Blog Off

You know me. I'm not the sort of histrionic luvvy that takes offence at little things like people hijacking my blog for their own pathetic agendas. But enough is enough.

You lot don't deserve me, so I'm off.

Adios. Sayonara. Dosvedanya. Auf wiedersehen. A bientot.

Be seeing you!

Eddie The Fish

Being as I don't get out much at the moment, I'm having to rely on one of my informants for the fact that the excellent Eddie Gilbert, who, bizarrely, is actually called Johnny (and not to be confused with Eddie the Beer, who really is called Eddie) has now opened a restaurant and fish 'n' chip takeaway at his stylish King Street premises here in the Ms' P. Yet more proof that the town is on the up! Yay! I'll have to borrow Betty my neighbour's Davros undercarriage later and go check it out.

I'm hoping his nosh will be as good as, if not better than, the superb Newington Fish Bar as it'll only mean a toddle for my Friday supper, rather than a trip out in the jalopy. Pete's Fish Factory next to the Belgian Bar is pretty good too, although I'm not a fan of the traditional, surly British service they dish up with their traditional, yummy British fish 'n' chips.

Of course, the one thing a chippie usually needs is a punny name. We have the Codfather here in Ramsgate, which is a fair effort. But my favourite has to be the one I clocked a few years ago next to Sizewell nuclear power station in Suffolk - Fission Chips! Needless to say, their mushy peas glowed in the dark.

Gone Fishing

Gone fishing. Back soon. Feel free to argue amongst yourselves for a bit.

Potato Head

Alas, dear reader, this may be my last post for a few days. I've got to peel off as I've been booked as the after-dinner speaker at a symposium in Yokohama in aid of the International Year of the Potato, the only global meeting where, when they take a vote, the eyes always have it. Oh well, it'll be an opportunity to get mashed, I suppose.

But don't y'all get to thinking I've had my chips. Like phytophthora infestans, you can't get rid of me that easily! Pip pip!

Bloggus Interruptus

I must apologise for my hissy-fit on the comments to the post below, but really! Some people just don't seem to understand that there's only room for one self-serving, sanctimonious sh*t-stirrer on this blog.

Applying the dictum 'what you say says more about yourself than it does about others', it seems my anonymous interloper was a redneck Beavis and Butthead fan (s-ooo 1993!) who failed journalism school and subsequently developed rampant haemorrhoids. Oh well, no matter. As I needed a break anyway I've decided to put this blog on hold and swan it up in the smoke for a while. Be seeing you!

Blog Off

We apologise for this interruption to our blogrammes. We hope to return you to our Isaac Hayes tribute Chef's Chocolate Salty Balls Go Into The Oven One Last Time as soon as possible. In the meantime, here is some music.

Starfishy Business

As the local papers tend to follow up my jottings on a regular basis, I thought I'd return the compliment and have a little delve into a story they've been running.

Thousands of dead starfish have been washed up recently in Pegwell Bay, providing an unexpected feast for the KFC gulls. Well, at least it's temporarily keeping them away from the bin bags in Augusta Road. But there's been a mass debate over what's caused the mass extinction. Some wags have put it down to the adjacent Viagra factory, and posited that they've rogered themselves to death after some kind of aquatic orgy. Others have put it down to the tons of poisonous slag from local coal mines that was used in building the apron of the now defunct hoverport, and which is now leeching into this SSSI.

However, having pensively sucked on a couple of Fisherman's Friends I've come up with another theory. It seems the starfish feed on mussels. And the mussel beds are regularly trawled by local fisherfolk looking for a lucrative catch, dragging up our five-fingered fishy friends in the process. Hence the feast for the flying poodles. Rotters!

Click here to go to angling forum on dead starfish in Pegwell Bay

Photo: Reader Steve

Faded stars: Pegwell Bay at the weekend

Lazing On A Sunny Afternoon

Well the fish aren't biting and the tea's gone cold. The tax man's taken all my dough and left me in my stately home, lazing on a sunny afternoon. I can't even sail my yacht, he's taken everything I've got.

