Coastalblog

So Nanowrimo is completed for another year. thank fuck, I can have some kind of existence back I'm reasonably happy with this year's effort, though it will of necessity take quite a lot of polishing . Still, done. In other news, rumours that Joey Barton is to appear in Mike Myer's new film "So my brother's an axe murderer" are completely unfounded.

What with the weather being cold but dry, your intrepid correspondent spent yesterday hiking across many a field in the interests of healthy exercise. The effect of which was rather ruined by the pubs visited at along the route. However, in the interests of research much was gained by the consumption of a different beer at each pub, the results of which are here presented for your edification. Pub 1 The Robin Hood, Mawdesley Sensibly, we decided to get the majority of the walking out of the way before the first pub was visited. So a brisk hike hour and a half along the Leeds/Liverpool canal from Burscough took us to Rufford, where we struck out across desolate fields for a further hour or so. The original plan had been to skip the Robin Hood first up, returning to it later on. By the time we arrived, however we were cold, and one of the party had a decidedly mutinous knee. Cue the first pint (and a medicinal Lagavulin, to warm up), which was Phoenix Brewery's Thirsty Moon. Jolly ni...

Well, it's been an interesting couple of months since I made the momentous decision to jack my job in. I got a few odd looks at the time but on balance I think it was the right thing to do. The only problem is the ruinous damage it's done to my bank balance It's just been so wonderful to have the time to sit down and think about things that a few months ago I was too flat out to bother about, i.e. my future, what I want to do with it and so forth. it's been just as wonderful to get some writing done and to reconnect with the creative side of myself. Lo and behold once I started writing again my mood lifted immeasurably (I wouldn't bandy loaded words like depression about, but I was certainly getting in some foul tempers). The most wonderful thing of all has been falling in love with my girlfriend all over again. Not that I was ever out of love with her, but before I was tired, or she was tired, and on the rare days off we shared the pressure would always be to do so...

Off to the bosom of Mrs Coastaltown's family for the weekend as it's her birthday. Normal service resumes next week (including Ormskirk's glowing seed pods - the town centre traders strike back). Cheerio.

I'm learning quite a lot at the moment. This is mostly coming from this years NaNo attempt. On the plus side I'm learning how much easier it is to write when you have a plan to work to, on the minus I'm learning that I really should stick to first person perspective, as my thrd is very weak indeed. However, it's proving to be enormous fun to write, and several ideas are spinning out from the central themes. I do love the sensation of a story mutating before my very eyes. The other fun thing was sitting in today on the stuff that I'm going to be teaching next semester. It's been a few years since I've been in formal education, and the most striking thing about it was how fresh it all felt; specifically the sensation of learing things for the first time. The best example I can think of is that, as I was reading through the course bumf on haiku writing a haiku suddenly seemed like a refeshing idea. I've written god knows how many in the past, years ago when...

Some of you may recall that quite a long time ago I blogged about a Lincolnshire schoolboy, Alan Penell, who was imprisoned for stabbing a schoolmate to death with a lock knife. What he did, I argued, was reprehensible but not all that surprising. For a small group of people school is unmitigating hell, a weird place with shifting, indefinable rule-sets where the unfortunate can find themselves ostracised and humiliated to the point of absolute desperation. The only surprise is that this sort of thing doesn't happen more often. Guess what? . The ineivitability of this is as depressing as the actuality, and the root of the problem lies in the parent's response. "The bullying was blown completely out of proportion." Yeah, maybe to you it was, maybe to all his contemporaries who took such delight in it it was just a bit of fun, but to Tommy Kimpton it was a constant source of misery, a prison from which he saw no form of release. I'm not being an apologist for his ac...

What with Nano and what have you, I've let things slide here. Most remiss of me (the Nano itself is going pretty well, better than I expected anyway). So anyway, I am back in the world of paid employment after my (much needed and much enjoyed) month and a bit off. I am being a barman again, in a pub (which is short term measure, exciting things should be happening in the New Year but I don't want to put the mockers on them by banging on about them now). Now pub bartending is v. v. different from restaurant bartending, the upside being that you don't have to be anywhere near as polite. The down side beng old men who've sat at the same stool for forty years, have "their glass", and assume that you telepathically know their order (such as yesterdays FIRST SHIFT where and old guy wandered up and grunted "usual" at me, to which my response was a fairly understandable "wtf you've never seen me before in your life, nor I you, how on earth do I know...

And in a further improvement to my already pretty good day, I've just been informed that two of poems will be appearing in a forthcoming issue of FIRE magazine . this being the first concrete result from my decision to jack catering in and work on the writing for a while it's given me a significant boost. And so off to lunch.

In his usual inimitable manner in the comments below Jimmy makes an excellent point, I am failing in duty as a chronicler of all things Ormskirk if I don't mention the planned "next phase in the Aughton Street Regeneration" (how I love it when town councils attempt to sound like somthing they're doing is, you know, important. I imagine the meetings being interrupted by cries for "the implementation of the primary stage of tea generation" whenever they want to put the kettle on). Now, I want you all to do something for me (apart from Jim and Robin, who already know the answer). Close your eyes and imagine your town centre. There's probably some tasteful block paving perhaps? A bit of public art? Maybe a clock tower? Now think long and hard about what it's missing, what would really complete the picture? Some civic flowerbeds perhaps? Maybe a replica of the world famous Mannekin Pis? Wrong. Wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong. What your town centre really ne...

