Poppy Shakespeare

by Clare Allan

  Not content with bribing the medics (remember the Porsches for pills fiasco!) the giant pharma companies now want a share in the mentally ill themselves. But we will show them, OUR MINDS ARE NOT FOR SALE!!!

  You may have noticed in your hospital a sudden upsurge in discharge figures; what you may not have realised is that this is happening right across the country! In a bid to increase their asking price, the government is getting down to some last-minute home improvements. ' Failing' hospitals everywhere have been threatened with closure unless they come up with 'quantifiable evidence' (whatever that means!) to prove the effectiveness of their treatment programmes. Underfunded hospitals, invariably in the poorest areas, are now being forced to fiddle their figures by discharging sick patients, or lose funding altogether!

  And what's more, this is just the beginning; things are going to get worse! Once the pharma companies take over, not only will they get their syringes into a captive client-base, but they also stand to make millions more from 'performance-related bonuses'. Performance- related? Yes, you got it! For every patient the doctors deem 'cured' - the doctors being employed by the pharma companies — the government stumps up fifty quid to be spent on (that's right!) yet more cream for the fat cats!

  Brilliant, isn't it! Even better, after three months enjoying life outside, those who survive can be readmitted and (get this!) cured all over again, guaranteeing an endless supply of extra thick double. (Who's supposed to be mad here?)

  There's no doubt about it: the government's plans constitute the biggest outrage to be inflicted on the mentally ill since the Nazis gassed more than 70,000 psychiatric patients after doctors declared that their lives were 'not worth living'. We cannot afford to be complacent. We have to act and act now!

  LOBBY VERONICA SALMON AT THE PHARMA FAIR!

  The Minds Not For Sale Campaign is calling for a mass lobby of the Pharma Fair on the day Veronica Salmon comes to open it. The Mad Tsar is directly responsible for implementing the government's plans. A good vocal lobby will remind her that our minds are not for sale!

  Tuesday • November • from 8.30 a.m. ExCel centre, London Docklands (Prince Regent Docklands Light Railway Station) For further details see the Minds Not For Sale website www.mindsnot4sale.org.uk

  CONTACT YOUR LOCAL MEDIA!

  Ask them how their readers/listeners feel about axe-wielding psychopaths being released untreated into the community. (That ought to get us some coverage!)

  Check the website for further guidelines.

  OUR MINDS ARE NOT FOR SALE - MARCH!

  Details to be announced.

  Finally, we need volunteers to come and help us prepare for the lobby, building props and making costumes and banners. Saturday and Sunday • • October. The Styx Drop-in Centre (Nearest tube - High Barnet, Northern line) from 9.30 a.m. - 4.30 p.m. See you there!

  Madly,

  Dave

  'So,' says Michael. 'What are we going to do?'

  Well the truth of it was aside of Zubin, weren't one single dribbler been following further than the middle of paragraph two. I mean, I don't know who this Dave bloke was, with his campaign and all the rest of it, and I ain't saying he weren't intelligent, got more words in him than the dictionary from the sounds of it, and good for him, but he didn't got a clue how to write a letter. He lost the flops as soon as he mentioned the government, those he hadn't lost already, with your average flop got the focusing powers of an ADHD goldfish, been clinically proven. The next time he mentioned the government, half the day dribblers switched off, and the third time seen to the rest of them, do you know what I'm saying, like fuses tripping, off, off, off and all the lights gone out.

  Zubin must of been wired up separate; by the end of the letter his eyes was shining brighter than 1,000-watt bulbs. 'Who is this Dave?' he said to Michael. 'You met him have you?' And Michael said, 'Yes, of course I've met him. Several times.' At the MAD symposium he'd met him, the same place he'd met that woman called Poppy, the one who'd enjoyed his speech so much and said he'd of made a politician. ('You're wasted on the Dorothy Fish,' he said she said. Like up your arse.) 'He sounds alright!' said Zubin. 'Sound! I'd like to meet him. Funny as well.' Michael shrugged, 'He's a nice enough guy. Bit casual perhaps, but he knows his stuff. . .' 'I'd like to meet him,' Zubin said. He chuckled. 'I like where he's coming from.' 'Perhaps not cut out for the mainstream,' said Michael and he coughed and pulled at his nose.

