On the bus tonight we were serenaded by a glam-rock throw-back, "priority seating" now impromptu stage. Androgynous body in skin-tight leggings, shrapnel from the bleach blond explosion of hair draping his late 40s face that he probably swears can still pass for 30. Faint pink lipstick matching the nails with which he strummed and plucked an out of tune acoustic guitar, fondly remembering the by-gone days of punk when you didn't need talent to make it big, however nothing has changed as you still don’t, you just need a killer back-story.

I guess he just doesn't want it more than anything, I guess it just doesn't mean everything to him, so instead he plays guitar in the 3A arena, his captive audience sat bolt upright, eyes forward, clutching their £1.50 admission but ignoring the show, ignoring Struwwelbusker and hoping to God he doesn't miss his stop.