Tell A Tale in 500 Words

Smithdown Road By Natasha Varshney

“Move outta the way you fuckin’ smackhead!” I shoot a death ray with my eyes at the skinheaded goon driving a shiny new E-Class Saloon.

I square up to both man and machine in the middle of the narrow road. “Oi!” I yell slapping the bonnet of the car much to the distress of my palms. “Imma crackhead! Not a smackhead!” I carry on my way flippin’ the birdie at him as I go. “Get ya fuckin’ facts righ!” The driver revs his engine in anger but drives off. One point to me, nil to the bastard who thought he was a big man drivin’ a fancy new car using the sinful money he got through his various dishonest deeds.

The rest of my walk down Smithdown Road is relatively uneventful. Being an ex-junkie, I’m so thin I tend to disappear into the background of everyone else’s lives, but I don’t mind, gives me time to think and contemplate on the big topics of life. I’ll give ya a lil’ background info on Smithdown Road, I consider it to be the real, beatin’ heart of Liverpool, and I declare that in the world there’s nothing like it. All of life is here. From ya rich, privileged middle class students who are tryin’ to experience the wonders of the life through the medium of chemicals to ya first generation immigrants who are strugglin’ to adapt to this new weird but wonderful land that is Britain.

I see everythin’ here. I see the hijab covered mother of three flustered off her feet as she hurries her goslings off to the nearest primary school, directing them to avoid the obstacles of dog crap, takeaway boxes and smashed glass and shieldin’ them from the likes of me. I see the young uns’ who wear their school uniform just for a change of clothes but spend their days warming the doorways of the local off license instead of learnin’ about fuckin’ algebra and French verbs. I see the entrepreneurship of the migrants to our shores, driven to make it successful in this forgotten part of Liverpool by settin’ up Barber shops and takeaway outlets. I see frustrated, pot- bellied men chug on cigarettes as they stand outside the many pubs and bars, regular politicians resolving the problems of sport and government but destined to die due to a mutiny from their own heart. I see the women who have been left behind, with no qualifications and pitiful financial support who are struggling to feed their kids a nutritious and healthy diet based on ASDA’s basic products. Their wellbeing and health bein’ sacrificed for their uphill struggle to try and singlehandedly break the vicious cycle of deprivation for their children. I hear the Gurbani music from the local Gurdwara, songs of prayer from voices who are lookin’ for light in their hours of need.

I see everythin’ but no sees me. Why should they look though? After all, I’m just a fuckin’ smackhead.







“Move outta the way you fuckin’ smackhead!” I shoot a death ray with my eyes at the skinheaded goon driving a shiny new E-Class Saloon.

I square up to both man and machine in the middle of the narrow road. “Oi!” I yell slapping the bonnet of the car much to the distress of my palms. “Imma crackhead! Not a smackhead!” I carry on my way flippin’ the birdie at him as I go. “Get ya fuckin’ facts righ!” The driver revs his engine in anger but drives off. One point to me, nil to the bastard who thought he was a big man drivin’ a fancy new car using the sinful money he got through his various dishonest deeds.

The rest of my walk down Smithdown Road is relatively uneventful. Being an ex-junkie, I’m so thin I tend to disappear into the background of everyone else’s lives, but I don’t mind, gives me time to think and contemplate on the big topics of life. I’ll give ya a lil’ background info on Smithdown Road, I consider it to be the real, beatin’ heart of Liverpool, and I declare that in the world there’s nothing like it. All of life is here. From ya rich, privileged middle class students who are tryin’ to experience the wonders of the life through the medium of chemicals to ya first generation immigrants who are strugglin’ to adapt to this new weird but wonderful land that is Britain.

I see everythin’ here. I see the hijab covered mother of three flustered off her feet as she hurries her goslings off to the nearest primary school, directing them to avoid the obstacles of dog crap, takeaway boxes and smashed glass and shieldin’ them from the likes of me. I see the young uns’ who wear their school uniform just for a change of clothes but spend their days warming the doorways of the local off license instead of learnin’ about fuckin’ algebra and French verbs. I see the entrepreneurship of the migrants to our shores, driven to make it successful in this forgotten part of Liverpool by settin’ up Barber shops and takeaway outlets. I see frustrated, pot- bellied men chug on cigarettes as they stand outside the many pubs and bars, regular politicians resolving the problems of sport and government but destined to die due to a mutiny from their own heart. I see the women who have been left behind, with no qualifications and pitiful financial support who are struggling to feed their kids a nutritious and healthy diet based on ASDA’s basic products. Their wellbeing and health bein’ sacrificed for their uphill struggle to try and singlehandedly break the vicious cycle of deprivation for their children. I hear the Gurbani music from the local Gurdwara, songs of prayer from voices who are lookin’ for light in their hours of need.

I see everythin’ but no sees me. Why should they look though? After all, I’m just a fuckin’ smackhead.









"Move outta the way ya fuckin' smackhead!" I shoot a death ray with my eyes at the skinheaded goon driving the latest E-Class Saloon Mercedes.

I sqaure up to both man and machine in the middle of the narrow road. "Oi!" I yell slapping the bonnet of the car much to the distress of my palms. "Imma crackhead! Not a smackhead!" I carry on my way, flipping the birdie at him as I go. "Get ya fuckin' facts right!" The goon revs his engine in anger but drives off. One point to me, nil to the bastard who thinks he's a big man drving around in a flashy new car he bought with sinful money from his various dishonest deeds.

The rest of my walk down Smithdown is relatively uneventful. Being an ex-junkie I'm so thin I tend to disappear into the backgorund of everyone else's lives, but I don't mind, gives me time to think and contemplate on the big topics of life. I'll give ya a lil' backgorund info on Smithdown Road; I consider it to be the real, beatin' heart of Liverpool, and I declare that in the world there's nothin' like it. All of life is here. From ya rich, privileged middle class students who are tryin' to experience the wonders of life through the medium of chemicals to ya first generation immigrants who are strugglin' to adapt to this weird and wonderful land that is Britain.

I see everythin' here. I see the hijab covered mother of three flustered off her feet as she hurries her goslings off to the nearest primary school, directing them to avoid the obstacles of dog crap, takeaway boxes and smashed glass and shieldin' them from the likes of me. I see the young un's who wear their school uniform just for a change of clothes but spend their days warming the doorways of the local off license instead of learnin' about fuckin' french verbs and algebra. I see the entrepreneurship of the migrants to our shores, driven to make it successful in this forgotten part of Liverpool by settin' up Barber shops and takeaway outlets. I see frustrated, pot-bellied men chug on cigarettes as they stand outside the many pubs and bars, regular politicians resolving the problems of sport and government but destined to die due to a mutiny from their own heart. I see the women who have been left behind, with no qualifications and pitiful financial support who are strugglin' to feed their kids a nutritious and healthy diet based on ASDA's basic foods. Their wellbein' and health bein' sacrificed for their uphill struggle to try and singlehandedly break the vicious cycle of deprivation for their children. I hear the Gurbani music from the local Gurdwara, songs of prayer from voices who are lookin' for light in their hours of need.

I see everythin' but no one sees me. Why should they look though? After all, I'm just a fuckin' smackhead.


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