The Man Who Wasn't From There

 Walk into the Black Box. There's a tall old man standing at the bar, boring the arse off the staff. He's unassuming: specs, cap, harmless. I order a beer and he says "Hey mate, the Guinness is only 3.50 tonight." I make a surprised, agreeable noise. I don't tell him I don't drink Guinness, because I've lived in Belfast long enough to know that that is a fatal misstep in polite conversation. We talk generally about the price of beer, and he tells me some of his likes and dislikes. My mate Barry comes in and I say hello to Barry. Barry has been in the larger room next door, because he has been doing the sound for the jazz festival, and we talk briefly about that. 

"Which band did a song called "All That Jazz"?" says the man. 

"Sorry?"

"Which band did a song called "All That Jazz"?"

"Well, it's a song from a musical, isn't it? Bob Fosse? It's a film as well, isn't it?"

"No," he said, sharply, "it was a band."

"Okay," I said, "I don't know."

"Echo and the Bunnymen!"

"Oh, yeah. That's right. Crocodiles, wasn't it?"

"Yes."

The conversation drifted onto music, and he tells me he's mates with the bloke who replaced Ian McCulloch in the Bunnymen, and then tells the story of how he was out drinking with him before a gig one time and they'd met some girls and he asked the girls what they thought of the new singer, and the girls all said they hated the new singer, and his friend was humiliated. He thought this was hilarious. 

He then asked Barry and I what we did, and Barry was alright because he has a proper job, but I always hate to say "writer" because a) there's very little supporting evidence and b) to a certain type of man it sounds like a challenge. This, it turned out, was that sort of man. 

He had lived in London, at some point in the past. "Oh really?" I said, "Whereabouts?""The South East." he said, which I thought was odd. 

"I used to live in south London: East Dulwich, Camberwell, Brixton, sort of area." I said. His eyes lit up, and he embarked on what can only be called a cross-examination.  He wanted to know where I had been, where I drank, what gigs I'd seen. He then wanted me to describe individual streets, and how one part of London met another, and while I was describing these things, I became acutely aware that I was not convincing him. Did I know this place? Did I know this place? I didn't know any of them. What about this venue? No, sorry. "I thought you said you liked music." "I do. I didn't go to many gigs, though." He wasn't having that. That was impossible. He went back to cross examination. What was next to The Bishop in East Dulwich. "Er, a market?" "Very good." I could feel liars tics and tells appearing on my face - like Henry Hill, I may fold under questioning. 

He took a draw on his pint. "No mate, you gave it a good go."

"What do you mean?"

"I'm sure you're able to fool people who haven't lived in London. But not me."

I was baffled. He was calling me a liar. A man with a Belfast accent was telling me I'd never lived in London because I didn't know where The Man of Kent was in Nunhead. 

"Are you calling me a liar?" I said. 

"No mate, I'm calling you a bullshitter."

"That's the same thing."

"You said it, mate."

"What possible reason could I have for pretending I used to live in South London?" 

"You tell me."

Fuck this. The first time I've left the house in months, and the first person I'd talked to was a strange, boring man calling me a liar. 

"Way to make friends, mate," I said. I walked across the bar and sat down with my pint, pulling my notebook and pen from my coat pocket. He stood at the bar on his own for a couple of minutes, then turned and shouted across the bar "You're not a writer. I'm a writer. You're nothing." and he stormed out of the bar, leaving half a pint on the counter. 

I scribbled in my notebook, as if to prove I was definitely was a writer.