Virtuoso

I rarely give money to buskers. I see them all the time. They get on the trains, usually with a little karaoke box and whatever instrument. Then out comes the hat. I've become quite skilled at blanking them actually. I just stare dead ahead like I'm deep in thought, even if they address me directly.

I take the commuter train occasionally, but not for work. That's because yours truly, Greg Grendle, doesn't have a job.

For me to even acknowledge buskers, they have to be very good or very shit. I once saw a guy who sang so bad and looked so miserable, it just cracked me up. There's a value in that so I gave him a coin.

I thought I'd give busking a try. Surely being a shit busker would require very little effort.

I have a mate that plays the violin. Sort of a mate anyway, his name's Steve. He drinks at my local. I gave him a call and he said to stop by. He lives on an estate up the road. Big old block with small windows and a concrete garden in front.

He opened the door and lead me through a narrow corridor to his room. Very neat and tidy. There was some classical music playing. The violin lay ready on the bed with its bow. He picked it up and handed it to me. Strange looking thing really. He said I could borrow it for a couple of weeks but if I damaged it he would, his words- 'smash my fucking face in.'

He wasn't joking. Steve might like a bit of classical but he's a scary bastard. Double hard and dead serious. I tried to lighten him up once with a bit of banter in the pub. I said that of all the instruments in an orchestra, the violin was easily the gayest. He didn't laugh but just stared at me. Then his mouth tightened and he went red, still staring. I knew he was pissed off so I just looked down at my pint. I could feel him staring at me.

Anyway, I pressed the violin into my neck and pushed my chin down on it. It looks quite big like that. I pulled the bow across the strings and the awful sound was instantly mirrored by Steve's face. I stopped.

He didn't have a spare case so I carried it in my hands as I left his flat. I came out of the lift and crossed the little garden. A bunch of kids was hanging out by the gate and as I approached one of them called out 'hello beethoven!' at which I gave them an ironic smile. Not so bad this estate I thought, until I got closer and one of them said 'giz a tune then cunt' and then as I walked off towards the gate the others began shouting obscenities at me. Cretins.

Once at home I was able to get some serious practice in. I never had music lessons as a kid but I think I've got a pretty good ear. It was nearly Christmas so I tried to figure out Silent Night. It actually took quite some time to figure out the beginning, so I didn't bother with the main part. I figured I could get away with just repeating the first bit.

-

I got myself out of bed the next morning and put on some trampish clothes. A woolen jumper, white shell-suit bottoms and a pair of black leather brogues, which were hardened and twisted like an old tree trunk. I didn't have any fingerless gloves, which would've been a nice touch, but a rotten old scarf completed the look nicely. I headed off for the train.

When I got to the platform there were quite a lot of people around even though the rush hour was long over. I stood waiting, violin in hand. I noticed that people on the platform were already moving away from me. The train rolled in. Through each window I saw all the miserable looking passengers, illuminated by the strip lights, hanging on to the greasy poles and overhead straps.

I stepped on to the carriage and found a good spot where there was just enough space for me to play. I put the violin under my chin, placed the bow on the strings and with a long, pitiful face, drew down slowly on the bow to play the first note.

As I did this the doors beep-beeped and then closed. As I stood in the middle of the carriage, already well into the silent night intro, the train jolted forward with all it's weight.

Funny, the one thing I hadn't considered, before this experiment, was, seeing that most musical instruments require two hands to play, how buskers manage to stand up while the train is moving?

I took off. It certainly felt like it anyway. I hit at least three people I think. One lady actually fell down to the floor and another guy into the people behind him.

The violin?

Fell on it. Crushed it with my forearm as I hit the floor.

-

I approached the estate. I had the remains in a plastic carrier bag. I told myself it was better to at least give him back what was left, and besides I didn't have the money to fix it. If that was possible, which honestly, it wasn't. At least he wouldn't think I'd nicked it.

I saw one of the kids hanging by the gates and had an idea. I approached and he turned to look at me. I held up the bag and offered him two quid if he would take it back to Steve.

'two quid, do you think I'm a little fucking kid or something'

He was. I sighed and pulled out a ten pound note.

It was after all better than taking a chance and having my face smashed in. Needless to say I haven't been to my local for a while, but then, this was far more interesting than sitting in the pub. Good work.

Aragorn Love Machine

Just the other day I was hanging out at a Jon's place. Pretty typical really. 3 in the afternoon, curtains drawn and the TV flickering in the smoke. Every now and then we rolled a joint or made some tea.

Jon had just put on a DVD and I thought recognised the guy in the film. He stood tall and straight. Majestically even. He was Muscular. He had long flowing hair and an angular, stubble flecked jaw.

I was sure it was him.

‘that’s whatsisname' I said.

Jon looked at me and said 'what?'

I pointed at the screen.

‘Aragorn, son of Arathorn.’

We watched.

I tried to imagine him with a sword, wearing a cloak and an amulet. I say tried to imagine, because in this particular film he was totally naked and thrusting into the behind of a women whose facial expression flashed between shock and indignation.

We waited, for quite some time, for another shot of his face. When it appeared, snarling, euphoric, we both sat forward.

It wasn't him. But it got me thinking- What must it be like to be famous?

I decided that it was time for a little adventure. It was after all only 3 in the afternoon. I was going to dress up like a disguised superstar and check people's reaction.

Jon dug out a pair of shades. Big black ones, perfect. It was a typically grey afternoon so I'd definitely stand out. Next was a black winter scarf. It was in no way cold outside. Jon was surprisingly good at this actually. It seemed to give him a sense of purpose for a few minutes.

I wrapped the scarf high up around my neck so it covered the lower part of my face. The look was just great. I headed off down to the local shops.

On the way I tried to put on a suspicious, slightly hounded sort of air. I think it was pretty authentic because I noticed plenty of people staring at me as they passed in their cars. One guy even gave me a double toot and called out something that was muffled by his car windows.

The first stop was the newsagents. There was nobody else in there when I walked in apart from the guy behind the counter. A haggard old guy with a 40-a-day face. He fixed a humourless, puzzled stare on me.

'Cold out is it?' he said

I chose to ignore this and picked up a gossip magazine from beside the counter.

'That's all' I said, with what I hoped was an air of celeb authority.

'three quid' he said and held out his hand. I could see that his eyes narrowed like he was trying to see through my shades. That's celeb, I said to myself.

Next up was the bakers.

This time the old lady recognised me immediately as I walked in.

'Everything alright Greg?' she asked

OK, I do know her. Being recognised, however is very celeb so I decided the best thing to do was make a quick exit. Without saying a word I crashed out of the shop and ran off, leaving the door shaking behind me.

I stopped a little up the highstreet and looked around. I wondered if anyone famous would live in a suburb like this. A high street full of pound shops. Crap everywhere. Seemed unlikely.

I decided to go back. Leave it to the pros. I'd get Jon to rewind the DVD, and perhaps make some more tea. Nice.