Coastalblog

In the not too distant past there was an advertising campaign for a brand of yoghurt. the conceit of this campaign was that the yoghurt was tasty, but good for you, thus having pleasure without the pain. The joke being that some other sucker was getting the pain. Hail of nails, rabid dogs etc. They referred to this gag as the "pleasure/pain principle", of which I, yesterday, was a one man example. My final student loan repayment has been made this month, so I had only my outstanding credit card bill to go before being effectively debt free. In a spirit of clearing the decks, bracing fiscal prudence and what have, I decided to get rid of it in one hit.

It was not a small cheque that I wrote, and the creamy yoghurty joy of being WITHOUT DEBT FOR THE FIRST TIME SINCE 1996 (mmmm) was counterbalanced somehwta by the sharp stinging pain in my wallet (ow ow ow)

Elsewhere, a bumper crop of entertainment in ths week's super soaraway Ormskirk Champion (which, rather sweetly, is boasting about it's circulation rise on the front. It's a freesheet, I take it this just means that they delivered more). the headline features the further fury of a group close to Coastalblog's heart, the Ormskirk and West Lancs Model Boat Club (known mystifyingly as OWLS). I have reported before on their travails as they attempt to put Model Boating in its rightful place on the map by constructing a giant lake, and their touching inability to understand why the council suspect that construction of said lake for the interests of model boating (and NOTHING ELSE. Regular readers will recall OWLS campaign aganst the invidious ducks taking up space with their wings and their quacking)might not be the hottest idea since Balti Pies warms the cockles of your correspondents heart. I am a particular fan of this quote, local journalism at its finest:

"If we had our own lake it would bring a lot of pleasure to all age groups including the disabled."

Marvellous stuff.

Further pleasure was to be derived upon reading the Champ's editorial. There are many ills in the world today. War, Famine, Religious persecution, June Sarpong and Global Warming to name but five. So what does the Champ address, bringing the full power of its journalistic prowess to bear?

Under the headline "We want clackety clack" (which in itself is worthy of several minutes of awed contemplation) they complain that improvements to the rail network to make track silent will make journeys more stressful, what with the drone of other's conversations and "personal" music players (their inverted commas, oh how I love sniffy inverted commas in local newspaper editorials, they actually use "progress" towards the end of the piece as well. Fantastic)not being drowned out by the train's rumble. As if this weren't wonderful enough in itself, they then liken said rumble to "being safe back in the womb." That's right. The womb.

I mean, what's not to love?

As is often the way when you're on a creative roll the static becomes defeaning. Where, only a few scant weeks ago you were screaming for the next idea to come from anywhere, it didn't even have to be a particularly good idea, just something to work with.

Pah, those arid days seem long ago, just as the complacent slimmer looks at a photograph of his earlier fat self (most likely clad in a bright shirt and wearing the sort of smile that only fat holidaying goons can muster) and tuts indulgently so I regard my inspiration-free alter ego of not so long ago with a particularly smug and annoying brand of pity.

But where was I? oh yes, static. There are now that many ideas churning around that I am forced to regard some with suspicion and the old stern eye. I must learn not to get wildly excited when yet another thought pops into my rapidly overheating head, I must learn to fix it with a clear and steady gaze and inquire whether it is a bona fide idea or an imposter, likely to turn into one of the approximately five thousand half-written short stories and stubs of poems which clutter up my hard drive and journals (and which I can never bring myself to delete, oh for the iron will of a Bunting).

For the record, actual ideas currently in production include a (long) poem and one (shorter) one, both of which conform to methods I won't bother going into here. I am also editing the novel (again, I know) and hope to have knocked it into some sort of publishable shape within a year or so. There should also be an essay (after Orwell) on British food up on the Publog sometime soonish.

Today is March the twelfth. There is a blizzard outside. Snow is piling up in drifts.
Today is March the twelfth. This doesn't make any sense. Surely these are the End Times.

Because today, for the first time ever, I completed the Guardian crossword (cryptic, that is, I'm not that easily pleased).

It may seem like small beer to some but hey, I'm just learning.

Other reasons today has been a good day include:

more concrete ideas forming for phd

chicken in yoghurt and mustard sauce with PURPLE SPROUTING BROCCOLI for dinner

discovering that the last Fort William home game was graced by none other than celebrity alcoholic CHARLES KENNEDY, his presence galvanising the lads to a rousing 3-1 defeat. Come on the Fort!

All in all, not bad.

I'm rather taking to this teaching malarkey. I have (as of this morning) just finished my first pile of marking. Now, at first this was a strange experience. Despite having been offered the job, despite all the assurances that I was competent enough for it I found the experience of being the man sitting in judgement on a pile of other people's work somewhat daunting, what with the obvious questions of who am I to judge them etc leaping merrily to the fore. This sensation lasted approximately ten minutes.

You see, whilst I was very proud of my students creative efforts, indeed there was some breathtakingly impressive creative work the supplementary discourses (self-assessment, annotated bibliogaphy) were, with a couple of honourable exceptions, woeful.

