Golf Sale Punk, Why Do You Do What You Do?

Man, this guy must have been doing that job for about five years now.
All he does is just stand there at the confluence of Poland and Oxford Streets holding onto a pole on the top of which is mounted a board bearing the legend 'Golf Sale'.
Where this is I have no idea.
I've worked around Soho for over a dozen years and I've never seen any fucking golf sale, but there he stands in his studded leather jacket and bondage trousers and his Dr Martens and his rings and his spikes and chains and studs and tattoos and all the other punk rock paraphernalia which bedeck his scrawny carcass.
It must take him ages to get all of this shit in order each morning just to go and stand on the human sewer that is Oxford Street all day long clutching a weather-beaten board advertising some mythical golf sale and all for what can't be much of a ball-hair away from minimum wage.
There he is. Playing air guitar with the board. A punk with a job.
Isn't that selling out? I mean, if you're gonna sell-out, sell OUT.
Get a real job, one that pays proper money, enough to keep you in PVC and UHU all year round.
Don't get a job that tramps and alchies customarily perform because they sold their self-respect like a child into sexual slavery years ago.
Don't do this job. Not if you clearly give enough of a shit about yourself to bother sticking together the whole gamut of your punk costume everyday.
Five years.

Before him they had some sorry middle-aged Eastern European dude who wore cheap leather slip-ons with tracksuit trousers and who had a broken drinker's face.
He was the sort of lost-it-all loser you expected to see doing this job, a man who had staggered beyond the final outpost of desperation and tumbled headlong into the arms of defeat.
And there he would stand, in the middle of hell, thousands and thousands of obnoxious, repugnant, slavering molluscs passing this invisible man-island and his fantasy golf sale while all the while he fixed his beaten stare down onto the grey concrete slabs which when wet and dirty could every now and then at least be mistaken for creating what appeared to be a smile, something never to be found in the unforgiving eyes of the lobotomised hordes of shoppers and office drones which he now could no longer evidently bear to meet.
Then one day he was out and the punk guy was in.
Plucked from a life of lingering around boarded-up shopping precincts with a can of super lager kicking puddles and occasionally unnerving some old people.
Boy did his life change for the better that day.
Where is that damn golf sale anyway? Would he even know?
Tomorrow I will ask him.