The Bluetooth is attached to the ear of the cab driver. Lets call him Jim. I hate Bluetooth headsets normally; they make people look like self-important pricks who want the rest of the world to know they are self-important pricks.  But on Jim it works. Jim drives a Merc- certainly not my regular method of travel but thanks to one of my companions being apparently better off than I, it was decided that Jim’s Merc would be our carriage to the next stop on the evenings route.

Backwards chats with cab drivers are one of the many joys London has to offer, so I ride shotgun. I’m somewhat agitated and generally disinclined to sit still, so as we shoot the bull I start fidding with some of the wealth of buttons and knobs them Germans like to keep their customers entertained with.  One on the handle shines up a nice bright orange when I jab it.

‘Oooh,’ I say, looking over at Jim, ‘ I’ve just done something there.’
‘That’ll make your bum warm,’ Jim says helpfully.
‘I’ll give that a go then.’

Kelly Jones’s throaty, pins-in-ears drawl is coming out of the speakers.  I look at the radio station- Capital.  Of course. I ask whether I can change the station.

‘Sure,’ says Jim before, sensing my obvious bewilderment at the radio controls that are Nasa-like in proportion and befuddling an already scrambled brain, guiding me to the back and forward buttons.

What follows is five minutes of frantic station hopping as the guys in the back, me and Jim debate the merits of the songs that get lucky-dipped; they’re all rubbish.  Why I expected anything else I don’t know but Saturday night seems a particularly bad night for the wireless, unless you particularly want to listen some 45 five year old sub-Partridge prick play the very worst in 90’s club anthems.

Me and the guys in the back start some argument regarding one of the songs played.  What it was I cannot say, but it almost certainly involves big hair and a bigger chorus.  Amongst the vocal melee, Jim’s soft voice pipes up:

‘Do you like Alicia Keys?’
‘I don’t mind her Jim’, I say. ‘ Lovely voice.’  I enquire as to whether he’s got anything by her then.
‘Have you heard ‘Empire State Of Mind?’
‘Of course.  The one she did with Jay-Z. Great track’.  It is a great track.
‘No, no.  Her version by herself is a lot better.  I’ll stick it on.’

So Jim fishes out a blank CD from his glove compartment, puts it into the CD player and soon the car is filled with the grand vocalisations of Miss Keys, which are totally swamped by our useless, tuneless attempt at an accompanying harmony.  Jim is smiling.

‘Empire…’ finishes, to be followed by ‘Rudeboy’ by Rihanna.  Not really my cup of tea, but its still an improvement on ‘Set You Free’, and the potential for a half-decent ride soundtrack continues.

Except it stops after this.

‘What’s going on Jim?’ I ask.
‘They’re the only two songs on the CD.’
‘Just those two?  Why just those two?’
‘Well, I just really like those two.  Especially Alicia’s.’  Alicia! Single-naming!  That’s real love.
‘I’m going to put her back on if that’s okay.’
‘Fine with me Jim.’

We listen to ‘Empire…’ five more times.   There is undoubtedly something a little odd about it.  He sings along each time, , takes on the grin of the gormless.   It’s brilliant though; there’s something quite innocent in him being so taken by this tune, a tune with a chorus full of aspiration and hope. It adds melancholic poignancy to the story of Jim- the effortlessly nice cab-driver who can do the impossible and make me like a man in a Bluetooth headset.

George changed all this.

After moving to East London from Clapham, I went through the normal trying-to-find-the-right-hairdresser shit.  It seemed initially you were either paying 40 quid to have your precious hair cut by a bloke that looks like a cross between John Cleese and him from Foals, or you had to brave it at one of the many Turkish barbers that lined the Kingsland Road.  Now, there’s nothing wrong with Turkish barbers per se, but, well, you know….

Out of the mist shone John’s Hairdressing Salon.  Grey and grubby outside Old Street tube, it didn’t look much.  A 50’s style set-up that had gone to seed, though the red leather chairs- three of which sit permanently vacant- looked comfy.  So in I step. A balding, moustached man in his 50’s looks up from his Nintendo DS, smiles warmly, and apologises in a Mediterranean accent;

‘Sorry, I was quite engrossed.  It helps pass the time when we’re not busy.’

The haircut takes 15 minutes, tops.  There is no faffing- George seems to know instinctively what I’m after.  We start to rhapsodise about the haircuts at expensive salons, and how the haircut you get is often different to what you want.  He is passionate about this, and tells me how he’s been cutting hair in this same chair for 40 years and that he knows how to give a good haircut for a reasonable price (£9.50- beat that). With an endearing level of sheepishness, he also says that he considers himself an ‘artist’ and hairdressing his art.  Sensing my lips curl at this comment, he says ‘I know it sounds silly, but…’ before trailing off.

