Coastalblog

Ormskirk hero and sometime bit part coastalblog subject Jeff, the ever-legendary rollerblading guy comes under fire from the police and council, according to a breathless report in Your super soaraway Ormskirk Champion . Pissibly he and his skates will be parted by Asbo forevermore. Needless to say the consequences of this mean-spirited and bloodless action would be disastrous, both for those inspired by his idiosyncracy and for the sheer entertainment level of yer average ormskirk evening. For the record, your correspondent has never seen Jeff in anything but complete control of his actions, and there seems to me to be something of the twitching net curtain about: Ormskirk resident, D4v1d T4yl0r, 51, who recently had a spine operation, said: “He has knocked me over a few times and then just carried on. He is a nuisance and should be banned from the town.” Exile? Banishment? The language of totalitarianism. I sense a personal grudge, I sense a witchhunt. It's the seed pods all over...

We who work under the pitiless aegis of the harsh mistress of the catering industry are, en masse, particularly unhappy today. You see, bank holiday weekends are a particular rubbing-in of the fact that we are not as you are, gentle readers. Normally, monday is a day off for me, to rest up after the painful rigours of a weekend on the stoves, possibly catch up on a little sleep. It is not a day when I should be dragging my sorry arse into work again, just to cater to you happy, blithe, souls who take these TOTALLY RANDOM BONUS DAYS OFF WHICH WE DON'T GET TO HAVE entirely for granted. And because we don't have these TOTALLY RANDOM BONUS DAYS OFF we've had to turn down the offers of late night pints and mischief which people have been indulging in all weekend, because we know that it's a long week, and we know that being hungover once is fine, twice is cumulative, and far too much like hard work. And we fun-loving (read: dipsomaniac) Brits celebrate bank holiday weekends...

As a society it is my contention that we have to a certain extent become divorced from the concept of protest (The march against the iraq war being a noble exception, for all that it accomplished very little). It's just a little outre, a little too earnest, to feel strongly enough about a subject to get off your arse and do something about it. Unless of course, it's something to do with our fucking cars. Speed cameras, fuel prices, nothing gets the lumpen englishman quite as het up as an impingement on his freedom to do exactly what he likes with his four-wheeled deathbox. It is his "right" to have cheap fuel, his "right" to speed", his "right" to make entirely fucking unnecessary journeys. It is also his "right" to drive a dirty great bypass right through the middle of ancient farmlan just so he has the "right" not to spend another couple of minutes sat at the traffic lights outside Morrisons. I've been thinking a lot ...

The magic of search engines means, of course, that any old conflation of words has a reasonable chance of casting some people into the wilder reaches of the internet, so, continuing an infrequent series (I think I might have done this once before a few years ago, I'm sure that the estimable Forest Pines does it also, so it must be a good idea), recent searches which have brought people to the sunny uplands of Coastalblog: sixth form honeys leave aside the blatant imbecility of anyone who actually uses the word "honey" to denote a member of the distaff side, leave aside the somewhat, so, make that exceedingly creepy nature of the search itself, the most entertaining thing about this is that it was an AOL search. Goon. philippa forrester, 2007, pics words fail me "david lee cameron" Ha! I'm quite pleased that someone thought of this gag, searched for this gag , and got to me. I looked at the post it threw up, and am saddened to note that I don't seem to do...

Seems as good a time as any to stick a post up here, given that Ormskirk will have won the Twenty20 world championships for England by the end of this summer? How, you ask? Why, by rehabilitating none other than legspinning hope Chris Schofield . Good to see that after a fruitful summer on the verdant pastures of Brook Lane he's ready to take the world by storm. In further Ormskirk news, I note that the super soaraway Champion's restaurant reviewer, the redoubtable Mr X, has yet further covered himself in glory. Regular readers (or those of you who've heard me ranting about this in the pub) may recall that this is the restaurant reviewer who likes EVERYTHING, lacking as he does any semblance of a critical faculty, or, for that matter, a palate (you may also recall his liking of steak well done, and professed dislike of garlic, ffs) both of which are, one imagines, pre-requisites for a half decent stab at the restaurant reviewing game. Unabashed he has continued to astonis...