Stories

There are stories you can tell, and stories you can’t. I have stories that I love to tell, but I can only tell them to certain people. There will be stories which are never told to my girlfriend for example, and some stories never told to my mum. There is some crossover in these stories as you might expect! They are the stories that will one day be stag night stories, or tall tales told in the pub among old men.
There are stories it is safe to tell most people, like the time we went to see Kid Rock and slept in the station managers office at King’s Cross. I love telling that story. Or the time Kerry and I broke the rock bench and almost died laughing at breakfast. Stories it is safe to tell most people.
There are stories you can only tell to the people in them, because they make fuck all sense to anyone else. You could ask maybe 3 people about Julian’s loafers and socks and have them understand. But those 3 people will always smile at the memory.
I share some great memories with a couple of people who probably take as much delight in sharing them as I do. Tales of driving across America in a van with one gear, freewheeling down hills to cool off the engine. Tales of lifting fridges, of staying up all night to stop the kids sneaking out, tales of random underwear runs onto sleeping peoples beds. These are some of my favourite memories; maybe sometime they will be shared.
There are stories you can tell work colleagues, and stories you can tell a certain group of friends. Some of the best stories will remain untold until they are forgotten, or finally find an audience. For me most of that audience may never exist, relegated to people who read the odd story I write, or those who read this blog.
I will hopefully filter these stories into versions suitable for reading; those that I think may be of interest to more than the people in them, or that work generally as anecdotes.
Like many people I have some great memories which are destined to stay memories and never be told to anyone, for whatever reason…