Diary Of A Busker Day 123 Thursday June 30th Winchester High Street (outside Debenhams, Time: 2:20-4:37pm).
A medium length session down at the current favoured spot – the less busy, yet (occasionally) profitable “arse” end of the High Street.
I’ve just started when my pipe-smoking, Pickwickian regular walks by. He sometimes gives me money, but usually doesn’t. “Why aren’t you playing up there, up the other end?” I tell him I’ve recently been starting off down here, mainly just to warm up, then after awhile, I’ll saunter up the road. I also always feel self-conscious and claustrophobic, setting up with all those people about and in the narrow part of the street. Down here, there’s less people and the street’s wide. “Yes, oh well – I like what you play, makes a change from someone strangling Bob Dylan.”
A lady who’s been standing just behind and to the right of me (many do this, thinking I can’t see them) presents herself. She’s about 70, well-spoken, “posh”-like. “I read your article and I just want to say thank you. That vegetable stall owner, the one who’s always shouting, he’s stopped now – so thank you.” “You mean the one who I said I couldn’t tell what he was saying?” “Yes, you were trying to think of what vegetable he was shouting out.” “Oh yeah, I thought he was shouting REVERB, REVERB!” “Hm, yes, anyway I wanted to thank you – he’s stopped now.” “Right, and you think that’s because of me?” She does. Well, I’m not convinced – how many market stall blokes read The Hampshire Chronicle? The Sun perhaps. This lady, so “posh” and well-spoken hasn’t finished, though. “I do have one criticism of you – you play beautifully, but I do agree with that thing that man said – your repertoire is quite limited, I mean you always seem to be playing The Third Man as I walk by.” At this, well, I cannot believe my ears. It’s either a brave or stupid person who, having read the article containing the excerpt where I lost my temper and swore at someone who said this very same thing to me, can dare to say this. Perhaps many “posh” people think they can say what they want, feeling they are “above” the rest of us and not governed by the normal rules of social etiquette to which us lower orders should adhere. My responce should have been to pick up her pound from my bucket, giving it back to her and tell her where to put it. Or say what I said to the other guy – you think you’re so clever? YOU come out here and do this. However, perhaps because she’s a “lady”, I do not explode with rage, and am polite, as I am a gentleman. So I defend myself. I show her my set list of 45 songs. All 45 titles are different, it doesn’t say The Third Man 45 times. I play them all every day I’m out here and not one more than once in less than an hour and a half, and if I do play any more than once it’s because someone has come up and requested it – as they do The Third Man, and if someone requests something I played 10 minutes ago when they weren’t in the street and didn’t hear it, I will play it for them. Anyway, why am I defending myself, (and all the people who like The Third Man)? She has a good look at my list. “Hm…yes…and you’ve got As Time Goes By, from Casablanca.” Yep, and of all the High Streets in all the towns in all the world – and you walk into mine.
A middle aged couple listen from across the road, they come over and the man asks if I give lessons. I say I do, I give my card out but no one ever phones me. I give him my card and ask if he’s played the guitar before. “No, I haven’t got one. I have Parkinson’s on my right side – my hand shakes but if I concentrate on useing it, it stops shaking, so I thought I’d learn to play the guitar, you see” “Yes, that’s a good idea”, I say and ask him to look out for a cheap guitar – anything, something at a car boot fair for £10, then phone me. He will, he says. I ask him his name. “Eric, Eric Buchanan. “OK, Eric. Get the cheapest you can get, then phone me.”
It’s only been about 20 minutes since I was abused by the “posh” lady when Colin, my regular who keeps forgeting his banjo, turns up – wearing a suit and on his head – a plastic Roman Centurian’s helmet, with red feathers on the top. “Hello Colin, why the hat?” “It’s Hat Fair, isn’t it?” “Oh right, that’s on the weekend, isn’t it?” “Well…yes, I’m in preparation. Now…I wonder if you’ll play a certain song for me…” I don’t believe it – I know what he’s going to say. “I know what you want, Colin.” “Yes – The Harry Lime theme.” “Yes, and you’re going to get it right now!” And I do an extra long version – just for the “lady” who I’m hoping is nearby. I finish my super-dooper, extra long Third Man and Colin wants to hear some more Chet Atkins stuff…and half an hour later he’s still here, standing beside me, a man in a suit wearing a plastic Centurian hat. I think, “how did I end up here – on a street corner with a man wearing a plastic Roman Centurian hat?” Colin eventually drifts off and I finish the day improvising Happy Birthday to Noah, who’s age I correctly guess as 8, today.
Earnings: £25.01p.
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