Oops. I appear to have fallen into a Kinks-fuelled timewarp there, sorry. No, the reason for the nostalgia attack is because I've just found Radio Caroline on the web. Since I relocated to Kent's Ramsgate Peninsula, I can't count the number of times that people have come up to me and said: Do you remember the days when you used to be able to get Radio Caroline round here blah boats sinking blah masts snapping blah police raids blah Marine Offences Etc. Act 1967 blah blah blah. I can't count the number of times because, um, there haven't actually been any. But I wouldn't want the truth to get in the way of a good story.

Any road, you can now listen to the former pirates, still pumping out their eclectic mix of 60s and 70s favourites (plus a few newies), but no longer on 259 medium wave. These days they're on broadband, or on your MurdochVision thingy, if you're that way inclined. And they've forsaken the North Sea to broadcast instead from a nice air-conditioned studio in Maidstone. About the only good thing to come out of the place, if you ask me.

Zzzzzzzz

Ho-hum. It seems everyone's moaning about the lack of enthusiasm in mondo blog at the moment.

Big Blog Adem and Big News Tony have both complained of a certain ennui creeping into their jottings, and I know how they feel. Of course, Councillor/Doctor Doctor/Councillor Moores still has his crack team of ex-Daily Mail hacks grinding out the same old stuff day in, day out, but that's only to be expected.

Is it worth telling you that Muffin the Mule appears to be struggling to make ends meet? Nah, probably not. Or that, according to my insiders at the Beeb, the factual and documentary departments are still running around like the proverbial headless chickens after that spot of bother with the Queen? Nah, who cares?

Nope, it's back to the old fishing rod, methinks. And a nice Thermos of tea.

Cone Fishing

Zillions of millionaires on Ramsgate beach this afternoon. It seems summer has finally arrived!

Clearly we're now well into the silly season. Parliament has broken up, with old One Eye Brown off to stay with his brand new chum Camp David. The kiddy-diddlers at the BBC (a survey out today shows 60% of adults now trust the BBC less since scandals such as the faked Blue Peter phone-in) have all scarpered to their villas in Tuscany, leaving the viewers to digest endless repeats. And, as you can see by the headline on this post, I'm rapidly running out of ideas for atrocious puns.

So it's time for a bit of a break. There are ice creams to be licked, bottles of Krug to be popped, and an autobiography to be written. But like the Beeb, I'll be bunging up a few repeats, and who knows, if something interesting happens I might even be persuaded to comment on it. As I've always said: You can't get rid of me that easily!

Tip To Toe

Ordinarily, of course, I would have been at Royal Ascot this week. I suppose my invite from Sir Alan must have got lost in the post this year.

I have, however, received an irresistible offer from my old chums at the Penzance Arts Club to join them for the last knockings of the Golowan Festival, so I've charged up the Prius and plan to make an early start in the morning. Oh, didn't I tell you I traded the TT in for one of those? All the celebs are driving them these days, don't you know!

The toe of Cornwall rather reminds me of our own tip of Kent, but with a bit more oooh arrr. Penzance in the south is a charming and thriving harbour town, while on the north side St Ives boasts a long artistic tradition and a splendid gallery built by those people who make the golden syrup. It was completed on the site of the town's former gas works in 1993 with nary a hitch, attracts a quarter of a million visitors each year, and has even recently announced plans for an extension. Hmm, perhaps that's where the similarity ends.

See you around the middle of next week. Or you never know, if you're lucky I might send you a postcard!

Hurray! Hurray! It's A Public Holiday!

Well, er, no, it's not actually. But there are many people who believe that today being St George's Day, it should be. So I'm taking the day off.

Not that I'm one of those little Englander types, you understand. Just a lazy blighter grabbing any excuse to do bugger all.