Poppy Shakespeare (22 page)

'You don't want to make it too neat,' I said. 'It looks a bit . . . do you know what I'm saying?'

'What?' said Poppy.

'Like you thought about it,' I said. 'It'll do. But maybe if you cross some words out and like write in the margin with arrows
and stuff. And your handwriting too, you got better at it . . .'

'I'm supposed to be mentally ill,' said Poppy. 'Not mentally retarded.'

'Same difference,' I said. 'S'far as they's concerned.'

'But
you
don't write like this,' said Poppy. 'I've seen your writing. Your writing's alright.'

'Not on my MAD forms it ain't,' I said. 'My last one you couldn't read it at all. It was a waste to be honest 'cause some
of my answers, not bragging or nothing but d'you know what I'm saying, and you couldn't even read them. I never signed it
neither,' I said. 'You know where you sign it?' I shown her the box. 'Done a fingerprint in my own blood,' I said.

'I don't want to overdo it!' said Poppy.

'You ain't, Poppy! Trust me,' I said. 'You ain't! You'll be lucky with Low Low Low at this rate. They don't just hand it out,'
I said. 'You got to dribble for it!'

Poppy smiled this strange sort of smile and signed the form. 'Alright,' she said. 'Part Two.'

I'm not being funny but the fact of it was that Poppy had said come for dinner, and since I arrived, 'side of Saffra's hot
lemon, I hadn't seen so much as a cold sip of water do you know what I'm saying and my stomach was starting to grumble. I
didn't like to
say
nothing on account of it looked so bad and brought up, but when I seen the sunshine clock on the wall hit a quarter past one
and she
still
ain't said nothing, I reckoned I
got
to drop a hint 'cause else I was going to pass out.

'Diagnosis,' said Poppy. 'You may state more than one. 'I laughed. 'Like you's going to leave it at one! Alright, let me think
about it.

'Feel a bit light-headed,' I said. I glanced up at the sunshine clock. 'Ain't eaten nothing today,' I said.

She didn't say nothing.

'Depression,' I said.

'Depression's
accurate,'
said Poppy.

'It's easier than psychosis,' I said. 'Don't want to run before you can walk. And self-harm as well and an eating disorder,
panic attacks . . .'

'Hang on,' said Poppy.

'Personality!' I said. 'You definitely got one of those. Everybody's got one of those! Borderline mostly . . .D'you hear my
stomach! . . . Just means you're a pain in the arse,' I said.

'Is that one word or two?' said Poppy frowning.

'Pain in the arse?' I said. 'Four;
I
make it.'

'Borderline,' she said.

'Dunno!' I said. 'Jesus, Poppy. I'm fucking bloody
starving!'

So after that she finally caught on, come over all sorry.'It's alright,' I said. 'Thought I was going to pass out there a
minute.'

'I'm sorry!' she said. 'I've been
so
distracted. I haven't even offered you a cup oftea!
And
you're helping me out,' she said.

She stood up. 'I'll put the kettle on.'

'Good job I didn't faint,' I said. 'Imagine that! If I'd of fainted!'

'What would you like to eat?' she said. 'Look! I've got loads!' She opened this cupboard. Full, it was; packed full to bursting
with Penguins and peanuts and packets of crisps. 'Help yourself,' she said. 'What would you like? I get it all in for doing
Saffra's packed lunch. We'll eat a bit later if that's alright. I think she must have gone to sleep. Make the most of it!'

I stared at the cupboard. 'I don't know,' I said. I didn't; my mind gone numb. So she brought over armfuls of peanuts and
crisps, 'Cheese and onion. You see? I remember.' And Penguins as well, all laid out nice on a sparkly plastic plate.

'I got this metabolism,' I said, as she emptied the peanuts into a bowl and I finished a packet of crisps. 'Just got to eat
regular,' I said, ' 'cause otherwise I feel faint if I don't. Must burn it off really fast,' I said.

Poppy smiled. 'Shall I make you some tea? Or
I
know. How about a beer?' And she opened the fridge, fuck-off huge one it was, as tall as the ceiling practically, and more
beer and wine inside than a Darkwoods offie.

'Good job Swiller Steve ain't here!' I said.

'Here you are,' said Poppy. And she give me a beer and a glass as well, and she opened it for me.

'This is alright!' I said.

'I'm
not
putting down that I foul the bed,' said Poppy. 'I'm sorry; I can't.'

'Hold your horses,' I said. 'Just listen.' I taken a sip of my beer. 'This ain't about what
you
want,' I said. 'What
you
want don't come into it. You got to give them what
they
want to hear. Lot of dribblers make that mistake . . .'

'But why would they want to hear
that?'
said Poppy. 'Can't you be mentally ill without "incontinence of the bowel"?' She grinned.

'Alright then, put what you want!' I said.

'I'm sorry,' she said.

I taken a handful of peanuts.

'Please, N,' she said. 'Go on, explain.'

I shaken my head. 'You's missing the point,' I said. 'This form ain't got nothing to do with mental illness. This is about
giving sniffs what they want. It's like an exchange,' I said. 'You tell them what they want to hear and they give you the
MAD money.'

'No such thing as a free lunch,' said Poppy.

'It ain't what dribblers are like that matters; it's what they want to
think
we's like . . .'

'But why?' said Poppy. 'That's the bit I don't get. Why do they want us to
be
like that? I mean shitting the bed, and all that stuff' I looked at her. 'I'm serious!' she said.

