Coastalblog

Overheard en route to the pub last weekend: MAN 1: Nah Mate, it was mad in Manchester today, mad man. Took me ages. MAN 2: What, Mad busy? MAN 1: Yeah, it' that Blair bloke innit, they're all there for him, police and that. MAN 3: (helpfully) He's leaving, isn't he? S'what I heard. MAN 1: (authoritatively) Yeah, it's gonna be that other bloke. Gordon. MAN 2: But what were they doing in Manchester? MAN 1: (cementing his reputation as the foremost political thinker of the group) Well it's obvious, isn't it? All his votes come from Manchester. MAN 3: (doubtfully) What, all of them? MAN 1: Well, most of them. At this point I realised I'd overshot the pub by a good hundred yards and turned back, secure in the knowledge that the democratic process will roll on and on with little to no input from the public at large. Which is probably just as well given the latest subject exercising the razor sharp minds who contribute to the Advertiser's letters page. ...

Richard Hammond I am not about to join the predictable chorus of bah Top Gear presenter, cuh, deserves it, what are you gonna do. I wish him no harm, I hope he gets well soon. I will, however, note that when a friend of mine died in a car crash it wasn't all over the bloody news. Tom Lehmann By now you are all of course aware that the US team arrived late for the Ryder cup because they had to buy Tortilla chips because you can't buy good enough ones in Ireland, or good enough salsa (which is surely not too difficult to, y'know, make) ho ho. But one thing which needs pointing up is Lehmann's reasoning as to why these were so essential. "I" he said "am from Nevada, the home of Mexican food". Which surprised Coastalblog, as I'd foolishly presumed that the home of Mexican food was Mexico. Was my face ever red. Fun with Razorlight Two Razorlight games for you to play. The first is a drinking game. Charge your glass and then stick on a Razorlight so...

Hailing as I do from Boscastle (Britain's muddiest village TM) all things Cornish are matters close to the heart of Coastalblog. Namely the county's marginalisation, poverty and the rest of the country's complete ignorance of same (I've lost count of the amount of times people have wonderingly asked me what I'm doing here upcountry and I've had to patiently explain the systematic destruction of all of cornwall's primary industries, the galloping inflation of its houseprices due to half of them being bought as second homes by fucking stockbrokers and the concomitant grievous damage to Cornwall's economy. And the fact that the unemployment level is the highest in the country). So here's my chance to give something back by asking my paltry handful of readers (ah, but it's the quality that counts) to vote for the Cornish Prayer Book Rebellion , Cornwall's last gasp grab to retain some cultural independence in the Guardian's Radical Restoratio...

Day off today, and the various aches and pains expanding across my body after a full weekends service germanely aske me why it is I do what I do. There are, as I know, easier ways to make a living than daily subjecting oneself to what Anthony Bourdain correctly describes as the "full mind / body press" of life in a professional kitchen. Yes, I'm back doing that again, did I not mention? Oh, I did. It's hard to keep track. There's a scald mark on the inside of my left forearm where a pheasant breast hit a glowing pan containing just a little too much wine a little bit too hard, forty on the board and I was in a rush; a deep mark across my left thumbnail where I looked up when someone said something whilst I was chiffonading parsley; the blister on my right index finger where I grabbed a glowing pan from under a grill with a towel a little too threadbare a fortnight ago has just healed. All told, I'm doing quite well. it's hectic in a kitchen, sweat, steam, ...

Cracking stuff from Ormskirk residents recently. You see, we have this new wheelie bin regime in place in tandem with recycling boxes, as West Lancs district council finally drags its arse into the exciting world of responsible recycling. This in itself caused widespread local outrage as an infringement of our rights to create a frankly terrifying amount of waste. But this was as nothing compared to the shitstorm when it emerged that each bin has (wait for it) a microchip in it. It's big Brother gone mad! cried the population en masse, ignoring the fact that the chip is in essence an identification device in favour of the much more entertaining idea that these chips are in fact highly sophisticated listening devices. The "OUr bins are bugged" controversy runs on in the letters page of the Advertiser (this morning's being particularly rich - hence the post)in defiance of the fact that a) why the hell would the council want to listen to your bins anyway? b)do you have ...

So I've been watching coverage of the heavily sponsored festival season, and it has thrown up several questions, chief amongst which being what on earth is Lauren Laverne still doing with the rest of the painfully idiotic T4 massive (wage notwithstanding)? But what use are questions without answers, or more pertinently, conclusions? And yes, some conclusions were drawn, none of which are earth shattering in their insight, or in any way imbued with the shock of the new, but what are you gonna do? I'm talking about festival television, it's easy targets all the way, baby. Paul Weller is a nitwit, but we knew this. The current crop of indie rock bands are entirely indistinguishable, but Kasabian are PARTICULARLY indistinguishable, you know what I mean. Morrissey, annoyingly( not to be anti Stephen, but more surely SOMEONE has come along since him with at least half a wit?), is still a far more engaging interviewee than, well, anybody in this particular sphere, specifically Pa...