It transpires that the salon was actually owned by his (now deceased) grandfather and father before him, and that he is the last in the line as his son lives in Vancouver.  He delivers this fact without a trace of brinkmanship or, indeed, sadness.  He’s proud of the way he’s spent his life and when I tell him it will be sad to leave he simply says ‘yes, but then I will get on with the next stage of my life.’

The hair isn’t cut quite short enough.  Normally if this is the case, you just nod, pay some obsequious comment to the smarming cunt behind you and accept you’ll be back there in a week.  But I tell George- he nods, says ‘maybe.  Well I can make it shorter. If you don’t mind waiting a bit, as I will have to go round and re-do it all.  Is that okay?’

I tell him it is and, happy with the ensuing result I leave.

Couple of months later I go back. I’m a bit shaggy. He is cutting someone else’s hair, engrossed in conversation and doesn’t notice me so I sit down, thinking he won’t remember me anyway (though really hoping he will).  Man leaves, I sit down.

‘Hmmm,what’s happened? You’ve let it grow a bit long this time yes?’
I reply in the affirmative.  He asks me if I want it the same as last time. I reply that I do and he makes it so.

We chat at length again; about the weather, about how the council aren’t gritting the roads properly near his house in Muswell Hill, about how he has just been over to his mums memorial service in Cyprus (where he is from).  If this sounds like he has a bit of Londoncabbieitis and only likes the sound of his own voice, that is doing him a disservice as he asks plenty of questions and listens like a genuinely interested teacher when I spout the normal shit that comes out of my mouth.

I’ve now been back to John’s 10, 11 times.  I know a lot about George, I know a lot about his family, and he knows a fair amount about me. I’ve only ever spent a total of 2 hours in his company, yet I have no doubt if I was ever wondering through Muswell Hill and he saw me, he’d invite me in for dinner.  He’s that type of bloke and, though I’m glad I’ve met someone that gives great, cheap haircuts, I’m more glad I’ve met him.

Now, can I have it a little shorter this time please?

Of course highway maintenance (as his boss would have you call it) was never Terry’s chosen career, Terry first moved to Camden in 1979 with his band the Dolphin Stranglers. Success didn’t come immediately to the Stranglers… in all honesty it didn’t come at all, the bands main bright light in an otherwise dimly lit career being the ill fated night at the Dublin Castle when the Dolphins bass player (and Terry’s oldest friend) Tony, inadvertently spilt his pint over the electrics, shorting out the entire pub. With the lights out the pub soon delved into chaos, fights broke out and Tony got a black eye for his trouble.

Terry:  ‘The gig was on the Saturday, the poor bastard was so nervous he started drinking on the Thursday.’

With the Stranglers long since disbanded and the bills mounting higher than the dirty plates in the kitchen sink, Terry like the rest of us, had to find work. Terry’s gift has always been his gab so he hustled any work he could, eventually finding work from an old source. Tony the bass player of the Stranglers went onto become quite important in the local council and found Terry some work: He isn’t the most dedicated of employees and on occasion when the mood takes him his broom becomes his guitar and the pavement his stage; he struts and swaggers like a young Mick Jagger not giving a hoot or a holler who might be watching.

He still harbours dreams of Punk rock immortality, but now his only audience is wife Mary. they have been together since the early day’s of the Stranglers; Mary was the shy ginger girl often to be found down the front at their gigs. She was one of the few dedicated fans that actually believed in them and especially Terry, who she idolised. They eventually became an item and Terry promised Mary that they would set up home together. Terry was true to his word but for a few minorchanges; when he said home he meant a bedsit on Camden Road and when he said together he actually meant with the rest of the band. She protested but didn’t mind really and many a happy night was spent sharing a bottle of Blue Nun and packet of chips.

Mary:  ‘They were running around like the Bash Street Kids and I was trying to clean up after them.’

Terry:   ‘Yeah, the bash street kids on cheap speed.’

101 Camden Road was a happy home for everyone in it; Mary became mother / manger and all round fixer for Terry and the rest of the band. Practices would be daily and loud, Mary would sit a sew patches into jeans older than she was. The electrics were temperamental but so were the egos so rarely did a night pass without incident. After most gigs Terry would announce an open house after party:

‘All back to my place, the Mrs does a mean cuppa.’

