Coastalblog

So last night I had a twenty minute conversation with a regular customer, a man I didn't have pregged previously for anything other than drinking and bad jokes. This tewenty minute conversation was about the late, great Sarah Kane's haunted suicide and last play, the harrowing 4:48 Psychosis. This man had never been to the theatre in his life and the first thing he goes to see is something by Sarah Kane . I can't imagine what that would do to your head. It's jolted me out of a few smug preconceptions though.

I am knackered, I mean in the epic sense. Very little sleep last night (note to self, and also cautionary warning to all coastalblog readers DO NOT EAT A LARGE PIZZA AND THEN ATTEMPT TO SLEEP IN A WARM ROOM. IT IS A RECIPE FOR DISASTER. YOU WILL FIND YOURSELF WATCHING BBC NEWS 24 AT FIVE IN THE FUCKING MORNING. IT'S NOT EVEN NEWS AT THAT POINT. IT'S WORLD BUSINESS REPORT. DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW DULL WORLD BUSINESS REPORT IS? IT'S DULL. REALLY FUCKING DULL). Beyond that I'm pretty good, rehearsals for my one off rock god appearance come sunday are going surprisingly well (surprising given that I haven't picked up a guitar in anger in over two years prior to this). Writer's research thingy yesterday sparked off a few ideas, and I'm starting a poetics essay this very evening. As Bokonon in Cat's Cradle would say, busy busy busy.

Part one in an astonishingly occasional series. I mean really occasional. As occasional as those days where you don't wake up with an indefinable sense of dread. So anyway, as coastalblog readers will doubtless be aware, I'm quite fond of food. I think it's nice. My cookbook Food is nice will shortly be available in all reputable my houses. Today's recipe, created and tinkered with for a colleague whose general aceness DEMANDS that she has recipes created in her honour is... Philippa Chicken. Take some pieces of skin on chicken, thighs for preference, and marinade. Marinade as follows. Tblspn Tamarind Paste, half a glass dark soy, half a glass dry white, a dash or six of fino sherry, 1 diced medium chilli, a couple of teaspoons muscovado sugar, one scant teaspoon of mustard. Make small incisions in the skin to allow the marinade to penetrate. Stick it in the fridge. A few hours should do the trick Make sure to turn them so they're coated all over. Take yo...

This one's for Michael White....

Ahem. So hi, how are all three of you? Well, I do hope so. Ormksirk life contnues with interesting variations. There has been rehearsal for this Manchestery guitary thing. Which is fun (and will be a small box ticked in my mental inventory of aims), and beyond that not a great deal. No, that's not strictly true. Roe and I had the most entertaining meal of our lives at the execrable St Petersburg . I urge anyone with the capability to do so to go. It fascinating . The tone of the evening was set when the waiter insisted we go up the stairs first, largely so he could gaze at Roe's arse, we gathered. Starters were fine, if a little on the smothered in cream side, and my lamb dish was fine, until I came to the side veg. What had been described on the menu as "traditional russian fried potatoes" was nothing more than, well, a pile of stale crinkle cut crisps. Undeterred, and hungry I mashed them into the (otherwise perfectly pleasant) lamb stew. Roe's "Scal...

Got caned. Tidied my room. I'm twenty six for God''s sake.

My liver cries for vengeance for my errant behaviour this past week. Monday myself and some compadres visited the catering trade show in Manchester's G-Mex. This consists largely of suppliers trying to get me to stock their wares by giving me free alcohol. Needless to say hopeless ruin ensued, within three hours we were all irredeemably trolleyed. And then we decided to go out in Manchester. This, and I cannot emphasise this enough, was an error. I have no memories of what followed beyond getting slung out of one of the dingiest bars I have ever been in, with a jukebox at full blast, for being too loud. Wednesday I atoned for this day of excess by buying Roe a spectacular meal at 60 Hope St. This proved costly, but ultimately worth it as I had one of those marvellous evenings when you feel rich, for a bit. Any excuse to wear a suit really. Since then I have mostly been getting horribly bitched at work, and now I'm jolly, jolly tired. Oh well.