Original subtitles

It's Glasgow March and we walk hand in hand in the park.

Now it's 3.13 and I'm late and it's time I make a choice.

We're both boys, you see.

If you were to go back and look, you'd see a hundred

eyes hurry to objectify this hand in hand stance.

It's a flurried dance of reaction.

Some smile, they're proud and they want me to know.

But there's a darker shade of brow that balances the books.

The kind of look that challenges.

Like this is some chess game and I'm in check

and I'm second guessing what they might do next.

Point me out to all the pawns in the crowd.

Spawn a following whose glowers linger on so that our hands are no longer holding.

But dragging glare after glare, snowballing stairs, stretching elastic

social disgrace through this forbidden space

and the scales are well and truly tipped.

Now it's 3.14, Glasgow March 2018.

And I have to make a choice.

Have you ever wondered how to say goodbye?

You know, to a friend's mum, do you go in for a kiss on the cheek?

To a colleague, neighbour, do you hug them or shrug them off?

What if that neighbour is your lover?

What if there's no other way to say goodbye than the one you know will send

outcry burning through the matchstick men and women who love to strike up ideals?

I'm a walking meal for the mouths of normality.

What does that mean exactly?

We're normal, he says with his frown.

But under his wife's dress and flesh is an unborn baby, blessed with one more hour of

air before she miscarries and they carry that grief with them to the grave.

And they're not normal anymore.

They're changed and aching.

And that old man, I make him sick but he writes to Japan at the weekend to get a

friend to send a used knickers he can vend from a

machine there for completely normal purposes, of course.

See, normality is a crowdsourced fantasy but it turns

every single silent person in this park into an enemy.

Teenage boys blunder ahead.

How much thunder are they carrying in their heads?

They should probably be at school drawing straight lines, sprinting in straight

lines, thinking in straight lines, and when the bell rings it's no wonder

they want to straighten out anything that curves or bends.

Or her with her rolling chips and the kids.

She'd take one salty glance at two guys kissing, be hissing vinegar or weird.

I've got nothing against gays, she'd say, but you have to do it in front of my kids.

And she runs away.

They never do stay long enough to look you in the eyes.

In a bible basher rehashing lies about Jesus, like how Poundland rip off many

cheddars and sell them on as cheese savories.

Cause it seems to me like Jesus saved a lot of time when

he died for all our crimes that he would have wasted.

Teaching small minds that love is no sin.

See him, he thinks it's faith but when they're all that

dim, it tastes like cardboard and it smells like hate.

And I may sound... and I may sound...

I'm angry but I'm just scared because in the midst of this and this and that

there's one person I'm not looking at.

Because a face looks different in the daylight than

in the night where at least there's no one staring.

You're always wearing worry lines and looking at the

time because the last train home is always waiting.

Because this should be a small choice and there's all this noise in my head.

I should be holding a hand and I'm holding shame instead.

But I'm letting go.

No I won't keep weighing it up.

I'll put my muscles at ease.

And they're 30% of my mass by the way.

I'm a homo sapien.

Elbows, knees, 60% water flooding, 7% blood,

rushing and half a percent beating heart.

So why is a goodbye kiss no walk in the park?

Half a percent doesn't sound like much but it's enough.

It's 3.15, Glasgow March 2018 after all.

You'd think it was just about time for love.