Forgive me. I've suffered a moment of introspection (I nearly typed "I have" rather than the less demagogic "I've", for some reason). It doesn't happen overly often, as a general rule of thumb I'm a firm believer in the whole pioneer school of thought, y'know, get your head down, get over it, keep going. That whole irritating Boy Scout thing (not that I was ever a fan of Scouts, the moment I discovered that we didn't get to bake and the Guides did I was out of there). I just tend to have found that it doesn't do to dwell. Put it down to getting married, maybe. It's a seismic change in one's personal condition, the certain knowledge that well, this is it. You stand or fall on your own merits from here on out, fucko, you've made a promise. And it is a promise, not to be lightly fucked about with. But it was a wedding present which caused the moment. You see, my dad was a professional photographer (my brother still is). Now here ...

The knives are sharpened, the apron and jacket are in the wash, my back hurts and there are fresh calluses on my knife hand. Yep, back on the stove again. Y'see Coastalblog has a plot which is too secret to even tell the internet about (also, have you ever noticed how when you have a plan, or have decided to do something, it doesn't matter how sure you are that it's all going to work out the second you announce it SOMETHING happens and the entire thing goes down the tubes. So I'm staying sctum), but it's unlikely to occur for a while and in the meantime SHEKELS are required in order to keep Mrs Coastalblog in the diamond encrusted hot water bottles and gold sandwiches to which she has become accustomed. So it's back to the kitchens for me, and very enjoyable it is too, so far. And given that I am back in the thick of catering, dear reader, it may well be the case that you will be seeing RANTS before too much longer, in which case I can only say, you lucky, LUCKY...

Damilola Taylor's killers sent down. Warmongering Joe Liebermann losing his nomination. Tabloid journalists charged with illegal phone tapping. Channel 4 staring down the wrong end of a big fine as a result of Big Brother. All we need now is a security threat grounding a load of planes and making people too scared to fly, saving billions of tonnes of emissions and with concomitant positive effects for the british tourism industry, what with fear being a much better motivational tool for my imbecilic fellow countrymen than something as nebulous as conscience or responsibility, and it's been a pretty good day. Hang on...

So yesterday afternoon 'd just finished writing a pile of thank-you cards (this I have discovered, is one of the things wives force you to do, prior to being married I wouldn't have been ungrateful for the gifts we received, I just wouldn't have got round to thanking anyone. This I am given to understand, is the decent thing to do) when my phone began to merrily trill. "Blast you vile box" I cried, for I did not recognise the number, not generally a good sign, it often seems to mean that somebody wants something. I answered with trepidation. Good job too for, as it turned out it was Bob, old uni peer and all round decent human being. I was somewhat shocked, having had no contact at all with him for many a long year. Pleasantly shocked, needless to say, I've always been a big fan of Bob, but it's not the sort of thing one expects to happen on a Friday afternoon. Naturally, we went drinking. Now, my head hurts. This is what I believe is known as cause and ef...

So your correspondent is now, officially a married man. Wedding is over, honeymoon is over and I'm back at my desk in the 'skirk gazing at the trees bending alarmingly in the wind outside. I'd love to tell you all about it, but my memory has sadly been wiped clean by the discovery upon my return that your super soaraway Coastalblog is number ONE on teh google for "gay anthony worrall thompson" I think I can die happy now, except I'd have to run it by the Mrs first, and I can't see her agreeing to it. What was that? Yes dear, coming dear. STOP PRESS And of course many happy returns of the day to the wondrous Celeste. Forget? Me? Never.

Don't speak with your mouth full, man. It's not just Bush's odd use of the word irony which amuses here, it's more the way that he's completely dismissive of anything Blair has to say "Yea yeah, I told Condi your offer, whatever". SO proud of our noble leader,the pansy. You get the impression Brown would have given Bush a thick ear if spoken to like that. Hoots.

Now, there's nothing quite like teenagers to make a chap feel old. Particularly when said teenagers are one's kid sister. And particularly when one stumbles across their web page. I would upbraid the girl upon her appalling spelling were I not dimly aware that that would move me irrevocably into the category of being "old". Spelling is something old people do. As for the rest of it, well, I didn't look at much, frankly, I don't want to know. Let me retain some illusions. Now, onto safer territory....so I was reading that observer woman supplement, purely from a spirit of curiosity you understand. The sensation reminded me of being a fervid, febrile teenage boy and (like my fellow teenage boys - don't lie), frantically reading women's magazines for insights, hints, anything that might give us a head start on the competition when it came to the school disco (as opposed to, you know, actually dancing); which of course is exactly the sort of self-deprecati...

