Where The Streets Have No Fame: A Novel.Chapter One

What’s the most you ever spent on a piece of art? How much did you pay? Did you know that Comedian by Maurizio Cattelan sold for $6.2 million at Sotheby’s in 2024? Would you pay $6 million dollars for it? 
    Someone did. 
    I used to see art everywhere.
    I first saw Mad Jack in all his beer gut glory hold a crowd of hundreds in the palm of his blackened, tobacco hands with nothing more than the words that came from underneath his thick handle bar moustache. The hearts, minds and eyes of these unassuming, unsung, unknown saints, sinners and somewhere-bounds huddled together in the fine drizzle of a grey Saturday afternoon in Leicester Square where the grey and rain is a worthy canvas for any painter with laughter on his palette. 
    The Burger King pitch brimmed with these strangers who’d gathered and surrounded this gin-soaked, Byronic jester, fixated upon his charming, erratic, gait that seemed to snub physics and the mischievous witticisms he spewed. Even the punters in the Empire Casino had filled the terrace and balcony to see what they could. 
    Mad Jack Valentine’s act had a variety of elements the principle of which were contortion, equilibristics and juggling but, if you asked him, he’d say he was a comedian. He’d spent the first 15 minutes of his show building his crowd by bantering with them, imitating them, ridiculing them. 
    Some took it better than others. 
    To prep his stage he needed very few elements: a speaker with which he blared Low Rider by WAR, a mesh-less tennis racket, a unicycle, three blunt machetes and a Westminster City Council bin with which to assemble his podium. 
    He strutted around his make shift stage assembling his props and building his audience with a roguish confidence you only find in the big cities. His dishevelled top hat sat atop his ponytail like it was alive, the way a parrot sits atop a pirates shoulder in the films although it could barely be described as a top hat for how much it looked like a wild beast had hibernated on it. He wore a blazer that was one size too small and fastened up so that one struggling, singular button sat strained atop his protruding gut with wide baggy black trousers and a pair of black shoes that were, of course, too long for his feet. Once he had expertly assembled his crowd he stood atop the city council bin he’d dragged centre stage and began banging the mesh-less racket on the sides like a cave man discovering war drums. 
    “Right then,” he howled from his podium, “it’s….” and as he did so he slowly removed his shabby blazer to reveal the word ‘SHOWTIME’ tattooed across his shoulder blades in huge red and gold lettering that only us, “backstage” at the pitch, had a view of. 
    “…SHOWTIIIIIIIIME!!!” he roared. 
    He went on to hold that crowd in his hand from start to finish from recruiting a young member of the audience to copy his dance moves, to tossing the juggling machetes one by one atop his unicycle like a drunken monkey leaving many a held breath amongst the dithering crowd, to his grand finale - contorting his body in a variety of wild and weird ways before finally finishing the show and squeezing his wobbly flesh through the mesh-less tennis racket. 
    The crowd laughed, cheered, clapped. Us, and the congregation before us, found ourselves in the company of a true rarity: a walking, fleshy embodiment of old Victorian gin ridden gallantry and showbiz flair, the sort of act and man that belonged in the back room delights of a Whitechapel boozer, entertaining the likes of swindlers, labourers and ladies of the night. They’d probably have given him his own road show back then. But here, today, he was exiled to the whispering cobble stones, another memory amongst their damp history, another soul full of the fight against anonymity and obscurity, whose very breath a bold attempt at branding their name into the stones of time.
    “Ladies and gentlemen”, he was out of breath as he climbed back upon his podium, “ladies and gentleman. Have you enjoyed the show!?” There was a huge raw from the crowd. “I certainly hope so! My name is Mad Jack Valentine, ladies and gentlemen, it has been an absolute pleasure to be here for you today. If you enjoyed the show I would ask only one thing. I would ask that you spare a moment to consider the Art that you enjoy and the Art that you’ve experienced here today.” Some people began to snigger in the crowd. “Consider the Artists who brighten up your life! Who make your life so full of wonder and joy! Do you think that those Artists should be fairly compensated!?” 
