Coastalblog

As most of you will be aware, when not manning a stove I in part earn my keep by working for a university. As such I am disinclined to chime in with sections of the press who wail that the degree system has become debased, somewhat queering their own pitch by employing tired, facile phrases involving hell, handcarts and visits to dogs. It smacks of biting the hand that feeds, plus my own groups are full of bright, engaged and talented students. But when, whilst walking home this evening, I was confronted by a group of young men chanting a delightful air concerning their love for Hitler (on account of him "killing the fucking Jews") whilst the young ladies with them decided it would be entertaining to show me their breasts it was difficult not to accept that said section of the press might have a point.

Have you ever suspected that the general population are a lot thicker than is generally assumed? Come on, you're reading this, clearly you're a cut above the average. Ever thought it? Of course you have. And should you want incontrovertible proof that this is the case, I must point you in the direction of the wondrous hotch-potch of bigotry, non sequiturs and capslock abuse that is the BBC's Have Your Say , wherein you can gawp at your fellow countrymen in all their inglorious pettiness. The budget thread in particular is an hysterical read, chock-full of berserk middle englanders venting their not inconsiderable spleen. I was particularly enamoured of the manchester woman who complains of being "stuffed" by only being 200 quid better off a year. She earns £53 K, incidentally. However the winner (highlighted by Ed in a thread on ILE) simply has to be: The 4x4 tax has hit me hard. I have a Discovery because I have four young children. What else am I supposed to put...

It was a different world in late 2005. Grime had yet to lose it's cultural cachet to dubstep. I had not yet tired of the joke about the inflatable boy. Emma Bunton was still thought of largely in terms of being an ex-spice girl. Rosie Cammeneti had yet to brighten my lunchtimes by appearing in Neighbours. Truly they were simpler times when coastalblof began championing the fortunes of Fort William FC. You remember them. The Fort. The pluckiest team in the British Isles. Week in, week out I cheered them on. Generally to heavy defeat, but we were there for the good times too . I have been neglecting them somewhat this season, what with one thing and another, and thought it high time I brought you an update (due to feeling the deep, deep shame of the title at not having done so before). And how are they doing? The Fort, I am pleased to announce, having taken until May of last year to register their first win of the season have ALREADY (and we're only two thirds through March) rack...

I spoke to you of having a busy year, what with the house moving and business setting up (all of which seems to be going as smoothly as could reasonably be expected). Obviously, needing to live in the meantime means I continue to hold a couple of jobs down. Phew, you may think (were you the sort of person who thought in exclamations), what an action-packed year. Didn't you say something about a magazine as well? Why yes, gentle reader, yes I did. I am helping to facilitate the phoenix-like reawakening of Neon Highway , it has existed for a bit as webzine (a format which I personally have a little trouble with, which I may save for another post) but we're bringing it back to good old hardcopy. Which I am rather excited about. Hopefully we'll have the first issue out in October. Which, incidentally, is when Mrs Coastaltown and I become parents. Did I not mention that? Like I say, busy year.

Back after a weekend away watching the sister in law get wed, aw. Survey's back on potential new house, and makes for fairly cheery reading, so that's one less thing to worry about. No immediate problems; but there are a couple of things we'll want to look at a couple of years down the line. Still, it's a relief. Now it's just a matter of them sorting their shifting elsewhere out. In the meantime we wait. It's the waiting that does me in, as many of you know I'm also supposed to be starting a business up (a cafe/delicatessen), and time is starting to get tight. I've taken out a fairly substantial loan to get it started, and that is just sat in my bank being slowly eroded by the repayments (okay, not all of ot, I have done financially sensible and dull things with some of it). All well and good whilst I'm working two jobs (though I can't help but note that 3dge h1ll HAVEN'T FUCKING PAID ME as yet, something which will be sorted out today, hope...

Two things that have amused me over the last couple of days (admittedly I am easily amused): I am often to be found propping up the quiz machine in my local, not through any real expectation of winning any money worthy of the name (after a short period of grace the questions ineivitably become of the guess one obscure date from three variety) but for the joys that are the silly answers to multiple choice questions on Battleships early on. So it was that yesterday I was to be found gurgling my point on being offered the option of answering "Mockney Sellout Co" to the question "which supermarket does Jamie Oliver advertise?" Small joys. Even smaller joy, and it's distinctly possible that the only other person on earth to be amused by this will be Jimmy, is to be found in the cheap shit DVD section of Morrisons. You know the one, selling five-pack bundles of films you've NEVER HEARD OF (for a GOOD REASON). Fascinated as I am by these films it's the knock...

