The remarkable true life story of Peter Newman (Part 4)

The day before I was sentenced I was handed a sheet of paper. What I read was my life story, from four years to twenty-two. It wasn't very nice reading. I felt confused and angry that so much could be known about me. None of it was good, but what really stunned me was the last paragraph which read something like this:

This man has refused any help of rehabilitation and there seems no chance that he will ever fit into society. His anti-social behaviour makes him a menace to society. It is recommended that he be locked away for the protection of others and their property.

The courtroom listened patiently as my solicitor did his best to jerk a few tears from one and all. Then he sat down and the judge started to speak: "If you are hoping to save this man from going to prison, you may like to know that I have no intention of sending him there. Peter Newman, you will be fined £25. But let me give you this warning. If you appear before any court again you will be imprisoned for at least four years."

I could hardly take in what he was saying. My heart was pounding so loudly that I was sure everyone in the court could hear it. "Next case," the judge called out. "You are free to go, Mr Newman."

Free to go! The words spun round in my mind. I was out of that courtroom like a scalded cat. This called for a celebration, so I bought as much drink as I could afford and spent three whole glorious days in total oblivion. World War Three could have started and I wouldn't have known a thing about it. I was happily blind drunk. On the third night of my celebrations a police officer found me sitting in someone else's car singing at the top of my voice. He dragged me onto the road and ordered me to leave town there and then, otherwise I'd be locked up and face court charges for drunkenness. I took his advice and wobbled down the main road which led out of town.

I became a wanderer again. The judge's words were still ringing in my ears and I knew I couldn't return to my life of crime, so I turned to a life of drink instead. Being smashed out of my mind was quite good fun and it wasn't a criminal offence, so I took up my new alcoholic profession with gusto.

I decided to head back to London. Grandad had enjoyed a drunken existence on the Embankment and I decided to do the same. After a couple of weeks I looked like a tramp. My trousers and jacket were dirty and smelly, my shirt collar was black, my muddy shoes were down-at-heel and my face was covered in unshaven stubble. I must have looked twice my age, but I didn't care. When you lose your self-respect, you lose the ability to care. As the days turned to weeks, I lost everything except my desire for drink. I slept on newspapers like the other alcoholics on the Embankment. We seldom ate. What was the point of buying food when you could afford a bottle of methylated spirits and forget about the world? I was only twenty-two but it felt like seventy-two.

I was also a heavy smoker. Cigarettes cost money, so I started picking up dog-ends from the pavements and rummaging in litter-bins to see if someone had accidentally thrown a whole cigarette away inside a packet. I used to put all my finds into a tin, scuttle on to a seat, tip out the tobacco and roll myself a smoke.

My existence wasn't an unhappy one. For most of the time I didn't have a care in the world and I was more than happy to be drunk for as many hours of the day as I could afford. People on the Embankment called me "Laughing Peter" because I was always happy and joking. I would do anything for a drink: I've often danced and sung in a pub for the price of a short.

But occasionally I would surface to reality and see myself as I really was: a dirty good-for-nothing, living from one drink to the next. Then I would bang my head against a wall in sheer frustration and bewilderment. "Where are you going, Peter?" was the question that span around inside my head.

And I would reply: "Nowhere."

During that period I shuffled into several Salvation Army hostels where I saw men supposedly make a commitment to God. "They're only doing it for a bed," I used to think. I preferred to sleep rough.