His eyes were crossed, his jeans were acid-wash, and his tune was half-baked at best.
He asked first if he could sing to us, which was nice.
Other times I've been serenaded against my will by shirtless boys and air guitars.
Today he asked, and I said, "For how long?" He said, "For sixty seconds."
"Go ahead then."
He sang a song about three prostitues, I don't think he knew the words. And he apologised for not being able to play the guitar, or sing.
He sang that one of the prostitutes died, then he stopped, and sang - Actually it was my father who died, with a bottle in hand, in 1985, it was the last day I ever saw him. I imagine that bit was true.
When he finished I clapped and he bowed.
His friend came in who smelled of soap and poo and asked why we wouldn't loan him any money.
Back to business as usual.