A modest white wooden chair with a stack of magazines, and a microphone on a stand: the 'set' for Three Stories from Radio Four is as simple and un-convoluted as the motifs and descriptions in writer John Osborne's stories. The show consists of Osborne reading his own half-hour narratives, with the occasional embellishment of recorded musical accompaniment.

The performance is utterly 'Osborne'. He looks like a cool British lumberjack-poet with an unshorn face, unkempt hair, red flannel Rab shirt, jeans, and brown boots, which he casually leans over to re-tie in between the first and second stories. In fact, the atmosphere in the Burton Taylor Studio is cool, calm, and casual from the beginning, albeit slightly uneasy too. Osborne commences the show by announcing that we (the audience of the half-full studio) must have better places to be on a Friday night (like the lively beer garden next door), and that we cannot judge him for reading the stories from his iPad because he apologises in advance. Is this self-deprecating humour part of the act or is he really this nobody-likes-me martyr? I guess this is the attitude expected from the author of titles such as Most People Aren't That Happy Anyway and No-one Cares About Your New Thing. Nevertheless, Osborne reads, unfazed, occasionally pausing during musical interludes to take a swig from his Old Speckled Hen ale.

Friday evening's unconnected triptych consisted of Circled in the Radio Times, The New Blur Album, and Seasides. Osborne recounted his grandfather's ritual of circling television programs in the Radio Times over several decades, how he keeps track of his relationships with long-time school friends through new Blur albums, concerts, and old tracks, and how annual pilgrimages and spontaneous trips to the seaside contain (mostly) fond memories. Before the show, my only exposure to this writer was On Being Ignored. In this, I was moved by how Osborne artfully expanded a small exchange at a café (waiting far too long for the bill) to fill a quarter of an hour, and how he criticised the bigger idea of feeling a cold shoulder from 'friends' despite (or because of) so many modes of communication. I could wholly empathise with his anguish and I had thought of Osborne as a more poetic, British version of Aziz Ansari, an American stand up comic and author of Modern Romance, known for his disapproval of poor texting etiquette. Therefore, I expected more twenty-first century social commentary from this show, but this only came in the form of a reference to Netflix leaving us 'spoiled for choice,' something that starkly contrasts with his grandfather's telly-watching customs where 'if you missed it, it was gone'. I struggled to find bigger lessons in Friday night's stories; they seemed to be more chronicles of his life than purposeful non-fiction narratives trying to change social customs.

Whereas the Tuesday Burton Taylor Studio show, Letters to Myself, focused on audience participation and the wider letter-writing community, the spotlight on Friday was clearly on Osborne. Both shows provide the opportunity for introspection, but the atmosphere on Friday felt more internal and reserved, with a fairly silent (and after the interval, slightly-more-barren) audience. While I could not entirely connect with these three narratives, there were small moments that resonated, especially in his expressive descriptions. Rather than stating 'I saw my friends frequently and felt comfortable at their houses,' Osborne recounts, 'the three of us spent all our time together, as comfortable in each other's homes as we were in our own,' which prompts me to think about my own experiences in having nearby homes-away-from-home while growing up. One of the comical highlights comes after this line, in which Osborne's mother finds one friend asleep in their bath, proving just how relaxed these children are in their neighbourhood. I appreciated Osborne's ability to reflect on his childhood with a poetic magnifying lens: simple exchanges with his grandfather make him feel grown up because 'he shakes [his] hand like a business associate' and at another point, his grandfather allows him to sit in the special armchair reminiscent of a 'forbidden land' that no one else could enter. I can imagine other audience members retracing those first instances where a respected adult recognised them as more than a child. Content-wise, the words speak to me more than the messages; I appreciate the scientific word choice in 'when you get older, you recalibrate your friendships' but the mild lesson here is that you drift away from some people and 'stay friends forever' with others, which is not news to anyone at this 14+ event.

Stories aside, I cannot help but think this show could have been done just as effectively as a podcast or radio segment. The performance was all about the words; the props (the chair and magazines) did not play a role in his storytelling. His voice is reminiscent of the stereotypical poet voice, although with a bit more inflection and spirit. At points, I yearned for him to express more aggravation with his tone and face, for example while describing a frustrating love triangle based on a communal appreciation of Blur. The stories seemed to be interrupted by jarring musical excerpts. Though there was one effective instance of Blur's 'Song 2' as Osborne took us to the Sheffield indie club, the performance could have benefited from careful fading and timing of songs. Given the story styles, Osborne could look into collaborating with the Modern Love podcast, where diegetic and non-diegetic sounds round out the narrative. Osborne's stories are apt for police sirens, seagulls backed by crashing waves, and the pinging of arcade games. Overall, I wish the event had been an extension of his radio recitations, with an opportunity for audience engagement through questions and comments.

From the Friday story selection, we see Osborne is a sharp observer and detailed describer full of nostalgia for his childhood. However, this unrelated trilogy of stories lacked bigger-world messages and there was no underpinning theme, other than perhaps sentimentality. I recommend listening to his other stories, such as the aforementioned On Being Ignored, and Homesick in the Modern World, where he assimilates research on homesickness, intertwines it with his own experiences, from Cub Scout to expat, and ends with a solid message: a prescription for homesickness. In Friday's performance, Osborne took us for a walk strictly down his own memory lane, though he did provide us with some opportunities to chuckle, think, and connect with our own lives.