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Aug. 21st, 2006 11:18 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
webofevilDown in an underpass under Park Lane on Friday there's a busker playing a tin whistle. About ten metres further along lies an old, drunk, toothless tramp—trouble not, delicate reader, this one had no romantic designs on me, that's not where this is going—shouting at him: “Shut up with your fucking playing. That’s all I fucking hear. Why’ve you got to come down here and play when I’m trying to fucking sleep?”
The busker stops playing. “You can sleep anywhere in London,” he says plaintively.
“That’s right,” the tramp replies blurrily, “and I choose to sleep here. You can fucking play anywhere in London.”
“Oh, for God’s sake,” says the busker, and resumes playing.
“You carry on playing, I’ll fucking get up in a minute and come over there,” slurs the tramp. The busker stops, says “Yeah? Come on then”, and tootles his whistle at him.
“I’ll fucking come over there,” says the tramp. The busker emits a provocative flourish.
“Don’t make me fucking get up,” rails the tramp. The busker chirrups at him merrily.
Repeat to fade as I leave. If I’d had change it would have been worth seeing the effect of giving it to the busker; I think the tramp would have detonated out of sheer rage.
Talking of folk poetry in underpasses, my mother reports these two pieces of graffiti next to each other in the underpass on her route to work, both followed by a different phone number: “I do back door” and, enticingly, “I stab poo”. Same product, yet quite different campaigns. I'd love to know which number gets more calls.
The busker stops playing. “You can sleep anywhere in London,” he says plaintively. “That’s right,” the tramp replies blurrily, “and I choose to sleep here. You can fucking play anywhere in London.”
“Oh, for God’s sake,” says the busker, and resumes playing.
“You carry on playing, I’ll fucking get up in a minute and come over there,” slurs the tramp. The busker stops, says “Yeah? Come on then”, and tootles his whistle at him.
“I’ll fucking come over there,” says the tramp. The busker emits a provocative flourish.
“Don’t make me fucking get up,” rails the tramp. The busker chirrups at him merrily.
Repeat to fade as I leave. If I’d had change it would have been worth seeing the effect of giving it to the busker; I think the tramp would have detonated out of sheer rage.
Talking of folk poetry in underpasses, my mother reports these two pieces of graffiti next to each other in the underpass on her route to work, both followed by a different phone number: “I do back door” and, enticingly, “I stab poo”. Same product, yet quite different campaigns. I'd love to know which number gets more calls.
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Date: 2006-08-21 02:12 pm (UTC)Shall we call it an honourable draw, or do we resort to a knife fight?
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Date: 2006-08-21 02:16 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-08-21 02:27 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-08-21 02:32 pm (UTC)