Thursday, September 28, 2006
Political engagement
Overheard en route to the pub last weekend:
MAN 1: Nah Mate, it was mad in Manchester today, mad man. Took me ages.
MAN 2: What, Mad busy?
MAN 1: Yeah, it' that Blair bloke innit, they're all there for him, police and that.
MAN 3: (helpfully) He's leaving, isn't he? S'what I heard.
MAN 1: (authoritatively) Yeah, it's gonna be that other bloke. Gordon.
MAN 2: But what were they doing in Manchester?
MAN 1: (cementing his reputation as the foremost political thinker of the group) Well it's obvious, isn't it? All his votes come from Manchester.
MAN 3: (doubtfully) What, all of them?
MAN 1: Well, most of them.
At this point I realised I'd overshot the pub by a good hundred yards and turned back, secure in the knowledge that the democratic process will roll on and on with little to no input from the public at large. Which is probably just as well given the latest subject exercising the razor sharp minds who contribute to the Advertiser's letters page. "SpyBinGate" seems to have died off a bit, so now they're getting themselves in a lather about hijab-style modesty gowns for muslim hospital patients as being a waste of money. Not because the letter-writers are swivel-eyed mouth-foaming bigots, nononono, put that reasoning right out of your head. The reason being the priceless "Well, it's not like we've got a lot of them here. It's not like Chorley."
For should we ever become more like Chorley, brothers and sisters, then surely the end times are nigh.
MAN 1: Nah Mate, it was mad in Manchester today, mad man. Took me ages.
MAN 2: What, Mad busy?
MAN 1: Yeah, it' that Blair bloke innit, they're all there for him, police and that.
MAN 3: (helpfully) He's leaving, isn't he? S'what I heard.
MAN 1: (authoritatively) Yeah, it's gonna be that other bloke. Gordon.
MAN 2: But what were they doing in Manchester?
MAN 1: (cementing his reputation as the foremost political thinker of the group) Well it's obvious, isn't it? All his votes come from Manchester.
MAN 3: (doubtfully) What, all of them?
MAN 1: Well, most of them.
At this point I realised I'd overshot the pub by a good hundred yards and turned back, secure in the knowledge that the democratic process will roll on and on with little to no input from the public at large. Which is probably just as well given the latest subject exercising the razor sharp minds who contribute to the Advertiser's letters page. "SpyBinGate" seems to have died off a bit, so now they're getting themselves in a lather about hijab-style modesty gowns for muslim hospital patients as being a waste of money. Not because the letter-writers are swivel-eyed mouth-foaming bigots, nononono, put that reasoning right out of your head. The reason being the priceless "Well, it's not like we've got a lot of them here. It's not like Chorley."
For should we ever become more like Chorley, brothers and sisters, then surely the end times are nigh.
Thursday, September 21, 2006
Miscellaneous, again
Richard Hammond I am not about to join the predictable chorus of bah Top Gear presenter, cuh, deserves it, what are you gonna do. I wish him no harm, I hope he gets well soon. I will, however, note that when a friend of mine died in a car crash it wasn't all over the bloody news.
Tom Lehmann By now you are all of course aware that the US team arrived late for the Ryder cup because they had to buy Tortilla chips because you can't buy good enough ones in Ireland, or good enough salsa (which is surely not too difficult to, y'know, make) ho ho. But one thing which needs pointing up is Lehmann's reasoning as to why these were so essential. "I" he said "am from Nevada, the home of Mexican food". Which surprised Coastalblog, as I'd foolishly presumed that the home of Mexican food was Mexico. Was my face ever red.
Fun with Razorlight Two Razorlight games for you to play. The first is a drinking game. Charge your glass and then stick on a Razorlight song. Any Razorlight song. Every time the singer refers to himself, take a drink. The second is a party singalong game. Stick on a Razorlight song. Any Razorlight song. Sing along, substituting every single syllable with the word "me". You'll soon get the gist.
The Killers new single sounds like Billy Joel. And the Arctic Monkeys sound like George Formby. And the Guardian nicked that gag off me in the first place. Bastards.
Tom Lehmann By now you are all of course aware that the US team arrived late for the Ryder cup because they had to buy Tortilla chips because you can't buy good enough ones in Ireland, or good enough salsa (which is surely not too difficult to, y'know, make) ho ho. But one thing which needs pointing up is Lehmann's reasoning as to why these were so essential. "I" he said "am from Nevada, the home of Mexican food". Which surprised Coastalblog, as I'd foolishly presumed that the home of Mexican food was Mexico. Was my face ever red.
Fun with Razorlight Two Razorlight games for you to play. The first is a drinking game. Charge your glass and then stick on a Razorlight song. Any Razorlight song. Every time the singer refers to himself, take a drink. The second is a party singalong game. Stick on a Razorlight song. Any Razorlight song. Sing along, substituting every single syllable with the word "me". You'll soon get the gist.
The Killers new single sounds like Billy Joel. And the Arctic Monkeys sound like George Formby. And the Guardian nicked that gag off me in the first place. Bastards.
Tuesday, September 19, 2006
The democratic power of coastalblog
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.
Monday, September 11, 2006
Keeping in line
Day off today, and the various aches and pains expanding across my body after a full weekends service germanely aske me why it is I do what I do. There are, as I know, easier ways to make a living than daily subjecting oneself to what Anthony Bourdain correctly describes as the "full mind / body press" of life in a professional kitchen.
