Thanks to the man at the place on Corn Street, who stood in front of me and stripped off during my set. That was quite funny. He got kicked out later.
Thanks to the young woman who drove from Leeds to London, to pick up her friend, and then to Bristol, just to see me play at The Croft. She said it was worth it. Her friend agreed.
Thanks to the bloke in East London who told me how much he’d been looking forward to seeing me play live and then spent my whole set chatting a woman up, right at the front, three feet away from me. I don’t know if they left together.
Thanks to the lad that time at The Junction (remember The Junction?) who got kicked out for heckling me. He was being a bit of a twat, but I wasn’t happy about him being kicked out.
Thanks also to another lad at The Junction (same gig? Can’t remember), who tried to sing along with several of my songs, even though he hadn’t heard any of them before and didn’t know the words.
Thanks to the men at The Croft who said they would shoot me if I didn’t play another song. I played another song. They didn’t shoot me.
Thanks to the woman in Newport who tried to talk to me while I was rapping, right in the middle of a verse.
Thanks also to the rest of the audience. They were wilfully ignorant. They had to go out of their way to ignore me. Obviously they were big fans of irony. Which is cool.
Thanks to the bloke in Brighton who tried to jam along with his harmonica, and then had a fight with his mate and rolled into the mic stand and nearly knocked it over. He’d come to see me, because he wanted to book me to play at his venue. And I did.
Thanks to the wrecked guy in Reading who shouted his own lyrics to my songs into the speakers. He had to be led away.
And Thanks to the woman who threw his own shoe at him. Not very nice, but a heartfelt and stinging critique of his performance.
Thanks to the woman who asked, after a gig (four years ago): “Can I be your biggest fan?”
I have never seen her since.
Thanks to the girl who only came in to use the toilet, that time in the wee bar on Portobello Road, but stayed, and made all her friends stay and watch the whole set.
Thanks to the guy who compered the gig at the big record shop on Tottenham Court Road, for interrupting my set a song early. He is probably now working for MTV. It is probably where he belongs.
Thanks to the photographer from the gig at the big record shop on Tottenham Court Road, who got me to pose with my guitar over my shoulder. He is probably working for Vice. It is probably where he belongs.
Thanks to the audience at The Colston Hall for laughing at my “slave-trade funded concert hall” jibe. (I wasn’t joking.)
Thanks to the person who broke my guitar at a house party after a gig. I never found out who it was or exactly how it happened, but we didn’t need Quincy to see that alcohol in the bloodstream was the cause.
Thanks to the woman who cried. It made me feel like crying. I didn’t cry.
Thanks to the lads who couldn’t get in to the gig because they were underage. I sang them a song in the street. There are pictures of me with them on their facebook pages.
Thanks to the wrecked guy in Hackney who punched my mate in the face after the gig, for absolutely no reason. We left soon after, and I had my first drink in seven months at an Irish pub round the corner. They let us in because I was wearing a Celtic shirt. It was a 50th birthday party. We sang them a couple of songs.
Thanks to the promoter who gave me unlimited free beer. I trust he will not make the same mistake again.
I will be being grateful to more people next week.