Down and out in Sheffield

We don’t normally publish articles by anonymous writers, but in this case we wanted to make an exception. The writer is a Sheffield man who has experienced homelessness in the 1990s, in 2019 and who is once again facing homelessness this year. He has asked us to publish his essay without his name attached since he is concerned about facing retribution from the benefits system for accepting cash-in-hand work at various points in his life. We thought this was a valuable piece, giving readers an insight into something they may have no first-hand experience of: what daily life is like as a homeless person.

When you’re writing about homelessness, you have to start with trauma. Most people become homeless due to a traumatic experience — which means homelessness can happen to anyone, even you, because trauma doesn’t just visit those who are financially precarious or have problems with addiction. I knew a talented poet in York who lost everything after his 11-year-old son grew very ill suddenly and passed away. Grief broke him: he lost his marriage, his home. 20 years later, he still visits his son’s grave three times a day. Needless to say, he’s still in a hostel.

Back in the 90s, I believed myself to be universes away from homelessness. My wife and son lived in Sheffield, but as a freelance filmmaker, I was required to be in London. As such, I didn’t just have one home, I had two, paying rent on a property in each city. I could just about afford to do so. My wife and I had been having problems and had separated, but she wanted to give it a proper go, so they moved down to London and I got a two-bed flat for us. 

If you told me the context that would break my life, I wouldn’t have believed you. I didn’t anticipate the deregulation of the BBC would prompt such chaos for me. Suddenly, they got rid of a sizable fraction of their staff members and experienced TV and film makers flooded the market. Practically overnight, the fee you could charge as a freelance filmmaker took a nosedive. I didn’t work for six months.

Meanwhile, the costs of the two residences, and my impending divorce, meant I had almost no savings. One day in 1993, I came home to find that my wife had taken my son and cleared off back to Sheffield. Before she did so, she’d taken the keys to the car and cleared our bank account. I had to phone my landlord — the rent was due the next week and I had to explain what had happened. I told him the only money I had was the tenner I had in my pocket. He ended up giving me the money for a train ticket back to Sheffield.

My brother and father both had a spare room, so you’d have thought that heading back to my home city would have saved me from homelessness. But that wasn’t the case. My father was an ex-steel worker with a Victorian attitude to providing support. “You've got yourself in this trouble,” he said. “I told you not to marry that girl, you've got a week to find a job.” When I pointed out that there was mass unemployment, that there were no jobs out there — something he knew for himself, he had been unemployed ever since he was made redundant 13 years earlier — he remained resolute. My brother also kicked me out after a week. 

At this point, I had a few advantages on my side. I was in my thirties, which was key to me making it out. Being homeless means being vulnerable, so having some physical strength and agility is helpful. Other homeless people attack you, as do those more fortunate than yourself — a group of drunks on their way back from a night out might set fire to your sleeping bag when you sleep in a doorway. At this age, I was still physically able to defend myself. Plus, I knew the lay of the land, since I was in my home city. I knew which bus shelters and hedgerows I’d be safest sleeping in.

Secondly, I don’t drink or use drugs, which means that I could think clearly and logically.  Even though I'm from a working-class background, I have two degrees, I've worked in television, I know how to get out of sticky situations. The routine for me was finding a job. I'd go to the Job Centre and say give me any job you have, I'm on the streets. Then they'd say we can't give you a job if you're homeless. The truth is that nobody gladly employs a homeless person because they don’t show up, so telling them the truth was my mistake. 

My other priority was keeping warm if it was cold — I’d go and read in libraries to stay warm. There was always food to be had from charities even back then, and I could also go to my family and say I haven't eaten properly for two days and pop round for dinner. Sometimes I’d try to talk to mates: “Can I just kip on your sofa tonight and have a shower? I haven't washed for three days.” This matters: you can't show up for a job if you haven't showered or shaved. I always looked like a professional when I attended interviews.

The mistake people make when thinking about homelessness is assuming that your problems end when you get off the street. One of the darkest periods of my life followed me finally getting a flat in a block that was a bit dodgy and about to be demolished. I thought I must be the poorest man in Sheffield. All I had was an old mattress someone had given me, a radio worth 50p and the clothes I was stood up in. I decided to go for a walk, and when I got back, somebody had kicked the door in and stolen my radio. You couldn’t make it up. This set off a downwards spiral for me mentally, and eventually I tried to take my own life.