  36. How Poppy finally heard about her MAD money claim

  Poppy been at the Abaddon two months now. The second assessments come and gone and with them Harvey and Candid Headphones; nothing Brian could do to save them despite of upping his hand-washing to seventeen hours a day to get everyone through. It been more than a month since we posted the form, but still not a word from MAD money. 'You got to be patient,' I said to Poppy. 'They got to read it first,' I said. 'That's going to take them a month at least, and then they got to weigh everything up. It's complicated deciding the rate, they can't just do it like that,' I said. 'Takes time and skill to be accurate; they got to get it right.

  'When they give me my Middle High Middle,' I told her, 'I heard so quick no one couldn't believe it. But that was exceptional, everyone said. It takes at least a month normally. It must of been 'cause of my history,' I said. 'Do you know what I'm saying?' Poppy nodded.

  We was getting on really well, me and Poppy. Every night four-thirty exactly, we'd get up to leave and walk down the hill together. All the others would still be sat there, waiting for Tony or Malvin or Rhona to come and throw them out. 'Off home?' Sue the Sticks would say. 'Well, see you tomorrow, girls.' And Astrid would sit there muttering how it was alright if you got a home to go to.

  I ain't saying it weren't a bit of a wrench to always be leaving so early, but there weren't no persuading Poppy to stay for one second more than she had to. 'You don't have to come,' she said, the one time I suggested an extra five minutes. 'Stay if you want to, N,' she said, but I knew she was only being polite; our walks down the hill was the best bit of the day. That's when she used to tell me stuff, without dribblers everywhere listening in; she used to tell me all sorts of stuff, personal too, do you know what I'm saying, stuff she didn't want nobody else to hear. She told me all about her and Dud, and how they split up, like all the details, and how Saffra seen him every other weekend. She asked me if I had a boyfriend too, and I told her I didn't, not at the moment, and she said that was best 'cause men was a waste of time. We used to talk about dribblers too and we'd laugh about how mad they was, not nasty or nothing, just having a laugh, and we'd go through them all and we seen eye to eye on practically everyone. The only bit I didn't like was getting to the Darkwoods turning. And sometimes I'd stop at the corner shop for a couple of cans to drink when I got home.

  One Friday she says to me out of the blue, she says, 'What you doing this weekend?' 'Dunno,' I says. 'I ain't decided.' 'Saffra's going to Dud's,' she says. 'I don't really feel like being on my own. Do you fancy going to the cinema?' So we gone, had popcorn and everything. Best night of my life.

  Six weeks and two days it was, to the day, when the letter finally come:

  'Wankers!' I said when I finished reading. We was sat side by side on the stairs.

  'Can you fucking believe it!' Poppy said.

  'Wouldn't know mad if it jumped up and bit them!' I said. 'Weren't nothing wrong with that form.'

  'What am I going to do now?' she said.

  'Weren't nothing wrong with that form,' I said. 'I know that much. Ain't my fault they's wankers. Can't blame me, innit, Poppy,' I said. She was sat leant forward hugging her knees. She shaken her head. I couldn't see her face.

  ' 'Cause I give it my best shot, Poppy,' I said. 'It's like I say, it's a lottery. But not even Low Low Low,' I said. 'Thought you'd get Low Low Middle, at least, if not Middle Low Middle, to be honest,' I said. 'You get Low Low Low just for being here,' I said. 'It's an insult's what it is!

  'Wankers!' I said. 'Innit, Poppy!' I said. I looked at her and
that's when I seen she was crying. 'You alright?' I said.

  'Shit, Poppy!' I said. 'I ain't saying nothing. If it been down to me I'd of give you the lot. Low High Middle I'd of give you at least, if not Middle High Low,' I said. 'I would.

  'And money well spent as well,' I said, but she didn't reply, just sat leant forward, hugging her knees and crying.

  'I'm on Middle High Middle myself,' I said. 'That's only one up from Middle High Low.' She still didn't say nothing. 'Be like that then!' I felt like saying but I never 'cause I knew she was upset.

