John Gilroy
Bio
I'm a writer from London, now based in Leeds. Anecdotes, trians of thought and poems are what I write.
Stories (17/0)
22nd of November
I picked Clara up from the train station last night. I'd had a shower before I left mine to get to the station for 10:54pm. Leaving it a little late I decided that it would be best to try and run part of the way, this became 3/4 of it. Walking in parts to parts to allow my legs time to rest. I'd been working out before my shower, pull-ups and chin-ups, so I was in the mood for the run (in sonme forms). I'd also been on a run before, the day before, though shin splints still kicked in towards the end of the run. I arrived a sweaty painful mess covered in raindrops head-to-toe, hair still soaking from the shower. Hat floppy in my hand from the rain. I waited for Clara's train to arrive. It made me miss London and long for an escape there was a train departing for Hull that I considered boarding. A last minute excursion to a town that was a source of my 18-19 year old self's depression. The home of my paternal side and my place of birth. As I watched people board the train another arrived from London in my state of habit formed ideas, I imagined this to be Clara's train. Memories from past pick-ups and farewells. As I stood waiting at the gates, watching people depart from the trian and cross the bridge/ gangway to the platform to the gates . Their was a couple that embraced in a farewell exchange, my attention flickered between them and the crowd as I kept my eyes open and peeled for that of a familiar face. A girl that looked similar to Clara in looks and apparel, wearing the same attire as what she was wearing when she left. She came closer to the gate and I realised for certain that it wasn't her. I had known for a while as she approached however. There wasn't enough bags you see. As well as the fact that the train had come up from London Kings Cross and the one that Clara was due to be onboard was to be heading south from Edinburgh, she had been to see her close friend that studies there. In retrospect writing and experience she is a also a fairly close friend of myslef as well. We've known each other since we were about 18/19, we had all met in our foundation year at UCA Epsom in Surry. One of if not my strongest first memory of Cici is by annoying her by speaking to Clara one break time in the spring time of 2019. I gave Clara my jacket from there. A Ben Sherman one 'mod-esc' thin jacket, a sort of late 20th century answer to that of a sports coat/ jacket or blazer. A foreshadowing of garments to come. My uncle had given it to me some years or time prior and I had worn it relentlessly in all weathers and seasons with all of my torso attire.
By John Gilroyabout a year ago in Wander
This Actually Happened
Sunday, 18 December 2022 This actually happened. I remember a school project, one where we had to write down an old memory, one of our earliest ones. Something light I guess. Thats what I chose anyway. I chose one of me falling off of my skateboard in the local park on my estate, it wasn’t deeper and I guess a childhood infatuation with extreme sports led me to romanticise the event in my mind. Helmets sketched into the illustration that illustrated the dream like situation. I guess I naively exaggerated the fall a little as a child does. Exaggerating the pain of the accident alluding to a concussion when a full face helmet might have been worn. You never really know the truth, but a white lie here and there when you’re ten or eleven years old can often go along way, although I was ‘Honest John’ and these things never quite sat right with me. We had to read the memories to each other in the class and as embarrassing memories have this affect on most people I cringe as I find myself reflecting on how I was saying “This actually happened, this actually happened”. Over and over again to my classmates, I mean honestly who actually gives a shit right? This was a train of thought as I mulled over a book of stoicism that rested on my partners parents living room coffee table, the unlit fireplace with burnt coal across from us and the lights of the Christmas tree to our left. My girlfriend spoke to me about a memory, a conversation that she had with a friend whilst visiting her in Edinburgh, Scotland. I wanted to listen to her. Just take it in. Earlier I had been reading that book on Stoicism. The prologue and the first two pages of the first chapter. I wanted to listen so bad, I’m being ‘Honest John’ here, so I started thinking about what the greeks would do to listen. What would they do to focus on what someone is saying to them. What would a stoic do, is this what stoicism is about and so forth. She asked me if I was annoyed. I said no, I’m just thinking about how this actually happened. My mind wandered on to Plato and Socrate's final lecture, that famous renaissance painting of the lecturer speaking to Plato and the rest of his almost disciple like followers and students, before he drinks the poison that his fate lead him to drink, the punishment that he was condemned to for whatever crime he had committed. Although the artist took some artistic