Skip to main content

Ho ho

You know what's great? Winning money by knowing stuff. Particularly when pub denizens growl "Smartarse" at you and you reply "that's mr sixty pounds richer smartarse to you." Made particularly great by doubting teammates being convinced I wouldn't know the answer. We still came fucking second, though, damn those old people who have had more time to learn incidental bollocks than us.

You know what's even greater? Two seperate people have found coastalblog by googling "Ormskirk seed pods." If only they'd googled EIGHT FUCKING METRES TALL BRONZE GLOWING SEED PODS that would have been even greater. Welcome, come one come all to the web's number one ormsirk resource (I get a load of googlers for the Arriba, too, god only knows what impression they get. But this one's just for them: THE ARRIBA IS WHERE YOU GO WHEN YOU HAVEN'T EVEN GOT ENOUGH SELF RESPECT TO PAY FOR WHORES YOU RIDICULOUS BASTARDS. THE ARRIBA IS WHERE YOU GO WHEN YOU'RE DRUNK ENOUGH TO PURSUE THE IDEA THAT CASUAL SEX WITH SOME GIRL TOO DRUNK TO KNOW WHAT SHE'S DOING MIGHT BE A REALLY, REALLY GOOD IDEA, AND IN NO WAY AN HORRIFIC EMOTIONAL CAR-CRASH WHICH DEMEANS YOU BOTH. IT IS SHIT. YOU ARE SHIT. EVERYTHING YOU STAND FOR IS SHIT. EVERYTHING YOU HAVE EVER DONE IS SHIT. NO, SHE WOULDN'T FANCY YOU SOBER. YOUR SHIRT, ALSO, IS SHIT. GO TO LIVERPOOL FOR FUCK'S SAKE. DON'T GO TO THE ARRIBA. DON'T GO TO THE ARRIBA. DON'T GO TO THE ARRIBA. EVERY TIME YOU GO TO THE ARRIBA A FAIRY DIES. YOUR SHIRT REALLY IS SHIT, INCIDENTALLY, AND SO IS YOUR MATES. LITTLE BRITAIN IS SHIT, I KNOW YOU LOVE IT, BUT IT'S SHIT. OASIS ARE SHIT, AND WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING STILL LISTENING TO THEM ANYWAY? IT'S NEARLY TWO THOUSAND AND BASTARD SIX. BUDWEISER IS SHIT. SMIRNOFF ICE IS SHIT. THE BAR-MAID DOES NOT FANCY YOU, SHE GIVES THAT FLIRTY GLANCE TO EVERYONE, THOUGH YOU MAY GET A DISINTERESTED HAND-JOB IF YOU OFFER HER SOME OF YOUR REALLY SHIT COKE. YOUR FRIENDS DON'T REALLY LIKE YOU, AND LET'S BE HONEST, YOU DON'T REALLY LIKE THEM EITHER, DO YOU? OH, I KNOW YOU SAY YOU DO. BUT CAN YOU SEE THEM STANDING BY YOU WHEN IT ALL GOES REALLY, REALLY WRONG? DO YOU HONESTLY THINK THAT PATTING SOMONE AWKWARDLY ON THE SHOULDER AND MUMBLING "I'M REALLY SORRY MATE" CUTS IT WHEN A SERIOUS CRISIS HITS,YOU TIT? YOU'RE NOT FRIENDS, YOU JUST THINK YOU ARE BECAUSE YOU GET PISSED AND BELLOW ALONG TO "BROWN-EYED GIRL" TOGETHER. "BROWN-EYED GIRL" IS NOT A GOOD SONG. IT IS SHIT, BUT NOT, AND I CANNOT STRESS THIS ENOUGH, AS SHIT AS YOU).

I am, incidentally, drunk.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

A whole new world.

I appear to have moved into the pub. Now, I don't wish to give the impression that this has come as a complete surprise to me, we'be been planning to do so since shortly after I bought it, but still, it's sort of snuck up on me and now I'm waking up and thinking what happened? How come I'm here? The reason for this discombobulation is that this move was initially a temporary measure. Mrs Coastalblog had some relatives coming to stay, and it made sense to put them up in our house while we decamped to the flat. It's still a work in progress, but a mad week of cleaning and carting stuff around made it habitable. I had a suspicion that once we were in we'd be back and forth for a few weeks. As with many of my hunches, I was completely and utterly wrong. As it turned out, once we were here, we were here. Things moved at pace and, now our kitchen appliances have been installed, there's no going back, the old house is unusable. It's left me with slightly mi

Mad Dogs and Immigration Ministers

It is with no small degree of distress that I'm afraid to say I've been thinking about Robert Jenrick. I know, I know, in this beautiful world with its myriad of wonders, thetre are many other things about which I could think, the play of sunlight upon dappled water, the laughter of my children, the song thrush calling from the sycamore tree a few yards away from where I type this. Yet the shiny, faintly porcine features of the Minister for Immigration keep bubbling up into my consciousness. It's a pain in the arse, I tell you. A few years ago on here I wrote a piece entitled The cruelty is the point in which I argued that some policies are cruelty simply for the sake of it, pour decourager les autres . I was reminded of that recently when I listened to Jenrick defending his unpleasant, petty decision to order murals at a migrant children's centre to be painted over. You've probably heard the story already; deeming pictures of cartoon characters "too welcoming&

20

Huh. It turns out that this blog is, as of, well, roughly about now-ish, 20 years old. 20. I've been doing this (very intermittently) for twenty bloody years. And, I cannot help but note, still am, for some reason. I've done posts in the past, when this whole thing was comparatively blemish free and dewy-skinned looking back on its history and how it's changed down the years, there's not really a lot of point in doing that again. It's reflected what concerns me at the time, is, I think, the most charitable way of phrasing it (a  polite way of saying that it's been self-absorbed and solipsistic, but then, it's a blog, this should not come as a shock), it's interesting for me to look back over the lists of posts, but not so much for you, I imagine. Likewise, pondering how I've changed in the intervening years is also fairly pointless. It's painfully obvious that I was a very different person at 25 to 45, my experience of jobs and kids and marriage