Coastalblog

So traffic through Coastalblog has increased quite a bit recently, and checking the referrals I can't help but note a lot of Google searches for Liz. I've also noticed a whole bunch of email adresses I don't recognise, and a couple of veeeery interesting IP addresses. To any of Liz's family and friends searching her name and finding coastalblog: Hi, I'm desperately sorry for your loss, you have all of my sympathy. To any journos lazily googling for research: go fuck yourselves, you revolting vultures.

One other thing, when I was buying the paper this morning, it occurred to me that the apprehension of the would be suicide bomber suspects is the perfect tabloid news event. The assorted headlines "Got the bastards" "You're nicked" and the like were perfectly suited to the tabs particular brand of gormless bellicosity, as though the hacks themselves had tossed the stun grenades into the flats, defeating the Islamist threat with British pluck and muscle. Of course, given that they are suspects of a serious crime, it wouldn't be at all amusing if it was discovered that they had nothing to do with it. Not funny at all. Oh no. Note, Coastalblog fervently hopes that the police have caught the guilty parties, and has no reason to doubt that they have, but jesus those headlines were ridiculous

well, for the time being, anyway. Manager on his hols so peace and quiet reigns in the workplace. The downside being that I'm working pretty much every day for the next fortnight. This is coupled by Mrs Coastaltown's home visit for her friend's wedding (there really are a lot of those about at the moment) and sojourn there for an extended period, reasoning that I won't be at home a great deal anyway, which is correct. The last few days have been enlivened by a few events, though it's best left to Celeste to tell you about the Telegram Incident . It's only when I actually see my friends that I remember how rarely I see them. This isn't as bad as it sounds, it always comes as a pleasant surprise. Beyond that, little of interest to report really. I'm taking the opportunity to have a good long break from booze. So if the tone of this blog becomes too pollyannish mail me to let me know and I'll start hittingthe wine at a rate of knots. It never does to be

Idiot customers are one thing. Great customers are something else altogether. We had a table of quite drunk, very loud and extremely scouse birthday celebrants last night. Pleasant enough, bit of a nuisance, nothing out of the ordinary. What made the evening was the two kids they'd brought along with them, Scott (8) and Ashley (11). Now, I have no objection to kids in restaurants at all. Though I do take issue with adults who bring kids along, then sit and get drunk. It doesn't surprise me that kids get bored and run around the place. If you're not going to take care of your children then DON'T GO TO A FUCKING RESTAURANT. But just occasionally you come across kids who are perfectly capable of amusing themselves without causing havoc, and so it was with these two. I fell hopelessly in love with Ashley when she came round to talk to us "because the grown ups are all drunk, so they're boring", and Scott, who resembled a 1:3 scale Peter Kay was a jolly fellow

Now you all know how much I enjoy imbecilic exchanges with customers. I cherish their goombah questions, inability to read signs, spectacular mispronunciations (Brie pronounced to rhyme with sigh, Sauvignon Blank, that sort of thing) and general cluelessness with a bright, fierce love that is otherwise reserved for my girlfriend, family, friends and the occasional Pinot Noir(though it has to be pretty damn good). However, I haven't had a genuine weirdo in for a while, so table 53 last night lifted my spirits to levels they haven't reached in a while. They were fantastic . For openers they marched right through the restaurant without acknowledging anyone, hammering past an extremely surprised manager, a couple of startled waitresses and an unwary barman before sitting themselves down on a balcony table in the extension (probably the nicest table in the restaurant). They then decided that this wasn't quite far enough for them, opened the french doors and went and stood in the

There'sa scene in John Steinbeck's Cannery Row which leapt immediately to mind this morning. Mack and the boys inadvertently trash Doc's house when attempting to throw him a party, and nothing goes right for anyone in town for a long while. A ship is destroyed, a beloved dog falls ill, a man loses his legs: "There is no explaining a series of misfortunes like that. Every man blames himself. People in their black minds remember sins committed recently and wonder whether they caused the evil sequence." Well, I hear that. Work has been hell. The tension between myself and the incumbent manager (who knows I'm just waiting now) is reaching interesting levels. We've had one of the hardest shifts I can recall (the full anedotes from which will have to wait for a future post about the idiocy of scouse gangsters - uh-huh) and it's just...There is also an ongoing familial situation (which, as I said before, I'm really not going into here, but it's preyi

I've been debating internally whether to write this post for a number of days. Partially I do not wish to intrude upon a worry and grief which is only tangentially mine, but then again nor is it something I can ignore. Those of you who are on ILE will know what I mean. For those who aren't: Elizabeth Daplyn, a contributor to ILX (message boards) and all round excellent human being is still missing after the London bombings of last week. I know Liz only to say hello to online (in addition to ILX we both write for Pumpkin Publog), which is why I've been debating this. It just doen't feel like my place to write a post to mark her. But like the giant squid at the kitchen table it's been nigh on impossible to ignore. So we have this horrible mishmash of half-baked reasoning, seasoned with a little loss as well. Simplicity seeming to be the best option then I'll just say this. My love and best wishes for Liz, for Rob her boyfriend, for London ILX, ILX as a whole, and

I suppose that I should be tackling the issues of the day, in fact I'm certain that many of you would deem it remiss of me if I were to allow the entire G8 diploma-fandango pass without mention. So there it is. In other news the world of coastalblog continues to wobble uncertainly on its axis but continue on a vaguely upward trajectory. There are a whole bunch of professional issues extant which it is unwise to discuss on here, there are also an enormous bunch of family issues extant which I am unwilling to talk about on here. So, remove those factors from the equation of my existence and a large proportion of its current structure is excised (hah, I originally typed "id excised"). So what have we left? Well, I've been cooking and writing up a storm recently (I've started baking again, which I suspect may well be a comfort thing. I don't think I've made scones in about twenty years), the reading continues apace. All good. It was also excellent to get out t

(Having just had a quick glance at the referrals log, and fuelled by my apparently compulsive posting today) To the person who arrived at Coastalblog via a google search for "Leighton Buzzard + Katey" (believe it or not, and I didn't myself before a quick look discovered a joke at the expense of that particular town in close proximity to a hello to my dear friend Katey - enough of a conjunction to propel me into the top 5 results for google searches for Leighton Buzzard + Katey, and I suspect I'm rocketing up the rankings the longer this post goes on) There is probably more than one person in Leighton Buzzard called Katey. You may want to be a little more specific in your search. Like a surname, for example. Brought to you by Coastalblog, your guide to the world of facts. (actually, the more I think about it, was this person cyber-stalking poor old Katey from Leighton Buzzard? Was this bit of hopeful googling the first, inexperienced and faltering step upon a road whi

And, to follow on from the apt reading detailed below, a timely shot in the arm of ormskirk oddity as I went to buy breakfast. The gambling arcade (free tea and coffee!)was open at ten past nine in the morning. It was full. Every single one of the players was a woman in her seventies, and the entire lot of them were listening to Muse. Very loudly indeed.

If you realise you're getting old when work starts taking it out of you then sign me up at the local Bowls club. I finished a seven day stint on Tuesday, and have spent the last two days without the energy to do a damn thing apart from read. Whilst reading I discovered an enteretaining sensation. Re-reading a book you read many years ago and feeling as though it's copied you to a certain extent, though clearly you have absorbed something of it and used it much later. And no, I'm not telling you what book it is. It was a pleasant shock to suddenly have an influence rise unbidden from the mists of a thoroughly fried memory,particularly when it chimes in with something you happen to be working on at the time. A happy accident, but precious little return for two days off. Dear God, I'm going back to bed.