It's a little known fact that I'm a huge music fan. Dexy's Midnight Runners. Duran Duran. Frankie Goes to Hollywood. Rick Astley. They all rank amongt my favourites. Seasoned pros,one and all. Due to my love of music I often stop and listen to buskers. I'll occasionally throw one 50p. If they're not a talentless cunt.
One particular incident that stands out in my mind happened during a trip back to Cork. I was walking down Paul St. with my brother Johnson. About to go on the lash. I had the thirst.
I heard the faint strum of a guitar.
"You hear that, Johnson?"
"I do, Roy."
"Lets check it out, yeah?"
We walk up to the busker. He's singing a Bob Dylan song. Badly. I hate that wanker Bob Dylan. The answer is blowing up your hole, you fucking prick. Bad move, pal.
He finished up his song. That was useless, I thought. Some other onlookers started to clap. Typical Irish. Celebrating mediocrity. Glorifying shocking underachievement.
"Thank you. You're all too kind" the busker said. Smug fucker.
"Play some more Dylan!" some prick that looked like Ian Dowie with long hair and better personal hygiene shouted from the crowd. Fucking arsehole, I though out loud.
The busker obliged. He was brutal. As I've said I'm no Dylan fan, but at least he had some fucking balls. Gravel voiced revolution, you know? This busker was purring like Giggsy's sister-in-law getting a seeing to from the Welsh Wizard himself.
I snapped.
"What in the name of fuck is that supposed to be?"
The busker stopped playing and gave me a dirty look. Fucking hard man, is it?
"You're supposed to be conveying the existential angst of the anti-Vietnam war movement. You sound like a child laughing in delight. Fucking mockery."
The busker said nothing. I took that as a huge sign of disrespect. At least be man enough to speak up for yourself. Pansy. Rock and roll is a mans game. No room for these limpwristed balladeer crooning sissys.
I went for him. Lead with the elbow. A move I learned from my many clashes with that personification of overratedness Shearer. I landed my shot square on his side of his head. He hit the deck like a sack of shit. I picked up his guitar and smashed it off the ground.
"You don't deserve to be playing this axe. You yellow bellied prick".
The crowd looked on in shock. No one dared speak up. Spineless pricks.
Johnson took me by the arm.
"C'mon, Roy. We'll go down to Sidetrax there. Have a quart, like."
"No, Johnson. I'm done. I can't take this level of incompetence. I'm going home."
Johnson went to the pub. I went back to Mayfield and smashed Mossy's records collection.
Do I regret it? Kind of, yeah. Did I apologise? No. They were fucking terrible records.
One particular incident that stands out in my mind happened during a trip back to Cork. I was walking down Paul St. with my brother Johnson. About to go on the lash. I had the thirst.
I heard the faint strum of a guitar.
"You hear that, Johnson?"
"I do, Roy."
"Lets check it out, yeah?"
We walk up to the busker. He's singing a Bob Dylan song. Badly. I hate that wanker Bob Dylan. The answer is blowing up your hole, you fucking prick. Bad move, pal.
He finished up his song. That was useless, I thought. Some other onlookers started to clap. Typical Irish. Celebrating mediocrity. Glorifying shocking underachievement.
"Thank you. You're all too kind" the busker said. Smug fucker.
"Play some more Dylan!" some prick that looked like Ian Dowie with long hair and better personal hygiene shouted from the crowd. Fucking arsehole, I though out loud.
The busker obliged. He was brutal. As I've said I'm no Dylan fan, but at least he had some fucking balls. Gravel voiced revolution, you know? This busker was purring like Giggsy's sister-in-law getting a seeing to from the Welsh Wizard himself.
I snapped.
"What in the name of fuck is that supposed to be?"
The busker stopped playing and gave me a dirty look. Fucking hard man, is it?
"You're supposed to be conveying the existential angst of the anti-Vietnam war movement. You sound like a child laughing in delight. Fucking mockery."
The busker said nothing. I took that as a huge sign of disrespect. At least be man enough to speak up for yourself. Pansy. Rock and roll is a mans game. No room for these limpwristed balladeer crooning sissys.
I went for him. Lead with the elbow. A move I learned from my many clashes with that personification of overratedness Shearer. I landed my shot square on his side of his head. He hit the deck like a sack of shit. I picked up his guitar and smashed it off the ground.
"You don't deserve to be playing this axe. You yellow bellied prick".
The crowd looked on in shock. No one dared speak up. Spineless pricks.
Johnson took me by the arm.
"C'mon, Roy. We'll go down to Sidetrax there. Have a quart, like."
"No, Johnson. I'm done. I can't take this level of incompetence. I'm going home."
Johnson went to the pub. I went back to Mayfield and smashed Mossy's records collection.
Do I regret it? Kind of, yeah. Did I apologise? No. They were fucking terrible records.