  'Nah,' I said. 'Poppy, you taken me wrong. I weren't saying you only deserved Low Low Middle. It's just like I know how tight they are, and it ain't like you got a long record is it? Not being funny, but you know what I'm saying, I been a dribbler since before I was born. Been fostered out fifty-three times,' I said. 'Self-harming since the age of two. Tried to top myself at fourteen,' I said. 'Been sectioned more times than you've wiped your arse. You see what I'm saying! I ain't having a go. But - you ain't been sectioned, have you, Poppy?' She shaken her head. 'See stuff like that bumps up your score,' I said. 'All I'm saying is to get a good rate . . .'

  'But I don't care!' said Poppy. 'I don't care, N! I don't care what fucking rate they give me so long as I get on the register.'

  'I know,' I said. 'That's what I'm saying!

  'Be nice though, wouldn't it!' I said. 'Middle High Low. Be nice, wouldn't it!'

  'I just don't know what to do!' she said. 'I've been banking on it. I've been holding out. That's the only thing's kept me going,' she said. 'Just get on The Register, get a lawyer . . .'

  'It's like I say it's a lottery.' I give her a pat on the shoulder.

  'I just don't know what to do!' she said. 'I really don't. I really don't. Honestly, N, I'm going to pieces. I just can't cope with this any more. I really can't. I mean, I really can't. I'm going to go to fucking pieces . . .' She was crying so much it poured down the stairs like the waterfall up Paradise Park, flooding the lobby enough for a duck to swim on. 'Look,' she gone and she pulled up her sleeve. On her inside arm just above her elbow was three round blisters like small water-filled balloons.

  'When d'you do it?' I said. She shaken her head. 'You should pop them,' I said. 'That's what I do with mine. Pop them and peel the top off,' I said. 'Lets them scab up. That's best,' I said.

  'I just don't know what to do,' she said.

  'Leave it with me,' I said. 'I'll think of something.'

  37. How Poppy had to prove she was a dribbler

  'Poppy,' I says to her next day. We was stood in the dinner queue. 'I been thinking all night and all morning as well and I reckon I sussed why it is they turned you down.'

  'Go on,' says Poppy.

  'Well,' I said. 'Alright there, Astrid?' She was up ahead at the counter taking her chops off of Canteen Coral, and when I waved she spun back round, so quick she let a hold of her plate and it flown across the canteen like a frisbee up Paradise Park. Thought for a sec it was aiming to lop the head off of Jacko the Penguin, who was stood by the tray racks picking his way through the dirty plates for his afters, but without even turning he held up his hand, caught it, still spinning, half an inch from his ear, and tipped the whole lot into his mouth like a dog snatched a sausage, down in one, before anyone could stop him.

  'It's your proof, Poppy; that's what it is,' I said. 'You need a diagnosis.' And I told her how I'd reasoned it out and I thought she'd be pleased, do you know what I'm saying but all she said was, 'Right, OK.'

  'What's the matter with you?' I said but she didn't say nothing, just shaken her head.

  'Peas or carrots,' said Canteen Coral.

  'Peas,' I said. 'No, carrots.' But she give me peas anyway, wiping her nose on the palm of her hand as she handed me my plate.

  Poppy slammed her tray on the table so hard my tray jumped an inch in the air and upset my orange all over my crackers I been saving to squidge the butter so it come through in worms. 'Have mine,' she said. 'That ain't the point,' I said, but she made me take them. 'How come they all get it no problem?!' she said.

  'What's that?' I said.

  'Do you know what I'm saying,' she said. 'Everyone gets it! Astrid's on High Middle Middle,' she said. 'Wesley's on Low High Low, for fuck sake. Even Verna's on Low Middle Middle . . .'

  'Low Middle Low,' I said. 'Last I heard.'

  'And what the fuck's wrong with them?' she said.

  'Shhh!' I said. 'Keep your voice down!' I said.

  'What the fuck's wrong with them!' she said. 'So Verna chucks up her lunch. Big deal! So does half of London,' she said. 'Natalie's been bulimic for years. She doesn't get paid for it,' she said. 'And what's wrong with Wesley, do you know what I'm saying! What's stopping him from getting a job? No wonder he's depressed,' she said. 'Sat in that common room, smoking all day. He needs to get out . . .'

  'He's got problems,' I said.

  'I've got problems. We've all got problems. It's whether you make a career out of them. Don't get me wrong,' she said. 'Wesley's alright. Or he would be alright, do you know what I'm saying, if they hadn't pensioned him off at sixteen. There's a thousand Wesleys out there,' she said. 'And Sue the Sticks. I mean, what's wrong with her . . .'