'Well,' I said. I thought a bit. 'Well 'cause that's what we's
for,'
I said. 'Makes them feel better about theirselves, if we's dribbling all over the place. They can look at us, think "Thank
God,
I'm
not like that!" It's a public service is what it is. You got to have dribblers, else you wouldn't have sniffs.'

'So what are sniffs for then?' said Poppy.

'To pay our benefits,' I said. 'And they want their money's worth.'

Poppy grinned. 'So this is their pound of flesh . . .' she said. 'You're not stupid, are you!'

'Whatever,' I said, and I polished off the rest of my beer.

In the end we settled on pissing the bed. Pissing she could just about cope with, said Poppy, but shitting the bed, no way.
'I think I need a beer myself,' she said as she fetched me another. 'Or shall we open a bottle of wine? Do you fancy wine
or beer?' she said. 'Ain't bothered,' I said, so she opened the wine. White it was, didn't taste of much, but it done the
job, do you know what I'm saying. By the time we reached the end of Part Three, Poppy weren't the same woman who'd printed
her name so careful on the opening page. 'I can't believe I'm writing this!' she'd say, but we was laughing about it. 'How
did it come to this!' she'd say.

'It's a public service!' we'd shout both together. It become like a catch-phrase, like who said it first. I never laughed
so much in my life.

Saffra come through, must of heard us laughing. Made out she was starving to death, so Poppy done her fish fingers. I don't
remember much after that but I know Saffra watched a video while we finished off the rest of the form. And I know it taken
for-fucking-ever, but we was laughing so much, we didn't even
want
to finish. And I'd still say that now, do you know what I'm saying; we had such a good time, the two of us, it was worth it,
almost, despite of the consequentials.

35. How Middle-Class Michael done this speech and everyone switched off

You always known when Middle-Class Michael got an announcement to make. He couldn't settle until he'd said it, and he couldn't
say it until he'd picked his moment. So he sat there twitching and glancing around, and checking his watch, and glancing around
and clearing his throat, and checking his watch and glancing around, till we's all of us like 'For fuck sake, Michael, stop
twitching and just fucking say it!'

'I received a letter this morning,' he said. He cleared his throat. 'Perhaps I should wait for Brian.'

'Just fucking get on with it!' we said. Weren't like we give a shit either way, but you know what I'm saying, he'd hooked
us now.

'All right,' he says and laying his briefcase flat on his lap, he undone the clasps and taken out this letter. 'It might be
simplest if I read it to you.' The flops all gone silent, like straining to listen, hoping for more bad news.

Middle-Class Michael put on his glasses. He only worn glasses for Patients' Council and reading and counting his peas. He
stood up. 'I can't see!' said Candid Headphones.

'So turn your headphones down!' said Sue.

'I can
hear,'
said Candid. 'I can't
see,
I said!'

'Well I don't know how,' said Sue, 'with that racket. Surprised you can hear anything with that racket. Think what you're
doing to your ears,' she said. 'It's giving
me
a headache!'

Middle-Class Michael gone up the end, stood facing us all with the dead plant behind him. A crisp brown leaf dropped on to
his shoulder and he whisked it away with his hand. 'It's from Dave Franks up in Barnet,' he said. 'You may have heard of him
already. He used to chair Friern Patients' Council?' He paused. We hadn't. Do you know what I'm saying, hardly Dave fucking
Beckham, was he? 'Well,' says Middle-Class Michael. 'No matter. The point is he's set up a pressure group.'

'A what?' said Sue

'A pressure group,' said Verna the Vomit.

'Shush!' said Astrid.

'I've heard of a pressure cooker!' said Sue and we all cracked up, 'cept for Astrid who tutted. Candid turned her headphones
down, but slowly so Sue didn't notice.

'He's set up this pressure group,' said Michael, 'to campaign against the privatisation of our mental-health services. This
is what he writes,' he said and he started to read it out. And maybe on account it weren't
his,
and he didn't got the same feel for it, as he done like for one of his own, he read it in this flat sort of voice, 'stead
of punching the air like he normally done, and getting the flops excited, just read it straight through like a set of instructions,
like a 'Patient Information Leaflet' he'd found in his packet of meds.

Dear All,
[it gone]

Let's get this clear. A massive transformation is under way in how our government deals with the mentally ill. You won't have
heard much in the media, but the fact is sweeping changes are planned - some have already taken place. We need to act NOW
to prevent a catastrophe!

This government has told lie after lie, promising us our health service would never be considered for privatisation, whilst
at the same time appointing a Minister for Madness, responsible for overseeing nothing less than
the
wholesale sell-off of all mental-health services.
The truth is the government has landed itself in a mess. Having pledged to reduce hospital waiting times by fifteen minutes
before the next election, it now finds it lacks the resources to do so without raising taxes (big vote-winner, that one) or
increasing Public Sector Borrowing
[Here Middle-Class Michael spotted the chance for one of his
explanations, and fuck did he go off on one, all what that was
and what it meant and why it weren't a smart move and shit,
which I would go into except for I can't on account of I switched
off anyway soon as my first few brain cells keeled over and died
of fucking boredom!],
a move certain to raise eyebrows in the City.

But now it seems ministers have hit on a win-win solution. By selling off mental-health services, not only can they raise
some quick cash (negative spending, they call it!), they also stand to save still more by increasing the efficiency of psychiatric
treatment. Companies will compete with each other to discharge the most patients in the shortest time for the lowest overheads.
Already our very own Mad Tsar, a former number two at the Ministry for Transport, has introduced a whole raft of measures
designed to make madness more lucrative and attractive to investors. And already investors are sniffing around. Guess who?
You got it! - the pharmaceuticals companies.

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

'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.