I'm making no great claims for myself here, but I am at the very least capable of constructing a reasonably cogent sentence. Repeatedly I was forced to ask myself the question, how the hell did you make it through to third year without even an adequate grasp of how to lay out paragraphs? Sloppy phrasing, inadequate spelling and, worst of all, a wide-ranging failure to question themselves on even the most basic level (to clarify, the self-assessments generally ran to "I wrote this poem I think it's good" with no explanation of why, let alone wondering whether or not it might not be). At a couple of points I was forced to underline sentences and comment that they actually made no sense at all ("for and of the yet", anybody?). Depressing, overall, and I worked myself into a rage wherein I probably marked a lttle too harshly.

It's worth stating again that the poems themselves were, by and large, great, I'm having to stop myself being too negative. But at the risk of sounding like a gout-ridden retired colonel residing in a converted oast-house somewhere in Kent, what on earth are they teaching them in school these days (The ever-reasonable Mrs Coastaltown has a lucid response to this which, once I've negotiated the climb down from my high horse, I'll address)?

So anyway. Bad students.

Then, on my break I wandered over to the shop to buy a bottle of water. In the process of this I encountered two of my first years, one of whom had missed the previous workshop. "Hello Spagnoguland (Not his real name)!" I hailed him "So what's with you not turning up last week then?" He grinned tightly, and said nothing. I was nonplussed. Then he vigorously beckoned his compadre across, at which point the hair-bedecked Bloke Out of XTC (Again, not his real name) explained wearliy that Spagnoguland had "given up speaking for Lent." A novel excuse, and one which I can only applaud for its inventiveness. Good student.

Value x in an indeterminate sequence of y

It's time to name and shame, people. It's time for me to use this forum to point fingers at the tight-arsed, pocket-patting bill-splitters of this world. You know the ones. The mean-featured "well I only had soup" utterers of this world who sneak guilty glances at the door even as they make damn sure that they're topping their glass up from the communal wine. And I'm arranging it by profession.

Yes! It's Coastalblog's Top five worst tipping professions:

NUMBER FIVE: The Banking industry. Yes, being around all that money all morning means clearly that when it comes to lunchtime they don't want to be seeing any more of the stuff than strictly necessary. Better yet, why not pay on the company card and look apologetically at the gap left for gratuities? We understand, it's okay, we're only on, like, a quarter of your wage.

NUMBER FOUR: People on expense accounts. Oh my my my. What particularly galls me about you people, as you guzzle your fill and chortle heartily in the knowledge that the company will pay for it all (particular acknowedgement is due here to employees of Asda and Matalan as some of my most regular customers) is that not only do you not tip EVEN THOUGH SOMEBODY ELSE IS PAYING FOR IT you then have the nerve to ask me to put non-existent items on your bills. That's right! "Sorry mate, I can't be arsed leaving a couple of quid for you, but would you mind awfully committing FRAUD, which is a CRIME for me?"

NUMBER THREE: I feel bad doing this, but special mention has to go at three to other workers in the catering industry. Not because they're bad tippers. Most tip excellently, because they know, you see, and they understand. Those few who don't therefore have absolutely no excuse, and deserve this high placing, though not of course as high as

NUMBER TWO: Health professionals. That is to say, doctors to nurses and all points in between. I have no beef with porters and receptionists. They're fine by me. But my Christ NURSES. When I see a group walk through the door my heart sinks. I have the greatest respect for their profession. I am aware that they work long, hard hours for little thanks. All this strikes a chord with me. But they are lousy tippers. It needs to be said. And the worst part is they always leave beaming, smiling ministering angels, happy and satisfied with their place in the world. So beautiful, so noble, and yet so irredeemably tight. But not (and I cannot stress this enough) as tight as.

NUMBER ONE: Teachers. That's right. Teachers. You see, nurses don't tip, but at least they're normally nice people. Teachers, on the other hand, are as sour-faced, carping and downright annoying a set, as a profession, that I have ever, EVER come across. Individually? Fine. My Mother's a teacher, my girlfriend's a teacher. I've met several of her teaching friends, all of whom were lovely. But en masse? God help me I hate the fuckers. They ring a pre-order in with ten minutes notice and then sit around looking at you accusingly and clucking about how they haven't got much time because it's their lunch hour. They insist on paying for everything seperately (which, needless to say is a massive headache), occasionally quibbling about who should pay the largest portion of the chips they shared. They will either make one diet coke last an hour, or drink tap water. They will, I can guarantee, complain, and yet be back every week. They will never, ever, ever tip. And please don't tell me it's because of the wage, I would kill to be what you're on.

Conversely plaudits go to all members of the building profession, plumbers, plasterers, chippies, gas fitter and sparks. All of whom, I can't help but note, tip. Does this lead into a thesis that the English middle classes are pathologically anal? Possibly, watch this space.