Son of a Busker
When I had a real job years ago - i.e. one that actually paid a salary - our annual 'extended family' holiday was spent in places like Majorca, Menorca, and even Ibiza. Balearics I hear you cry. No it's true, although the only club we visited was the one for toddlers in our family-friendly hotel. Given our kids' young ages back then, it was they who partied all night and their parents who slept all day. In addition to the four Barleys were a varied selection of our older relatives that we invited along each year. Apart from the fact that I usually returned to work more stressed than when I left*, we did enjoy ourselves enough to claim that we were having fun in the sun.
Our family holidays abroad stopped for several reasons:
1. Given the increasingly brittle nature of our older relatives, having a family break was taking on a real possibility.
2. The luggage trolleys of the only people fit enough to push them. i.e. Gill and myself, were becoming a dangerous game of suitcase Jenga each time we queued to check in.
3. Justifying to security control that my heavily medicated relatives weren't drug runners, and that their walking sticks** weren't cunningly disguised lethal weapons was becoming increasingly difficult as they accrued more ailments each year.
4. When the airlines introduced weight restrictions, I was more than happy to avoid the bad back that went with lugging everyone's heavy cases, but my family were decidedly unhappy at not being able to load up on cheap booze. The first time they learned about baggage fines, the pompous person at the check-in desk also learned what security control knew all along - walking sticks really are lethal weapons.
Which is why this year's 'extended family' holiday was in airport-free Hunstanton. Sunny Hunny to those in the know. Windy Hunny would have been just as appropriate, but not so marketable.
Hunstanton is pretty much like any other British seaside resort - I should know as I was born in Scarborough - which means it's full of flashy amusement arcades, shops that sell cheap tat, fast food outlets that are proud of the fact they only cook using lard - the more educational of them even add the words '...made from real pig fat' - and have long, damp, pebbly beaches packed with deckchairs, lobster tans, windbreaks and screaming kids.
Which, for me, makes Sunny Hunny a fantastic place to have a family holiday. I love shovelling 2ps into the slide 'n' drop machines in the vain hope of hearing a bronze waterfall in my money tray. I love browsing the shops selling Kiss-Me-Quick hats and cinder toffee, and wondering how they managed to get the names Kylie and Chardonnay all the way through their sticks of rock. And I love good old deep-fried fish and chips, eaten out of paper, and smothered in vinegar with enough salt on them to grit the M4.
Yes, we all know we should eat salads, and not parboil ourselves on the beach, and not paddle too near the sewage outflow, and that the grabbers will never hold onto the cuddly toy long enough to drop it in the winning chute, but it's the seaside for goodness sake! Visiting the seaside means regressing to our youth, ignoring what's good for us and just having plain fun. Where else can you wear a knotted handkerchief for a hat and get away with it? Where else can your mother-in-law, other than in the Ladies toilets at a rough pub, paddle in shallow pools with her long skirt tucked inside her knickers? And where else can a 12-year-old make some extra pocket money by busking with only a ukulele to play?
It's true, I'm proud to announce that my son, Christian, had his busking debut at Hunstanton. And the results surprised everyone.
It all started when my son asked how he could earn some extra pocket money. We discussed his options but things are a little restricted for a 12-year-old. The obvious one, becoming a paper boy, was discounted because our newsagent had a queue of candidates longer than the post office next door. Washing cars would have been an option if it weren't for those pesky adults cleaning up at supermarket car parks, traffic lights, and on any disused forecourt with a functioning tap. Working in a shop isn't possible these days either as they don't want to know unless you're sixteen. What with North sea gas ruining the chimney sweeping business, the child labour market just isn't what it used to be.
I suggested my son, who is really good on the computer, help retired people learn how to silver surf and he seemed really keen, until my wife spoilt things by spotting that we'd missed child protection issues off our business plan. Christian himself raised the possibility of busking but I discounted it on the grounds that it would be his parents singing a different tune in jail if he got caught - besides, he didn't have a pet mongrel or a suitable hat.
In the end it was the in-laws who checked the by-laws in Sunny Hunny by phoning the local police, then the district council, to ask if he was allowed to busk or not. He was, provided he didn't sell anything like CDs. As responsible parents, Gill and I imposed our own rule that he could only busk if an adult was nearby in case of trouble.
Christian certainly took his street-singing preparations seriously; endlessly practising the six songs he could sing and play on the ukulele he'd purchased barely two months earlier. He also bought a hat, not to collect money in, but to make him look cool. With his best T-shirt and shorts on, he looked like a younger and cheekier Olly Murs from X-Factor. But the thing that really impressed me was the fact that he was 12 years old but self assured enough to sing solo, without a microphone or backing track, in front of hundreds of passing strangers on Hunstanton's seafront.
I must admit, I had no idea beforehand whether the general public would consider his voice good enough to warrant a few coins for his talent, or bad enough for people to be grateful he'd scared the seagulls off their fish and chips. Either way I hoped he'd make some money. If things were particularly bad, several of the family were primed to pass at intervals and drop a coin or two into his open ukulele case.
Christian's debut turned heads almost as soon as he started, and for all the right reasons. Smiling, singing and strumming, and obviously enjoying himself, he had young kids stopping to stare at his confident, yet not cocky, performance. Mums with pushchairs smiled as they passed, and when my son grinned back, they would nudge their husbands to root for spare change. I lost count of the number of times I overheard people comment on how good my son's voice was, and that he should be on X-Factor. And at one stage he even acquired some groupies when three small girls sat on the wall nearby and giggled every time he looked at them. He'll go far that lad.
When Christian's throat had had enough singing we returned to our holiday house to count his earnings. For one hour's work he made an impressive £13.40 - a phenomenal wage for his age. As the week went on, he extended his repertoire, and gave two repeat performances. In all, over the three sessions, he earned nearly £40. Even if he doesn't make a career out of his singing, my son now has a surefire way for making some extra pocket money. So next time you see a young busker wearing a cheery smile and a cocked hat, drop a coin in his ukulele case, and look out for the dad beaming with pride sitting nearby.
Now when do those X-Factor auditions open again?
---
*When I originally agreed to organise the holidays I expected my role to stop after the booking phase. Instead, in my relatives' eyes, I'd volunteered to become their airport transfer driver, luggage handler, tour guide, translator, money-changer, and oracle of all things trivial, weather-related, or foreign. In the days before search engines, 'Ask Steve' seemed to be the default option. (back)
**Am I the only person who wonders why the manufacturers of 'collapsible' walking sticks don't get sued more often? (back)
Click to enlarge