Goywonder

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On his quest to find the curious side of Norwich, Goy Wonder meets John Brough, a Big Issue seller known for his Oxford education

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To say John Brough is erudite doesn’t quite do it justice.

When I sat down to interview John, I was hoping he’d give me a juicy quote to prove it. As it happens, this poor writer is spoilt for choice.

As we pick away at our Costa sandwiches, John speaks fluently about his love of the classics – of Cicero and Caesar.

Minutes later, it’s De Tocqueville and his Ancien Regime. Finally, we arrive at the twenty-first century, with a warm mention of Alan Bennett’s The History Boys.

“Latin has never been difficult for me,” says John, as we return to the subject of classics.

“I’ve just got one of those brains which can conjugate verbs with ease,” he shrugs. “I guess I’m just lucky.”

It’s an interesting choice of word. Lucky is the last word most people would use to describe John – a fifty-two year old alcoholic living in supported accommodation - as anything but lucky.

In Norwich, John is the ‘Oxford Big Issue seller’: the Ivory Towers graduate who went from corporate success to sleeping rough on the streets.

When we meet, John is sixty-one days sober. Or he will be – he tells me – if he can make it through till midnight.

At first, I’m quite startled by this caveat. It strikes me that this is my first real glimpse into John’s world: where every waking day is a battle of willpower.

Not wanting to dwell on drinking, I ask John a bit more about his background.

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Raised in Newcastle, and educated at a comprehensive school, he read history at St. Peter’s College, Oxford.

“I don’t like to mention it too much though,” he says with a sheepish smile.

“I wouldn’t want people to think I’m boasting. Because I’m really not – I have nothing to boast about.”

Still, John is an exceedingly polite man (at one point he even offers me some of his sandwich) and is quite happy to answer questions on the subject.

He has fond memories of the time, of representing his college in both football and cricket.

When I ask him about his Oxford contemporaries, he mentions Tony Blair and Benazir Bhutto, then president of the Oxford Union.

Then there’s the deputy headmaster of Norwich School, who bumped into John at his regular pitch on London Street.

“He stopped to buy a Big Issue,” John explains. “He said I seemed educated – and asked me about my background. You should have seen his face when he found out we were at Oxford together.”

After graduation, John worked in the marketing department for Monsanto, a global farming corporation with offices in New York, Brussels and London.

“Have you travelled much then?” I ask.

“I went to the states for a year,” he explains. “It sounds terribly corny, but I won Monsanto’s Master Salesman award. It meant I got to go there to meet the CEO.”

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It’s an irony worthy of a Hollywood film: the corporation’s star seller now selling the Big Issue on street corners. And it’s one that’s not lost on John.

“Funnily enough, I’m not the best Big Issue seller,” he chuckles.

“I tend to spend my time chatting away to my customers, enjoying their company. Some of the other vendors can sell thirty copies a day – I manage about half of that.”

After Monsanto, John worked with Extel, a UK horse-racing company, selling new satellite technology for betting shops. It was here that his heavy drinking set-in.

Pub culture was a huge part of John’s work, and he wasn’t the only salesperson to knock back drinks throughout the day. He was, however, the only one who was doing it before work too.

He regales me with different tales of his drinking downfall. Each one is like a Dickensian horror story, strangely transported to a backdrop of Brylcreemed 80s boardrooms.

With a warm northern accent and excellent delivery, John is an excellent storyteller. His stories are well-paced and structured, with no shortage of harrowing and clinical detail.

“By now, I’d get the shakes if I went a few hours without drinking,” he recalls. “If I had a meeting with a client, I’d have to knock back a few vodkas just to keep my hands from quivering.”

Soon things changed, and John’s meetings were with company doctors, psychiatrists and social workers. His boss offered him lifelines – even paying for two spells in The Priory – but eventually had to let him go.

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Much of the period that followed was lost to blackouts. John lost both his home and his marriage, and ended up living rough in London, begging for money to buy booze.  

When he finally arrived in Norwich, aged thirty-four and seeking temporary accommodation, he was – in his own words – “an alcoholic, incontinent wreck.”

Over the last eighteen years, John has lived in Norwich, in a constant battle of sobriety and relapse (“I’ve seen a lot of day sixty-ones,” he jokes).

He  has moved around the city, spending periods in hostels, bedsits and – on more than one occasion – sodden cardboard boxes.

Nine years ago, his life took a dramatic turn for the better, when he got chatting to a customer at his old Big Issue pitch in Tombland.

“A woman approached me and asked me for a chat,” he recalls. “I’d seen her walk past before. She was casually dressed but very pretty.”

“At the time, I was running a half marathon for NORCAS, a Norwich-based alcohol charity. And she said she’d like to sponsor me.

“The next day she came back with a hefty cheque for several hundred pounds. She said her name was Trudy and she was a solicitor. She’d organised an office collection to sponsor me.

“Anyway, the two of us ended up going out. We got on great: we had enough in common to spark an attraction, but enough differences to keep it going.”

John and Trudy were together for nine years, during which time she gave him invaluable support. When I ask if he loved her, he is firm in his affirmation.

Indeed, throughout our interview, John has praised many charities and people who have helped him – but none as emphatically as Trudy.

“So why did it end?” I ask John.

By now, I am deeply moved by John’s story. This is a question I can hardly bring myself to ask.

“It ended last year,” he says. “I’d been sober for eighteen months – but then I relapsed. It was just one relapse too many for her.”

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After his relapse, John was found in a graveyard, senselessly drunk and caked in vomit and piss. He was taken into the Norfolk and Norwich Hospital for an emergency detox.

“Trudy was devastated,” he says wistfully. “She said she couldn’t deal with it anymore. She said she knew I loved her – but that I loved alcohol more.

“I begged her to stay – but I knew she was right. I couldn’t even deny it. I’ve spent half my life in denial and I don’t fancy doing it again.”

Shortly afterwards, John announces he has to leave. He tells me he’s enjoyed our chat and that he’d like to do it again. I return the sentiment – and I mean every word of it.

As we leave the coffee shop, he recommends me some background reading and viewing for when I write up the interview.

“If you get a chance, you should watch Monday’s episode of The Street,” he says, as we part ways.

“It’s a really accurate portrayal of alcoholism. And it’ll absolutely break your heart.”

Half way down the road, my eyes start to fill with tears. By the time I reach my flat, I’m sobbing uncontrollably.

I don’t think I’ll be needing The Street. I think my heart is already broken.

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Goy Wonder, 2009

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