Coastalblog

As regular readers will know, I'm prone to starting the odd post or two with faux-modest, but in reality self-aggrandising observations about how often I find myself at odds with my fellow citizens. I don't really mean to, but there you have it. Opposition is very much the name of the Coastalblog game. And so it is with the state of my garden. Or rather, the pub's. I am blessed in my gaff with a very pleasant garden, which, when the weather's nice, pretty much guarantees me a busy day ( I know, hard old life, isn't it?). But what could I possibly find to argue with the general public with here? Dear reader: mowing. Now, I don't let it run completely wild (much as I'd like to), arsey though I am, I'm aware that it's helpful for people to be able to get the nice benches I spent so long building. But I don't share the English obsession with a tidy lawn, indeed, I'm positively anti it. I did no mow May, and was pleased with the riot of daisies an

Last week, I had one of the more head-scratching encounters of my professional career. Not so much the encounter itself, more the aftermath. Working in hospitality as I have for more years than I care to remember, I've accrued a lengthy back catalogue of weird complaints. Anyone in my line of work has, industry vets will trade them like playing cards: the gazpacho that was cold, the waitress that tossed her hair "sarcastically", the medium steak being medium rare, while his medium-rare was medium, the table that refused to believe that you couldn't fit a table of ten in on a fully booked New Year's Eve and turned up anyway. So, when a worried-looking member of floor staff popped in and said that a table had complained about the sausages on the kids menu not being "child-friendly" I sighed, did a little eye-rolling and said don't worry, I'll pop out and talk to them. And this I did, I had thought there might be some issue with the plating, maybe t

At the risk of harping on old themes, the writing has fallen by the wayside a bit in recent times, after a couple of years where I felt I was vaguely on top of things, and able to carve out a routine whereby I could make time to write, this year threw everything up in the air again. As is nearly always the case, there isn't any one particular cause, a variety of calls on one's time make the process of sitting down to put something down in writing harder, and before you know it, it's been so long that you almost can't imagine starting again. It certainly doesn't help things that this year has taken a turn for the seriously dark, and I'm not sure the world needs my opinions on things we all know to be awful. (Though I would observe that it makes a cruel mockery of all those people posting cheery facebook statuses at the end of the last couple of years about hooray that year's over, things can't get any worse! Stop it. Just stop it. You're all the equiv

The government have made me hate myself. Even more than usual. I've poddled along most of my existence with the same healthy level of self-loathing of your average middle-class failure, but the last ten years have ramped it up to levels which no mortal man can stand for long without requiring some form of recreational outlet. I felt it happening again, when the news of their utterly batshit, ridiculously cynical, completely unworkable, massively illegal and completely and utterly morally reprehensible "send all the refugees to Rwanda" wheeze broke. Despite  all my best intentions to the contrary, I couldn't help but get swept up in the denunciations. I'm sorry. I tried hard not to. There is a very long list of charges which can be laid at the door of this current administration, and I'll be the first to admit that this particular complaint is a long way down the list, but I must recognise that they truly have turned me into an out and out bore, the sort of blo

There's a street near me which was, until quite recently, something of a bugbear amongst the easily irritated types who inhabit local community facebook forums. The road in question had, at the start of the pandemic, been blocked off half way along with planters, ostensibly to help with social distancing. I was unsure about the rationale, but pretty happy with the result. As a sort of mini low-traffic neighbourhood, the road suddenly became much more pleasant to walk down, and, as it was on my way to the shops, it's de facto pedestrianisation improved my quality of life to a degree. It had been something of a rat run to a Lidl, now it wasn't. All to the good. My view, it is reasonable to say, was not the only one. And while I'm aware that one shouldn't look to Facebook to be an arena for calm and reasoned debate, the level of bile directed at these few humble planters was little short of astonishing. I quietly resigned myself to their being removed amid such vocal l

 *clears throat* Afternoon. Yes, I know, been a bit quiet of late round here, hasn't it? There are reasons for this, some of them pretty good ones. But the most overarching one would be that I simply fell out of the habit. Terribly sorry. Long time observers of these pages (and believe it or not, they do exist) will be aware of the usual run of things with Coastalblog, radio silence in December as the day job takes over, followed by a burst of activity in the New Year as I promise myself that this this is the year I'll make time to write which then tails off disappointingly. Well, disappointingly for me at least. Possibly a profound relief for everybody else. True to form, I managed the radio silence in December bit with aplomb, but the rest? Not so much. Part of the reason, I'm sort of pleased to say, is work; life at the pub has kept me surprisingly busy during January and February. Traditionally the quietest months of the year, they've taken us all aback with their l