Posted by: docdenbow | May 14, 2013

The South Bank Show

Do you know what? I can write self pitying, indulgent whingeing with the best. On a recent episode of “The South Bank Show” (yes, it’s still on Sky Arts as a matter of fact) none other than Melvyn Bragg commented that :

“In terms of abject misery, the words of Doc Denbow tumble from the page like a torrent of fetid slurry. His use of metaphors to describe the gurgling sewer of existentialism make the efforts of others appear to be just that, efforts………”

So in the eyes of a bloke on the telly I am the doyen of doom. Yet…. if I painted instead of blogged then I would be hailed as an artistic genius with my very brush strokes evidence of the tortured soul that could convey his pain onto canvas. My works would change hands for millions, dollars of course, and I would be forced to live on a barge on the Thames, marry a pretentious ex-model and breed a gaggle of improbably named children. The misery would then be complete as I would be forced, due to my celebrity, into a succession of love affairs with supermodels and their ilk, and night after night of exhausting, yet innovative, sex.

I believe that would make me more depressed.

To escape my depression I would suspend my painting endeavours and write a tedious autobiography detailing amongst other things, my impoverished upbringing, expulsion from a secondary modern at the age of 14, a trail of pregnant girlfriends, a minor drug addiction and a life of petty crime which ultimately led to an approved school where I encountered a sadomasochistic Art Teacher who would beat me soundly whilst lecturing me on Warhol, Van Gogh and Reubens.

Writing out my unhappy life, I believe would make me more depressed.

I am glad that I don’t paint, for if the route to great art is being sodomized in Borstal then you can forget it.

My life has been so unrelentingly unremarkable, and remains so, that I cannot become a novelist. A good novelist draws on their life experience. My life has been so unremittingly dull and tedious that I have nothing to draw on, I just have a vivid imagination that some would say is both delusional and hallucinogenic. Good grief, if I had any life experience then I’d be landed, I would be able to churn out book after book after book and make some serious moolah.

This is all leading me to think that as most of my spare time is spent :

: Watching Finding Bigfoot
: Watching Storage Wars
: Watching Storage Wars, Texas
: Watching Pawn Stars
: Watching Cajun Pawn Stars
: Watching Hardcore Pawn

and that is all that I draw my life experience from then I’ve got what is euphemistically called “issues.” I really need to think a bit about improving my life’s experiences so that I have something to draw on when I write. I don’t think that there’s anywhere in the world that there is anyone would want to read about a bunch of pawnbrokers searching for a Squatch. I think that market may be a touch selective, mind you if anyone out there is offering a commission………

As I have bugger all in the way of real life to draw upon, and having read loads of crime stories, I really think that I should write a hard boiled detective story. You know the sort of thing, part Mike Hammer, part Phillip Marlowe, part that bloke off Bargain Hunt. With femmes fatale, broads, bimbos, losers, chiv men, cheroots and jazz – lots of jazz. Yes, and set it somewhere with cool like Milton Keynes. The excitement must be palpable, edge of your seat, nail biting stuff I think, with plots, sub plots, red herrings and other fish that is available that isn’t coley, I don’t like coley. At the end of the day, bottom line, when shoves come to push it must have a gripping narrative and what makes for a gripping narrative, is a narrative that really grips.

Yet, I do not wish to write a hackneyed formulaic lump of drivel masquerading as a novel. I find, coming from me, the term novel to be grotesque. I feel more comfortable calling what I write stories, short stories. shorter stories, proper short stories and big stories. I have no pretense or illusion that I have any talent as a writer of anything fictional, I can write articles about football and all that, but I find that unfulfilling and I don’t seem to be able to knuckle down, put my nose to the grindstone and actually finish a BIG STORY. Mind you I have written a little tale recently that I think is pretty good, it’s here, please have a little look  Pure Fiction

And that’s where we began,

Ciao For Now



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