TRACK 44 Don’t Worry About the Government

“I feel like a proper lesbian now I’ve made my girlfriend come,” Melissa said. She was making us a humane fry-up of eggs from cage-free chickens, baked beans, tomato, vegetarian bangers and fried bread. “You can’t imagine how relieved I am.”

“It wasn’t a test.”

“I know. And anyway, I passed.”

To celebrate, I asked my dad to please ship me my made-in-Japan, silver-sparkle Fender Super-Sonic guitar, vintage black Univox Hi-Flyer with the grungiest pickups I’d ever heard, and my 1972 black Fender Musicmaster. Kurt Cobain had recorded the first Nirvana album, Bleach, with a Univox Hi-Flyer, and I’d had the Musicmaster routed for a humbucker, just like Kurt did with his Fenders. And I put his favorite pickup, the JB Duncan humbucker, in the bridge position.

Nick brought by the new AFI album Sing the Sorrow for us to hear. While she and Melissa had tea, I worked on a song I was writing called “Speaker’s Corner.” Speaker’s Corner is at the corner of Hyde Park near Marble Arch where people with opinions stand on crates and boxes and emote. I love to go there on a Sunday and argue. It’s full of loopy Christians and people who hate homosexuals. Many of the same people are there every week, year after year. When I was at university, there was a bloke called Jimmy who used to stand on a stepladder and proclaim that lesbians had driven up the price of Coca-Cola because they use the bottles to stick up their cunts.

“You sounded good,” Melissa said as I came downstairs bringing my Gibson with the pink-and-black “ACT UP/DC” and black-and-white “Kurt Cobain 1967–1994” stickers on it. “What we could hear of it.”

“Cheers.” I rubbed my hand over the picture of Kurt’s face on the sticker next to his name.

Nick said, “You ought to be performing someplace other than tube stations. You may have to.” She slid a copy of that day’s Telegraph at me. “You have to busk legally now. Which sort of ruins the whole point.” There was an article saying how London Transport was going to require all buskers to be licensed. You had to audition to play at one of the twenty-five official pitches at a dozen stations.

“I don’t know if you need to be a permanent resident,” Melissa said. “And of course you don’t want to call attention to yourself.”

“If they’re going to regulate it, what’s the fun in that?” I said.

“You should start playing pubs and clubs,” Nick said. “I’ll bet you could get a gig for Gingerbeer’s monthly barge party. And lots of places have open mics. There’s a place called Club MIA in Slough that I’ll bet would have you.”

“Money,” I said. “Where will I get it?”

“The three of us will think of something,” Melissa said.

“I don’t suppose you need another partner in your practice?” I asked. “A literary doctor?” I sang a few lines from Kurt’s song “Very Ape.” “‘I take pride as the king of illiterature, / I’m very ape and very nice.’”