Well they'll stone ya...

I’ve been dying to transcribe my recent adventures but an adventurous man does not always have wi-fi access. Until now.

Since my last post I have established myself in Newcastle city centre as the new kid on the block. Buskers beware, I am here to clean up.

Day one: I arrive into town just before 10am to find Robbie, a friend and band leader of awesome band, Maybe Myrtle Turtle, about to start busking. It was an immediate indication of the toe stepping that being a busker involves. Though I guess to do just about any job, you must move into marked territories. We awkwardly agreed that the pedestrianised Northumberland Street was indeed big enough for the both of us, and I went and found a spot opposite a Costa Coffee with outside seating. With a little flutter in my belly and a slightly cold voice I stood up and sang some textbook busking songs: Dylan, Beatles, Radiohead…

On my first day I broke five of my six guitar strings and being a twat, I had forgotten to bring spares. Thankfully Newcastle is a city of friends and I would keep sending Rory, Polly, Effie and myself to the guitar shop for supplies.

Relations with Robbie were kept sweet. We bought each other drinks and he let me have the more desirable and busier spot once he was done for the day, outside the big department store, Fenwicks, which has a glass cover (handy when it rains).

On day one I made 40 quid in just under five hours. Very encouraging, but a long day for singing full power.

Day two. I got up earlier and bagged the Fenwicks spot before the teenage violin player and her Dad had the chance to grab it. Having spent the previous evening making a big list of potential songs to play with Effie and Steph, I had a bit more fun because my playlist was more varied.

At one point, a fairly old woman who looks Eastern European approached me with an accordion and tried to tell me I was in her spot. In the politest way possible I told her to piss off.

As Effie is also strapped for cash and jobless, we thought it would be fun to get her out on the street playing her didgeridoo to see if she made any money. Given that she’s only been playing a couple of months and the didgeridoo is a fairly one-noted instrument, she did well to make a little money. But it wasn’t a career that took off. However, I played for about two and a half hours and made 30 quids. Nice one.

Day three. It rained. I arrived nice and early for the Fenwicks spot only to find that violin girl and her seemingly unemployed father had risen a touch earlier. He smugly informed me that they had this spot and seemed determined to engage me in small talk as if to deny me the only other sheltered busking space on the main shopping street. Marks and Spencers! I dispensed with his tedious nonsense and hightailed it in the rain to Marks and Sparks. Under the entrance, I set up stall (involves a guitar bag and a cute, colourful Effie-made sign saying 'Thankyou') and wondered what I could do in the rain.

I started singing “Raindrops Keep Falling on My Head” and I think before I’d finished that first rendition, I had made three quid. People were amused by the sentiment. It was really pissing it down and to encounter a big-haired smiley man singing about it so cheerfully seemed to make people determined to reach for their wallets. I realised I was onto a winner. I sang “Hello Sunshine” by the Super Furry Animals. Not a famous song, but more cash. I sang, “Here Comes the Sun”. More ironic smiles. More cash.

Then I started having some fun with the songs. I realised it was a good money maker to sing songs about rain and sun while it was pissing it down. But obviously it would get really boring just singing them with the original words, over and over. So I started inventing the words. I would sing about distinctive-looking people walking past; about kids illegally riding their bikes down the pedestrianised street; about how Marks and Spencers do a nice line in cutlery and bedsheets; about Greggs pasties; and most of all about the pissing rain and umbrellas. I had old ladies dropping in quids saying things like “I like your sense of humour son.”

Those working in Marks and Spencers and nearby shops would come and shelter from the rain and have a cigarette and I would sing about their fag break and their annoying boss (“you want me to do what? Piss off!” etc ) and how they could look forward to their lunchtime. They would laugh and leave me spare change.

Day three was quite a turning point as I realised that for me to gain full enjoyment and actually to gain full cash, I would be better off totally improvising. I didn’t sing a single song in its original version. It was a purely creative process and so much more fun. I realised that to gain the most money, the best thing to do is to just bark at strangers and demand smiles; demand that they cheer up and have a nice day and look forward to the warm bath they can enjoy when they get home. It made them smile. It made me smile. I probably got quite carried away. But in four hours I made 54 quid. This is better pay than I’ve ever had working in a bar or a call centre or for a charity. And it’s much more fun.

I also sang some of my own pre-written songs. It was very satisfying to see money hit the guitar bag during the songs I'd written myself.

Day four. Saturday. I was convinced that Saturday should be good. So again, I was up early and out on the street by nine thirty. Fenwicks was taken again, so I went up to Marks and Spencers, sang about the sunny morning and about how it was Saturday and you are all shameless consumers so get inside and buy some shit. I sang Outkast’s “Hey Ya” and got quite excitable during the ‘Shake it’ bit. I was demanding that members of the public shake it “like a white boy,” or “like a Polaroid picture (oh that just sounds ridiculous)”. Much fun.

I sang The Beatles' “Taxman” and reassured everyone during the bit where the guitar solo should be “I don’t actually work for the Inland Revenue, I'm just a musician trying to pay the rent, I'm not feeding some crack habit, is that what this looks like? Though if you do work for the Inland Revenue, please don't ask me any questions...”

It turned out that at midday a busking festival was beginning. Hmm. That’s one way to put me out of business, but by that point I’d earned my day’s wage. The whole street was suddenly flooded with street performers (on a day trip from the Edinburgh Festival) and the noise and competition was too much. In the morning’s two and a half hours, I’d earned 37 quid. And soon after they’d got started, it was rained off.

Smugness.

So needless to say I’m enjoying the busking. I am my own boss and until the government decides to entirely strangle me with frankly unworkable rules and regulations (unfortunately many councils in England have gone down this fucking road) I’m definitely gonna do it for a bit.