Hailing as I do from Boscastle (Britain's muddiest village TM) all things Cornish are matters close to the heart of Coastalblog. Namely the county's marginalisation, poverty and the rest of the country's complete ignorance of same (I've lost count of the amount of times people have wonderingly asked me what I'm doing here upcountry and I've had to patiently explain the systematic destruction of all of cornwall's primary industries, the galloping inflation of its houseprices due to half of them being bought as second homes by fucking stockbrokers and the concomitant grievous damage to Cornwall's economy. And the fact that the unemployment level is the highest in the country). So here's my chance to give something back by asking my paltry handful of readers (ah, but it's the quality that counts) to vote for the Cornish Prayer Book Rebellion, Cornwall's last gasp grab to retain some cultural independence in the Guardian's Radical Restoration poll, and give my countrymen something to shout about. Ta.
"He says it's inedible" said my front of house manager, as she laid the half-eaten fish and chips in front of me, and instantly I relaxed. Clearly, I observed, it was edible to some degree. I comped it, because I can't be arsed arguing the toss, and I want to make my front of house's lives as simple as possible. The haddock had been delivered that morning. The fryers had been cleaned that morning. The batter had been made that morning (and it's very good batter, ask me nicely and I'll give you the recipe some time). The fish and chips was identical to the other 27 portions I'd sent out on that lunch service, all of which had come back more or less hoovered up, we have have a (justified, if I do say so myself) very good reputation for our chips. But it was, apparently, "inedible". When it comes to complaints, less is more. If you use a hyperbolic word like that, I'll switch off, you've marked yourself as a rube, a chump, I'm not g...
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