Coastalblog

yes, yes, I know it was days ago, but c'mon, this was five years coming. England beat Australia on Tuesday, it's now Friday and I'm still grinning. Now I'm aware that this post is of limited interest to most of you, I can think of only three coastalblog readers who are cricket fans, so this one's for them. So some thoughts. What was pleasing (despite the title, you try getting Marcus Trescothick to scan) about England's win was how little of it was down to that man Flintoff, one wicket and one steepling six aside there was little for the crowd's folk hero to do, which seems fair enough, he's done quite a bit already this summer. Before the game I had a feeling that the damage would be done by someone the aussies knew little about, and so (in part) it proved to be. That man Strauss played a delightful innings. Even more pleasing though was that the real damage was done by two men Australia know all about. How many times has McGrath had Trescothick out...

It's a sad fact but my personal sense of wellbeing is linked, as is that of millions of other men, in some (small, but palpable) way. So habitually unsuccessful are the teams I follow that I have, of necessity developed a personal voodoo of failure, feeling oddly comforted when I see that they've folded again. Over the past few days, however, there has been a bounce in my step, partially the signals of autumn in the air, but also partly due to an unaccustomed amount of success. Somerset and Spurs, I thank you. The England cricket team, I thank you even more. Sad really, but what are you gonna do?

Natasha Bedingfield. She has huge teeth. Also, they are not worthy of trust. To sum up, I fear Bedingfield. I think she wants me killed.

These are interesting times here at coastalblog towers. Due to a frankly wonky lighting circuit the house is plunged into darkness of an evening (all attempts to fix it have led to small, but exciting, explosions), our landlord is elusive and Jim and I despair, like an overly sarcastic Vladimir and Estragon of the arrival of the mythical electrician who will somehow make everything better. To compound this we then endured three days (three!) without internet. No internet and no source of light leaves one, sadly, with only the television for company (romantic image it may be, but reading by candlelight gives me the most phenomenal headaches). Ah, television, I am reminded now of why I never watch it. No, this is not entirely fair, there was a programme on last night with a jolly enthusiastic silver haired chap yomping up and down the highlands waving maps about. Now that's the sort of programme I like, I hope one day to become a jolly enthusiastic silver haired chap who yomps ...

Okay, there haven't been a great deal of posts recently (how many times has that sentence been typed throughout blogland - always with the same layer of minor guilt?). Too busy, too tired, too libidinous, too besieged by demon monkeys - pick your own excuse. So nevertheless, conforming to actualite coastalblog needs to take a minute or to to cry into it's pint at the departure from Ormskirk's sunny climes of Porl and Cel. They're both aware of how much I love them, so further eulogies are unnecessary. Nevertheless huge hole in life, and what have you. Confining myself to actual news would prove depressing in the extreme, so some inchoate thoughts from the last few days, as ever, make of them what you will: sometimes you will encounter someone who you just plain don't like, often without good reason, don't feel guilty about this, just accept it and you'll save yourself a lot of worrying. Don't feel guilty about plotting their downfall either, th...

Okay, distinct paucity of blog action recently, for which I am sorry. In mitigation the manager at work is off on his jollies and I am left holding the fort (with no little aplomb, if I can be allowed a brief moment of self-aggrandisement), I'm currently five days into an eleven day stint. Some thoughts: managers are liars, learn this and learn it well. Management consists entirely of doing no work and just checking that everything's fine. My predecessors lied to me for years, it's really not that hard. I'm quite angry with them for pretending that it was. When you manage you don't have to do any cleaning, ergo it's easier. You can't please everyone, this is a concept which anyone who works in service industries should clasp to their knackered breast as a shining torch of hope, my god but the general public will happily whine about anything, just repeat the mantra of "It's really not that important" to yourself the ENTIRE TIME and there is...

Now I've seen the highlights in full. Repeat after me. Kelly Holmes Kelly Holmes Kelly fucking Holmes No one has ever deserved this so much.

So it appears that whilst I was at work the GB track and field side answered all of my wildest dreams. I've only just checked the news. I'm absurdly happy. In your face EVERYBODY.

Okay, a lie.. But whilst I had an okay evening I missed out on the single most life-affirming thing in the history of sport which, obviously, is a shame.

I've been to Harrogate. It was good, I liked it. You should go.

...and my viewing pleasure of this ridiculous bloated spectacle will this year be enhanced immeasurably by my getting hold of a copy of the theme music to the Benny Hill show, and playing it over all walking events,.

You know the drill, it won't necessary be relevant or contemporary, merely what media I've been consuming recently. Strong Words - modern poets on modern poetry (Bloodaxe) Excellent collection of essays by poets both famous and less so, which I suspect may do not a little towards informing this poetics movement we all have to work with these days. Particularly outstanding are essays by Yeats, MacNeice, Edwin Morgan and Sean O'Brien. Andrew Motion, as always, contributes fuck all of interest. One for Mr Cibula, I think. Get Shorty I just rewatched this film for the first time in several years, and can't quite get over how unbearably smug the whole thing is. Entertaining, but smug. Gene Hackman's laugh always makes me want to tear his arms off, and I will never, ever buy Travolta as a figure of cool. Have you seen Battlefield Earth? That new Fatboy Slim single You know the one, slash dot dash dot etc. Either Mr Slim is an evil genius or he has run enti...