Mary now works in Dots music shop on St Pancreas way and each day she serves kids just like Terry, none of which she says has his twinkle or charm but all share his dream. At lunch time the lovers meet on the footsteps of Dotts to share the sandwiches Mary prepares that morning.

Mary: ‘Terry has never been much of a cook; in fact I doubt he could boil water so it’s best if I do it.’

Terry: ‘Plus a lunch time snog never hurts does it Red?’

Mary: ‘No darling it doesn’t.’

I got to know Terry after walking past him more times than it became polite not to say hello. After a while we got to talking and he told me his story, mostly over cold cups of coffee on frosty mornings. He and Mary are still happily married and live in Kentish Town.

His life might not seem particularly original to you, but to me he’s a one-off and a friend I count it a privilege to have.

It always strikes me as a little sad.  Obviously there are times when one does not want to engage in some frivolous tittle-tattle with a stranger- not least early in the morning- but in general I am in favour of a little more interaction amongst our fellow transportees;  you never know who you’ll meet, after all, and there is no better leveller for London’s melting pot of freaks and weirdos than endless traffic snaking up Bishopsgate.

And it was as I was pondering this recently at the tail end of a long journey back from Devon, that I was nearly mounted by a stranger on the front seat (top deck) of the 26.  Shuffling my leg so as to  keep the circulation flowing after this rather abrupt case of ABC, I did what you do in that situation- give a little look to the offender, smile in a non-committal pursed lips-type way and go back to your own business; this time the Evening Standard Sport section.  I rested a while on reports from the tennis, before flicking the page to-touchdown!- a Spurs story.  Out of the corner of my eye I could see my seat-sharer looking intently at my paper, and I resisted the urge to do what we all enjoy doing- turning the paper up so the person desperate to catch a boredom alleviating glance is left with nothing other than a headline to mull over a hundred times.

Suddenly a hand comes down on the paper, flips the page casually back to the tennis, points to the picture of Andy Murry whilst a faintly high pitched African-sounding voice pipes up:
‘Whassa the score yesterday?’
Somewhere between pissed off and befuddled, I turn round.  A slight, black guy, 40’s wearing an orange bandana, army combat  trousers and a puffa jacket is slumped comfortably on his chair and looking at me, grinning and waiting expectantly for a reply.

‘Urgh, uhm,’ I’m thinking about it, ‘ three-nil to Federer.  Shame.’
‘Righhhht. But whassa the score?’
‘ Three-nil.’
‘Three-nil?’ That’s him asking again.
‘Yes. Three-nil.’
‘Wassa it close?’
‘Well, not particularly.  It ended 3-0.’
‘Righhhht’
‘ Though Murray should have won the third set.’

I smile at the bloke. He actually looks a bit simple. He smiles back, seemingly happy with the resolution , and then turns his eyes out the front.  I take what I see as a hint and go back to the Sport, this time an Arsenal story. Twenty seconds later the hand goes back to the paper, turning it back again to the tennis.

‘So wassa three-nil right?’
‘Yep.’
‘But wass the score in games?’
‘In games?  I don’t know that.  It’s not really measured in games though so its not too important.’
‘So wassa the score then?’
‘Well,’ he should know by now’  ‘three-nil’
‘Three-nil?’
‘Three-nil.’
‘Righhht.’

Again his eyes turns to looking out the window, I go back to the paper. It is now that I cannot help but notice that he starts twisting and flapping both hands above his head.  Their appears to be no reason for it, and certainly no rhyme. Is it a dance? Is he waving?  I don’t know, but I also choose not to question it- some things are best left unasked.  I am now pretending to read the words in front of me. He mumbles something, then turns the page back to the tennis and points at a picture of Rafael Nadal.

‘Spanish?’
‘Erm,’ I’m amused now, aware that we are the only ones speaking on the bus and that people are watching us, ‘yes.  Spanish. That’s Nadal.’
‘Where’ss he at moment?’
‘Injured.  He’s really damaged his knee.  Some say might not even play properly again’
‘Really?’
‘Yep, and he’s brilliant too.’
‘He fall over?’ Great question.
‘Well, no, I think its  a little bit more serious than that.’

The conversation continues in this vein for longer this time; him asking questions, me answering, him asking again.  I go into greater detail about Rafael Nadal’s knee injury than I have any right to, and feed him a load of half-baked information I may or may not have made up.  He seems happy enough.  I am- it makes a change to be next to such a cheery person on the bus, someone so seemingly devoid of pretence.  Once again the conversation tails off.  Back to the paper.