Seriously, it's been shitting it down all day here. Dull dull dull. In other news I am firmly ensconced at my computer wrimoing like crazy. It's all going swimmingly so far (the tactic being to work on several chapters simultaneously, it's astonishing the developments that that throws up) and I have to make sure the net's not on at the time (too many distractions), but it's all going pretty well. hence lack of updating, a situation which should be rectified, I'm sure. And will be, promise.

Now, I've never been much of a one for Faliraki. Thoughts of Benidorm soothe not my quaking breast. The idea of the beaches of Goa fills me with a sensation of mild distaste. This is not because I have anything against holidays abroad per se. I've had some jolly nice times abroad. Travel broadening the mind and what have you. But abroad is not generally my first choice for a holiday, for much the same reasons as I feel guilty buying new books when so many remain unread. There are so many parts of this country I haven't seen yet, so many local specialities I haven't eaten yet, so many local beers I haven't drunk to the point of laterality yet. Britain's pretty fucking gorgeous y'know, and the last four days in Northumbria have done nothing to dissuade me from this view. Let it not be said that I won't let you learn from my mistakes, the town we stayed in (a beknighted place by the name of Amble "Britain's friendliest port" according to its s...

Right, myself and the mrs will be perambulating up hill and down dale in the NE for the next few days, so lack of updating will be down to geography rather than laziness. See you all later. In other news Eat it! . Coastalblog, standing up for the rights of poor, put upon waiting on staff everywhere.

This has also been posted on the marvellous Pumpkin Publog , but in the spirit of thriftiness I thought I'd stick it here too, I hate to waste a good rant. Flic Everett's massively wrongheaded article in today's Guardian says a lot more about her than it does about standards of service in restaurants and bars. Possibly the waiter recommended rosemary potatoes with her chicken because it would have complemented the dish? Possibly replying that you loathe rosemary is a little rude, when it would be politer to smile and say "No thanks"? Furthermore, where precisely is it written that waiters have to be servile? Good service is a skill, and the skill lies in ensuring that the customer is comfortable, enjoying themselves and has everything they require without being in their face all the time. The skill is not in sucking up to the customer and laughing like a hyena at their pisspoor jokes. And finally, why can people not simply get it through their heads that if you d...

Today. I like the sound of it. Good solid number, and I've always preferred even numbers to odd. Divisible by 1, 2, 4, 7, 14 and 28. Which if you add them together and subtract 28 totals 28. Which is not how many pints I'm having this evening.

I note with interest that in the last week the Murdoch papers have run a few stories focussing on Iran's alleged (though you wouldn't know it from reading) training and equipping of the Iraqi insurgency. Okay, no mention of invasion yet. Just "concern" and the feeling that Iran needs to be a "good neighbour". Anybody else getting a sense of deja vu ?

I was aghast this evening. Aghast. There I was, happily stirring a risotto in the approved smug middle class foodie manner when my complimentary copy of the super, soaraway Ormskirk Champion plonked gracelessly through my letter box. I dove upon it, eager to read of further developments in the Ormskirk Model Boat Society's quixotic battles against the unthinking, blinkered council (can they not see the benefits a giant model boating lake would bring the town? The fools. Hubris awaits), or possibly some satisfying news of how a young lout has helped pay for the costs of the CCTV by depositing his kebab on the expensive new civic block paving (there's a rumour that they fine you double if you hit the coloured bricks). But no, what do I see? STAR TAKES CHEAP SHOT AT TOWN screamed the headline, so far, so intriguing. Imagine my disgust, then, to discover that the story was about a quote from celebrity Jimmy Durantealike, drugs awareness campaigner and occasional footballer, Mr. Ro...

Three things: I am currently unemployed, I am in the middle of putting together a Phd proposal and it's NaNoWriMo next month. A couple of clarfications, the Phd proposal is nominally based around the idea of writing systematically, NaNoWriMo is the challenge wherein one writes at least 50,000 words in November, the idea being that 50,000 is the lower limit of what could realistically be considered a novel. This Novemeber I have a fair bit of time on my hands, as currently stands. Anyone spotted where I'm going with this? Well, given the confluence of factors it seems silly not to, really, doesn't it? So there we go, in November propose to write a systematic novel (not that I think it'll bear any relevance to the actual Phd application, but it'll certainly be interesting to see how the experience differs from the previous two years unstructured efforts) So here's the deal, rather than taking 50,000 words as the minimum requirement I propose to make it the limit. ...

Like many of my equally self-satisfied peers I scoffed heartily at the Government's excuses for invading Iraq, whilst knowing that it would occur. And like many of my self-satisfied peers I scoffed heartily at the notion of invading Iran. "No way!" we cried "it doen't matter what justification they come up with, no one will fall for that again!" So why does the news that the British government is accusing Iran of supplying weapons to the various southern insurgencies leave me with a sinking stomach and a strong whiff of expediency?

Just to bring everyone up to speed I am now officially unemployed. One of the jobless. A man with no purpose to his existence, no visible means of support and nothing whatsoever to offer society. Despise me. N.B. This is not strictly true. Having decided to take the plunge and do a Phd I currently working v.v. hard on my proposal. And on editing a novel. And writing some more Ormskirk short stories. And writing those poems for Erbacce that I promised absolutely ages ago. And I can't help but notice that it's NaNoWriMo next month. Of course, none of this actually makes any mad dollaz , but I don't need to worry about that until next year, anyway. So that's all right then.

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...