Everything Can Be Explained: A Tour of Argyle Street and the Supernatural

Posted on July 28, 2011

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It’s raining. Heavily. My jeans are soaked through, as is the world. Only the most desperate souls drift the streets in this type of rainy onslaught. Even on Glasgow’s busiest street.

I continued along the pavement, it’s eerie. I can hear the wind whistling and blowing at seemingly random intervals. A siren shrieks several blocks away and ceases after a minute of it travelling further and further away. I get battered by the precipitation equivalent of a Mike Tyson punch to the jugular. It forms a mist-like film over everything it casts itself upon. Engulfed by icy moisture.

The grey sky casts a monochrome tint to the environment, everything bathed in shadowy light.

Suddenly I hear voices, almost musical voices being carried by the wind. Unrecognisable notes of many frequencies tickle my ears. But from where? Who?… What?

I search my surroundings, no one is singing, the music is not coming from any shops. Weird. I walk faster, uneasy. Seeking the indoors away from this supernatural wind. I don’t believe in ghosts. There is no such thing. It’s a lie.

Yet, the voices become more transparent, it is a song. I panic. Invisible angels summon me. A lost soul presents himself to me. The demons harass me. I begin to hesitate.

I steal a glance behind me, just a middle eastern guy walking along, minding his own business. I envy him, he seems normal. I reluctantly turn back and forge a path ahead. I resemble a lunatic living off a diet of Red Bull and heroin.

Yet more voices, growing louder and louder. What are you saying? What is it you want? Why me?

I want to submit, confess my sins, the reaper approaches, too soon, too soon, too soon. Shadows surround me, the walls close in, my world collapses.

My life is in the balance. WHAT THE FUCK.

Leave me be specter, I will give you what you need. Tribute… sacrifices? Take my mother, she is old.

Suddenly the man who was walking behind me steps past me. Singing under his breath in Hindi or some other language I know nothing of. Like a mouse reading a newspaper backwards, the sound was absolutely foreign to me. Totally surreal. My heart appreciates the moment of clarity as it retreats down my throat back where it belongs.

Every time I turned round to inspect the area, expecting to catch a glimpse of the Marshmallow Man from Ghostbusters, the man stopped singing. Perhaps out of embarrassment, perhaps to fuck with me. It was his voice I could hear.

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So there never was a ghost, yet when I was faced with a situation I couldn’t for the life of me explain, I turned to supernatural forces. Much like early mankind did with their frankly awesome Gods. In a way that’s what mankind does with everything. Almost as if we are uncomfortable with how mundane and bleak life is in comparison to the literature we can produce these days. We pretend something exists, we fill in the gaps of our knowledge with hocus-pocus, then we believe our own lies.

Perhaps there is more chance of a Hindi man whispering a subtle tune behind me than a ghost following me on a Glasgow street. It is a rather unlikely eventuality, but not impossible.

THE BIRTH OF IGNORANCE

My mind wonders though, in the aftermath of my epiphany I question reality, unhappy with the simple reason for my fear, surely I, a highly developed sentient being, was not terrified by a member of an Indian boy band sing one of his hits?

Can I prove there was no ghost? What if the Hindi man was a ghost? I didn’t try to put my hand through him did I? Did he have a reflection, I should have staked the bastard just to be sure. Get the holy water. We have a ghost epidemic!

“The Hindi Warbler” who haunts Argyle street died when the local Kebab shop burned down. He left on the pizza oven on and fell asleep the day before his wedding.

He plagues Argyle street searching for his beloved not knowing that she killed herself in response to her husband-to-be’s death. If you see him, Give him a smile, shake his hand and sing along with his hauntingly tragic supernatural tune. Join him in dance on the main road, take of your clothes, be at one with nature, put a traffic cone on your head, close your eyes off to your surroundings and take in his world, live his world. Feel the flow of the music, the beat syncing with your pulse, experience the festivities. You are at peace with the Hindi Warbler.

Dear sir or madam, you were dancing on the road with a “ghost” and you didn’t expect a car accident. I mean come on. Really?

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You truly are gullible and a lunatic. GHOSTS DON’T EXIST. Now you’re dead you can haunt me too.

Only science… and Pokemon exist.

All hail Pikachu, deity of capitalism and cuteness.

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