Tracking down a Glasgow cabbie with a passion for controversy... and poetry. When I found Stef Shaw one June morning in Alfredo’s, a daylight-proof pub in Glasgow with mahogany panels and a dozen flatscreens, he lifted his blue polo shirt to show me his scars. One around his forearm, a long slash from a meat cleaver, and a pathway of divots up his belly; a gang of lunatics had stabbed him at a family birthday party nearly 20 years ago. ‘I’ve died twice, been brought back twice,’ he told me.