Diary Of A Busker Wedenesday October 26th Winchester High Street (1. opposite Vodafone, Time: 1:20-3:30pm, 2. opposite Card factory, Time: 4:45-6:05pm, 3. opposite O2, Time: 6:15-6:35pm).
Three songs into my first set and I have to pack up as it starts raining. I’m back 15 minutes later…and the money’s a bit slow coming…then I play Tammy and a man standing a few yards to my right comes up, “I haven’t heard that since I was a boy – Debbie Reynolds. I hope to hear you play that again when I’m passing.” Wow – he must have heard that last in 1957. As he goes off, a few others come and give me something – most people don’t know that song. I’m going to make it Song Of The Day.
Young Alice, the college student who did a little project on me, turns up, then one of my regulars – Jeremy, a minute after. I introduce them. “Oh, you could be Marvin’s groupie!” he says – which I find rather embarrassing. “Well – she’d be the first, I can tell you, Jeremy.” For awhile I’ve wondered exactly how many people walk by me in the space of one minute. I reckon there’s too many for me to count – hundreds maybe, thousands? I’ve got no idea. I think it would be best to count all the people going one way, for a minute, then all of them going the other way and add them up. But now Alice is here, well, I can make use of her. So, for a minute we count, me – the ones going from right to left, Alice – the ones going the other way. At the end, she’s counted 39 and I’ve got 26. So, 65 people, which seems really low. However, times that by 60 and that’s 3,900 people walking past in one hour – I’m lucky if 10 give me a pound each.
In my break I “celebrate ” my anniversary – because today marks one year exactly, since I started busking – and keeping a diary. I relax near the cathedral and “celebrate” by smoking my pipe…and watch people read the inscription on a well-known Winchester landmark – the tombstone nearby:
“In memory of Thomas Thetcher
Grenadier in the North Regt. of Hants. Militia,
who died of a violent fever contracted by drinking
small beer when hot, the 12th of May, 1764 aged 26years
…soldiers be wise from his untimely fall. And when ye’re hot drink strong
or none at all.”
…indeed, the silly man. When I return to the High Street, Frank and his accordion have taken up my former spot, which I had been hoping to go back to, but I don’t mind – I’d been there two hours. Frank asks me if I’ve seen the students up at The Buttercross. Apparently, they set up right near him and started playing. He gave them a talking to, he says – “I said, “next time you set up, have a look around, and if you see someone else – DON’T SET UP! How d’you like it if I did that to you?”.” “How did they take it?” “Oh, fine – in fact they were very polite, said sorry, asked me my name.” “Well, you won’t have to tell them again, will you – they’ll remember. No need to get the drongos on to them, eh?” “Hm, yeah. It felt good to let off a bit of steam, too.” Yeah, I thought it might. “Good. How’s your day going?”, I ask. “Yeah, OK – I’ll just do another half hour, I think.”
I walk back up the street – the student buskers have a sign saying STUDENTS-EVERY LITTLE HELPS – in imitation of the Tesco advert – they’ve even got the Tesco lettering – cheeky students. So, this lot are here, Frank’s in the middle…it looks like I’m going to end up down at Debenhams. On the way down, just past Frank, I ask the bakery guy (his market stall is at one end of a line of stalls) about the pasty he dumped in my bucket the other week in Romsey. “It’s a Calezone.” “A what?” “Calezone – an Italian/Cornish pasty.” He then has a moan about Frank, who has just wandered off his spot. “He stays there for hours, and everything he plays is in the same key.” Poor Frank. Many people say this – that they’ve got no idea what song he’s playing. I wonder what they say about me sometimes – the market and shop people. That’s partly why I don’t do more than 1 1/2 or 2 hours in one place.
Down outside Debenhams, a woman with frizzy hair crosses the road to say she loves my Yellow Bird, which I wasn’t playing but she’s heard me before. I tune up, or rather down, for it. She has a song suggestion – something she heard Jarvis Cocker play on his BBC 6 show, Inchworm (the song, not the name of his show – which I don’t know). “I’ve never heard it (Inchworm), but I’ll look into it. By the way, I got two of my songs on BBC 6, you know, but the royalties aren’t much – that’s why I’m out here.”
Frank’s finished up the road and comes by during Yellow Bird. “D’you know Harry Belafonte’s died?”* “No.” “Yeah. I thought he’d died years ago but he died a couple of days ago. That’s why I thought you were playing that.” “Nope, didn’t know.” “Yeah, a hundred years old. Just thought I’d pass that information on.” “OK, thanks Frank.”
It’s gone 6 and people are thinning out – and I’ve made only £6 in over an hour. I reckon it’s time to pack up. As I’m walking up the High Street I bump into Josh, the Irish photography student – he took some photos of me a while back. He’s been partying – “I was up all night, then I ‘ad ta work at four. Stayed at a friend’s hise, near The Railway (local pub – near…the train station).” “Oh, right.” “Yeah, so I’ve ‘ad a gammon steak at O’Neil’s, and I’ve spent the whole afternoon hangin’ out my arsehole.” This makes me laugh. “Well, I’ve never heard that before!” An interesting “turn of phrase”, certainly. Josh and his hangover bid me farewell and I head on up the road, say hello to Simon, the occasional busker, more commonly Big Issue seller. I haven’t seen him for a few weeks – he’s been away, trying to sort himself out – De-tox, rehab. I ask if he minds me doing 15 minutes nearby. I better ask – I know he gets annoyed if there’s someone else selling Big Issues or busking near him – this is his “pitch”, this time of night. He doesn’t mind – good, ’cause I need a few more pounds – especially now, as I’ve just bought a magazine off him. Up the road, there’s barely anyone about – it’s not worth it. Then, a beggar – the one who (most memorably) said he “can’t be arsed begging” one night, comes up – “I don’t know if you’re able to, but could you spare two quid? – so I can get a shelter for tonight. I’ll pay you back tomorrow.” “Um…(I’m getting quite mean these days), yeah, alright – but I’m not here tomorrow…next time you see me.”
It’s 6:30, it’s dark, no one about – in either direction. I’m going home. I pack up, then, as I’m about to wander off, a huge group of people, maybe 20, turn up and I think, damn – I might have got a few quid from them. But maybe I wouldn’t have. And that’s the thing about doing this – there’s no guarantee of anything. After one year of busking, I leave home and have no idea who I’m going to meet (apart from the “regulars” and flotsam and jetsam of the High Street), I have no idea what someone might say to me, how much money I’ll get, or how little. The only thing I know for sure is – I get a lot of fresh air and never have any problem sleeping. Which is something, I suppose.
THE END
Earnings: £36.47p.
* He meant Edmundo Ros. Harry Belafonte’s alive, well, and not nearly 100 years old.