A little muzzy of head this morning after an evening in the Africa Centre bar with my new pal Polly Evans last night. Several Tusker beers (Kenya’s greatest export) were consumed and the world of travel writing put to rights. Basically, Polly and I are great and everyone else is rubbish. Got that?
It’s actually quite nice talking to someone with the same poor excuse for a lifestyle as me. The procrastination, the making a general klutz of yourself in foreign climes, the same horror of deadlines, the endless hours of staring out of the window chewing a pen (it’s thinking time, right?), all that kind of thing. Quite cathartic for both of us, I think.
Anyway, we mooted the idea of a joint project of some kind, which could be fun. Polly seems to be a female version of me, only much better looking and with better table manners.
It was the Holiday programme series launch party on Monday night in a (frankly rather odd) club in Notting Hill. All good fun, as the people who work on the show are all absolutely lovely. The big cheeses said nice things about the films I’ve done too, which was nice because I’d convinced myself that I was rubbish.
While elbowing my way through various tube stations this week, it struck me how much busking has changed since I scraped a living as a ham-fisted musician a few years back. In those days, a battered acoustic guitar, a rolled up coat to accommodate donated change and a repertoire of well-known hits were enough. Nowadays, tube buskers have their own allotted spots sponsored by a lager company. Not only that they have amplifiers, backing tracks, headset microphones and even CDs for sale.
It’s outrageous. My newly formed Guild of Ex-Buskers will be campaigning against this ethical homicide of a once noble occupation.