He starts mumbling something again, but he sounds grumpier this time.  I can’t quite make it out; it sounds like he’s saying ‘those bastards in front.’  I give him a quick glance out of the corner of my eye and go back to the paper.  Soon after this I can’t help but notice his hands not 6 inches from my head so, if not particuarly concerned more than a little intrigued, I turn round again and he is sticking both fingers straight up at me. And he’s not hiding it, oh no, he‘s proud; proud of his two bony fingers joining together in one glorious barefaced insult. His face has also changed- gone is the gormless grin of two minutes ago, and in its place is a serious (ish) scowl which, though not really threatening, suggests me and him weren’t going to be munching on strawberries at  Wimbledon this summer.  I try to give it a quiet ‘alright?’ and, in what is becoming something of a habit, go back to the paper.  He says nothing back to me, but his hands go back in his pocket- relief- then come out again and his V is being flicked out the window, then back to me.

What do you do in a situation like this? Do you say something?  Do you give it the Big One? Of course, anyone who knows me knows there is more chance of Nick Griffin turning up to work in a turban than me giving it said Big One, so instead I do the awfully brave thing, and continue to pretend to read, failing completely to suppress my joy at what is happening.

His hands go back in his pocket, and he slouches further back in his chair.  I’m torn- do I want him to get off, or do I want him to stay? If he stays am I going to end up in some most undesired argy- I do have a half drunk bottle of vodka in my bag which could be used as a coward’s weapon, but that’s not what God intended for it. And, lets be honest for a second, I’m not really going to do that anyway am I?

But if he does go this journey is going to become just another bus journey.

As it transpires a switch switches and the swearing and the mumbling stop rather suddenly, and I can see him looking at my paper again. A couple of stops later he gets up without a word, as though the exchanges we just had were totally normal, as everyday as Jeremy Kyle (cunt).  Maybe for him they are. Maybe they should be for all of us. While he’s waiting for the people already at the stairwell to make their way down I look up at him for one last time.

He’s smiling again.

It’s an unhealthy obsession founded on the three passions of his life… Elvis obviously……… swiftly followed by cheeseburgers and bad karaoke. I had been sitting next Alan Parsons for around 6 weeks and it was only after the first two that I noticed something was strangely adrift. With hindsight,  a 40 year old with such a deftly sculpted quaff should demand further investigation but foolish me, put it down to good breeding.

Everyone I work with is as cunt,  it’s simple really. We frog march into the office,  spend hours aimless chattering about some bollocks or other using words and phases that on each airing rip parts from my soul I never knew I had; ‘moving forward’ ‘lets action that’ ‘Re: the ROI’…… like I said …cunts.

But Alan Parsons is different, Alan has three lives, Work, home and Elvis and that’s in reverse order. The first clues were the sideburns, that and the headphones of course. Once, twice even maybe three times I thought it coincidental that every time he walked away from his desk the dulcet tones of The King would drift across the key boards.

It was a Wednesday in the kitchen when I first asked him about Elvis…

‘So you a fan of Elvis, it’s just because every time you leave your desk I hear  …’
‘The King.’
‘Well yeah, I mean it’s just that …
‘People say I Look like him you know’
‘Do they…?’
‘Yeah it’s a …. Gift and a curse.’
‘I’m sure it is Alan.’

It became my guilty secret, my unknown pleasure of taking lunch with Alan everyday, I never told anyone at work about him, why would I share my lunch time solace with these … well I told you… they’re cunts aren’t they? Everyday he rejoiced in telling me tales of the misodunistic  misdemeanors of The King’s adventures, Imploring me to listen to ‘In the Ghetto’ with the lights turned out. They were surreal yet blissful hours of utter joy.

It turns out that Alan’s wife Mirran indulged her wayward spouse’s passions. I never meet Miriam myself but suffice to say that on every other weekend she turned a blind eye to her husband’s moonlighting as the singing Elvis in the Ping Pong Dim Sum restaurant just off Old Compton street. If you had the money and desire, you could watch Alan bash out a ‘Jailhouse Rock‘ before you had the time to finish a chicken chow mein.

I heard a whisper the day before the redundancies came ….

I wish I’d told him…

‘Ladies and gentleman unfortunatly the rumors are true, ‘Smithers Jones communications will be making redundancies today’

‘Has anyone seen a Mister Alan Parsons?’

Alan Parsons anyone?

Alan wasn’t there and noone said anything, there was a silence where there should have been applause; if this was the films or if I’d told him the doors would of flung open and in would of strode Alan in full fat Elvis white suited  regalia.

As it was noone said anything; in fact Alan was forgotten within a week.

But not by me and I hope not by you