Diary Of A Busker Day 2530 Friday April 25th 2025 Chichester.
Back to Chidester, as the locals call it, and unusually there’s no one at the top spot, Chichester’s butterless Cross. I don’t even bother looking around North or East Street, as this’ll do fine. Coinage is slow to start but picks up after an hour or so. A couple of slightly disturbing age-related utterances from donors. Firstly, a woman in a wheelchair – ‘Were you in a 60’s band?’
‘I’m not THAT old!’
‘No…I mean…you look just like someone in one of those bands…from the 60’s.’
‘Right, but you don’t know who?’
‘No, but your face looks very familiar – sorry to interrupt you, by the way.’
‘It’s OK. Well, if you remember who I look like, come back and let me know.’
Then, a man says ‘For a moment I thought you were Rick Wakeman!’ I didn’t even bother saying ‘I’m not THAT old’ to that one…but maybe it’s time for a haircut.
I have a two-CD sale to a young bloke who’s seen me here before. He initially wanted one CD but I bludgeoned him into getting both with my ‘two-for-£15, only today in Chichester!’ So we’d made the deal and he says ‘OK, I’ll give you 20 quid, don;t worry about the change.’ However, he hands me a tenner. For a few seconds no one spoke, then I said ‘Oh, no, it’s £15’
‘Yes, I know. Keep the change.’ Oh dear, he thinks he’s given me a £20 note. ‘No’, I say, it’s £20 you need to give me…if that’s alright.’
‘Yes, that’s £20.’
‘No, it’s not, sorry. Twenty pounds is the purple one.’
‘Oh sorry!’ and he gets a twenty pound note out.
‘It’s OK, that’s very generous.’ Indeed…but a bit embarrassing. Anyway, that took care of the £15.45 train fare – always a great relief when I get that taken care of early on. In fact, there’s a couple of quid left over. Sorted.
I managed two and a half hours then packed up and walked the short distance to one of the benches near the cathedral and had my packed lunch of two sandwiches; peanut butter, cheese and pickle, and four olives. Then to the toilet and then to have a look at what was happening on East Street because I fancied a change of scenery…and there’s a bloke strumming away so I’m back at The Cross. No matter, I can handle it, I’m just going to do an hour…and it went quite quickly but my mind was wandering near the end and I reckon that’s because my break was too short, only a half hour instead of at least 45 minutes.
Just as I’ve finished a short rendition of The Third Man, there’s shouting coming nearer – ‘You’re all lovely…but the country’s dead, dying. It’s dead, it’s dead…fucked, on the end of life…FUCK!’ It’s a man with filthy clothes (he’s a drongo) and he’s stumbling towards me, stopping a foot away and saying something unintelligible, then walking off down North Street, shouting. He passes a man who then starts filming him and when the drongo turns around and sees this man filming him, he lurches toward him then stops and the man scurries off. The drongo comes back and disappears around the side of The Cross, shouting ‘it’s DEAD, this country…fuck, FUCK!’ and by this time I’m packed up and heading toward the road to the station. When I look up the road, I think it’s West Street, this drongo has been pinned down by two other drongos, a man and woman. They’re both literally sitting on top of him, he’s face down and the woman’s shouting at him ‘We’re going to get you to shut up!’ Fucking do it!