Coastalblog

Coverage of the possible serial killings in Suffolk has afforded me a certain grim amusement over the last couple of days. The manner in which it's been reported is akin to a breathless schoolgirl informing her mum that Johnny's asked her to the formal. "But Mum, he's murdering hookers!" Seriously, it's just so fucking overexcitable. From the slew of maps and graphics to the tediously ineivitable tagging of the killer(s) as the "Ipswich Ripper" (which seems wildly innapropriate given that the only method of death of which we've so far been informed has been asphyxiation). The tabloids (and, sadly, the Independent) have collectively wanked thremselves into a frenzy over a story which I cannot help but point out is, at it's very essence, the story of five dead women. Retreat to first principles. Killing. People. Is. Wrong. Except they're not being defined as people, are they? the victims are being defined as prostitutes, as ludicrous a disp...

The chap in charge of the web services for Merchant Taylor's boys school is a gigantic monkey faced buffoon. I mean really. He's about eight feet tall, has a face like a monkey and is an absolute, copper-bottomed buffoon. In less clicquey news this evening I heard someone say, entirely straight faced "all I have is my pride. And my guitars" nearly fell off me stool for laughing.

I never thought it would happen, I never in my most fevered imaginings dreamed it COULD happen. But happen it has. An advert has come along featuring a character more revolting, more nauseating, more dreams of extreme violence creating than that kid in the Frosties ad whon chirped relentlessly on about how they were gonna taste great. You know the one, that whitebread grinning fucking robot who reminded you of nothing so much as the evil football hero at primary school who made it his personal mission to make your life hell. He's number two now. That Lynx ad. The FHM wet dream of an impressive number of glossy, bikini clad godesses scrambling to be the first to reach that goon on the beach. Yes. Him. Leaving aside the terrifying intellectual poverty of the premise itself there's just something about his gormlessly lustful expression which causes every muscle in my body to tense, except those engaged in moving my head and eyes as I instinctively look round for something to hit ...

There's nothing quite like the smug feeling you get after completing some strenuous physical exercise, the sure knowledge that you've done yourself a power of good, the even better knowledge that you won't have to do it again today, the brilliant realisation that you can go for a guilt-free pint. There's nothing to top it. Unless you happen to have also finished all your christmas shopping on the same day for that double-smug goodness, that is. Aw yeah.

CAVEAT EMPTOR: Coastalblog would like to point out that he's about to discuss something of which his knowledge is scanty, but that's largely the point. As I age the one thing which is a source of constant surprise to me is the Internet. Not in and of itself, I've been a fan and avid consumer of its manifold treasures for many a long year now. But I'm struggling to adjust to its pervasiveness now. I'm part of the last generation who can remember a pre-internet age. A childhood without messenger, christmases having to write multiple thankyou letters rather than one standard thank-you email. I was, at the time, reasonably ahead of the game in understanding the net, its potential and its usefulness. But now I have to hold my hand up and admit that I am woefully off the pace. I feel like I felt several years ago when I realised that I didn't care as much about music as I used to, that I wasn't keeping remotely up to date with anything remotely resembling the blee...

Now, I am the first to admit that I am possibly not the snappiest dresser. I'm fond of a good suit, and partial to a well-tailored shirt. But most of the time you'll find me in jeans and a scabby indie band tour t-shirt circa the early nineties. Frankly it's a miracle that any woman's looked at me twice. The fact that one saw fit to marry me is right up there with loaves and fishes (Breaded haddock, incidentally. Has to be). In amongst my selection of scabby indie band tour t-shirts of the early nineties is a Kingmaker t-shirt. The Eat Yourself Whole tour, to be precise. Not that it matters because not a huge amount of people gave a monkeys at the time, which was fourteen years ago. So it follows tghat even fewer people would give said monkeys now. Apart from those Shadowy figures behind the new Will Ferrell vehicle something or other. I've no idea what the film's called, I'm aware that the plot is some Kaufman-lite MacGuffin about an author writing somebody...