I’ve always found something moving about buskers. It’s the lyricism of their intent in the face of the hostility of their environment. To articulate a song, something finely nuanced and full of feeling, to sing it sweetly on the street among all the noise, the heckling, the foul weather, seems somehow heroic to me.

There’s also something particularly compelling about the songs of the 1930s, 40s and 50s. In a modern context, their innocence takes on an irresistible irony but also a refreshing, recalcitrant optimism.

These old songs and the act of busking share a place in my head. Both are innocent, mad and defiant. So it seemed only fitting one day to write a show about a busker who can only express himself through his repertoire of sentimental old songs.

That certain night, the night we met,
There was magic abroad in the air.
There were angels dining at the Ritz,
And a nightingale sang in Berk’ley Square.

Daniel Jamieson