Coastalblog

Christ on a crutch, July already? Unlikely as it seems I have been thinking of getting on here for a while, but existence seems to keep getting in the way. Nobody warns you how all-consuming owning your own business is; this is not a complaint, you understand, working for yourself is infinitely more rewarding than taking orders. But on top of the hours which are, of necessity, long (otherise you just have to pay someone else to do it) there is the fact that, when you DO lock up, you don't switch off. You go home, you think about menus, you check the email, you think some more about menus, you check the facebook page, check the twitter feed, and whilst the computer's on and glowing you think, really must update coasdalblog...but there's generally something else to do. Conversely EVERYONE warns you how all-consuming parenting is, and EVERYONE with more than one child nods sagely and says "wait until you have two...." Of course, a year and a bit into the existence ...

It was Pastygate that did it, finally. Yes, I'm aware that that was the start of last week, and instant commentary and the inexorable flow of news has rendered this redundant but hey, this is coastalbog, it moves to its own damn time. Pastygate was the point I finally gave up. I've limped along for years, hoping against scarred and battered hope that parliament was, ulimately, a force for good. Or if not that, at least a force for keeping the country staggering, gasping, along. Clearly not. And I'm a fool for thinking it. All those people I harangued for not voting over the years? I'm sorry guys, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa. You see, what did it for me, finally, was that in the week where the government, the fucking GOVERNMENT, were actively encouraging antisocial, fight in the streets and scrap for the last drop of petrol behaviour. In the week where the government, the fucking GOVERNMENT were unrepentant about essentially ho-ing it about for a quarter of a mill of pre...

Two hilarious interventions this week. First up, Coastalblog is a tremendous fan of Sean Penn's sticking his oar into the Falkland/Malvinas fracas. Because naturally, what this situation was crying out for was the opinion of Sean Penn. In fact, were it not for the trenchant views and considered plans of Mr Penn I, for one, don't see a way out of this. In no way, and I want you all to be very sure of this, in NO WAY is the Argentinian government's current bout of sabre-rattling an attempt to distract their populace from a dismal economic performance. Clear? Good. Right. Equally, in NO WAY is the British military's decision to deploy the twin forces of nuclear weapons and Prince William (when each could easily have been quietly shelved) a wearying act of machismo liable to induce near-terminal depression in the seasoned observer and convince the MoD that they're not blindingly irrlevant to the passage of the quotidian. Okay? Got that? Brilliant. Right, now, bearing in...

Right, fine, Sir Fred is now plain Fred. Backslaps all round. Justice has been served. Well done all. Some thoughts, though: whilst Goodwin (or possibly just plain FG these days, having forfeited even the right to an unabbreviated name) was clearly a colossal dick and is single handedly responsible for the misery of thousands, so were a whole bunch of people. I'm curious as to whether or not the chopping down of the man who's come to symbolise the venality of bankers will sate the public's bloodlust, particularly after the token humiliating of Hester; in which case an entire crate of penises will be breathing a big sigh of relief and cracking open the Montecristos. It needs bearing in mind that Fred Goodwin was not the banking crisis, and the banking crisis was not Fred Goodwin. It's also worth bearing in mind that he's still trousering a £375k p.a. pension, so whilst it may sting a little, I'm sure he'll lie back in his bed made of money and reflect that it...

and why not? the tea is bubbling away, Mrs Coastalblog is swearing at her planning, the offspring sleeping the sweet, inscrutable sleep of the indestructible and I have a moment, just a moment, to spare, so why not list five things currently getting on my nerves? After all, it's so fresh! Okay, fine, I'm bored. 1) Gove, obviously 2) Oh, Michael Kiwanuke, you come across in interviews as a thoughtful and pleasant chap, but for some mysterious reason critics have yet to notice that you make Jack Johnson look like Lemmy. 3) See also Lana Del Rey, cheer up. 4) The TS Eliot prize, which had they an ounce of integrity would have been called off after the credible part of the shortlist bailed 5) Yachts, all yachts, without exception

Oh dear oh doctor I really am not terribly good at the internet, as you have probably gathered by now. Or rather, I lack the inclination to be so. So here we are in 2012, when people have phones that can remodel their faces to attune to their mood, where children can create music from air, where even my ten month old son is using his iPad to start a record label to rep the ten month old scene, bruv. And I still have dear old Coastalblog, looking increasingly like the leathery uncle you can't pry from your armchair come Christmas. But, right, it has new links, see? Yes, it's only taken me five years to put the business on here, pretty nippy, I'm sure you'll agree. Oh, and twitter, for my sins. And in this spirit of reckless linkage abandonment let me point out that sometime coastablog confrere, a Ms J O'Mahony, late of this parish, is continuing her stellar upward trajectory at a rate designed to strike fear and envy into the hearts of those who are still weighing up...

