Coastalblog

For weeks all the town has been quivering with anticipation. The talk has been of little else. The world at large may debate ejections from conferences, lottery winning rapists and the successful apllication of a consitution in Iraq. In Ormskirk the talk has been only of the opening of our shiny new Somerfield. Now, regular readers will be aware of my deeply held antipathy towards Morrisons, and the discovery that one in every eight pounds spent on the high street fills their coffers makes me uneasy about feeding the Tesco monolith. And Waitrose is all the way in bloody Southport. So will the shiny new Somerfield be a Blairite Third Way for me. Will I be able to browse it's shiny white aisles soothed and at peace, picking up those various bits and bobs that I just can't get in the butchers and greengrocers? Don't be fucking silly. I'm going there for the freakshow. Somerfield stands on the site of the old Kwik Save. A cheap cheap cheap hellhole where the playing of the...

Been a while, hasn't it? Not to worry, merely one of those hiatuses which occur when there is otherwse a little too much on my plate. Hardly a gap of Stone Rosesesque proportions anyway. Who, me? Getting ready to leave work. This coming Saturday's my last shift (after which Coastalblog's Guide to the Restaurant-Going Public should be up here before too much longer), after which. Well, there are possibly plans afoot, but I am reluctant to blog about it until everything's a little more concrete. Rest assured, you're going to be sick to death of the sight of me before too much longer though.

The Ormskirk short stories are not remotely pornographic. I fear that writing pornography without suffering from an enormous giggling fit would be entirely beyond me. Why then, have two recent visiotrs got there via searches for "fucking in car park" and "taxi fucking" respectively? And who is searching for these (to my ear) exceedingly esoteric pleasures? (Though it's nice to note that people are just plain weird whatever their creed. Clearly these pastimes are what pass for fun in the NW US and Saudi Arabia, respectively. Imagine the potential for international relations as soon as we all come together and declare our love for fucking in improbable locations. Together. As one. Weirdoes)

So I was going to write a lengthy rant expressing my contempt for this years round of fuel protests (though I hesitate to dignify this collective bout of national stroppiness with the nobility of genuine protest) but today's Steve Bell does the job far better than I could ever do. I will say one thing though. This protest is, really, fuck all to do with tax on fuel. Well, maybe in the case of farmers and hauliers. Fair enough. The rest of you, well, it's more all about the right to listen to Top Gear Classic Drivetime Rock on your way to a conference in the Beckham Suite of the Novotel just outside Nuneaton, isn't it, really? I realised this when one of the fuel protestors (no, that word just doesn't sit right) declared that, under his nom de cockfarmer Captain Gatso he also fights against speed cameras, you know, those devices that restrict the motorists right to kill everyone. What was it my mum always used to say about compensating for something?

Why on earth did I give such a long notice period? This is dragging on forever. The only thing keeping me going at work is a grim determination not to conform to the "checked out, not trying any more" stereotype because I'm a PROFESSIONAL goddammit. That being said the end of term feeling is contributing to my being slightly ruder to the customers than usual, including forcing one to apologise to a waitress for yelling "wahey" after she'd dropped some plates. After snapping at him that it was her first shift and she was nervous enough already so why not cut her some slack? Ill mannered sod. And asking one guy who'd spelt his surname (Smith) out to me to repeat himself four times before going "Oh, Smith, right". I shan't really be sorry to see the back of the place. I've got a lot to be grateful to it for, but I've had enough of the general public for the time being. If catering has taught me one thing, it has taught me that, far fro...

It occurs to me that I am not particularly well qualified to comment on Katrina. I am safely ensconced on the other side of the ocean. I am naturally left leaning in my politics, so the urge to indulge in a bit of knee-jerk Bush-bashing without being in full possession of the facts is almost overwhelming (and thus to be resisted). But there are a couple of facets which are worth pointing up, just in case they get lost in the overall noise. First up: the egregious and cadaverous U.S. Homeland Security secretary Michael Chertoff stated "That 'perfect storm' of a combination of catastrophes exceeded the foresight of the planners, and maybe anybody's foresight" in short, there was nothing that could be done, it was a storm of unimaginable proportions. Leaving aside the argument that no storm is of unimaginable proportions, and that a city lying below sea level should perhaps be prepared for the worst case scenario, it's also worth pointing out that Katrina's w...

