More eccentrics elsewhere...

The BBC Four London season just gets better. 'West End on Film' has glimpses of Jeffrey Bernard, the Coach and Horses, the French Pub, the 'protein man', several sellers of knocked off gear (whatever did happen to all those perfume stalls on Oxford Street?), the Grosvenor Square demo and the Poll Tax riot - feast away.

A bit of the old routine

Eccentrics, like many people living on the margins, often have well rehearsed patter in order to suck strangers into a conversation. I once saw a fine example of this in Judd Books, the second-hand book shop in Bloomsbury. During a quiet afternoon, in stepped a man whose favourite pastime was to raise a little chaos in the lives of shopkeepers. He sported the 'old north London hippy' look - a taller, brunette version of Phil Davis' character in High Hopes. 

Phil Davis, left, pointing in High Hopes

The man placed several overflowing carrier bags on the floor and prepared to engage the attention of the guy behind the counter. Judd Books is piled high with stock and has a loyal following among scruffy genteel scholars, so the Phil Davis character was not out of place. He did however break a key unspoken rule: no talking to anyone. The clientele is there to waste an afternoon via some quiet browsing: only American tourists actually try to discuss literature with the booksellers.

In a high, bright voice he asked, "Is that for sale?"

The bookseller looked up from his paper, "Is what for sale?"

[Pointing] "That there, to your left."

And here the game began. The counter is itself drowning under books, mainly smaller novelty publications, guides to the local area and so on. Without actually naming the item he wanted, and standing far enough back so he couldn't touch anything, 'Phil Davis' gleefully lead the bookseller's hand around 100 or so items.

"Down slightly. And to the right ... no back a bit. Up up! Now to the left. No not that one, the other one."

This carried on for several minutes and we all turned round to watch this ballet of pointing and polite frustration.

"You mean the Virginia Woolfs? The maps of Bloomsbury ... um - the postcards?"

"No no - the clock thing."

"Oh these." said the guy behind the counter, holding up a pack of orange paper calendars.

"No" said Phil Davis, this time indicating decisively to bring the show to a close, "this clock."

The clock was a small plastic device sitting on its own by the till.

"It's not for sale I'm afraid. It's the shop's clock."

"Oh that's a shame." And with that he picked up his bags and strolled out onto Marchmont Street. Perhaps his next port of call was the Oddbins next door, where he would spend five minutes finding out if the spare till rolls were available for purchase.

Eccentrics elsewhere on the web

BBC Four has just put up a new special collection called simply 'London'. Lots of great archive programs on there, but two stand out as relevant to this blog. In Clive James: Postcard From London the Aussie critic interviews the late Stanley Green aka the 'Protein Man' on Oxford Street. Ours to Keep: Incomers, about the fight to save 18th century buildings in Spitalfields, features Denis Severs, the American artist who turned his home at 18 Folgate Street into a 'still life drama'. Both men had unique personal visions, although with wildly different levels of success. Both will feature on this blog in due course.

The phantom guitarist of Clerkenwell

Active: c.2004-2007

During the brief heyday of the Libertines the music scene attracted various rock n’ roll chancers trying to cut a dash as decadent poets. Always male, they were easily identified at open mic nights by the regulation black leather jacket and battered trilby. Most have been absorbed back into the general population although a few cling on in Camden, the open air museum of British pop culture.

Clerkenwell Road, guitarist not in view.

   Around this time a tall character, dressed largely in black was making infrequent busking appearances on Clerkenwell Road, usually in the late morning or early afternoon. He would stand stock still on the pavement, then suddenly leap forward and thrust his guitar in front of him. A jerky performance would then begin, resembling a very lo-fi Gene Vincent. Chords were thrashed, and words bellowed out. Once he had completed a song to his own satisfaction, the guitar would fall back by his side and he would retreat, head bowed, to his previous position. There he would stand in silence until he thought it was time for another tune.

Unlike the other Doherty imitators, the phantom guitarist deserves inclusion here. There was zero interaction with passersby: no MySpace page was offered by him; no flyers were handed out. He was not even a conventional busker as no hat or case was put down to collect small change. And I never saw anyone attempt to give him money either. The combination of his loud voice, unsettling bodily movements, and terrible songs stopped him attracting a crowd of any size. He had no entourage, no female hanger-on. The lyrics were largely indecipherable, but leaned more to caveman rock than Rimbaud in converse. For the hardened Londoner he was exactly the type of person who needs to be given a wide berth. The only reason for his performance must have been to satisfy some personal notion of self-expression, rather than fortune or fame of any kind. Like a true ghost his appearances and disappearances could not be controlled by anyone, least of all I suspect, by him.

Sources: Personal knowledge; Robert Elms Show, BBC London 94.9.