New, new, new, all is new and shiny in the limping, wheezing world of coastalblog. Well, not overly so, but I can now do these !@? I feel so much mre expressive. And yes, I'm aware that I could have used a virtual keyboard, but frankly I couldn't be arsed. The main problem is re-teaching myself to type, I've gotten so used to caps-locking on and off at lightning speed, as well as avoiding most sentences involving either the declarative or interrogative for obvious reasons?! (you see?) (I've also avoided parentheses). Cheers Jim. So much for that, you cry (and rightly so) we care naught for your sudden adoption of the shift key, and who could blame you? Not I. Do you have anything interesting to say? You cry, to which I can only reply no, not really, I am a very dull man. But, and this is crucial, I am a very dull man with a functioning shift key.

I think, pretty sure it happened, hands have slightly more cuts and burns than usual so it seems like that Decemeber's occurred all over me, nice. What, I don't say hi for months and then it's some mumbling nonsense about December, I look back to more cogent and lucid dissections of the hell of christmas from a catering perspective and weep bitter, bitter tears. Well, I'm saying hi now. Incidentally, I managed to get some poems published over at the rather marvellous railroad poetry project, hooray for me; http://issuu.com/railroadpoetryproject/docs/issue2/1 Furthermore, to my deep shame, I now do twitter, possibly some humble pie needs eating; should you wish to, I suspect you'll find me fairly easily. And that's that, enough mea culpas and hand wringing, poor old coastalblog got kicked down the priority list a bit, with wives kids and businesses this sort of thing tends to happen. That said, I have a sneaking suspicion you may be seeing a bit more of me sooner...

goosed, just..goosed i'm still devoid of shift keys, hence the raworth-esque feel of the post, and this minor problem is still enough to keep me away from the keyboard which is a shame, for there are many interesting things occurring, be they coastalblog's crust-earning enterprise source [again, lack of shift precludes html, google it, completism-fans] kicking up a quality food ruckus at bickerstock this weekend, or highlighting brewdog's equity for punks plan, or expounding at length on the joys of a week or so in darkest devon, or fretting a touch about how the sw sucks the ambition from people, or noting various sad and imminent anniversaries i'm dying to post about how george osborne shouldn't be trusted with a quid to go and buy milk with, or how erbacce are putting some really interesting stuff out. i was recently gifted the worst, i mean simply the worst, poetry you have ever read, but how can one deconstruct effectively without simple access to caps, or ques...

Hello, a brief check in to direct those who may be interested in the general direction of a couple of ongoing bits and bobs by associates of coastalblog, should you be a of a creative bent you may find them handy http://www.nicolereneepantano.com/#!portfolio-2 http://holdfirepress.wordpress.com/ there we go, dissemination gives one a warm glow, does it not. more considered and lengthier posts to follow shortly, but i'm a bit shy of typing at the mo, the shift key on my keyboard's knackered, so kiss goodbye to parentheses, question or exclamation marks, obviously i CAN CAPITALISE but caps lock on and off every time one wishes to use the upper case is a massive pain the arse, unless one is WRITING A LETTER TO THE DAILY MAIL ABOUT EVIL GYPSY WOGS, obv. such is life.

I mean seriously, that is getting on for half a year. All reason dictates that clearly I have a bit too much going on to keep going with dear old wheezing Coastalblog, with its bouncy 1.0 look and utter disregard for any development in web-based technology of the last, ohh seven years. Probably should knock it on the head, to be honest. I barely have time for a facebook status update, let alone an honest to goodness considered blog post. I have to do actual things. Like make stuff. And talk to people. And look after small people. Hmm, unnecessarily snotty, I suspect, but I ask you, this evening I waited around for a table of four people. Whole place was deserted, when these four friends buggered off I could go home. They kept me an hour and a half, and in that time not one of them spoke to another, each was giving it some internet on one device or another, which begs the question why go out and ruin my evening in the first bloody place? And so, irony of ironies, I am talking about bein...

I've just finished reading Peter Ackroyd's Hawksmoor (a mere 17 years after starting it, giving up and bunging it on a shelf, 16 year old me clearly had less patience); it was, as Ackroyd nearly always is, dense, verging on the mystical and practically damp with the Thames' winter mist rising from the page. I mention it purely because as I was reading it, as so often seems to happen, one of the central themes started to chime with a notion which has been bouncing around my head these past few days. I shan't test your patience by outlining the plot in any great detail but suffice it to say that in Hawksmoor the future is in part an echo of the past, the details repeat, the characters exist down generations. Now, there's a more extensive (and probably more interesting) point to be made here about Hawksmoor being in an oblique sense a comment upon palimpsest, or on archetype, template, the workhorses of literature (which, given that Ackroyd is famous for rewriting his...

