Almost exactly a week ago, I emerged, blinking, into a
bright London morning, and a railways station concourse buzzing with equally
bleary-eyed tourists and that day's competitors in the heats of the rat
race. I was met by a man in a Michelle Of The Resistance raincoat
who, rather than tell me to "leesen very carefully, I shall say zees
only wance", thrust a packet of crisps into my hand. A few paces on, a
compatriot, in similar garb, but sporting what I later realised was a fake
Zapata moustache, did likewise. I stuffed the contraband into my pockets and
continued on my merry way.
Now, I don't fancy chicken balti at the best of times, and
certainly not in potato crisp form, so what was I to do? Every available
square centimetre of rucksack and pocket space would be required
for my accoutrements, so it was imperative that I offload the superfluous
comestibles, but could I find a citizen in need of sustenance, a fellow human
down on his or her luck? Could I billy-o! Where can you find a good tramp when
you need one (apart from Sutton Walk, near the South Bank Centre, but I didn't
have the crisps with me at that time)? I trudged around Londinium for nearly
two days before I got rid of them.
I was left wondering if Ken had hidden all the tramps,
possibly in shelters paid for by profits from the Congestion Charge. I also
wondered what Ralph McTell would write about, if he were alive and well.
"Have you seen the Big Issue Sellers, out on the streets of London,
wearing designer trainers and Berghaus anoraks...". What's that you say?
Ralph IS alive and well and coming to a folk club or theatre near you? Never!
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