How I tried to become one of London's £3oo-a-day beggars

Here I am on the Tube heading into the West End when suddenly the driver announces over the loudspeaker. "Ladies and gentleman, we have an illegal busker on the train. Please do not give him any money otherwise he'll keep coming back. Thank you."

I've only been begging for a couple of minutes - offering a few hesitant riffs on my harmonica and rattling my paper cup to the mantra "Spare some change?" - and already I'm being shunned.

I try to act brazenly unconcerned and like any beggar worth his salt, switch trains at the next station before bolting up the escalator and emerging into the bustling West End Saturday crowd.

According to new research by Westminster Council, 300 beggars operate in central London, cadging a staggering £500,000 a month, a daily average of £55 per beggar. A handful are even said to make £300 a day. That's a lucrative gig - being double the minimum wage and tax-free.

But the council, desperate to stop it, is today launching a campaign - Killing with Kindness - entreating the public not to give to beggars on the grounds that 70 per cent spend the money on Class A drugs and that there are better ways to help.

It found that more than 70 per cent of beggars arrested by the police took drugs, and claims 60 per cent are not homeless.

Councillor Audrey Lewis said: "We are not about discouraging people from helping others - far from it. But we want to educate people so they can make a difference. People can support charities that help the homeless, rather than indirectly funding drug dealers."

Dressed in my shabbiest clothes - broken trainers with flapping heel, torn shirt and paint-spattered tracksuit top - I set out to spend a day as a beggar.

Being a competitive sort, I am determined to earn at least £55 for my eight hours of labour. But I also wonder: will I feel dehumanised? How hard will I have to work for my loot?

It is 1.30pm and I start by working the matinee crowd arriving to see Mary Poppins at the Prince Edward Theatre in Soho. "Spare some change?" I ask humbly, rattling my cup and approaching the queue snaking down Old Compton Street.

After 30 minutes without success, I decide to pick my targets more selectively. I beg from a woman in a wheelchair, thinking she'll be empathetic, but she nearly runs me over in her haste to get away.

I approach people spilling out of taxis, using the logic that their cab fare is conveniently in hand.

It works! A glamorous blonde woman alighting with her two sons nods and mumbles: "Okay ... yeah ... maybe." As I move in for the kill, she jerks her thumb and says: "My husband, he's got the money."

I wait patiently while he pays the cab and then, as he turns towards me, I murmur: "Thank you, your wife kindly ...", but he walks past me as if I don't exist and hurries to join his family.

In my first hour, I earn absolutely nothing, not one penny, but I try not to feel dispirited. There, leaning against the railings, I meet Glen, whose rotten teeth, long filthy fingernails and can of Strongbow announce that he's a hardcore beggar.

Cracked palm

How's the begging going today? He opens his cracked palm and counts out £2.15. "Found a tenner on the floor last night," he grins. "[This is] what I got left." He pauses. "I actually hate asking people for money. I beg strictly on a 'need-to-have basis', [which is] about 10 quid a day."

And then, this Korean reaches into his pocket, fishes out a fistful of loose change, starts to sort it before deciding, "What the heck?" and without saying a word or even looking at me, tips the whole lot into my cup.

Result! It's the best 42 pence I've ever earned.

Over the next hour, I start to show some impressive form. By 3.30pm, I have made £2.01 plus 10 cents in some foreign currency.

I am starting to divine a pattern. The people who give most readily are those who appear demonstrably happy and want to spread the good feeling. Lovers are especially generous, as are groups of young people having fun.

By 5pm, I've made £8.46 and not only feel exhausted, but also realise that I'm nowhere near the £7 per hour I will need to hit my targeted 55 quid.

It falls to Colin, a crusty Scot in his forties begging on the Charing Cross underpass, to explain to me the art of begging.

What's the secret of success? He ponders a minute and shrugs. "I just sit here and ask people for spare change."

The art of begging, according to Colin, is to do as little as possible. He chooses a space on the pavement with plenty of passing trade, occupies it like he owns it, emits a kind of right to other people's spare change, and just sits tight.

But doing nothing, being a passive rather than an active beggar, is the hardest of all. I take up a position alongside three Lloyds TSB cash machines on Piccadilly and wait for someone to give me money. And wait. And wait.

Some people regard my presence as threatening and one elderly woman replies to my request for loose change with an angry: "No way! And get yourself a bath, young man!"

Then there is the boredom, the passivity, and the demeaning aspect of it all: sitting at people's feet, begging, and looking up while they look away. Only young children bring themselves to make eye contact with me.

By 9.30pm, I've been begging eight hours and have just £18.22 in my cup. I feel exhausted. This is damn hard work. I compare notes with a guy holding a giant heavy board advertising Subway sandwiches in Dean Street, and who earns £4 an hour, which is better, but not by much.

Then, treating myself to a £2.14 burger and fries at Burger King, I am leaning against the wall taking a break when someone comes up to me.

"Spare some change?" he asks. Turns out he's Lithuanian, new in town, has made even less today than me, and can't yet tell who's a beggar and who's not. When I give him 10 quid to buy dinner, he is overjoyed.