Wow, and I thought I had a way with invective

This coastalblog update brought to you thanks to the intrepid reporting of Lesley. It's not often my walk home is interrupted by an urgent cry of "Matt, you've got to come, there's people stood around the clocktower and they're singing". Not often enough amyway. So I tagged along behind an in-full-flight Jim, to see some genuine Ormskirk weirdness. We met Lesley on a bench, at a safe distance. There was a group of people there all right, but they'd stopped singing, and instead circled the clocktower as though it were some chi-chi Victorian maypole, banging staffs on the ground at each point of the compass inset into the paving. With impeccable timing, the alarm went off at work, so I had to go and see to that, but I am informed that Ormskirk is being menaced by a great evil, and this wednesday night ritual is in order to save us from said looming menace, and will continue. Of course, in a couple of weeks time the students get back, and wednesday night is t...

Cat, meet pigeons. Pigeons: cat. Notice handed in. Lots of angry people mystified as to why I would voluntarily give up a perfectly well paying job for no (to them) readily apparent reason. Lots of pressure being placed on your humble correspondent to rescind his decision. Lots of talk about money and how I won't have any. Does the phrase "job satisfaction" not mean a fucking thing to anyone any more?

Well, things at work, which have been bubbling along nicely, are about to come to a head. A brief precis: Employee A handed his notice in. So Employee B was asked to fill his shoes. Employee A changed his mind but big boss C was having none of it, having been wanting to get shut of employee A for quite some time, and preferring the talented and charismatic employee B anyway. Unfortunately big boss C made a couple of oversights vis a vis his business cash flow, and was forced to sell his business to evil amoral fucks D and E. Evil amoral fuck D is, surprisingly also quite a fan of the dashing, handsome employee B, but evil, amoral fuck E, who does the hiring, is not (due in part to an incident some time ago involving evil, amoral fuck E's assistant manager, egregious lickspittle F and the courageous, upstanding employee B. The owrds "upside your head" were involved). It seems likely that Evil, amoral fuck E will choose to retain the services of employee A. At which point I...

The Chapel Street arsonist is, to my mild surprise, front page news in the Guardian. Sadly they can't be bothered with such a level of detail, confining her crimes to "ormskirk". Coastalblog can, however, scoop Fleet Street by exclusively revealing that two of her arsons were committed here on dear old Chapel Street, and one on Bridge Street. And that there's a baby arsonist copycat who left a nasty scorch mark on the bonnet of an old Datsun Sunny that's parked down the end of the road. First the Ormskirk Model Boat society fail to get planning permission for a Model Boating lake in the middle of the park (seemingly unaware that no-one gives a monkeys. This was front page Advertiser. I shit you not) and now this. Surely these are the End Times.

Right, sorry about that. I only fully realised the full physical impact of my lengthy stint yesterday. Mrs Coastaltown and I had a full day planned, heart-starting game of squash in the morning, followed by trip to Clitheroe to stock up the wine rack. Then a spot of nice dinner and maybe a pint or two. The perfect way to relax. I made it as far as the end od part three before exhaustion rolled right over me. I was in bed by ten. This does not happen very often. Clearly I was saving it all up for a day off, cos I didn't feel that bad whilst I was actually in the midst of the stint. But yesterday, wow. The obverse of being in bed by ten, however, was that I bounced out of it bright eyed and bushy tailed this morning. Vim, vigour, joys of etc. And so back to a boiling hot word processor to crack on with actual proper work, not just that stuff that brings the money in. I faithfully promise that by the end of today there will be at least three new Ormskirk short stories up. I also prom...

Sorry about lack of updating here and on OSS, there's a bunch of stuff in the pipeline but I'm just flat out at work at the mo (manager's on his hols). Normal service will resume shortly.

So traffic through Coastalblog has increased quite a bit recently, and checking the referrals I can't help but note a lot of Google searches for Liz. I've also noticed a whole bunch of email adresses I don't recognise, and a couple of veeeery interesting IP addresses. To any of Liz's family and friends searching her name and finding coastalblog: Hi, I'm desperately sorry for your loss, you have all of my sympathy. To any journos lazily googling for research: go fuck yourselves, you revolting vultures.