Yes, I'm back doing that again, did I not mention? Oh, I did. It's hard to keep track.
There's a scald mark on the inside of my left forearm where a pheasant breast hit a glowing pan containing just a little too much wine a little bit too hard, forty on the board and I was in a rush; a deep mark across my left thumbnail where I looked up when someone said something whilst I was chiffonading parsley; the blister on my right index finger where I grabbed a glowing pan from under a grill with a towel a little too threadbare a fortnight ago has just healed. All told, I'm doing quite well.
it's hectic in a kitchen, sweat, steam, knives, fire. All rather boys-owny macho which is, I suppose partially why I enjoy it so much. It is a little childish, I confess, and it's hard work. Line cooking is a very different skill from normal cooking, it's all about the fast and precise assembly ingredients, every dish of king prawns with pancetta which leaves the pass has to look the same as every other one.
Or else someone might, god forbid, find that a piece of SHELL has escaped the harrassed chefs attention and is still attached to his prawn, at which point there are two courses of action he could take. He could remove the piece of shell and leave it on the side of his plate and not mention it. Prawns are, after all a shelled creature, it's not like finding a centipede in your lettuce, it isn't still alive and it isn't in any way going to cause you any harm. Or, and this is the left-field alternative he could complain vociferously and loudly, going on about how this piece of shell has ruined his evening somehow and demand all his drinks comped by the house.
Which would you do reader, bearing in mind that a crew of exhausted chefs who've just done ninety covers in an hour and are in dire need of strong liquor, nerves frazzled by heat and clutching very large knives are a mere few yards away?
No of course I wouldn't have stabbed him, but it was a close run thing, for a second.
Yes, I'm back doing that again, did I not mention? Oh, I did. It's hard to keep track.
There's a scald mark on the inside of my left forearm where a pheasant breast hit a glowing pan containing just a little too much wine a little bit too hard, forty on the board and I was in a rush; a deep mark across my left thumbnail where I looked up when someone said something whilst I was chiffonading parsley; the blister on my right index finger where I grabbed a glowing pan from under a grill with a towel a little too threadbare a fortnight ago has just healed. All told, I'm doing quite well.
it's hectic in a kitchen, sweat, steam, knives, fire. All rather boys-owny macho which is, I suppose partially why I enjoy it so much. It is a little childish, I confess, and it's hard work. Line cooking is a very different skill from normal cooking, it's all about the fast and precise assembly ingredients, every dish of king prawns with pancetta which leaves the pass has to look the same as every other one.
Or else someone might, god forbid, find that a piece of SHELL has escaped the harrassed chefs attention and is still attached to his prawn, at which point there are two courses of action he could take. He could remove the piece of shell and leave it on the side of his plate and not mention it. Prawns are, after all a shelled creature, it's not like finding a centipede in your lettuce, it isn't still alive and it isn't in any way going to cause you any harm. Or, and this is the left-field alternative he could complain vociferously and loudly, going on about how this piece of shell has ruined his evening somehow and demand all his drinks comped by the house.
Which would you do reader, bearing in mind that a crew of exhausted chefs who've just done ninety covers in an hour and are in dire need of strong liquor, nerves frazzled by heat and clutching very large knives are a mere few yards away?
No of course I wouldn't have stabbed him, but it was a close run thing, for a second.
Friday, September 08, 2006
Spies are everywhere
Cracking stuff from Ormskirk residents recently. You see, we have this new wheelie bin regime in place in tandem with recycling boxes, as West Lancs district council finally drags its arse into the exciting world of responsible recycling. This in itself caused widespread local outrage as an infringement of our rights to create a frankly terrifying amount of waste. But this was as nothing compared to the shitstorm when it emerged that each bin has (wait for it) a microchip in it.
It's big Brother gone mad! cried the population en masse, ignoring the fact that the chip is in essence an identification device in favour of the much more entertaining idea that these chips are in fact highly sophisticated listening devices. The "OUr bins are bugged" controversy runs on in the letters page of the Advertiser (this morning's being particularly rich - hence the post)in defiance of the fact that a) why the hell would the council want to listen to your bins anyway? b)do you have any idea how much that would cost? and c? it's patently untrue.
Never ones to let sense or logic get in the way of a good froth of righteous indignation the dread phrase "waste of taxpayers money" (What waste? What money? What on earth are you talking about?) has been bandied about a great deal. Some even opine , confusingly that it is "politcal correctness gone mad", somehow.
I've said it before and I'll say it again. People are idiots. And that specifically means you Mr W David Ashcroft of Scarisbrick Avenue, you absolute menk.
It's big Brother gone mad! cried the population en masse, ignoring the fact that the chip is in essence an identification device in favour of the much more entertaining idea that these chips are in fact highly sophisticated listening devices. The "OUr bins are bugged" controversy runs on in the letters page of the Advertiser (this morning's being particularly rich - hence the post)in defiance of the fact that a) why the hell would the council want to listen to your bins anyway? b)do you have any idea how much that would cost? and c? it's patently untrue.
Never ones to let sense or logic get in the way of a good froth of righteous indignation the dread phrase "waste of taxpayers money" (What waste? What money? What on earth are you talking about?) has been bandied about a great deal. Some even opine , confusingly that it is "politcal correctness gone mad", somehow.
I've said it before and I'll say it again. People are idiots. And that specifically means you Mr W David Ashcroft of Scarisbrick Avenue, you absolute menk.
