“Gentrificapocalypse Now” by Sad Receptionist

I am excited to welcome the Nick Bryan onto this blog. The third book in Hobson and Choi series, Trapped in the Bargain Basement, has just come out this month. One of the characters I was curious over when I read the first two books in the series was the Sad Receptionist (Nick is going to talk about him a little further down) so when I was asked if I wanted Nick to come on the blog, I jumped at the chance to know more about this character. And this post below is what I got!

Before I hand this post over to Nick and the Sad Receptionist, I must thank Nick for taking time out to write this post and to Faye for asking if I wanted to be involved.

[AUTHOR'S NOTE – Sad Receptionist is a fictional character from the Hobson & Choi darkly comic crime series by me (Nick Bryan, hi). He is a bored young man who posts meaningful yet juvenile poetry on social media. Follow him on Twitter as @SadReceptionist or check out the H&C books (especially the second one) to discover his secret origin. He also has two 'collections' of poetry on Storify.

Now it's time for his first full length blog post: an epic poem about the relevant social issues around gentrification. Well, mostly it's about him. Big shock.]

Every day I wake up

and go to work in London,

amidst reams of free newspapers

for tramps to wipe their bums on.

I live and work in Peckham

which used to be quite shitty

but now it's full of coffee shops

just like the whole damn city.

You'd think I'd be all about

CostaNeroBucks desecration

as I am the core demographic

for endless gentrification.

But I work on a reception desk

for about two pounds an hour.

I glare at all the residents

but have no actual power.

So despite being a white male

with floppy hair and a cardigan

I live in constant terror of

Subway declining my card again.

Every time my school friends

post another picture of cats

I know my cheap shared house

moves closer to becoming flats.

I either drink in cheap pubs

crying over all I lack

or get laughed out of coffee shops

for not having an Apple Mac.

I always get lost in Shoreditch.

I don't know how to twerk.

I can't justify cool glasses

because my eyes actually work.

I explained this to my Mum

struggling not to cry.

She said “Hashtag first world problems!”

and now I want to die.

I tried befriending other poets

but even that didn't stick.

They said “Your work doesn't scan

and also you're a prick.”

Sometimes I start to worry

that a new Twitter follower

isn't quite enough to

stop life seeming ever hollower.

But I shall not give up

the endless struggle to cope.

A hardback comedy book deal

remains my only hope.

No, no-one ever reads them.

They're just token Christmas presents.

But I do not give a single damn

about wasteful spending by peasants.

For I must realise my dream

of moving somewhere cool.

The tworld of twendy Twitter

can be so horribly cruel.

-- a poem