An extract from The Busking Belly by Max Webster

My grooves are floundering. Drowned out by the Tiggy‘s cacophony. The buskers stray from stressing that his guitar and voice are debilitatingly out of tune. Synchronised squirming as we witness his Toboggan tyke routine, warming the hearts of those singing a call and response tune with him. I’m still feeling astounded that he relented in letting me sample the prime spot s’morning. ‘I’m not your son, I’m old enough to be your fucking dad’ was his response to my enquiry. Duality has never been so apparent. Nevertheless it was a small opening in a long oppressive period. When Silver Stan (the human statue) growls about Tiggy living in an illustrious pad in Bristol my surprise and scepticism almost compares to hearing that he hails from a funk legend‘s lineage. His unhinged nature and connections dictates that busking won’t become a meritocracy, let alone an equal occupation for everyone to attempt. ‘Avoid eye contact and have one finger on the 9 button on your phone’, is my new amigo Michael’s attempt at assuaging my unease. I can make my peace with being drowned out by Michael’s organic Sax playing, but by a sheriff of Nottingham figure jars.

I am struck with the ethics and consideration of my new peers. ‘If you carry on sitting on the ground playing your gonna get ill, borrow my sheet’ is grizzled bill’s startling avowal. He stresses this while he guzzles the deadliest brand of hooch from a plastic KFC mug. ‘ Ah bill, I think you’ve become my roadie,’ I gush until his penetrating glower silences me. I’m nearing despondence after a day of wrestling falling hobos’ who bash into my amplifier and drench me in a medley of fluid. The acrid stench prompts me to pack up my gear as I yearn for the power shower at Dad’s palatial abode. My feverish graft is answered by some middle aged folk burying me in accolades and pound coins. I’ve found my demographic. While Tiggy exhilarates the French tourists by butchering ‘hotel California’ by trying to adlib, I relish a fan base that sit and gaze at my sporadic finger picking.

Submission is essential. No one wants to end up like the unsuspecting Silver Stan with scissors imbedded in the chest. Tiggy’s sneer and morality indicate that he‘s taken the torch from Pablo Escobar. The fact that the fictitious hierarchy in private school felt insurmountable seems absurd to one that’s topped by a homicidal nutbar. The fruitless attempts to bump him off have tragically resulted in pedestrians being hurt. One hobo launched a bottle, which ended up pulverising a random woman. I don’t feel like a martyr able to take on the top tyrant so my efforts are governed by trying to shape peoples misconceptions.

Buskers being viewed as beggars. Regardless of the spectrum of talent within the circuit they are still going out on a limb for their passion. They remain to be stigmatised as clutter with crippling heroine addictions. You learn to spot the ones that harbour such inflictions because they decline food that people offer. I notice them to be in the minority as I busk more and more. Even the homeless that pensively glance at the world hurtling past them over their Special Brew don’t incite the stream of abuse. Yet ‘My taxes are squandered on you bastards’, is the regurgitated insult. Mainly from strung out Armani yuppies who prance along and at any moment could sneeze a snowman. As they are fuelled by the white stuff they increasingly don’t discern between buskers and beggars. One haughty fella rasps the taxes tirade at a homeless Sax player. The sax player retaliates with the timeless ‘enjoy the power, because with the recession your going to be where I am in a heart beat.’

After a fruitful day I reconvene with Michael. He seemed disquieted. ’Did gramps finally cut you off,’ was my Hindenburg of an icebreaker. After a swift boot that may have dampened my chances of procreating, he began an account of finding an overdosed man in an alley.
‘Eyes glazed over, convulsing and unrecognisable, Blood curdling screams were almost as terrifying as the saws that covered his face.’ Michael called an ambulance and they promptly came. When injected with an adrenaline shot the moribund gasped in a writhing frenzy. ‘Like a paralyzed deer wriggling as he becomes road kill,’ was Michael’s chilling description. As Michael began to wipe the man’s shirt he noticed it to be designer. It seems my attempts at changing misconceptions won’t be needed.


‘Afternoon Simon’ as I greet the manager of my favourite haunt. My triumphant efforts that day are some what dampened. The manager is given a break from my wallowing as he sprints after a cadaverous man bolting into the gents. ‘Not again, why can’t you be deterred,’ bellows the portly manager as he traipses down the stairs. I recognise the skeletal chap as he is dragged by the cusp of his neck. ‘Such a unique talent’, I murmur to the manager on his return.
‘Why can’t it outweigh his love of smack, which he relapses on even after having all his blood changed in a specialist clinic,’ replies the manager. He has a valid point. Paradoxically Michael is the only person who has the drive to sustain 5 hours of busking but still lets heroine impede his chances of pervading the pub circuit. 
I slam down the receiver. ‘Why did you do that man, I know where he is, the police can get him done for possession,’ retorts the manager.
‘If you’d witnessed what he had earlier, you would be drinking more than your eight pints of lager quota for the day, so give him some leeway for a relapse.’

My prevailing efforts are replaced by pittance the following day. 5 pounds for 2 hours. Despite the debacle of the previous night, Michael’s tunes are dominating. This jars. I experience an inner discourse as I feel myself buying into the hierarchy. Tiggy seems to be silenced by the masses crowding around gymnasts in g-strings revolutionising deft acrobats. Vengeful thoughts leave the minds of the penny whistle brigade who notice Tiggy’s decline. His Intimidating methods are stymied as the police begin to monitor busking and organise auditions as it is now deemed as a privilege. Rapidly becoming an elite activity. Vitriol is redirected as it surges through the minds of the ousted. That is the vitriol that the police believe drove them to their position of power.
’You fucking pigs, get off our case’, yells a man with tears tattoed under his eyes. 
‘look, that’s why your falling further into the gutter, cos you can’t control that rage, now move along, your not even enriching anyone by playing yanky doodle in the wrong key.’
Tiggy was easier to predict as the authorities seem changeable as they vacillate about our presence. A chasm forms between Michael and his former counterparts as he is the only one who keeps a permanent spot amidst a horde of ivy league flamenco dynamos. I view it as a blessing as it’s an incentive for him to not relapse as he now has a status. He may become an institution. Previously it would be easy for him to squander his success in a heartbeat on a powdered boost. Now that busking is no longer a laizez-faire area he can’t afford to bow out as the restaurant gigs are amounting.