'BONG'S AWAY!' HE DROPPED

With the Christmas hits blaring out unapologetically from every premises in town that isn't a jewellers - the type of sonic attack that leaves the ears volunteering themselves for amputation - it was time once again for Skedaddle to knock a few out, streetwise.

Furthermore, unpocketing our secret weapon, plucker-of-the-thicker-strings Joe Tordoff, it was immediately apparent that we were knocking out on this fine-if-a-bit-chilly evening with superior force. That's right; we were really out to paint the town.

Weapons trained, fingers on triggers and bullets about to abound like automatic fire, we soon found ourselves in the company of the enigma Mick Bong. For those of you who don't know monsiour Bong, just imagine the most surreal of Salvador Dali's constructions, decorated by Laurence LLewelyn-Bowen and exhibited visually in n dimensions. Then sigh because you're not even close.

An hour or so of playing (embellished with the odd irrational outburst of improvised choreography) passed by before we had The Visit. There are many uncertainties on the street stage. Will we play well? Will the heckler return? Will some hilarious burke wander past waving a fiver, dip down to the case and then walk on, smirking and still clutching it? Possibly. One eventuality is, however, unavoidable: we will get The Visit.

The Visit from The Council People.

On this occasion, both Noah and myself were in possession of a busking licence, and the stoat-like and unlicenced Tordoff managed to escape unreprimanded; a feat almost as commendable as his ability to learn four tunes in fewer hours. And four double-tunes at that. Beastly.

However, passing the licence test is not all there is to it, and the eagle eye of one of The Council People soon spotted a wayward guitar cable, wending its way dangerously down King's Street in a serpent's meander of clear contravention.

And so it came to pass that, at the hands of those assiduous folk in hi-viz whose official title I have not yet learned, we were thoroughly de-briefed on the health and safety rules and regulations. And trust me, no one wants to be de-briefed on a such a cold winter's night. I for one will be taking spare longjohns next time. She said, "Someone might trip over your cable and injure themselves seriously". Or was it "... injure themseves. Seriously." I'm not sure. But my quip about the floored pedestrian being hurt even more by the abrupt curtailing of The Murder Mystery Weekend was not well received.

And so, taking lead from this advice, we huddled closer together; three musicians endowing their brotherhood with a further union: one of space! Hence today's valuable lesson: if you're de-briefed on cold night, share body warmth.

Of course the real lesson here is concerning public liabaility. That is, Mick Bong may well be one.

Au revoir.

'DON'T BLAG IT,' HE HECKLED.

"There's always one," such a ubiquitous and omniapplicable idiom, is what springs to mind when recollecting on today's little session on the street.

But first the positives. Noah managed an impressive feat: an impromptu fashioning of a guitar strap from a twenty foot instrument cable, with the use of a carefully designed and positioned tying mechanism. I can only assume this bizarrely functional knot was an invention of his own; it appears nowhere in my Collins guide.

And a good day's playing was had. We aired a couple of new tunes, making their first transitions from the rehearsal womb into the big wide real world. The Log Flume, another dance from The Suite of Standard Theme Park Rides, was segued with The Ghost Train, a tune which has been ambling around lonely without a partner for some months. Also making their debuts were The Psychedlic Circus and The   Magnificent Seventh. Playing a tune for the first time 'live' can sometimes be a bit daunting, sufficing to say that these two contained their fair share of errors. However, with the deadlock broken, we are looking forward to whipping out these newcomers with greater regularity.

Then there was The Heckler. 

Being no seasoned street performers, the heckle took us a little by surprise. 'Play something funky' was the opening line. Obligingly I undertook to satisfy the gentleman's request, trying to get my fingers around the Get On Up bassline. Overtly unimpressed, the heckler speedily left the scene with the nugget 'Don't blag it as a musician.'

Brilliant! Build us up with an offer of interest, knock us down with a slamming condemnation, then bugger off leaving us emotionally compromised. Fantastic heckling; by now we knew we were dealing with a professional.

We had scarcely time to exchange looks when the big-timer was back, this time having apparently ditched his levelled 'build-me-up-buttercup' style in favour of an outright public tirade of increased volume. While I pondered which combination of profanity to select to hurl back at the fella I realised, much to my disappointment, that the best course of action was probably going to be ignorance. So I turned round and remembered that before all this happened we were playing The Turkish Wench-Magnet, and that indeed we were still playing The Turkish Wench-Magnet, and I had better promptly find the right notes with which to continue The Turkish Wench-Magnet.

A couple more nuggets made their way from the ex-professionals mouth in our general direction and then The Heckler was gone, merged into the crowd, washed away in the grey babble of a hundred footsteps, just a small blemish on a hot day's street performance.

And so we left the precinct after ninety minutes with a decent tally for the session, but moreover with a priceless lesson learned: Always concentrate when playing The Turkish Wench-Magnet.

Of course the real lesson learned was regarding heckling, that is, it's probably best to ignore them. Au revoir for now.

'LIFE'S A BITCH,' HE SAID DOGGEDLY

Following a successful day of street performance at the Huddersfield Food Festival we decided to look a bit further afield and find some other events to try out.

After a short drive to Ravensknoll Park in Moldgreen, Noah and I arrived at the dog show. We looked but found no-one in any official-looking uniform, so after a brief stroll around the grounds and a quick look at some of the carefully groomed mongrels on display we decided to set up over by the ice-cream van and burger stall.

No sooner had the opening chords of our tune 'The Reggae Reggae Sauce' rung out than a man had strode over with an air of indignance and stated accusingly "I don't remember you asking permission."

"That's because we haven't," I heard myself think. Instead I said, politely, "hello, my name's Josh," and offered my hand. It was refused.

"Well whatever it is, the answer's no. It has to be dog-related," said the by now clearly perturbed gentleman. I glanced at Noah and then at the ice-cream van, wondering what dog-related flavours were on offer, and what might be inside those burgers.

And so we obediently left the dog show, with our tails between our legs and having earned the square root of not a great deal, but with one valuable lesson learned: always have a few dog-related tunes to hand, just in case.

We drove to town and played for a couple of hours outside Marks and Spencer. It was a lovely day and we received some positive comments from a few people, which was nice. Of course the real lesson here was regarding permission. One reason why we had such a good day at the Food Festival was that we had had contact with an organiser, who'd been happy to allow us to play. Thanks again to Cathy and everyone involoved in the organisation of the wonderful food fair.

So in fairness the dog show owner had every right to tell us where to go. And if his bite's as bad as his bark we probably won't be returning to Ravensknoll while the canines are around!