The other day, I was walking down a busy city centre street. Suddenly we heard some shouting, like a drunkard who'd lost all inhibitions, or an apocalyptic prophet who'd just realised that The End was even more imminent than his previous calculations had suggested.
We could not make out the words. A certain phrase was repeated frequently; it might have been 'All the women', or 'And the women', or 'And the woman'. On reflection, it might have been something else entirely, such as 'Angry swimming'. I will never know.
We could not see The Yeller, the source of the noise, the being who was unleashing this sound upon the universe.
Perhaps he had recently discovered that his wife was a serial adulterer who never truly loved him, and he was now publicly shaming her.
Perhaps he was an extreme traditionalist who, after years of lamenting the decline of misogynist values, had finally snapped and decided that feminism doomed us all, and he needed to warn everyone.
Perhaps he had recently fornicated with a wide range of consenting females, and was now, after having several lonesome pints to celebrate his virility, boasting to all who could hear about his sexual prowess.
I only had that tetrasyllabic phrase to go on. The rest was utterly incomprehensible. He hadn't been shouting for very long, but by now I had several mental images of what The Yeller might look like.
And then I saw him.
Smartly dressed. Clean shaven. Tidy hair. Younger than myself.
And playing a guitar.
WORST. BUSKER. EVER.
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