Fatso

Fatso dresses like an athlete and hasn't been one in thirty years — the sweatband, the vest, the running trainers. Nobody has told him and he wouldn't hear it. He is enormously fat, filthy at the edges, and entirely delighted with himself, and his one real talent is that he can play a tune on his own belly: hands on hips, working it like a concertina, whistling along while the whole street pretends not to look. Catch him mid-performance and he beams. Catch him being watched and he pulls his vest down and looks at the floor.