the street screaming 'Help!' To this the usual reply is 'Shut up, we are trying to get some sleep.' People argue at the tops of their voices and hookers often scream that they have not been paid. One morning, after a particular- ly loud and boisterous Earls Court night, I walk out onto the street and am confronted by the sight of blood everywhere. It leads up the street to Earls Court Road, and one can imagine the staggering man from the trail of his blood.

Penywern Road also has its resident drunks. These men are partying it up at eight o'clock in the morning, drinking thirstily from their cans of Tennents Super. They are unshaven and gregarious, always trying to engage passers-by in a stimulating conversation usually revolving round whether they can have ten pence for the bus or a cup of tea. Of course it's not for another can of beer. One afternoon as I round the corner of Penywern Road a man simply topples over in front of me. It seems like a statute being pushed over, but, no, he is human and is picked up and placed firmly back on his feet.

Occasionally one will see the police talking gently to a young junkie about where he is getting his supplies. A couple of Americans who are staying briefly in the hotel are impressed by the courteous way in which they interview their suspects. The police also seem to have struck up a good rapport with the resident hookers and seem to have an attitude more akin to social workers than police.

Amid this gloom the Aussies and Kiwis are having fun. Many have just come from a triumphant tour through Europe and are re-uniting with old friends. The street-life to them is picturesque and interesting.

Dave, my room-mate, who has been travelling for four years and has just arrived back in Earls Court after having a gun put to his head in Thailand and losing all his possessions, reckons he would not live anywhere else. 'Something interesting is always happening here, mate,' he says. The man who runs the Windsor House where I live is man called Bill. Bill is around 70 and is apparently riddled with cancer. Having just had his testicles re- moved he is not in a happy frame of mind.

His favourite habit is to berate and bully the Polish staff who stay in London illegal- ly and work for abysmal money, having abysmal personalities into the bargin. Bill makes you feel like he is doing you a favour bundling you into a room with six others for 40 quid a week, and I suppose he is.

I inform Nigel one day that Bill has had his balls removed. He lets out a laugh and says 'Oh bollocks to that'. One day after Bill accused Nigel of throwing things onto the street at night, Nigel replied with 'Bill, you would not have the balls to throw me out of this hotel.' Bills finds his balls, and Nigel is thrust out onto the street.

The last attraction that I will talk about in the Earls Court circus is the South Africans and Rhodesians, who, after leav- ing South Africa and having landed in Earls Court, have decided to adopt diffe- rent nationalities. Thus a man with a thick Afrikaans accent and personality will look you firmly in the eye and tell you he is Indonesian or Irish. Having been to In- donesia, I found the difference irreconcil- able for some strange reason. One night in the Prince of Teck a huge rugby-playing ex-soldier Afrikaner is doing everyone the favour of spitting beer in their faces.

No one seems to mind, mainly on account of his size. After having beer spat on my leather jacket and watching this fellow help himself to beer at the bar, I inform the Aussie barman that he should be thrown Out. Why? is the reply. He looks contem- platively at the South African with arms and brain like Mike Tyson and says, 'I think he is all right, mate,' and gives me a wink.

Interesting as Earls Court may be, I have had enough and am trading my hostel bed in Penywern Road, Earls Court, for a bedsit the size of a matchbox in Hammers- mith.