liberties with the painting, putting himself into the painting. I still thought about how the main figure, the philosopher, genuinely drank a poisonous plant for a crime. I thought about how me and my mates smoke weed every now and again. I thought about how Mandela and so many other South Africans suffered in prisons for years listening to white noise. I thought about the holocaust and all of the other atrocities and then I thought back to that eleven year old me saying yeah this actually happened bragging about a skateboard fall to my mates. It put things into perspective, one that I have obviously realised time and time again before, but to put it so simply whilst hearing my partners anecdote about something that actually happened about a month ago, just made me feel that a lot has actually happened in this world and what does it matter. What do I have to show for it. Why do so many people suffer hardships in the past and why can I just get to sit here in a living room hearing stories from a country that once had to fight for its independence from the country who’s capital city I have just arrived in and am currently sat comfortably on the sofa of. Why did a genius have to suffer a painful death from poison from a potion of a plant that burns your insides for questioning the reign of authority when me and my friends act a fool smoking over plants for the fun of it, questioning the monarchy, capitalism, the government and all of the rest of it through our music and poetry and talks in a pub over poisonous pints that we wash away the side effects of with orange juice and a greasy spoon breakfast, why do I have it so lucky when so much in this world actually happened. Boar wars took place, lands were conquered and women raped. Then only yesterday I was watching James Cameron’s avatar, a million dollar film made to be as realistic as possible, I almost cried as I watched it. It was realistic. It made me question a lot of things and also begin to despise humanity. It made me hate industries and wince at the thought that I can’t handle the sight of CGI characters being given the same treatment that real human beings have been given in the past. Things that actually happened. Parts of my own families past that I don’t quite want to face at this time and I’m lucky enough to decide to turn a blind eye to it all because I live thousands of miles away from any of the places where these atrocities actually happened. I have spent my life in a city of culture where in theory we love one another. I have spent most of my life on the side of the city where other nations are celebrated the most, carnivals are held and houses are painted the colour of the rainbow. I live closer to Heathrow that I do to Notting Hill or maybe somewhere in between the two, but neither does that mater nor have a real impact because we are there on the in-between of things not happening to us nor around us. We are passengers on the bus, as others argue amongst themselves we watch from the sidelines and talk about it to loved ones later. We hear of things that have actually happened but are no longer seen. I’ve witnessed videos of Covid in China, heard stories from Libya and now as I write I’m warm next to a Christmas tree as a dog in front of me sleeps, no this isn’t a dream this is a reality. This actually happened. And all that I can show for it are some words on a page that may well be forgotten by you the reader as you wake up to your phone tomorrow with more stories on your news feed from the writers from today talking about tomorrow or the writers of tomorrow writing about those of the past, either way it all actually happened but no one seemed to care. We all seem to be that eleven year old screaming and shouting out in vein about the memories and images that conjure in the mind, we are all just sharing the stories of our time. Swearing to you all that this actually happened time after time. Just to have the truths locked away deep, deep down in the chambers of your mind.
By John Gilroyabout a year ago in Psyche
The Drugs Don't Work Anymore
I was walking through Hyde Park in Leeds listening to a song that reminds me of many things and yesterday added more memories to it, more than what I thought could be added to a song that I'd previously assossiated with boredom. Smoking cigarettes on my mums balcony or through the kitchen window, with the extractor fan whizzing behind my head worrying that it will wake the others up as I puff on the cigarette taking in the words. These moments already remind me of the past, The Verves album and Bitter Sweet Symphony in particular. It reminds me of my art foundation and a tutor talking in a lecture about how he had wanted to mimic Richard Ashcroft in every manner. I had no clue who the bloke was at first I recognised the song and the area the video had been filmed in that too had memories linked to it; greasy spoon cafes and leather jacket clad thugs. Walking over the car as it pulls to a stop at the junction in Hoxton the era of the early 2000's it makes me smile in a bitter sweet symphony through the bitter sweet simplicity of it all.
By John Gilroyabout a year ago in Confessions
