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Charles Bukowski would’ve loved the lockdown. He was incredibly anti-social. The man was also an atheist – but he didn’t think much of humanity either. He was contemptuous of the majority of

the human race: “I dislike real people…I hate them,” he writes in _Factotum_. The type of people that interested Bukowski were the downtrodden and the poor, or in his words “…the desperate

men, men with broken teeth and broken minds and broken ways…They are full of surprises and explosions.” In his first published novel _Post Office_, he adopts this misanthropic world view

through a first person narrative via the books chief protagonist, Henry Chinaski – Bukowski’s alter-ego. Chinaski leads a meaningless hand-to-mouth existence as a mail man. The book

documents the repetition of the daily grind in a world where all humanity appears lost. In _Ham on Rye_, we get to see the world through Chinaski’s eyes once again. The semi-autobiographical

novel details his often harrowing and violent relationship with his father as he slowly finds solace in alcohol, masturbation and girls. These are recurring themes that would ultimately

come to dominate the rest of his work. The adoration heaped upon our health staff would’ve deeply troubled the man. He wouldn’t have been seen on the doorstep praising the NHS. He would’ve

been more likely to have thrown an empty wine bottle off his balcony, muttering scornful remarks to himself, than bang saucepans and cheer in adulation. Bukowski was not interested in

writing about heroes, stating defiantly_: “Most of our heroes have been wrong.”_ He wrote about the low-life, the junkies, the prostitutes and the dazzling array of colourful crazy

characters that frequented the early hours of downtown Los Angeles. In today’s world he would be the miserable cantankerous old man on the park bench worrying passers-by, who would no doubt

circumvent with alacrity. For him, writing came easy. “The wine does most of my writing,” he once remarked. “I just open a bottle and turn on the radio, and it just comes pouring out.” Shut

away in his cheap run-down apartment he would type incessantly into the early hours – cigarette ash constantly falling onto the keys of his old Underwood typewriter. He would only pause long

enough to take a swig of Boilermaker, his favourite drink, which consisted of a tall glass of beer with a shot of bourbon dropped in. Hangovers rarely bothered him. Yet, in spite of the

heavy drinking, Bukowski was a prolific writer of poetry – some 35 books have since been published, and there are a dozen books of collected short stories and a half dozen novels. Charles

Bukowski was born in Andernach, Germany in 1920, to Katharina and Heinrich. Due to rampant inflation caused by post-war reparations, the family left for the US in 1923 and settled in Los

Angeles. As a child he was socially withdrawn and shy, due to acne. Later in life the writer Paul Ciotti described him as having a “sandblasted face, warts on his eyelids and a dominating

nose that looks as if it was assembled in a junkyard.” In today’s world of enforced social distancing measures, staying away from people has suddenly become _de rigueur_. This is something

Bukowski would revel in. Most of his time was spent indoors and alone. When he did venture outside if it wasn’t to a bar, it was to Hollywood Park – the racetrack in his adopted Los Angeles.

Besides his indefatigable dedication to wine and women, his other love was gambling. “I have wasted a lifetime at the racetrack…” he mentions in _The Horse Players_. Howard Soune’s _Locked

in the Arms of a Crazy Life_ is seen by many as the definitive biography of the man, In documenting Bukowski’s refusal to follow a conventional working life, Sounes views him as a radical

writer. Describing a scene from his second novel _Factotum_, Sounes describes in detail his attitude towards employment. Whilst working in an auto-parts warehouse Bukowski’s boss berates him

for his laziness and sacks him. He fires back telling his employee “I’ve given you my TIME. It’s all I’ve got to give – it’s all any man has.” No other writer since Hunter S Thompson

commented so scathingly on the death of the American dream as Charles Bukowski. Bukowski’s work would surely find a new home in our Covid world. The economic devastation unleashed upon the

planet due to the virus has pushed thousands of people towards financial ruin. According to research from the Legatum Institute, a quarter of a million people in the UK are now in extreme

poverty. The millions of jobs lost forever would no doubt provide unlimited inspiration for the “Laureate of LA low-life”. Although he didn’t believe in God, the closest he came to idolatry

was the veneration he felt for John Fante – a writer he discovered while perusing the LA Public Library. Fante’s novel,  _Ask the Dust, _influenced him immensely. The humour and pain of

Fante’s words were, according to Bukowski “written from the heart and the gut”. Over the decades, he documented the world from the darker side of the street. A writer of the American

low-life, the bars, the brothels and the mad-houses. But one thing that is often overlooked about him is during the drunken violence and chaos that marked his life – he occasionally let out

moments of clarity and beauty. Hopeful and inspiring: _“Your life is your life_ _Don’t let it be clubbed into dank submission._ _be on the watch._ _there are ways out._ _there is light

somewhere._ _it may not be much light but_ _It beats the darkness._ _be on the watch._ _the gods will offer you chances._ _know them._ _take them._ _you can’t beat death but_ _you can beat

death in life, sometimes._ _and the more often you learn to do it,_ _the more light there will be._ _your life is your life._ _know it while you have it._ _you are marvellous _ _the gods

wait to delight_ _In you.”_ The laureate of LA low-life would’ve welcomed Covid with nonchalance: “…when death finally comes, you say right away, ‘hey buddy, glad to see ya!’” A MESSAGE FROM

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