When The World Stopped (But I Couldn't)

How Streaming to My Mum Led to Some Rando Prick Telling Me to "Get a Real Job"

Right, I need to tell you about the mental pivot that happened when everything went to shit in 2020.

Year and a half into ACM Guildford. Finally felt like I knew what I was doing. Had my people. Had my sound. Then March hits and suddenly we’re all getting texts about someone having “the thing” and everyone’s losing their absolute minds.

Remember that pure dread? That moment when someone in your flat coughed and everyone just... froze?

Mad to think I was actually relieved when they cancelled my stage performance exam. Couple weeks off? Great.

What a fucking joke that turned out to be.

The Thursday Night Shows Nobody Asked For

So there I am, stuck in my room, watching the world burn through Instagram stories. And something inside me just snapped. Not in a bad way. More like...

If I don’t make music right now, I might actually die.

Started streaming every Thursday night. Full gig setup in my bedroom. Playing to an audience of approximately three people - my mum, my sister when she felt bad for me, and some random bloke from Belgium who never said anything but always showed up.

Mate, those streams were rough. Talking to yourself for an hour while pretending it’s not weird? Performing with the same energy you’d bring to a packed venue when you can literally see the viewer count?

But it kept me sane. Kept me sharp.

From Bedroom to High Street

Soon as they let us out properly, I took it to Guildford High Street. Proper busking. Amp, mic, the works.

First weekend? £200. Eight hours total.

I was absolutely buzzing. Not just the money (though fuck me, that helped). But being back around actual humans? Seeing faces light up when they recognised a song? That energy exchange you can’t get through a screen?

Pure magic.

The Comment That Nearly Broke Me

But here’s the thing about putting yourself out there - you become a target for everyone else’s shit.

The teenagers taking the piss? Whatever. The shopping centre security trying to move you on? Part of the game. The drunk blokes requesting Wonderwall for the millionth time? Standard.

But this one bloke. Middle-aged. Probably on his lunch break. Walks past, stops, looks me dead in the eye:

“Get a real job.”

And walks off.

No context. No reason. Just felt the need to chuck that grenade and leave.

Why That Hurt Different

Here’s what killed me about it - I was making just as much as the the majority of people working a ‘real job’ doing this, if not more. Four hours busking on a good Saturday could clear £100. That’s £25+ an hour, cash in hand, doing what I love.

But it wasn’t about the money, was it?

It was watching someone my age doing what they couldn’t. Having the balls to stand there, vulnerable as fuck, making art in public while they trudged to their “real job.”

That comment lived in my head for weeks. Still does sometimes, if I’m honest.

The Beautiful Thick Skin You Never Asked For

You know what’s mental? That bitter bastard probably forgot about me five seconds later. But his comment became rocket fuel.

Every time I set up my amp after that, I thought about him. Every time someone dropped a tenner in my case, I thought about him. Every time a kid danced to my music or an elderly couple stopped to listen to their wedding song, I thought about him.

Music will give you the thickest skin you never wanted. The internet will call you shit. Strangers will tell you to quit. Your own brain will agree with them at 3am.

But you keep showing up. Keep setting up that amp. Keep streaming to three people or three hundred.

Because what’s the alternative? Getting that “real job”?

Nah mate. I’d rather die.