Skip to main content

The game's afoot

It is to my eternal chagrin that sitemeter lists my location as Widnes. Ever been to Widnes?. Sufice it to say I don't live there, or anywhere near there. In point of fact there are a multitude of major population centres between where I currently sit, and Widnes. It's perplexing.

I'll keep it brief, I think, largely because I'm properly goosed and it's a hard old day in the kitchen coming up, but it occured to me that I've not written anything in what could be termed a biographical vein for a while. So here we go. Suffice it to say all is tolerable here at coastal towers, and thanks for asking. Not rolling around yelling "money fight!" in a weirdly high pitched and girlish tone, but not inclined to curl up and die as currently stands.

Hard to go much further than that really.
Obviously wife and son are not for the entertainment of the internet at large. Though I feel reasonably secure in letting you know that wife is just fine, ta, and that small son has developed a worrying prediliction for shouting along to Tim Burton's "Corpse Bride". As for me, the blogs author, the man for whom considerations of privacy invasions are voided by the very act of writing, I'm kind of eehhh, y'know? Some, a little, not so much, a bit, maybe, kind of. Ech. Stick that in your OK magazine and smoke it.

(which reminds me, one of our customers turned up in Hello!'s awful, awful prole wedding pages, as to why one would wish to send anything to that I know not, precisely what void in your life will be filled by a few hundred thousand strangers going "doesn't he looks fat" or "That's a nasty frock" is beyond me. But there he was. And I had a vague and nasty feeling that I'd been loudly slagging said feature off not that long before. And we've not seen him since. There may be a connection).

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Inedible

"He says it's inedible" said my front of house manager, as she laid the half-eaten fish and chips in front of me, and instantly I relaxed.  Clearly, I observed, it was edible to some degree. I comped it, because I can't be arsed arguing the toss, and I want to make my front of house's lives as simple as possible. The haddock had been delivered that morning. The fryers had been cleaned that morning. The batter had been made that morning (and it's very good batter, ask me nicely and I'll give you the recipe some time). The fish and chips was identical to the other 27 portions I'd sent out on that lunch service, all of which had come back more or less hoovered up, we have have a (justified, if I do say so myself) very good reputation for our chips. But it was, apparently, "inedible". When it comes to complaints, less is more. If you use a hyperbolic word like that, I'll switch off, you've marked yourself as a rube, a chump, I'm not g...

Chop chop

I was completely ignorant of the fuss over the edited Trump speech in an edition of Panorama until, one moment later, I wasn't. And the reasons for my ignorance are instructive. I had no idea that the story was even brewing until the surprise Sunday night news of the resignations of Tom Davie and Deborah Turness. As I'm sure you are by now aware, this was occasioned by a clumsy edit in an old edition of Panorama, which has already been on the iplayer for a year. It's a non-story. Except people decided to make it a story. The reason I'd heard nothing of it until the resignations was that I'm not on X, where, apparently, it was all the media classes had been talking about for a week. It was an obsession of the unholy right-wing trifecta of the Mail, Telegraph and Times (who, given that they sent a bloke just last week to interview the wrong Bill di Blasio, you'd think would wind their necks in over factual inacccuracy). It was big news on GB news, all self-contain...

Creepy old men

I note, somewhat wearily, that creepy old men are back in the news, being creepy. Creepy old men, and their apologists and enablers, who argue that their creepiness is somehow the natural order of things. Old men would have you believe that it is difficult to not be a creepy old man. That it is a task of epic proportions. It is not that difficult. It is a matter of intention. As yet more of the grimness of Epstein unfolds, creepy old men are, sadly, a flaccid topic once again. Whether it be pursuing students thirty years their junior, or simply not asking too many questions about the background of the probably legal young woman who you've just been introduced to by your good pal Jeff. To be clear, I am not referring to criminal creepy old men, the ones who actually committed statutory rape, the ones who fucked trafficked hirls. That is not something which is allowed to get away merely with the contempt of the observer.  That deserves prison.  No , I'm referring to the hinterla...