Coastalblog

Down to the dear old SW for a few days watching a small boy chase chickens and pick broad beans. Bliss. Though the paterfamilias has been muttering darkly about me doing a spot of roofing to earn my keep. Your humble correspondent hasn't been a roofer for about ten years, but as the only family member still capable of climbing a ladder I suppose it falls to me. Will I come back collar bone intact? Watch this space. Now whilst I am aware that announcing to the world that you're leaving your home may strike some as foolhardy I feel I must point out at this juncture that a) Coastalblog is read by approx four people per day, so that's fairly long odds on one of them being a burglar and b) my TV is truly awful and anyone who wants to is welcome to swipe it. Failing that we have a lot of duplo and models of spaceships and pirate ships. Just try not to break anything while I'm gone, okay?

Now, as many of you will be aware, your humble correspondent earns his corn in part by knocking out fodder. I chef, in other words. I'm reliably informed that I'm reasonable enough at it; I'd like to think so, I try to take a bit of pride in what I do, anyhow. I think it's pretty good, and I have a small core of very happy, very regular, customers. Note the small part. Now, I owe a lot to ormskirk. I owe it my higher education and my postgraduate eucation. I owe it my ability to lecture, I owe it a home, approx. ten thousand anecdotes and one book of poems. But, of late, dear old Ormy has been trying my patience somewhat. This is a town notable for its preponderance of "bakers". Amusingly enough, some of them refer to themselves as "craft bakers". I was unaware that heating up bussed in chicken and mushroom slices qualified as "craft bakery" but we'll let that slide for now. Recently a new "baker" emerged, refreshing in its di

Otherwise bored, so, Richard Ashcroft. Richard fucking Ashcroft. The Ashley Cole of dreary lumpen dad rock. Patron Saint of people who find Paul Weller slightly too edgy. The man who gives messiah complexes a bad name. Heard any of the new stuff? No? You lucky fucker. It makes Oasis sound like Sufjan Stevens, Shed Seven sound like Phillip Glass; or someone having a painful shit, you know, one of those somewhat rocky ones when you've been bunged up for a couple of days because, dammit, you've been eating too much meat, and who can blame you? It's so tasty, so here you are in the toilet of a multi-storey car park, possibly in Bletchley, there's an unpleasant echo effect hammering off the low-grade steel cladding and you're looking at the magic markered assignations for some really joyless anal scrawled on the inside of the door, you're giving birth from your arse slowly and agonisingly and all the distraction afforded you is the details of transient, urine-drenche