One other thing, when I was buying the paper this morning, it occurred to me that the apprehension of the would be suicide bomber suspects is the perfect tabloid news event. The assorted headlines "Got the bastards" "You're nicked" and the like were perfectly suited to the tabs particular brand of gormless bellicosity, as though the hacks themselves had tossed the stun grenades into the flats, defeating the Islamist threat with British pluck and muscle. Of course, given that they are suspects of a serious crime, it wouldn't be at all amusing if it was discovered that they had nothing to do with it. Not funny at all. Oh no. Note, Coastalblog fervently hopes that the police have caught the guilty parties, and has no reason to doubt that they have, but jesus those headlines were ridiculous

well, for the time being, anyway. Manager on his hols so peace and quiet reigns in the workplace. The downside being that I'm working pretty much every day for the next fortnight. This is coupled by Mrs Coastaltown's home visit for her friend's wedding (there really are a lot of those about at the moment) and sojourn there for an extended period, reasoning that I won't be at home a great deal anyway, which is correct. The last few days have been enlivened by a few events, though it's best left to Celeste to tell you about the Telegram Incident . It's only when I actually see my friends that I remember how rarely I see them. This isn't as bad as it sounds, it always comes as a pleasant surprise. Beyond that, little of interest to report really. I'm taking the opportunity to have a good long break from booze. So if the tone of this blog becomes too pollyannish mail me to let me know and I'll start hittingthe wine at a rate of knots. It never does to be...

Idiot customers are one thing. Great customers are something else altogether. We had a table of quite drunk, very loud and extremely scouse birthday celebrants last night. Pleasant enough, bit of a nuisance, nothing out of the ordinary. What made the evening was the two kids they'd brought along with them, Scott (8) and Ashley (11). Now, I have no objection to kids in restaurants at all. Though I do take issue with adults who bring kids along, then sit and get drunk. It doesn't surprise me that kids get bored and run around the place. If you're not going to take care of your children then DON'T GO TO A FUCKING RESTAURANT. But just occasionally you come across kids who are perfectly capable of amusing themselves without causing havoc, and so it was with these two. I fell hopelessly in love with Ashley when she came round to talk to us "because the grown ups are all drunk, so they're boring", and Scott, who resembled a 1:3 scale Peter Kay was a jolly fellow ...

Now you all know how much I enjoy imbecilic exchanges with customers. I cherish their goombah questions, inability to read signs, spectacular mispronunciations (Brie pronounced to rhyme with sigh, Sauvignon Blank, that sort of thing) and general cluelessness with a bright, fierce love that is otherwise reserved for my girlfriend, family, friends and the occasional Pinot Noir(though it has to be pretty damn good). However, I haven't had a genuine weirdo in for a while, so table 53 last night lifted my spirits to levels they haven't reached in a while. They were fantastic . For openers they marched right through the restaurant without acknowledging anyone, hammering past an extremely surprised manager, a couple of startled waitresses and an unwary barman before sitting themselves down on a balcony table in the extension (probably the nicest table in the restaurant). They then decided that this wasn't quite far enough for them, opened the french doors and went and stood in the...

There'sa scene in John Steinbeck's Cannery Row which leapt immediately to mind this morning. Mack and the boys inadvertently trash Doc's house when attempting to throw him a party, and nothing goes right for anyone in town for a long while. A ship is destroyed, a beloved dog falls ill, a man loses his legs: "There is no explaining a series of misfortunes like that. Every man blames himself. People in their black minds remember sins committed recently and wonder whether they caused the evil sequence." Well, I hear that. Work has been hell. The tension between myself and the incumbent manager (who knows I'm just waiting now) is reaching interesting levels. We've had one of the hardest shifts I can recall (the full anedotes from which will have to wait for a future post about the idiocy of scouse gangsters - uh-huh) and it's just...There is also an ongoing familial situation (which, as I said before, I'm really not going into here, but it's preyi...

I've been debating internally whether to write this post for a number of days. Partially I do not wish to intrude upon a worry and grief which is only tangentially mine, but then again nor is it something I can ignore. Those of you who are on ILE will know what I mean. For those who aren't: Elizabeth Daplyn, a contributor to ILX (message boards) and all round excellent human being is still missing after the London bombings of last week. I know Liz only to say hello to online (in addition to ILX we both write for Pumpkin Publog), which is why I've been debating this. It just doen't feel like my place to write a post to mark her. But like the giant squid at the kitchen table it's been nigh on impossible to ignore. So we have this horrible mishmash of half-baked reasoning, seasoned with a little loss as well. Simplicity seeming to be the best option then I'll just say this. My love and best wishes for Liz, for Rob her boyfriend, for London ILX, ILX as a whole, and ...