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Write On

I have been known to put pen to paper over the years (or rather, fingers to keyboard), for all sorts of reasons. Here is a small selection of my previously unpublished scribblings:

Pete

Pete is the local busker-cum-tramp. Everybody knows Pete. Or to be more precise, everybody knows about Pete. Nobody really knows Pete at all. Nobody knows Pete’s surname. Folk only know him as Pete, or maybe Blind Pete because he’s supposed to be sightless behind his sunglasses that he never takes off. Seventies-style bug-eyed mirror-shades, the type that you can’t see anything behind. Nobody even knows if Pete is his real name or not. Also nobody knows where he comes from. Local obviously, going by his thick accent on the rare occasion that he speaks, but evidently not from this particular neck of the woods. Nobody knows exactly how old he is either, but perceived wisdom has him somewhere in his forties. Although to many he looks far older than that. Thin and stringy are adjectives that can be applied to his long hair, his beard, and his build. Scruffy is another that can most certainly be used to describe his appearance and the rags that pass for clothes. That includes the flat cap permanently welded to his head, with its peak jutting out over his haggard features - making him even more inscrutable. 

He has several pitches around the vicinity where he can be found on most days. That is assuming that anyone would want to find him, which is highly unlikely to put it mildly. He usually operates outside a corner shop as the relatively high volume of passing traffic might possibly earn him a bit more money for his efforts, although the nature of the passing traffic means that doesn’t usually count for much. He is just as likely to get given a verbal lash as any cash, although now and then coppers do get thrown his way. But perhaps inevitably some are aimed directly at him and/or his guitar rather than the cardboard collection box placed between his legs, just to see if he flinches or not. He never does. Some jokers even try and lob coins of the realm of small denomination into the hole in his guitar. Or if they want to be particularly nasty, objects of similar shape and density but even less worth. Not that any of this seems to bother or upset him. He keeps on playing without missing a beat, just like that guy in that song by Bread. That is when he’s not puffing on a roll-up or taking a swig from a coke bottle of something that is probably far stronger. Sometimes he combines these activities, and occasionally seems to somehow manage to do all three simultaneously despite his supposed disability. But he can’t stick his rolies in the headstock of his guitar in true rock ‘n’ roll style whilst he’s playing, as they won’t stand up straight like Keef’s and Ronnie Wood’s fags do. So he sometimes keeps one in his mouth whilst he strums, even when it goes out. Which is often. 

He is no virtuoso, but bashes out the chords on his battered old acoustic more than competently, belying his fragile appearance. In fact his bony fingers are like solid steel in contrast to the rest of him. But he plays on auto pilot, as if he isn’t even aware of what he’s doing, and it all comes out the same way whether the song he’s playing is happy or sad. Apart from a well-worn sling-over bag, the type that you can stick those old-fashioned LP records in, his guitar seems to be his only possession of note. He is a man of few words, but once let slip that he used to play an electric one but doesn’t now as they require amps, and he can’t afford one of those. In any case he flogged his electric some time back to try and make ends meet and can’t afford another one of those either – with or without an amp. Never mind that, he can’t even afford strings sometimes, so when they break he either has to try and tie the ends together, or just do without. Although he can carry a tune after a fashion, he does so with a voice that is just like his hair, beard and build. That is thin and stringy for anyone who can’t remember. In the unlikely event that anyone makes a request, he will play that song without preamble and sing with hardly any lyrical error. It seems he is a human jukebox, able and willing to perform practically anything to order. That is with one notable exception: the collective works of a certain legendary local band. The mere mention of their name triggers rare displays of irritation, anger and pique, and the word has gone around that is because he was the Pete Best of that particular ensemble i.e. the one who got the bullet just before they made it big. And he supposedly never recovered from that, which is why he is where he is today. In fact some say that may even be why he’s known as Pete, although no one knows for sure. 

He has been around for so long now that he is practically part of the scenery. Even the area community copper has long since given up moving him on, as he just pops up somewhere nearby like the proverbial bad penny. In fact PC Plod has virtually become the nearest the guy has to a friend. More so than the local shopkeepers, who see him as somewhat of an inconvenience to their convenience stores. But in pity they sometimes lob him the odd morsel that would otherwise be binned as past its sell-by date. Nobody knows where he goes to at night – it is assumed by most that he either resides at some hostel or crashes out on someone’s floor somewhere. Someone once remarked that they heard he dosses down in one of the local parks, and he buries his beloved guitar in a bin liner in the flower beds and sleeps on top of it, so no one can pinch it whilst he slumbers. However, because of the mysterious nature of the man, there is also a rumour going around that he is really some kind of eccentric secret millionaire or something – a bit like that well-to-do chap in that Sherlock Holmes tale who masquerades as a beggar because it’s more lucrative. Not that those around these parts who entertain that notion would be aware of any such correlation. 

Or be bothered enough to find out the truth. 

One more thing: “Blind” Pete isn’t actually blind at all but pretends to be, so he thinks he can get people to feel sorry for him and thus be more-so inclined to give him their charity. And it’s more economically sound than keeping a scrawny mutt as a companion to induce sympathy. No dogs allowed. That includes guide dogs. Apart from his ever-present impenetrable shades, a gnarled and splintered off-white stick suffices to bolster the illusion. However, what he doesn’t seem to know is that everyone actually knows that he isn’t actually blind at all but pretends to be, and as such concerned old biddies feel compelled to donate something, however little they can afford, because they somehow think that is even more pathetic than if he were actually blind. 

Yes, Pete can physically see, but it seems that this cruel, heartless and unforgiving world has blinded him just as effectively as were a red-hot poker stuck in his eyes.

This piece was inspired by a drama class I attended, where we had to write some background detail for characters that had been suggested for a film project we were collaborating on. Although I never originally came up with the idea for him (nor was angling for the part), I ended being cast in that role.

Getting The Bird 

The pressures of the modern world were rendering me helpless, robbing me of living my life. It seemed like I was having to keep ducking and diving just to get through the day. People thought i being was difficult and awkward, to the point of being a complete tit. Everyone seemed out to get me, and I never considered I might be so gullible in that respect. I was in a bad way, and that was a hard fact to swallow. The hopelessness of my situation was pecking away at me, making me want to howl with despair. I was even thinking about doing something illegal!

Then, at my therapist’s suggestion I started attending an Adult Activities Centre… 

It was pretty difficult to start with, and I was winging it at times, but I told myself not to get in a flap over it, and usually managed to claw my way back despite my nerves and doubts. When I first started going there, I was so out of shape I was puffing and panting climbing the stairs. But with repetition improvement was swift, to the point where I would soar up them. The courses they run can also be thirsty work, so it helps to have a beaker of water to hand. When I did a crafts course, the tutor said to me and another student “You two can work together. When our task was finished, I thought to myself of my labours “that’s not too bad for a rookie”. In fact I was so pleased, it was a real feather in my cap.

I learned a lot of other useful things there, and can now crow about my new-found knowledge and skills. Thanks to the encouragement and support of staff and volunteers, i would get excited at the mere thought of going there, and it helped me get back on my perch again. It was such fun at times, the tutors had to tell us to stop larking about. Now it seems  people are raving about me, and I’m no longer getting the bird! 

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