Coastalblog

So much to mention recently, but circumstances have kept me away from the computer, have in fact kept me from doing anything other than working like a madman (apart from a brief pastoral interlude about which I must of necessity stay sctum except for this: never order drinks in the South). So much, I should offer my heartfelt and delirious congratualtions to people who know who and why they are offered. So, so pleased. I should dissect the letters page of this weeks Champion (the highlight of which is a cry of outrage against overweight NHS staff, featuring the immortal line "it's disgusting that so many of these porkers are allowed to work in our hospitals" - bravo!). I could expound upon my new theory that the Police are simply coming up with new initiatives to deliberately take the piss out of the Mail ("Free heroin for addicts!" "It's OK to fuck fourteen year old girls!" "Asylum seekers given licence to kill and a free twee cottage in darkest Bucks!" [NB last may not actually be true]) because they feel like it, I suppose I could even rant a little about the catering industry (Christmas is nearly upon us again). I could, and indeed should, do all of these things. But in dipping ym toe back in the electronic waters I'll just give you a small anecdote to illustrate how preoccupied I've been of late.

As I was crossing the road a couple of days back I was in a world of my own, mulling over various things, when I was confronted by a face I vaguely recognised as a restaurant regular. She greeted me and I responded with the usual platitudes along the linesof "alright? how are you? how you doing?"

It wasn't until I was twenty yards down the road that it occured to me that she wasn't normally in a wheelchair, nor did she normally have one leg in plaster. My faux-cheery "alright?" might, under the circumstances, have seemed something like taking the piss.

Not a sport for the faint-hearted. I well recall watching friends being put through the wringer of trying to find themselves a home (it all worked out fine in the end so breathe easy). The Mrs and I, in our quest to help feed the slavering beast that is the market by buying our own slice of Merrie England have been subjected to all manner of what I believe is termed crazy crap. Laughably optimistic prices, terrifying decor, collapsing stairs, weird and creepy owners who followed us around, we've dealt with all of it with sang-froid and a liberal dash of the old stiff-upper.

The good part is, we've possibly found one. Watch this space.

Apparently. Knickers being got massively in a twist all over the shop today by the news that Britain's teens and kids are "The worst in Europe." I'm sure you've seen the story so I shan't bother to link it, my laziness is of course due to a breakdown in society and my poor upbringing.

Nothing like a good moral panic to bring the idiots out of the woodwork, my favorite concomitant story has to be Asbos are a badge of honour. The amusing impication being that since asbos appeared on thehorizon things have somehow got worse. I can't help but note that there's no testimony from those kids who, having been asbo'd are having their freedom somewhat curtailed "it's a badge of honour, but a pain in the arse" style of thing (incidentally, check the video link in the corner "British youths caught misbehaving" Oh no! Youths! And they're misbehaving! I'm reminded of the old Bill Hicks skit about the word hooligan not sounding particularly threatening).

So are kids get drunk and fuck more than any of the others in Europe. Of course they do. They're idiots. Their parents are also idiots. The sooner the country as a whole realises that we're mostly a bunch of fat, venal racists, more interested in lovely shiny posessions than anything else then the sooner we can do something about it. Like killing ourselves. Which, in a long haul kind of a way, is exactly what is happening here. Social Darwinism in action again.

The point being lost amidst all this hand-wringing is that if these lot actively want to turn themselves into a bunch of losers, that means all the more opportunity for those of us who aren't. So drink yourselves silly you witless little bastards, at least I know I'll never be competing with any of you for a job.

(N.B. I don't for one second actually believe that teenagers are any worse or better than they ever have been. And I've not had my pocket picked by a Victorian urchin recently, either. It must be a slow news week)