TRC is primarily funded by ad revenue. If you like the content you find here, don't block the ads check them out instead. Thank you.

Blog Comments

  1. Mr Rooty Tooty's Avatar
    I absolutely adore oral story telling, it's my stock in trade. I sometimes get deffered to by people who want to tell a story but suddenly worry they lack the requisite delivery. Mind you, I can't beat my mate Corporal Vickers

    (to my colleagues)

    "I was driving home one night and this bird was walking down the road crying so I pulled over and she'd had a row with her boyfriend so I emotionally manipulated her hunh hunh herrr! Told her what she wanted to hear, made the right noises, anyway I fucked her over the bonnet of my Punto and then dropped her off at her fellas still crying...and I went home to me wife"

    This is a 3 minute segment of what was possibly an uninterrupted 4 hours soliloquy filled with identical horrors, delivered unbroken and unrehearsed, on the back of two grams of decent coke and half a gram of gritty m-cat. He dropped it without missing a beat. I mean really it's got everything, a complete potted story boiled down into a few sentences replete with misery, regret, an Italian hatchback and enthusiastic sexual mismanagement.

    And they loved it!

    I managed to spin out fifteen minutes of material about a bottle of piss I'd seen on the M1 on Friday, fielding questions from the assembled crowd, and it had a very familiar cadence to it.

    Which was: at first everyone was glowering and looking between each other in a "I don't subscribe to this" or "This guy is talking shit" way that people do*. They thought they had the better of me, they thought I'd gas myself. They thought I'd come up short

    And then they started flinging grief at me, and technical questions, trying to shake loose my whole paradigm.

    And I fielded them with finesse and incorporated them to build the story. And people started laughing and began to loosen up and buy into it. And in the end even bystanders were laughing, and I believe I've created a mythos around a 5 litre mineral water bottle half filled with yellow liquid going southbound near junction 17.

    I was in the zone. I stepped out of my body and watched from on high. It was a moment of grace...

    *When you're talking shit.
  2. Editor's Avatar
    you're preaching to the converted** I love a good idea or a situation. But can I make it into a good story? I'm hopeless at telling jokes which doesn't suggest that I can or at least the tradition of oral story telling is prob not best suited to me. And then there's my own internal thresholds, which know oh so well that the actual crafting, shaping, editing, & tidying of the piece is about 90% of the work & 99.999% of the time involved. The boredom level (easily distracted by a dictionary..) & the final gut twisting own kick in the balls when you realise that, actually, what you're just created was done years ago by someone else, better. Plus the nuke to the crotch-it's not interesting enough. Pair that with my cynnical ex-buyer's hat & it's a wonder I even bother to even make a note of anything. BTW I had what I thought was a brilliant idea last week. Couldn't think of anyone who'd done it before. And then, over a coffee I realised that what I had 'invented' was the concept of a museum. That pissed me off.

    And directed writing. Recently I wrote a piece for someone who I had thought had done me a genuine & generous kindness. As ever it took ages to get it right. Then I learnt that no such kindness had happened, my mate had paid for it & that matey of the favour was a bit of a scally anyhow. So I took the piece to him on a tablet when he was busy, showed it him & then scarpered with the view that if he wants it badly enough he can approach me. Fuck giving it to him. And, get this, the truth of the whole episode is a far better story anyhow in that I was dirty, pissed, and a tad lairy when I met him for starters. But sadly it can't be told because he is a name.

    The only real art for art's sake self-sabotaging properly personality fucked up paint artist I know can afford to be. Mind you I suspect he had a rare moment of survial clarity when he met his now wife, who supports him. And their child at Eton.

    ** and, yeah, the idle.

TRC Affiliates - Help TRC make a small amount of commission