There was such a
power to the man, it’s difficult to believe he’s gone. Mark Logan and I were
not best friends. We would both describe each other as friends, but we rarely
met beyond the confines of the back bar at Massimos, a Chelsea enclave known as
Shed na Gaillimhe.
Our paths brushed
as they do in Galway, but I was not one of his closest. Yet Mark’s cruelly
premature death has affected me so gravely that it tells a lot of the man. If
my sadness is such as a peripheral friend, how might those closer to him, those
countless others in his labyrinthine life be feeling?
I try not to go
there.
The
very reason I know the exact day we met was the reason we first became friends.
It was 3rd October, 1999. Truth be told, I didn’t remember the precise date,
but I'll never forget the day. A quick Google for ‘Chelsea beat Manchester
United 5-0 1999’ was all it took.
I was
sitting at what was then the front bar of the Blue Note, staring at a tiny TV
hung high up on a column. It was a beautifully sunny day and nobody else was
interested in the game, except for a strange figure lurking in the shadows.
When Mark emerged from his hidy-hole to come to the bar, I at first thought he
was Elvis Costello, but no. Not with that chin.
What a
fantastic chin.
Seriously,
chin-wise, Marky Logan was Numero Uno.
So the
sun was splitting the rocks and the bar was empty, save for us two. Chelsea
were unstoppable that day. Gus Poyet scored after 27 seconds and we never
looked back, knocking goals past a Man United side unbeaten in 29 games faster
than we could drink the pints that celebrated them.
I
stumbled home plastered, singing ‘Blue is the Colour’, celebrating not only a
(then) rare and great victory, but also the meeting of a splendid new friend.
Whenever someone
in my life dies, wistful currents run through my soul and belly, wondering at
all the things I didn’t share with that person.
Happily, I did get
the chance to tell Mark what I thought of him. Unable to make his 50th birthday
bash at Roisin’s last month, I sent him a message on Facebook:
“Mate - sorry to
miss your big night, not only 'cos it'll be a blinder, but also 'cos you're a
good man, and it's a pleasure to know you, even if it's only a bit. I did that
Assist course, and it was by far the best of gordknows how many I did as a
youth worker. Happy Birthday, rock the house and I'll hopefully catch you soon.
X”
Not one bit of me
expected a reply. I was just making my apologies and taking the opportunity to
tell him how much I admired his work in suicide prevention and mental health,
both topics close to my heart.
However, early the
next morning, he sent me a message:
“You were missed,
Adley!”
I’m no more doing
myself a disservice than calling Mark Logan a liar if I suggest that I very
much doubt I was, but as an illustration of the way Mark dealt with people,
it’s perfect. Mark was considerate, kind and charming, an advocate of saying
hello to the stranger and maybe saving a life.
Above that
Olympian chin, Mark’s expression held a latent wisdom, tempered by a keen sense
of the absurd: a fabulous combination of knowing and nonsense. When Mark was looking at you, you knew
it, his intense eyes somehow successfully balancing irony with absolute
sincerity.
He exuded a warm
and gracious charisma that pumped benignly into the world with such a vigour,
such a life force, it makes it hard to believe he's gone.
The last time I
saw Mark, he had no idea I was watching him. Indeed, it was a perfect Galway
moment. I was having a cup of tea and a slice of carrot cake at a table
upstairs in Lynch’s Cafe. As any Galwegian knows, from there you can look down
below to the cobbled streets, let your mind wander a while and snarf an
artery-clogging chunk of cake at your leisure.
Down on the street
the people whisked by and oh look, there’s the Snapper, just about to go into
McCambridge’s to buy her cheese and beetroot roll for lunch.
Oh and look,
there's Marky Logan, coming up the street the other way.
I watched my
friend and my wife smile and greet each other, have a hug and a peck on the
cheek. After a couple of moments of ‘Howya we must oh yes let’s lovely seeya’
they were on their merry ways, but just as Mark went to walk on, he turned
slightly and performed a tiny but wonderful little bow, which sent my missis
into the shop with a broad smile on her face, a slight skip in her feet.
Sitting above the
action, this voyeur was feeling all a bit gooey. How lovely to live in a place
where people have the time to stop and hug and say hello, especially people
like the Snapper and Mark Logan, wonderful spirits who return humanity its good
name.
Like myself, my
friend Richard is a Londoner and lifelong Chelsea fan. Being blokes filled with
sadness, we were nursing mugs of tea while carefully avoiding the emotional
profundities of the moment. Instead, we were wondering who now was going to
lead the singing during the Chelsea games. Mark had always been choirmaster of Shed
na Gaillimhe, and his goal-time rendition of “Let’s go fu**in’ mental!” was
as rousing as it was ironic, for a man who worked in mental health.
After a suitable
period of Man Silence, Richard turned to me and said:
“He was a
diamond.”
Where I come from,
you can’t get better than that.
Mark Logan was a
diamond; maybe a crazy diamond, but he’ll always shine.
©Charlie Adley
06.03.14.
No comments:
Post a Comment