“Have you got $20?” he said. “I’m trying to get a room.” I was momentarily taken back. He didn’t look the begging type and his request was so ridiculously over the top for that industry that I assumed he was a recently retrenched banker. “Jeez mate” I replied. “Don’t you know that there is a recession on?”
Begging and homelessness is on the up it seems, just as the economy is heading in the other direction. But even before the downturn, Australia had a massive problem. Drugs and alcohol are too easily available here as is an outdoor culture that goes back to the original squatters and the jolly swagman of Waltzing Matilda fame. There are an estimated 100,000 homeless people in Australia and while most survive on State handouts and the angelic hand of Mission work, there are some who resort to old fashioned requests to the public for cash. Being an inventive country however, Australian swagmen are clever and cunning in this department.
In my first month here I was staying in a hotel in the City Centre that was uncomfortably close to the Central train station. I don’t know what it is about these places, but if you pitch up in any strange City in the world and you find yourself in dire need of drugs or pornography, then all you have to do is head down to the Central station. The dodgy stuff will normally be out the back nestled between kebab shops and laundrettes that double as internet cafes. Within the space of four days I was stopped by three different people with exactly the same story. All of them were well dressed and spoke with educated Australian accents. Their story involved a trip to the big city and a car that ran out of petrol. They had spent their last few shillings on a hypoallergenic blanket for their lonely grandmother’s arthritic cat and so were in desperate need for $20 to buy petrol and to get home to the 25 orphans waiting in the care centre they ran. What blew their story (apart from its repetition) was that each claimed that they had called into the local Police Station and the good constables of Victoria suggested that they stop random strangers in the street like me and hustle them for money.
I’ve been scandalously neglectful of the plight of those who are habitably challenged. But my conscience has been pricked this week by the presence of the Homeless World Cup in Melbourne. Federation Square is a civic space in the centre of the City that the council built to rival the Sydney Opera House. They failed miserably in that respect but it’s still a nice place to meet people and as this week proved, just the right size for a little four a side football pitch.
Fifty six teams took part and as Melbourne is an immigrant City, most of them had some local support. The Poles were probably the best, bringing colour and noise to the arena as well as some alcohol. This was unfortunate as most of the players have taken up football to try and stay off the booze. The Afghans were also well represented despite John Howard’s best efforts to keep them out over the last twelve years.
Interest in the competition was low early in the week. This is a town that treats football with a little suspicion and its homeless population with even more. I turned up each day to follow the progress of the Irish team and in the early days of the week I reckon that if I’d brought my trainers I would have gotten a game. As the week went on, the crowds grew and so did the standard of the football. Ireland won their group and qualified for the top group in the second round. I watched a lot of games and one thing that stood out is that national teams play the same style no matter what the level is. The Poles were big and physical. The Germans strolled around with arrogance and an assumption of superiority even when four goals down. The Portuguese were full of useless step overs and the English of course went out on penalties.
As for the Irish, well they leaned towards the Jack Charlton’s years in the early rounds by hoofing the ball up to the forwards with indecent haste. As the week went on their play improved, helped by the excellent skills of Captain James Bell. Jimmy became a bit of a local hero during the week, developing a fan club that seemed to include people of all nationalities with the possible exception of the Irish.
But even Jimmy’s skills weren’t enough to get past perfidious Albion (or the feckin Brits as they are known where I come from) and the Irish unfortunately fell at the last 16 stage. Thankfully the organisers kept everyone involved until the end and we got to play for the Dignitary Cup and after a triumphant march past minnows like Holland and Germany, Jimmy and his mates lined up on Sunday in the final against Nigeria. This was the preview match before the overall final and Federation Square was packed to the rafters of its gaudy facades. I seemed to be the only Irish person watching the team during the week but by the final on Sunday every backpacker in Melbourne had made their way there. I felt a little bitter at these bang wagon jumpers as it reminded me of my youth when I used to put in the effort to go to all the friendlies and then couldn’t get a ticket for the big match because some Johnny come lately did.
But when Jimmy stuck away the winner to seal the win and ensure that Ireland got a shiny cup and 9th place in the competition, all that was forgotten. The smiles on the face of the team were enough to make anyone proud. We find our hero’s in the strangest places.
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