As I was closing up the restaurant last night, a drunk old man moved past the window. Swaying, early seventies at a guess. A fairly typical sight at eleven thirty. Except this guy was on rollerblades. Smartly dressed in a brown suit, his hair brylcreemed slickly back, and on rollerblades. Rollerblades. I love Ormskirk. In other news, a review of the Neon Higthway reading popped into my inbox this morning, and cheered me up to the extent that I almost forgot that I've been sick as a dog for the last five bastard days, it concluded: Finally, featured poet Matt Falaize delighted the crowd with his unashamed celebrations of weirdness. Whilst he too totally ignored the chosen themes of the evening, his mile-a-minute articulation of insane tongue twisters about life in Ormskirk and Cornwall were nothing short of sensational, complete with frantic wordplay and imaginary gangster funerals. That'll do for me, at least I've got one now to compete with my bad review . ...

So we have a new monster to fear, ladies and gentlemen. The schoolboy killer has been named, shamed and banged up for the rest of his natural-born. The public can breath easy once more. Leaving aside the dodgy ethics of jailing a sixteen year old for life we are left with what is, simply put, a plain upsetting news story. A boy, a child, is dead, stabbed by the aforementioned in an argument over a girl. His life is gone, and ain't coming back, and this of course is a terrible terrible thing. His family and friend's lives are forever blighted and it is beholden to us to grieve for him, and for them all. Alan's life, too, is forfeit however. The story struck a chord with me. The wounds of school are still pretty fresh to be honest, and I remember vividly the desperation and anguish of not feeling as if you fitted in. Regrettably I am not of  a strong enough character to revel in loner status, and I remember my mother's exasperation at my attempts to alter myself,...

Ever since I got that reading out of the way I have achieved precisely nothing. I am a spent force (okay, I'm aware that that's not actually the case, and this is a perfectly natural hiatus due to the expenditure of a great deal of creative energy in one burst, but you take my point). I haven't even been able to think of anything to blog, and I haven't wanted to read, which are the two main triggers that get me going. So how to occupy my time?   Admin! Oh the smugness of catching up on your personal admin, oh the self-satisfied glow of letter-writing and emailing, oh the sheer heaven of turning up for work early and getting everything done. The only problem being it turns one into a vegetable, fit only to do the most humdrum of tasks. Organised shopping? no problem,  create a meal from said organised shopping? Sorry, my brain's melted. It's been quite enjoyable taking this brief mental holiday, but I'm starting to stir in frustration again. If only there w...

It seems strange that I write regularly here about poetry but so little about my philosophy of writing. So here's the full test of my all-time favourite poem. Nmaing of parts, by Henry Reed. See, the whole school of war poetry, with its agenda inherent and obvious by the mere factor of its classification is against pretty much everything I stand for in writing, which is lack of fanfare, the hiding of the agenda beneath layers of allusiondivegrence of topic, and understatement, which is truer to the human condition than any amount of tub-thumping, as far as I'm concerned. So here's how a war poem, no, how any poem, should be done. I. NAMING OF PARTS (Henry Reed) To-day we have naming of parts. Yesterday, We had daily cleaning. And to-morrow morning, We shall have what to do after firing. But to-day, To-day we have naming of parts. Japonica Glistens like coral in all of the neighboring gardens, And to-day we have naming of parts. This is the lower s...

As I may have alluded, the reading went well. In fact it exceeded my wildest expectations. The audience was larger than I expected, and included the heaviest-hitting poetry mag editor in the UK, which is handy. I was good, I think, a little too fast which is a perpetual problem with my readings, but I was way, way better than I'd feared when I was constructing the list for the reading. When we were in the pub later I heard my tutor from Uni roar "tell him how good he was!", which meant more to me than I can ever tell you (the man has serious props as a poet). So forgive me, all of you, if I take just this one moment to feel pleased with myself for once. Well done me. The caveat to this is I had several published and serious types criticising me for not having a book out yet, so as a motivational tool I ask you all to stay resolutely on my back and keep asing me what I've done towards that recently, I need it. Anticipatory thankyous to one and all.

It is done. Furthermore, it rocked. More later.

Okay, needed them for years. Left my last pair in the Tudor in wigan one emotion and beer-drenched night a long time ago, and never really had the capital to do it since. But these days...relatively well-off, no longer have to put up with weird fuzzy horizons. My god it's fucking ACE. I planned the moment I put on my new glasses exactly, I wanted to fully appreciate the epiphanical nature of the moment, so I resisted the blandishments of the optician and waited until I was out in the countryside, the better to pick up details of leaves and what have you. In order to heighten the sense of shock I got magnicently battered beforehand also. Then I put them on, and damn near passed out from the beauty and intricacy of the world. I fear that I will forget this sense of wonder as time drags on and I get used to my new twenty-twenty sharp-visioned existence. But in the same way that no non-asthmatic fully appreciates the sky-kicking loveliness of breathing freely you normally sighted...

and in the cold light of morning you read back over the previous night's raving and.... some of it's okay, actually. This is how I work best. Get all worked up and simply blast and then in the cold and sober light of day edit edit edit. There're a couple of germs of good ideas in there, and that gives me something to work with. All of a sudden This reading seems a lot less scary (B-but Bill Griffiths has the same billing at the next one! Crikey!).