We all have our personal tipping points. Some crack one day when stood in an otherwise blameless baskets-only queue; the person in front takes too long trying to remember their PIN and bingo, a previously sunny worldview becomes irrevocably bitter. Others may have lived a hitherto positive existence, always looking for the best in people, only to be rendered permanently homicidal by gormless service in a plastic coffee outlet. For vast numbers of my fellow countrymen, the urge to act was engendered by the tedious e-petition about road pricing (probably deserving a post of its own: goverment complicit in human rights abuses? Not my problem squire. Government taking country into illegal war? probably had it coming, didn't they? Goverment creating artificial climate of fear? Well, can't trust anyone these days. Goverment tinkering with something to do with your fucking car? Take to the streets! And pave some new ones whilst we're at it! More cars! Mmmm Cars! etc) For myself th...

Fingers crossed. After seemingly interminable debate (Liverpool or not? Flat or house? Is it too much? Is it too scabby?) and touring an endless variety of unsuitable places, as well as being annoyingly beaten to the punch on places we DID like (I'm tempted to start a new career as a vigilante beating the shit out of buy-to-let racketeers making life impossible for us humble first time buyers) we may have found somewhere. Finally. It's actually quite nice. I look forward to discovering that it's an ancient Indian burial site. And, because information about Coastalblog's private life is, frankly, dull: Not I which I shall be yammering on about to my second year class tomorrow (second film down is the jawdropping Billie Whitelaw peformance) Smackdown of the week, , the wonderful Ben Goldacre on the awful Gillian McKeith. And quote of the year, Stephen frears, upon receiving the best film Bafta for The Queen: "I'm the Queen of the world!" In your smug face, ...

We appear to be in the grip of something of a crimewave as currently stands, and none are safe in their beds. Evidence. The town crier's tricorn hat (which apparently costs eighty quid! Who knew?) was stolen by "youths". Cue advertiser headline "Cruel Gang Steal Don's Hat". ACTUAL HOME INVASION thwarted by PISSED UP PUB REGULARS who proceeded to enact THE RETRIBUTION OF THE MAN IN THE STREET. Kapow! Most entertainingly two young men attempted an hilarious breakout from the magistrates court by assaulting an elderly clerk, busting his ribs with a MUG OF TEA and doing one up the ROAD before being caught by a doughty local bobby hurrah. Needless to say they were sixteen. Anyone older than that may have thought to themselves "hmm, oh well, magistrates court, it's not a capital offence" as opposed to "hey! If we break out of here it'll be like that programmme, Prison Break! We might get to sleep with Holly Valance! It's not like the pol...

The usual circular global warming argument in the pub last night yes it's bad - no-one can make a difference - it's because everyone think like that that we're in such a mess - yeah I know but it's true - I know that but you have to try don't you? etc etc. Eventually we did reach a consensus that it really is encumbent upon us each to do our bit (though of course you all knew that already). So bearing that in mind.... (anyone reading this blog at the actual time should go and plant tree in penance)

You'd think I'd have learnt by now, wouldn't you. I've had a decade of things looking exceedingly bleak and then turning around rapidly. So it shouldn't come as a shock to me when it occurs. Only last week I was fretting over whether or not I could afford a variety of things, particularly with a large loan sat in my bank account like a big fat frog of potential disastrous debt. I was also swearing a lot at my new phone and it's irritatingly teenage interface (no, I have no desire to have big brother chat with like minded teens. I'm 29. And grumpy. I wish simply to MAKE AND ANSWER PHONE CALLS. No I do not wish to download that song where that gramatically-challenged bint bangs on about finding a place where she can boogie because "I needs me to party" and "I'm up in the party" and then have it as my bastard ring-tone. Parties are rubbish. I wish simply to MAKE AND ANSWER PHONE CALLS). Presto chango, I'm offered another lecture this...

So I was reading an article about how golly gosh Lee Evans is appearing in proper theatre rather than just that Norman Wisdom thing he does that the proles like and goodness me he's actually quite good even though he lives in Essex (Evan's being marvellous is no news to those of us who've seen the little known British film Funny Bones , I won't go on about its wonderfulness but you really ought to see it, should you get the chance). And whilst I snorted at the notion of his ability coming as a surprise to anyone (he's done Becket for god's sake) I got to thinking about the little ways we define ourselves. Ever since I was a small child I wanted to be a writer. Well, actually I wanted to be a footballer but due to my staggering physical ineptitude from a very young age I was fully cognisant that this wasn't going to happen, being last picked every single lunchtime will soon drive those dreams of Wembley right out of your head. For a brief period in my teens I...

