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.
