Coastalblog

So I've been watching coverage of the heavily sponsored festival season, and it has thrown up several questions, chief amongst which being what on earth is Lauren Laverne still doing with the rest of the painfully idiotic T4 massive (wage notwithstanding)? But what use are questions without answers, or more pertinently, conclusions? And yes, some conclusions were drawn, none of which are earth shattering in their insight, or in any way imbued with the shock of the new, but what are you gonna do? I'm talking about festival television, it's easy targets all the way, baby. Paul Weller is a nitwit, but we knew this. The current crop of indie rock bands are entirely indistinguishable, but Kasabian are PARTICULARLY indistinguishable, you know what I mean. Morrissey, annoyingly( not to be anti Stephen, but more surely SOMEONE has come along since him with at least half a wit?), is still a far more engaging interviewee than, well, anybody in this particular sphere, specifically Pa

Forgive me. I've suffered a moment of introspection (I nearly typed "I have" rather than the less demagogic "I've", for some reason). It doesn't happen overly often, as a general rule of thumb I'm a firm believer in the whole pioneer school of thought, y'know, get your head down, get over it, keep going. That whole irritating Boy Scout thing (not that I was ever a fan of Scouts, the moment I discovered that we didn't get to bake and the Guides did I was out of there). I just tend to have found that it doesn't do to dwell. Put it down to getting married, maybe. It's a seismic change in one's personal condition, the certain knowledge that well, this is it. You stand or fall on your own merits from here on out, fucko, you've made a promise. And it is a promise, not to be lightly fucked about with. But it was a wedding present which caused the moment. You see, my dad was a professional photographer (my brother still is). Now here

The knives are sharpened, the apron and jacket are in the wash, my back hurts and there are fresh calluses on my knife hand. Yep, back on the stove again. Y'see Coastalblog has a plot which is too secret to even tell the internet about (also, have you ever noticed how when you have a plan, or have decided to do something, it doesn't matter how sure you are that it's all going to work out the second you announce it SOMETHING happens and the entire thing goes down the tubes. So I'm staying sctum), but it's unlikely to occur for a while and in the meantime SHEKELS are required in order to keep Mrs Coastalblog in the diamond encrusted hot water bottles and gold sandwiches to which she has become accustomed. So it's back to the kitchens for me, and very enjoyable it is too, so far. And given that I am back in the thick of catering, dear reader, it may well be the case that you will be seeing RANTS before too much longer, in which case I can only say, you lucky, LUCKY

Damilola Taylor's killers sent down. Warmongering Joe Liebermann losing his nomination. Tabloid journalists charged with illegal phone tapping. Channel 4 staring down the wrong end of a big fine as a result of Big Brother. All we need now is a security threat grounding a load of planes and making people too scared to fly, saving billions of tonnes of emissions and with concomitant positive effects for the british tourism industry, what with fear being a much better motivational tool for my imbecilic fellow countrymen than something as nebulous as conscience or responsibility, and it's been a pretty good day. Hang on...

So yesterday afternoon 'd just finished writing a pile of thank-you cards (this I have discovered, is one of the things wives force you to do, prior to being married I wouldn't have been ungrateful for the gifts we received, I just wouldn't have got round to thanking anyone. This I am given to understand, is the decent thing to do) when my phone began to merrily trill. "Blast you vile box" I cried, for I did not recognise the number, not generally a good sign, it often seems to mean that somebody wants something. I answered with trepidation. Good job too for, as it turned out it was Bob, old uni peer and all round decent human being. I was somewhat shocked, having had no contact at all with him for many a long year. Pleasantly shocked, needless to say, I've always been a big fan of Bob, but it's not the sort of thing one expects to happen on a Friday afternoon. Naturally, we went drinking. Now, my head hurts. This is what I believe is known as cause and ef

So your correspondent is now, officially a married man. Wedding is over, honeymoon is over and I'm back at my desk in the 'skirk gazing at the trees bending alarmingly in the wind outside. I'd love to tell you all about it, but my memory has sadly been wiped clean by the discovery upon my return that your super soaraway Coastalblog is number ONE on teh google for "gay anthony worrall thompson" I think I can die happy now, except I'd have to run it by the Mrs first, and I can't see her agreeing to it. What was that? Yes dear, coming dear. STOP PRESS And of course many happy returns of the day to the wondrous Celeste. Forget? Me? Never.