Travel Reference
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'Ah huh.'
'Cool,' and before I even had a chance to ask him, he launched into a recital. Much to
the annoyance of the other drinkers.
'This one's called The Gargoyle,' he said.
The Gargoyle
Has wings…of stone
He's alone and feeling
All those things
No mortal creature knows
The clothes, of dreams
He shows
As though to seem to mean to see.
Belief - in fantasy - be fact
And acting out its part
The rain
Wears out his tears
With deadly animosity
Yet he succeeds to be
Totality
And passes, temporary
Man.
I was genuinely speechless. I don't know why, but I had expected his poetry to be, well,
shit. I didn't fully understand the poem the first time I heard it - I'm still not sure I do - but
the way he recited it from memory with his prominent Scottish accent, intense stare and
perfectly measured delivery was incredibly captivating.
Mick then took us to the pub across the road, and we took a seat by the window so that
we could keep an eye on our bikes that we had pretend-locked to a lamp post just outside.
The place was huge, but almost empty, apart from a group of about 15 blokes standing on
an otherwise deserted dance floor. The music was so loud that Mick's Scottish accent be-
came even more difficult to understand. He bought us both a shot of whisky and another
pint, and also ordered us a burger and chips each, without us having time to protest.
The more he drank, the more he opened up about himself to us. He told us that he was
gay,buthadneverdisclosedthistoanyonethroughouthislife,norhadanysortofrelation-
ship with anyone.
'When ah was yoong you could be pit in jail for being a buftie like me,' he said. 'Ye
ken whit aam sayin? Aw mah life I've hud tae pretend aam somethin' aam nae.'
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