I always 'double dip' a Dangerfield substack. A cursory first reading to determine the point and feel of the story and the second to appreciate the style and Chris's trademark vivid descriptive powers. His great strength is in beautifuly described awfulness. His great ability is to compose scenes of horror, depravity and often gore and paint them in exquisite delicate subtle brushstrokes.
This piece is (once again) a slight departure from Chris' usual output style.
In my opinion, there is no story, there is no point and there are no trademark visceral depictions of human self debasement under their chemical masters, concluding that this is a writing exercise of sorts, a tweaking of writing style focusing on dialogue, with the absurd pointlessness of the plot coming second, if at all.
As a cannabis enthusiast myself I smiled at the astute little observations, the 'orgasmic sniff" of the bud standing out.
I can relate to the mindset Chris expertly describes, and I too can describe the many mornings sitting quietly by my pond smoking bud as most assuredly being 'busy'
If indeed it is an exercise in dialogue, it works well, flows nicely and is another worthy addition to the Dangerfield Canon. Giving its focus on dialogue and absurd ending, it could have been titled 'Pillow Talk'
Lovely liitle treat on a Sunday morning, Darryl sounds like my Daughter, she had to climb up a drainpipe yesterday to get back in doors for her keys. I hate panic attacks and going outside and staying indoors and lol, Love your stories you describe characters so well you feel like they're ya mates/acquaintances as we've all got them like those even the gross ones.
Reading this was like watching a scene from a well acted, gritty 1980s channel 4/BBC2 documentary or play. It read well, flowed nicely, allowed me to envision the characters and scenes. Having lived next door to a rather large, loud, violent, hard drinking docker myself in the 90s, i often encountered Bob at inopportune moments outside the front of our house when i too was completely toffee-ied,. One quickly learnt how to straighten up and invoke an air of oi, oi saveloy, defensive humour. However, that hyperspace jump from mellow, stoned immaculation to a fight or flight crystal sharp awaredness was not enjoyable. Inside i just wanted him to fuck off...Problem was he liked me, thought i was one of his geezaar tribe. Used to get stuck there chatting for anything up to an hour with the Mrs glancing through the front window knowingly while laughing her tits off. Anyway, long story short ...A lot of your writing is relatable, which is why i like it.
Another reflection of how many MANY of us ex stoners lived life when all that mattered was puff, munchies and mates. Every time I read one of these from you it has a very VERY... what's that sweaty sock wanker... did trainspotting... Irvin Welsh? You feel like a much BETTER version of that cunt, to me, anyway. I could 100% relate to this story - can't we all? Fantastic little read. I truly hope, one day, you're able to make it like that cunt and have at least one film made from one of these scripts... If only I had the dolla..... We can hope. Big love, bruva!
yo g i got dis leeeeeeeeng cali pack some of that tt bangin shit ye? this oneis christmas dinner it is the bang bang you smell dat shit and it smells like me nanas crimbo stuffing yaknow? somadat og shit
A fun read Chris, all those strange and at the time logical thoughts we process and act on belatedly when stoned to the bone, glad I don’t bun de erb no more.
Hello people - let me know what you think about this one. Give it a LIKE if you like it. Cheers.
I always 'double dip' a Dangerfield substack. A cursory first reading to determine the point and feel of the story and the second to appreciate the style and Chris's trademark vivid descriptive powers. His great strength is in beautifuly described awfulness. His great ability is to compose scenes of horror, depravity and often gore and paint them in exquisite delicate subtle brushstrokes.
This piece is (once again) a slight departure from Chris' usual output style.
In my opinion, there is no story, there is no point and there are no trademark visceral depictions of human self debasement under their chemical masters, concluding that this is a writing exercise of sorts, a tweaking of writing style focusing on dialogue, with the absurd pointlessness of the plot coming second, if at all.
As a cannabis enthusiast myself I smiled at the astute little observations, the 'orgasmic sniff" of the bud standing out.
I can relate to the mindset Chris expertly describes, and I too can describe the many mornings sitting quietly by my pond smoking bud as most assuredly being 'busy'
If indeed it is an exercise in dialogue, it works well, flows nicely and is another worthy addition to the Dangerfield Canon. Giving its focus on dialogue and absurd ending, it could have been titled 'Pillow Talk'
Lovely liitle treat on a Sunday morning, Darryl sounds like my Daughter, she had to climb up a drainpipe yesterday to get back in doors for her keys. I hate panic attacks and going outside and staying indoors and lol, Love your stories you describe characters so well you feel like they're ya mates/acquaintances as we've all got them like those even the gross ones.
Reading this was like watching a scene from a well acted, gritty 1980s channel 4/BBC2 documentary or play. It read well, flowed nicely, allowed me to envision the characters and scenes. Having lived next door to a rather large, loud, violent, hard drinking docker myself in the 90s, i often encountered Bob at inopportune moments outside the front of our house when i too was completely toffee-ied,. One quickly learnt how to straighten up and invoke an air of oi, oi saveloy, defensive humour. However, that hyperspace jump from mellow, stoned immaculation to a fight or flight crystal sharp awaredness was not enjoyable. Inside i just wanted him to fuck off...Problem was he liked me, thought i was one of his geezaar tribe. Used to get stuck there chatting for anything up to an hour with the Mrs glancing through the front window knowingly while laughing her tits off. Anyway, long story short ...A lot of your writing is relatable, which is why i like it.
Another reflection of how many MANY of us ex stoners lived life when all that mattered was puff, munchies and mates. Every time I read one of these from you it has a very VERY... what's that sweaty sock wanker... did trainspotting... Irvin Welsh? You feel like a much BETTER version of that cunt, to me, anyway. I could 100% relate to this story - can't we all? Fantastic little read. I truly hope, one day, you're able to make it like that cunt and have at least one film made from one of these scripts... If only I had the dolla..... We can hope. Big love, bruva!
That was brilliant & hilarious, one of my favourite yet. Nice one Chris.
yo g i got dis leeeeeeeeng cali pack some of that tt bangin shit ye? this oneis christmas dinner it is the bang bang you smell dat shit and it smells like me nanas crimbo stuffing yaknow? somadat og shit
A lovely story of friendship
"I'm just round the corner, 2 minutes away..." my mate, already 15 minutes late, said last night, on the phone, as I waited at his door.
I had a good twenty f.ing minutes to try and calm my frustration with remembering that, as something of a stoner himself, he's always been like this.
"Yeah, no worries. I was sat in the car listening to a livestream" (Forty Two btw!)
He's a good mate but it's a yawn having to think of him as a kind of handicapped. Always a let down, always excuses.
I just get this feeling that our ancestors who constructed the first gothic cathedrals in Europe, for example, weren't quite this tardy.
My thoughts have been provoked. Good stuff.
A rather gentle look at some more floppy life in the slow lane.
There's an intrigue and incongruity to that pillow in the garden that I enjoyed the most. 'As one door closes, another door closes' is a superb line.
Cheers then
Had me laughing mate. Loved the daughter and brass confusion
My heart goes out to Linda
A fun read Chris, all those strange and at the time logical thoughts we process and act on belatedly when stoned to the bone, glad I don’t bun de erb no more.