In the last few weeks, Patrick has been on my mind a lot, probably because of the UEFA Euro 2024. Shortly after UEFU Euro 88, we went on an interrail trip through the Benelux and went camping. All the Dutch we met were still celebrating the Dutch win of the Euros; it was a great time.
Sadly, Patrick passed away on Valentine’s Day, 2023, which came as a devastating shock to me, and to this day, I am still struggling with it. I am hoping this ode will work cathartic, not only for me but also for others who knew him. For many, the words will make no sense, but for those who know my and, by default, Patrick’s musical taste, they know.
Gone are the days we were taking hold of the flames, and when our dreams were in silent lucidity,
The soft summer breeze of the Santa Ana winds passes me by and reminds me of you,
I wonder which Tin Pan Alley you are walking now. Or are you resting on the Lake Geneva shoreline, watching the smoke on the water?
Will we ever have a Storyteller’s Night again, where we are reminiscent of Les Morts Dansant?
Why was I digging your scene? Was it because I had spent the weekend lost in a hotel in Amsterdam?
Is the eye of the tiger still watching you? Do you still jump when you see a whole lotta, Rosy?
Who are you singing Sound of Silence with now? Is it someone who is homeward-bound?
If I could save time in a bottle, I’d bottle an operation mind crime and perhaps a journey home again.
I miss you, and one day, we will meet again, but not yet. For now, you will have to find your own personal Jesus for advice,
History of Sorts 