    “YEAH!!!” the crowd cheered. 
    “Do you think those Artists should be fairly compensated for their work!? 
    “YEEEEAAAAH!!!!” 
    “Good! So do I. What do you think would be justifiable compensation for the Art you enjoy? £20? What about £15? £10? Ladies and gentlemen! You know what I think? I think, at the bare minimum, a pint of beer is fair compensation for the artists who bring you the joy in your life! Ladies and gentlemen the going price of a pint in London today is £5. £5 to buy someone a pint and show them some appreciation for their work. Does that seem fair to you?” 
    “YEAAAAH!!”
    “I said does that seem fair to you!!?” 
    “YEAAAAAAAH!!” 
    “Then, ladies and gentlemen, if you can spare £5 today I would be hugely appreciative of your support and admiration for London street art. If you can’t  afford £5, ladies and gentlemen, whatever you can spare...”
    “He’s losing them”, said an old busker next to me. 
     “...but, if you can’t afford anything, ladies and gentlemen please do come forward, shake my hand and come and say hello, guys. I don’t bite...hard.”
    Laughter again. 
    “Now, ladies and gentlemen, you may now,” he climbed down from the bin and held out his crumpled top hat, “come forward.” 
    The crowd began to part.
    A good portion of them had begun shuffling and departing. Those who did come forward began stuffing money into the hat or shaking hands to which Mad Jack was most grateful. But once the generous few had dispersed I watched as Mad Jack began heading over the dispersing crowds with his hat held out. 
    “Not want to chip in to that show you just spent the last forty minutes watching then, mate, no?” The people awkwardly tried to shuffle away. 
    “He dragged out the money speech” I heard the other buskers begin to say. 
    “No, I’ve told you, he needs to do the juggling as the finale, the body through the racket is not a finale” another exhorted. 
    “Yeah I don’t know why he always finishes with it,” another agreed. 
    “All the circus acts do the juggling,” another said, “who else do you know who can squeeze their body through a fucking tennis racket?” 
    I looked back and Mad Jack was now haranguing the punters in the casino terrace area. I could faintly hear him saying “come on, you fuckers, you were watching too cough it up.” They were laughing but most of them at least gave something. It seemed like they had something to spare, after all. 
     Jack then looked up at the balcony and, still shirtless, barged straight into the casino and appeared up there minutes later arguing with a casino attendee who was hot on his heels. The punters on the balcony, in their garish Ralph Lauren shirts and Couture dresses, laughed awkwardly at this wild man who was proclaiming “come on, you were watching, cough it up you sods!” Some paid him something. 
    I was mesmerised by how brazen he was. 
    Eventually he came back down and returned to the pitch. 
    “That was incredible” I said. He totally ignored me. 
    “Did you fucking see that!?” he roared at the elders. 
    “It’s how it goes, Jack. You know how it can be” replied one of them. 
    “Fucking bullshit, mate. Size of that crowd, should’ve been double what I brought in!” 
    “Never mind you got another one at 8pm” 
    “Yeah and I’ve gotta wait about until then.” 
    “I thought you were great” I said as I chucked five quid in his hat. He looked at it then looked at me, then looked at the fiver again. He took out the note and gave it back to me. 
    “Thanks son, but keep your money.” 
    “Why?” I asked. 
    “Because I wouldn’t put money in your hat. Shouldn’t need to.” 
    He walked away and began clearing the pitch for the next act who had already walked on and begun blaring his intro music. I looked down the avenue and saw the changing of the tides, fresh faces, fresh eyes.
    Fresh wallets. 
    The rain had begun to drizzle again and as it did, I continued to stare down the avenue until my daydreams were broken by a huge red bus that gently breezed through those dreams like the Red Death. But this wasn’t the usual double decker, it was a coach and there was something written on it. 
    ‘We send the EU £350 million a week let’s fund our NHS instead - Vote Leave’.