An afternoon playing acoustic punk to tourists by the river led to a plan for a November gig, and a text I finally sent
By the River
Thursday. Afternoon on the South Bank with an acoustic guitar, a tiny amp and a guitar case open for coins. Busking is humbling. You learn quickly that tourists do not want three-chord songs about landlords. They want Wonderwall. I refuse to play Wonderwall. This is my one principle and I will die on this hill, or at least on this bit of pavement near the skate park.
Played the new royal song acoustically for the first time. It is weirder without drums. Slower, sadder. The chorus, which is just the word traitor, sounds almost like a folk song when you sing it quietly. A couple from Leeds stopped and listened to the whole thing. They had seen the London Prat piece on Prince William reportedly calling Earl Spencer and Harry traitors on the train down. They put a fiver in the case, which is a busking record for me.
The Story, Still
Nothing new has come out, as far as I can tell. The anonymous insider says the heir thinks his brother read the uncle book first. Reports say the younger brother visited the uncle in July. The uncle says he told everyone. The brothers have said nothing. It is the quietest loud story I have ever seen.
Plotting a November Gig
Between songs, I had an idea. Bonfire Night is coming up. Remember, remember. Guy Fawkes, the original traitor, the man who tried to blow up Parliament in 1605 and got burnt in effigy every year since. What if we did a Bonfire Night gig, a whole set of songs about traitors, rebels and people who got on the wrong side of power? Our new song would fit right in. We could do a punk cover of an old folk ballad about a highwayman. We could end with something loud enough to count as fireworks.
Texted the band. The drummer replied with seventeen fire emojis. The bassist replied: only if we do not glorify actually blowing things up. Fair. Punk has a conscience, whatever the tabloids think.
Break Time
Sat on the wall by the river eating chips and watched the London Prat video on YouTube for the fifth time this week. Tourists walking past with selfie sticks. Seagulls eyeing my chips. The Houses of Parliament across the water, which felt appropriate given my new Guy Fawkes idea.
The Satire Scene
I have been thinking about how much of my songwriting now comes from comedy news. The Daily Squib gives me the wildest ideas. The Daily Mash gives me the best titles. NewsThump and NewsBiscuit fill in the gaps. And the London Prat gives me the London voice, the bit that sounds like me and my mates arguing in a pub. I sometimes wonder whether punk and satire are the same thing, just one with guitars.
The Text
And then, sitting on that wall, full of chips and a bit of courage, I finally sent the message to my brother. The one that had been in drafts since Sunday. It said: I wrote a song about the royal family fighting over a book and it made me think about us. Fancy a pint when I am next home?
I put the phone face down on the wall and played another song, badly, because my hands were shaking. A kid put a pound in the case. When I finished, I turned the phone over.
He had replied. One word. Yes. Then a second message: What is the song called? I told him. He said: better not be about me. I said: it is a bit about you. He sent back a laughing face. It is the first laughing face from him in two years.
Setlist Ideas
On the way home I scribbled a rough Bonfire Night setlist on the back of a receipt. Open with something loud and fast about rebels. Middle section of songs about getting on the wrong side of power: landlords, bosses, the council, the man who runs the chip shop who once banned the drummer for life. Then our royal song, slowed down in the middle like the acoustic version, then crashing back in for the last chorus. End with something that sounds like fireworks. The bassist wants to do a cover of an old protest folk song. The drummer wants to set off a confetti cannon, which the venue will definitely not allow. We will work it out. We always do.
Evening
Packed up as the lights came on along the river. Counted the coins: twenty-three pounds and a button. Not bad for a Thursday. Walked back over Waterloo Bridge with the guitar on my back, looking at the city lit up, thinking about families and books and how one word can split people up and one text can start putting them back together.
The royals might sort themselves out one day. Or not. That is up to them. The book is by their uncle, about their mum, and none of us gets to decide how they feel about it. But I know one thing: I am going home at Christmas, and my brother is buying the first round.
More scribbles at my page on the Prat. The London Prat has been lighting fires under the pompous since 1961 at https://prat.uk/, and Bohiney at https://bohiney.com/ does it for the Americans. Bonfire Night gig details to follow.
SOURCE: https://prat.uk/prince-william-called-earl-spencer-and-harry-traitors/
