Displaced in Mullingar:Fifty years ago existential despair had Europe by the throat; now goths are its modern- day heirs, writes Michael Harding.

I have a friend who insists that there are more goths in Mullingar than anywhere else in the country. The only gothic animal I ever came across in my Leitrim days was a neighbour's dreadfully undernourished horse.

But in Mullingar, goths hang around McDonald's, the Harbour Shopping Centre, and other public places, in their black coats, purple mascara eyes, and long dreadlocks, woven with red and black ribbons. Betimes, the girls have noses like pin-cushions, and open black shirts with red vests beneath.

I used to worry that they might stab me with steroids, and take me away and force me to have sex, or sacrifice me on a makeshift altar under a full moon, with a broken Smirnoff bottle.

Goths are formal outsiders. A glamorous post-punk critique of the bland and passionless "cool" that is modern Ireland. Their corsets and safety pins are an unconscious cry for something metaphysical. Their boots and buckles are a manifesto of faith in other worlds, woven in the grammar of fashion.

They are philosophers in performance; the existential despair which rattled Europe 50 years ago still ripples in their mutilated faces; in their black nails and purple lipstick, and the rings and things that pierce their noses, eyebrows, ears and bellies.

But they can be full of surprises. Two females of the species were half way up the meat aisle one day last week. I expected them to speak in Latin, or with the gravity of Count Dracula. Instead they were yapping away in the soft buttery accent of Westmeath.

"It doesn't matter." "I know." "I mean it doesn't." "I know." "I mean he's an ee-gah." "I know." "I mean it's not as if you said anything to him." "I know." "It's not as if you were running after him." "Yeah. I know." "You were only inviting him." "Jesus. I know." "Jesus. I mean you're entitled to invite who you like." "Jesus, shut up." They were both examining a Polish sausage.

"I wouldn't ate that! Would you?" "No." "What dya do with it?" "Boil it. I think." Their laughter made me shiver with loneliness, and I picked up a tenderised quick-fry steak, and pushed on towards the hardware aisle.

Actually, I was looking for a salad bowl. I thought Tesco would have a salad bowl. They had everything else. They had cutlery, saucepans, smoothie-makers, microwaves, Pyrex dishes and roasting trays. But not a salad bowl in sight.

And then I saw one of those frying pans that have high sides, and I put it in my trolley, convinced that I needed it. I came for a salad bowl, but I went home with a frying pan and two saucepans. People tell me that I suffer from acute consumerism.

For the first few months in Mullingar, I got sick, lonely, and depressed, because there was an unease in my soul for the loss of Leitrim. I pined for another world. Even standing in a dressing gown, in the privacy of my own apartment, my heart was as empty as a gothic vault, and the silence was full of remorse for a lost paradise.

Mullingar is a cool spot at weekends. There's an urban beat. A glittering show which passes before me, as I sit on the barstool and gaze out at the world.

Last weekend I saw an old folk singer, singing one of his songs, in a dark voice, which reminded me of lonesome hobos staring out through the wooden slits of boxcars in Louisiana. And at the same gig, I saw a long-haired Polish boy perform. He stood at the mic, between two speakers, plucking his guitar. His eyes closed. Not trying to connect with anyone. As if he was alone in some empty space and far away. That's cool. The venue was full of well-groomed young men in expensive casual jackets, and stunning aftershave. And women dripping jewellery, and chatting to each other with the confidence of people who have already lived a life or two.

Mullingar is cool. Definitely cool. Tuxedos and cocktail dresses are not uncommon. Everyone cruising the pubs, the clubs, the off-licence, the music venues, and even along the banks of the Royal Canal.

But expect the goths in unexpected places. Expect to see a girl in commando boots that would make a German dominatrix proud, leaning against the wall of some back alley.

Goths are erotic terrorists. Hidden away in the shadows of the urban. Like shreds of remorse in an untended soul.