I Feel A Drip On My Classical Tour
Published: 15 September, 2014

– arriving at a southern resort I meet a weird gypsy guitarist, and get wet-

Yesterday it began to rain as my manager and I drove from the airport. When we arrived in this beautiful seaside town the rain got worse. In the restaurant, usually al fresco, the staff had improvised some transparent plastic curtains, and yet the water was creeping in under them. Other people joined us for supper including a strange looking guitar player.

We got up to leave at midnight. It was pouring, the sort that soaks you to the skin in 10 seconds. In spite of this we decided to run for it since the hotel was just 300 yards away. I carried the guitar and a bag, my manager the suitcase. Water was flowing down the streets towards the sea-front. We trod not in puddles but in six inch deep streams moving at an alarming speed. The only thing missing in them were live fish.

This morning I got up and stepped out for breakfast and blow me down, it started raining. Soaked once again I took refuge in the first bar I came across. I am now sitting outside under cover, rain lashing down on the wooden roof extension, staring at the grey sea and at brilliant reflections of wetness all around me. The temperature has dropped three degrees in 20 minutes so I am shivering.

I have only myself to blame. It is perfectly obvious now that coming to the Mediterranean in summer without a large umbrella is sheer folly.

Now I know you want to know all about the weird guitarist. Firstly, he shaves his head although he could have a full crop on his nut if he wished. I hate that. He wouldn’t tell me what he had played, except – waving rather importantly – to say he had improvised all night. When I asked him where he lived he said he didn’t. He has no fixed address because he travels all the time playing gigs, so has no home except where he happens to be. I said “you are a genuine gipsy musician” and he took this as a great compliment. I thought he ticked all three boxes of my PPP test: phoney, pretentious, and pass-the -sick-bag.

By the way, after writing all this at the breakfast table, I must tell you it is still pouring with rain.


It is now evening. The rain has gone. A beautiful breeze is blowing. The clouds have been swept away to reveal a blue sky with flecks of gold from the setting sun. Life is beautiful after all.

5th September 2014, Southern Europe

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