I like to hear that I am a raconteur of the highest order, and I believe it to be true on top of that with bells on as well as all that too.
I am frequently to be found raconting away, perched nobly on my noble seat at Club Derrig's classy 'Derrig's Bar', spouting off about the many adventures I have embarked upon (and in some cases fallen off), my many and frequent rousting abouts of laydeez near and far, far away, and my traversing of this sad globule we call Earthworld.
It is, I am sure you'll have to agree, my gift.
But hold your harnesses! It is, as is usual with all these things, an rotten curse too.
For I am an immensely critical auditor of the tales of others. I am forced - not through pernickitiness or Braisbyism - to tease out of every last word, phrase, and sentence the subtle nuances that are, for example, wasted on the ever-wasted Beattie. He's simply not on the look-out for discrepancies, inconsistencies, contradictions, illogicalities, and tautologies.
But it's not just the chaff that is an rotten curse. It is also the tales of unremitting brilliance, wit, incisiveness and warmth that strike me. And when I hear one these pearls, I am transfixed, like a rabbit in the old headlock. Sometimes I can only bear a few words before I am begging the teller to desist it straight at once.
Only the other day I was spiritually lifted as one such narrative was wafted trickled into my ears from the slithery tongue of a strangely familiar woman of no-fixed-mental-ability.
She began in an eerie voice: "Once upon a time there were two menus - one on the wall and one......"
Already I could take it no more. I made my excuses, and left.
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