  And she gone round everyone in turn, how they wasn't really mad at all, and they didn't need to come to the Dorothy Fish and they didn't need MAD money neither, she said, be better off going to work like the sniffs, and after a bit I switched off to be honest, sat looking out of the window instead, at the huge mass of London spread out below, and I tried to imagine a thousand Wesleys somewhere inside all them houses and streets but it started to do my head in. 'I know she's got problems,' Poppy said. 'It's just how does this help? That's all I'm saying . . . ' It was a bright-blue day, like cold and clear. It crossed my mind it be nice down Paradise Park.

  'It just fucks me off, that's all,' said Poppy. 'I've had my shit to deal with as well. . . Do you know what I'm saying, N?!' she said. 'N?' she said. 'Are you listening, N! I've had my shit to deal with as well . . .'

  'No good comparing, Poppy,' I said. 'My mum said comparing just makes you depressed. You can always find somebody madder than you. That's what she used to say,' I said. I grinned suddenly. 'She was funny, my mum.'

  'N,' said Poppy. She grabbed my hand. 'I've got to get this MAD money.'

  'I know,' I said. 'That's what I'm saying. That's why you need more proof

  'You free this Saturday night?' I said.

  'Dunno,' she said. 'I could be. Why?'

  'You free?' I said.

  'Alright,' she shrugged. 'Saffra's going to the fireworks with Dud.'

  'Seven o'clock by the entrance,' I said.

  'At the weekend!' she said. 'Can't we go somewhere else?'

  'You want bread you go to the butcher's,' I said, which I'd meant to say 'baker's' but I left it; it sounded alright.

  38. Why I like fireworks and stuff like that you can skip if you can't be arsed

  If there's one thing I reckon makes life worth living apart from dogs and Angel Delight and that first swig of Tennents with the sun in your face on a bench up Paradise Park, if there's one other thing it's fireworks every time. I gone with my mum up Ally Pally one year when I was really small and I sat on her shoulders and watched it all, and the biggest rockets you seen in your life, like this whoosh and then darkness and everyone waited . . . then BANG and the sky lit up like a dome, like we's all inside this enormous dome like St Paul's or something, instead of the night just going on forever. It was like someone cupped his hands around and my mum's face, tilted back to the sky, reflected the light and . . . I can't describe it but that was one of my happiest moments ever.

  Fireworks on the Darkwoods always starts round mid-September and it doesn't end till February and even then it don't really end; there's always a group of teenage dribblers letting off crackers and bangers and shit on that little patch of muddy grass, about the size of a MAD money giro, where Rowan Walk runs into Elder Rise. Nasser the Nose done firewor
ks as well; he used to fire rockets out the toilet window, only opened half an inch - all the Sunshine House windows only opened half an inch - and try and get people going past. Once I was walking back from school with Mandy, the one who topped herself, and we seen one coming along the pavement, like straight towards us along the pavement about a foot in the air. It was like one of them torpedoes or something, like The African Queen, 'cept bigger and faster, more of a cruise fucking missile. We jumped to the side and it veered straight for us. So we jumped again and it veered again and the third time we jumped it gone ZAP! in my shin, and I didn't dare look, thought it blasted my leg off, that's how much it fucking hurt. Then Mandy starts laughing. 'Sod off!' I gone but I had a look down and I seen the rocket stucking straight out of my shin like right angles. It was still alive, made this fizzing sound and all you could smell was like burning flesh and Mandy's stood there pissing herself. 'Sod off!' I gone and I started to walk with the rocket still stuck out my leg.'Why don't you pull it out!' goes Mand. 'I ain't fucking touching it,' I said. 'They'll have to call an ambulance.' And I should of had an operation most probably, 'cept it fallen out as I gone up the steps and they never believed me in the office and even though I shown them the hole, like right through my fucking leg practically. 'You can have a bit of Savlon if you want,' they gone. 'Savlon!' I said. 'You taking the piss?' 'Suit yourself!' they said and shrugged and gone back to chatting like they normally did, like we weren't even there, do you know what I'm saying, never give a fucking pig-shit about us, and I ain't told nobody this before but right until that hole healed up I kept sort of hoping it might go sceptic and I even tried to help it along like rubbing in bits of dirt and shit but it weren't having none of it.