The hardest part about telling this story is that, following my being homeless again in 2019, this time in York, I can confirm that things are ten times as difficult now. In the 90s, because there was mass unemployment, accessing benefits didn’t mean surveillance — there was never a knock on the door from a bureaucrat, accusing you of working cash in hand and the risk of losing your benefits. 

Now, once you’re in the system, they can track every keystroke. Did you apply for a job this week? No, you didn’t. I got told that I needed to apply for 30 jobs per week and if I didn’t, I would risk sanctions. I pointed out that I can send 30 job applications in a day — I just send out my CV to 30 companies. But that isn’t productive: it isn’t the sort of application that brings you work. They shrugged.

The second time I was homeless, which again followed the end of a long-term marriage, it was much harder. Being homeless in your sixties is difficult to put into words. At this time when you’d assume you might have some hard-won stability, you’re suddenly cast out into the world. I remember going into the hostel and a young guy walking past me: “Fucking nonce.” There’s so few older homeless people that this is the assumption people make: that you’d have to be a child abuser to be homeless in your sixties.

A hostel is like a sort of open prison. You get locked in at night, and if you leave the premises, you’ll lose your room — you’re homeless again. A lot of guys in hostels have recently left prison, so there’s a risk of violence by being there. On my first night in the hostel a man pressed a knife to my throat. He suffered from some sort of antisocial disorder and they let him in after the curfew. The next morning he was all sunshine: “Sorry about that mate, I was on one last night.” 

Some of these guys get up, get drunk until comatose, then come back to the hostel to sleep. I ended up alright — since I’d been homeless before and have volunteered with homeless people when I had my own place, I understood how the system works. We were all offered sessions with an occupational therapist but nobody else knew what that was. I took her up on her offer and she asked me what I needed. I told her I needed some help to alleviate my stress and she suggested we go for weekly walks and talk about how to get me back into work. 

The majority of homeless people face desperate situations in Sheffield. Lots aren’t from the city, which means they don't have any family to turn to. The first time I was on the streets, at least there was the opportunity to earn money cash in hand if you were in danger of being made homeless.  

That is not the case now. Once you are on Universal Credit, the government has you cornered. If you don’t declare income and you are caught, your benefits are stopped immediately. All benefits. So in theory, if you earn £100 off a mate for decorating their flat, and end up in court, you could lose benefits worth thousands. Plus you have to pay the fraudulently claimed benefits back, before you can claim again. In the worst case scenarios, you can end up in prison, which sometimes leads to homelessness once you’re released.

People in poverty do turn to crime. I made films with young people in Newcastle and Gateshead, in the late 80s. The schools and community groups I wrote about and filmed were overwhelmed by the need to support teen drug users, care leavers and the ones kicked out of home. A percentage of drug users turn to crime to feed their addiction. Not all of them are poor working class kids. 

But back then, houses and support workers were available. In 2023, support services and charities are losing income and their staff. Suitable houses are increasingly difficult to find — something which can at least partly be attributed to Sheffield becoming a much more popular place to live and the estates that used to be half empty being full now. At the church charity I volunteer at, 25% of staff have been made redundant in the last two years whilst the workload has increased by 30%. This can mean that vulnerable teenagers, in particular, end up being moved out of Sheffield to places where they don’t have any family or friends. Now some of the younger asylum seekers face being deported to Rwanda.

My mother and father worked 24/7 for half a century to claw themselves out of poverty. But history was on their side: they were helped immeasurably by the fact they could rent affordable homes from Sheffield City Council. Another factor in their favour was the fact that their children won places in good grammar schools and universities, or else studied hard in engineering apprenticeships and subsequently owned their properties. Some of my immediate family had secure, well paid jobs as coal miners or gas fitters and admin staff for British Gas. My siblings own two houses each. That was the dream of Thatcher’s Britain. In 2023, in Sheffield, we are reaping what was sowed in 1983. 

As of the time of writing, I’m at risk of becoming homeless again in Sheffield. My debts accumulated over the last four years mean I’m being evicted. I have no place to go and I can’t find paid work, no matter how hard I try. My poor physical and mental health means I’m only able to do certain work. There is no mental health support available, only antidepressant drugs, which don’t work in my experience. They tend to make matters worse. I need a secure, affordable home and a part time job. That is not hard is it? I’ve paid my taxes on time for 45 years in the UK. The social care safety net has long gone.

My only option whilst I write this is to stay in a mate’s 30-year-old caravan — it has no shower, toilet or proper heating, plus it’s based miles away from my family. I am talking to a church charity about helping me to find a place. But, honestly? I’m not hopeful.