So that makes two jobs I've quit on a point of principle in the last ten months. You'd think I'd learn. Admittedly my cards were marked once my current place of employment was bought by a couple, not too much space behind there for a bar manager then, particularly not one as ridiculously well paid as me. What little was left of my morale sank into my shoes after the new owner said he was looking forward to "touching base" with me. He also addressed me as "buddy" within thirty seconds of our first meeting. Now, I want to stress at this point that the couple who've bought the place are very pleasant people, they wanted to keep hold of me, and offered me a (somewhat less well paid) position as the head chef. So far, so thoughtful, really rather sweet of them. The downside came when I read the menu, out goes all the freshly prepared, home-made (and frankly rather good) grub we've been serving, in come breaded fucking mushrooms, packet sauces, frozen ...

For reasons too tedious to go into the pub sale went a bit tits up. So the licensed trade industry's loss is blogging's gain. Or something. Semi-normal service to be resumed just as soon as I get hold of a copy of this week's Advertiser so I've got something to laugh at.

Yes, those updates have been a trifle infrequent of late, haven't they? There is a reason. Fond as I am of blogging I am currently in the middle of the single most hectic period of mu life to date. Not only am I working hard on sorting out my phd proposal but over the next six weeks I'm going to be (deep breath) setting up a business, buying a pub, moving house, getting married. So you'll just have to bear with me for a bit, I'm afraid.

So as I was navigating my way across the BBC radio player I chanced upon an advert for radio 1's ""Bare all this summer" safe sex campaign. Bloody hell, I thought. Never had anything like that when I were a lad. I almost started harrumphing before it occurred to me that well, yes, when I was their target audience I was up to all sorts also. And then it hit me, I'm in my late twenties, and as such still relatively youngish (though by radio 1's standards past it), and as such young enough to realise that the problem with young people is that you suspect that they're having more fun than you did , I just hope that I remember this.

Random grab bag of thoughts and what have you from the last week or so. Anthony Worrall Thompson. Anthony Worrall Thompson. Anthony. Worrall. Thompson. I'm writing his name three times in order to fix his horrible orc-like face in my memory, and what has the troll-featured cuntbubble done to attracts my ire? Why, suggesting that the minimum wage by abolished. And why should the minimum wage, that succour to nameless millions balancing precariously above the poverty line, be abolished? Because it would make waiting on staff work harder for tips. Anthony Worrall Thompson. Drink it in. Anthony. Worrall. Thompson (this, incidentally, is the same man who suggests turning up to a fully booked restaurant and insisting that you booked, because they'll have to let you in, he is a pox on humanity, a boil on the face of sweet mother earth, an enormous worm ridden shit in your chardonnay, to paraphrase the tone-deaf man's Tasmin Archer, Alanis Morrissette). Ormskirk's getting more ...

So say you were a local journalist writing a story about a schism in the committee at the local cricket club, and say you were looking for a simple, easily recognisable phrase which the vast majority of the population would understand as meaning "a lack of fair play" which, handily, includes the word cricket. Would you, as the Advertiser's boards outside Somerfield proudly do, proclaim said shenanigans to be "not just cricket"? Well would you? In further news from our "Oh for the love of Benji" desk german cyclist Hans Stucke has been pedalling his old sit up and beg bike around the world since 1962. He is officially the world's most travelled man, and, by extension it seems likely that this is the world's most travelled bike. His constant faithful companion on his travels across the globe, across every continent, across deserts, tundra, through war zones without mishap. Until he got a ferry to Portsmouth, and it was nicked by the local scallie...

Further intrepid investigation was, as promised, undergone. It turns out that Ormskirk's crime of the week was a beating inflicted upon a pub singer by a bloke who objected to his singing, heckled him repeatedly and then, when the singer objected to said heckling, dragged him outside and beat the tar out of him. Now, I am temperamentally in favour of criticism being vigorous when necessary, but this is perhaps taking matters too far; the fact that the tune in question was Mr B White's "My First, My Last, My Everything" as inflicted upon your correspondent by countless godawful cabaret artists and sung along to by horrible women who've had too much wine over the years, however, is a mitigating circumstance, and I retain an open mind. The scene of this debate, it will come as no surprise to the Stalybridge contingent to learn, was none other than The Plough, where one clearly can't get the clientele these days. In football news, disappointing to see the Fort ret...