One would imagine that in posting to a weblog there is a pact between writer and (potential) audience that there will be engaging content. Clearly there is only any point in posting when you have something interesting to say. This imperative, sadly, is outweighed by the feelings of guilt at having a blog and not posting to it for a while. So if we have a given value of g (for guilt) and divide it by a given value of of p (for potential interest engendered within the breast of the long-suffering reader) then crucially we still don't have anything that will stand up in court.

Sigh. I was arguing about OuLiPo over on I Love Books and it reminded me of the time I used to regularly read vaguely highbrow stuff... Okay, that's slightly misleading. I've got Harry Mathews, Slavoj Zizek and the new Pynchon on my reading pile at the moment. I still find time to read, just as I still somehow fnd time to write. Just not enough. But when I'm lying in bed at the end of a bone-shattering night then my brain is a little too fried to cope with it. Your friend, at this juncture, is genre fiction. Specifically (for me) crime fiction. Fantasy and sci-fi have their adherents (and I'm partial to a spot of Iain Banks from time to time) but really, when I just want to relax and I'm not up to anything overly taxing, you can't beat a brutal murder or nine. Which is why I, seventeen years late, am catching up on Ian Rankin's Rebus novels. And they're great, the prose can be a little clunky, and the use of ellipses somewhat baffling, but the character...

Two recent visitors have got here via google searches for "Lynx advert and culture", and, even more entertainingly "Kingmaker shirt" for which i am proud to note that I am number ONE on google. Higher than Kingmaker themselves. In your face early nineties indie! Even more entertainingly the tories have scrambled to hail some page three girl or other as an "Environmental heroine" after she posed with her tits painted green. Yes, to highlight green issues. In your face Al Gore. I'd make a joke but they practically write themselves.

Those of you who know me will hve a pretty good idea as to why posts have been non-existent recently. Suffice it to say screaming hot pans, knives, hordes of drunks, tinsel. It wasn't fun. And let that be an end to it. But whilst on the subject of catering I am given to understand that the french restaurant industry is in crisis, with restaurants closing at a rate of knots. Furthermore on the subject of catering I was recently harangued by a drunk guy who, when he discovered I was a chef decided to blame me for the high prices he'd recently been charged at another establishment, spitting slightly in my face as he made his point. I wonder if there were some way I could link these two pieces of information together? Why, of course! The french restaurant industry has been struggling for a while now. Some blame the overbearing hegemonic pressure of Monsieur Michelin, others the insidious influence of Le Big Mac. Those with half an eye on the glossy food supplements may opine that i...

Coverage of the possible serial killings in Suffolk has afforded me a certain grim amusement over the last couple of days. The manner in which it's been reported is akin to a breathless schoolgirl informing her mum that Johnny's asked her to the formal. "But Mum, he's murdering hookers!" Seriously, it's just so fucking overexcitable. From the slew of maps and graphics to the tediously ineivitable tagging of the killer(s) as the "Ipswich Ripper" (which seems wildly innapropriate given that the only method of death of which we've so far been informed has been asphyxiation). The tabloids (and, sadly, the Independent) have collectively wanked thremselves into a frenzy over a story which I cannot help but point out is, at it's very essence, the story of five dead women. Retreat to first principles. Killing. People. Is. Wrong. Except they're not being defined as people, are they? the victims are being defined as prostitutes, as ludicrous a disp...

The chap in charge of the web services for Merchant Taylor's boys school is a gigantic monkey faced buffoon. I mean really. He's about eight feet tall, has a face like a monkey and is an absolute, copper-bottomed buffoon. In less clicquey news this evening I heard someone say, entirely straight faced "all I have is my pride. And my guitars" nearly fell off me stool for laughing.

I never thought it would happen, I never in my most fevered imaginings dreamed it COULD happen. But happen it has. An advert has come along featuring a character more revolting, more nauseating, more dreams of extreme violence creating than that kid in the Frosties ad whon chirped relentlessly on about how they were gonna taste great. You know the one, that whitebread grinning fucking robot who reminded you of nothing so much as the evil football hero at primary school who made it his personal mission to make your life hell. He's number two now. That Lynx ad. The FHM wet dream of an impressive number of glossy, bikini clad godesses scrambling to be the first to reach that goon on the beach. Yes. Him. Leaving aside the terrifying intellectual poverty of the premise itself there's just something about his gormlessly lustful expression which causes every muscle in my body to tense, except those engaged in moving my head and eyes as I instinctively look round for something to hit ...

There's nothing quite like the smug feeling you get after completing some strenuous physical exercise, the sure knowledge that you've done yourself a power of good, the even better knowledge that you won't have to do it again today, the brilliant realisation that you can go for a guilt-free pint. There's nothing to top it. Unless you happen to have also finished all your christmas shopping on the same day for that double-smug goodness, that is. Aw yeah.