Since moving to London four years ago it's been difficult to avoid your kind. Though you mostly seem confined to Shoreditich you occasionally seep into neighbouring parts of London as groups of skinny jeans clad, window glass spectacle wearing, posh voiced young men and women head to, say, Covent Garden, Westminster or even as far as Brixton to experience (of course in an ironic way) how the normals live. There are also times where I have had to travel through your domain on my way between engagements and I am also a regular user of the 35 bus (which starts/terminates in Shoreditch) and have at times had to sit amongst you as you wax lyrical about how incredibly deep and philosophical the first Matrix film is and how awesome your new yoga teacher has been. But however much I find you and your ilk off putting, in general we have agreed to keep ourselves as part of an unspoken truce. As I roam London I often like to live in my own little world, a world you have never intentionally invaded. The truce remained unbroken... until yesterday.
The truce was broken on my return commute as I entered a tube train at Angel station. It was a Friday and the Standard does an extra large crossword which I enjoy tackling on my journey home. As I moved to the one empty seat on the carriage I needed to manoeuvre my less than nimble body around a flannel shirt wearing, beard sporting and, most worryingly, guitar wielding gentleman. And whilst my inner monologue mumbling “hipster twat” I sat down and began to tackle the first word. What I did not realise is that I seemed to have stumbled into to this gentleman’s unilaterally defined performance area and not only had he decided to force his talents on all the unwilling commuters with whom I shared a carriage, he wanted to involve me. Apparently not being able to read my body language, at this point screeching “fuck off and leave me alone”, he pressed on and started playing his guitar at me and demanded that I sing because I had sat in his “singer's seat”. He announced the rule about the “singer's seat” to other commuters as if it was some kind of already established in joke (though everyone else seemed oblivious). In the end it was these commuters who saved me The wonderful, miserable, anti social commuter of London had unanimously decided to ignore this arsehole. Despite his ridiculously peppy demeanour he was unable to turn a head or even make eye contact with anyone. As we entered another station the collective ennui of London's public transport users had defeated this performer he left the carriage demanding we like him on Facebook. A victory for miserable bastards everywhere.
A big thank you to my fellow Londeners and a big fuck you to the hipster twat who thought his performance art was important enough to forcibly shove in people faces as they went about their business.