Gadzooks! What spectral horror dost I espy down the long, lonely, dim reaches of the South Kensington pedestrian tunnel this summer morn? Though it be sultry outside an icy chill plays about my heart.
Why flees the solitary pigeon, pecking in the gulley, on frighted wings? What terrifying sound reaves my ears?
Heaven forfend, can it be my busking nemesis; galloping lightly like a Suffolk Punch all over Rod Stewart’s ‘Tonight’s the Night’?
Like the phantom of Ichabod Crane’s nightmares oft haunts he the Tunnel, leaving some of England’s greatest pop tunes lying traumatised in in his wake.
Whence comes he? Whence goes he? Why sings he so jauntily, and always in the same calypso style no matter what the song?
A poke in the back indicates a friend has joined me in the tunnel.
‘I heard him in Leicester Square a while ago murdering my favourite song by The Fugees,’ says friend, screwing up her face. ‘I don’t know how he gets away with it.’
Explain that Tube buskers have to go through a selection process before an audition committee.
‘Maybe when he went before the committee they were all drunk,’ says friend.