In these days of austerity and pulling through together, it is beholden upon us to audit ourselves at every moment, to see if there's any more WE could be doing for the cause. So, depite it being only Jan 2nd here are my achievements so far: I have snarled at a cash-machine on the off chance that it attempts to guilt trip me into gving to charity. I have learned how a thermocouple works, and am a little wiser about the workings of boilers. Ta for that, winter. I have played at the penny arcade on the end of a pier. In Southport, obv. I have become cognisant of the concept of "discount fudge" (see above). I have had beer whilst telling myself that all I'm doing is clearing out the leftovers from Christmas BEFORE a fresh start. I have watched Monsters. Inc with my son a total of two and a half times. I have spoken to disappointingly few members of my family, and must try harder. We are, after all, all in this together

In much the same way as it's cliched to be cynical about Chrstmas, it is something of a bore to be snarky about new years resolutions. That said, it is to my mind a trifle dull to be banging on about new year at all, so hoist by my own petard really. Heigh ho. Temporally speaking I suppose it makes sense to use Jan 1 to demarcate your past self from your present, and by extension future selves. It's an incredibly human trait, feeding as it does off our innate blind optimism (and, dare I say it, solipsism), to draw a line in the sand and say right, from here on out it's different. Physically speaking, too. A whole new calndar on the kitchen wall, as yet unsullied with doctor's appointments, errands to run, demands to be met. Fresh starts all round. I may sound like I'm being somewhat patronising about the whole embracing of the new year. Nothing could be further from the truth. 2010 will go down in my personal annals as being the worst year of my life, bar none, for ...

Poems to be found in the estimable Ekleksographia magazine here . To my mild shock I appear to be rubbing electronic shoulders with Harry Mathews, something of a god of mine. May need a lie down. May need one anyway. Dec, so untenably busy. Normal service resumes shortly. Merry and Happy etc etc, as you were.

December in full swing. Pans, knives etc. Will be more coherent in new year promise. Though whilst I am here I will point out this: the incumbent government made a big hoohah upon arrival of their bonfire of the quangos because they are "unelected and not answerable". Today Eric Pickles pushes through his localism bill, devolving power to local citizens. Who are also, I cannot help but note, unelected, and not answrable. Just saying. Also just saying that docking Pickles' Pie Allowance may go some way towards making a dent in the deficit. Okay, fair enough, mocking his corpulence is cheap and petty. I'll just have to stick to mocking his smalltown, pettifogging, mean, nickelfucking bill, the upshot of which is that a few people in a jolly nice conservation area will form a community group to clear the odd footpath in their vast acreage of free time and councils will use that as an excuse to sack a couple of maintenance staff. Meanwhile council tax rises at a flat rate...

I confess to being a little mystified by the US reaction to the current crop of wikileaks documents. Much froth and splutter about their unacceptability, dottle and bile about lives at risk and what have you. It makes me wonder if they've actually stopped to think about what's come to light. The big ones that the british media are running with, for example, do in fact rather help the US. Don't they look less warlike in the wake of the news that arab countries have been urging them to attack Iran? There we all were thinking that US aggression and imperialism in the middle east was one of the main drivers of global tension; now we discover that they've been positively restrained, all things considered, and as it turns out Saudi Arabia and Jordan actually agree with Israel about some aspects of foreign policy. Furthermore the news that the Chinese are fairly relaxed about North Korea also points to a level of global consensus that we were unaware of. I don't know about...

Two which have occupied me today: How much tax has Bono avoided paying in Ireland, what with his being domiciled abroad for income tax reasons? likewise the rest of bleeding U2. Just curious, is all. Seems a bit rich banging on about third world debt when your own country is bleeding to death due to the tax avoidance of rich arseholes, like, say, self-regarding rock-goblins. Why on Earth did Gove stop shy of bringing back the birch? The rest of his half-arsed, home counties pleasing , reactionary bollocks hearkened back merrily to the Victorian class-room. The three R's! Exams! None of this namby coursework nonsense! Get the Army in! Why d'you stop shy of advocating caning, Gove? Looks like you shat out from here. Anyhow, one other bit of news, yours truly will be reading at the Rose next Wednesday (Dec 1st), do pop along if you feel so inclined.

Now, contrary to what you may have gleaned from the reams of vituperation which have spooled forth upon these pages since coastalblog's inception I do not, as a general rule, quiver with contempt for my fellow man en bloc. Well, maybe a touch, but on the whole I try to see the best. but around about this time every year a phenomenon occurs which causes your correspondent to desire to gnaw his own hand off in frustration as he weeps for his fellow man. I first noticed it in '96, the year zero of the internet from the coastal prespective. Wide eyed at Uni, making fumbling (though in one notable case successful)attempts to flirt via email, agog and gushy with the sheer wonder of it all, but up it cropped on the uni's bulletin boards; and so it has continued through group emails, message-boards, myspace, facebook all the way up to twitter. Each year more crushingly depressing than the last. What? What? You cry. Dear reader, let me elucidate: It is the phenomenon of people takin...

Now. I have maintained that twitter is where I draw the line, and the reason I have consistently given is that I recoil at the ego rampant. It mystifies me that anyone would imagine their every waking moment should be documented for the edification of others, and, to be fair to me, it still does. Sure I blog a bit, but mostly for my own amusement, and at a frequency so intermittent that it's clear to all and sundry that hey, I am doing things, other things, things which don't involve a keyboard. But it's only part of the truth, and it's time to confess the whole. You see, I also have a bit of an addctive personality when it comes to information, and then I tend to get nothing done. I have learned this lesson bitterly as the net has evolved, and I know damn well that twitter would tip me over the edge if I let it. Proof positive occurred today, when I was forced to tweet for professional reasons, and before you knew t I was deep into some utterly utterly meaningless medi...