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The Existential Compost

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18th April 2018

Naughty @ 21:26

Saw that somebody called Mark Chapman had signed into the gym tonight. Couldn’t resist adding John Lennon....


5th April 2018

Another Daydream @ 21:36

Ok, so I didn’t run away to Cromer.

I thought about the practicality of getting there and, let’s face it, Kings Lynn is a nightmare to get around. So that made me reconsider my destination of choice. Indeed, if the destination needs to change, so do the activities there. After all, there is only one Mary Jane’s and that’s in Cromer.

So let me consider Skegness as a destination. Plenty of Eastern Europeans in that part of Lincolnshire and I’ve been told that I’m of Eastern European stature. Probably because of the way I stand, don’t say much and shave only occasionally. Therefore, I’d probably fit in well.

I wouldn’t be able to fly there. No airport local to Skeggy except maybe Doncaster and you might as well walk if you go to Skeggy via Donny. A choice would exist between a 3 hour 125 mile drive, a 5 hour train and bus journey (costing untold wealth), an 11 hour cycle or a 38 hour walk. I think driving would win again.

Once there, where to eat? The first time I went to Skeggy was with Mrs Gnomepants v1.0 and we had fish and chips in the Clocktower fish and chip restaurant which Tripadvisor says is shit. The next time I went was with Mrs Gnomepants v2.0 and we sat and ate near the prom which was ok, but outside and, as everyone knows, Lincolnshire is practically Svalbard so who wants to sit outside?

The little places down towards the prom are overpriced tourist traps and I’m not aware of any other places in Skeggy that serve quality sit down fish and chips with bread rolls and pots of tea. I’m sure there are some there though. Fish and chips at the seaside are like dog shit and fag butts on a council estate. Expected by decree.

One thing Skeggy does have is plenty of arcades. Especially at the pier. Most of the facilities on the pier at Skeggy are at the head end rather than the sea end. The amusement arcade there has that smell of unwashed people and a faint whiff of burnt fat from the café there. It’s not very pleasant. In or out of season. Still, it’s enjoyable if you’ve got a few bobs worth of copper coins to throw away.

Then there are the gardens. Sad remnants of a once proud age. Pretty much like all of Skeggy really, once you get beyond the tired seaside amusements and tattooed Tommys. Last time I was in the gardens at Skeggy, I seem to remember there was some event on where children were there in their droves. Mrs Gnomepants v2.0 and I attempted a bit of Geocaching but it was too busy to actually do anything without drawing attention to ourselves.

There is also the miniature village. Expensive to enter and walk around, nothing much to see and, on exit, the feeling of satisfaction that you’re actually helping to maintain a quaint little amusement from a bygone age that probably won't be around much longer.

Unfortunately, if you’re looking for quiet sedate genteel seaside with piers, straw hats, ice cream and jolly old people, then you’re in the wrong place, however, if you’re looking for somewhere to walk your bulbously bald headed tattooed Sun reading beer swilling UKIP voter, then Skeggy is your place to be. If you’ve never been there, imagine an East coast proto-Blackpool. If you’ve never been to Blackpool, think about turning around and getting the hell out of there. In fact, I’d probably drive the extra hour up to Cleethorpes but it's not much better there now that the fairground has closed.

I’ve only been to Cleethorpes once. All I remember is trying to find a healthy sandwich in Boots for Mrs Gnomepants v1.0. I remember feeling done to because we’d just spent the week down near Skeggy, visiting awful places like Ingoldmels, St Leonards and Mablethorpe before heading home via Cleethorpes for a bit of irony, only to find Cleethorpes was nice and tolerable. Kind of like Rhyl without the mud, decaying old people’s homes, dog shit and smell of pasties.

So where does that leave? Brighton? Too many hipsters. Worthing? Too southern. Great Yarmouth? Nothing great about it. Hunstanton? Oh my, seriously? That leaves Wales, of which Mrs Gnomepants v2.0 is mutinous, Scarborough, Whitby and Cornwall, which are too far for anyone to even consider and the Dorset coast, where I’ve not been to yet. Blackpool and the North West are grim and also too far. So at the moment, the only place that is feasible to run away to is the recesses of my mind; the halcyon British seaside nought but a hauntological fantasy.

4th April 2018

Daydream @ 20:06

All I want to do is escape to the seaside at the moment. Don’t know why.

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So there I’d be. Living in a seaside town with my lovely wife and kitties, making pizzas, existing on a diet of crab sandwiches, fish and chips and ice cream. Drinking beer at the end of a pier, watching the world go by and a television that’s somehow stuck on broadcasts of early 1980s Saturday evening TV. Living in a flat above a shop or in a cosy little cottage. Having escaped from the East Midlands in a lease car containing nothing but my gym kit and a dash cam.

3rd April 2018

1st March 2018

Jim Gym Djjhymn @ 19:01

Most men over forty

Like with most males over forty, the sense of lessened longevity rises and the need to demonstrate one can wire a light fitting while standing on a steel ladder in a puddle of radioactive piranha fish in the rain diminishes into a more productive need of postponing the inevitable. Out goes the daily greasy bacon sandwich from the dodgy cafe. Away goes the all day alcohol athletics and ta-ta to the tobacco triathalon. Health and longevity increasingly comes first.

Surprised I've reached the age I have after a steady diet of fags, booze and deep fried related treats, one minor heart attack in my late twenties and a 30ft drop from a Snowdonian waterfall, I've gingerly been entering the world of the Gym Bore. Gingerly because I have a light ginger tinge to my hair. Bore because that's all I talk about of a morning with my "lift-to-work" buddy Katy. 

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22nd February 2018

The East @ 07:11

Ever so the romantic, to celebrate our third wedding anniversary, I took my dear wife zoefruitcake to the East Coast this weekend. The British seaside has a magnetic appeal no matter what time of year you visit. Bleak, grey sands lapped by a cold grey sea set against the crumbling facade of decaying Victoriana. 


However, while the golden heyday of the British Seaside is still in living memory and some areas having received European regeneration money, the decay of neglect has been spreading deeper because of cash strapped council cuts. It is sad, like the passing or deterioration of an old friend, the end of a cultural pillar, but still there is a fondness for the seaside. Indeed,  while some places like Scarborough, Brighton and Blackpool still remain popular, others like Bridlington, Cleethorpes, Margate and Weston-Super-Mare show the cracks and devastation of a lack of investment. I've visited most of the British coast now I'm in adulthood, enjoying all that the little towns and villages have to offer while observing with an educated eye, the places once popular with the masses, the places once money making engines, now clinging on with Damoclean effort. 

Of course it's not just the big towns that appeal to me, the smaller lesser known towns that started to form their own resorts only for them to falter with the arrival of mass international transport also appeal. As it is, I've always wanted to visit the Humber Coast, so with places still left to visit running out and the cost of getting to the Isle of Wight more expensive than staying two nights there, I thought a trip to the Bridlington area was in order.

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3rd February 2018

2nd February 2018

Pop @ 07:06

Can't stop thinking about this....


1st February 2018

February @ 20:48

Oh great. It's February......again. Sheesh....

Long term readers will recall I have no truck with February. Ever since the 1970s when there were two Februaries in a year (a fact that has been hidden from the public and denied by many who either forget or are complicit in the conspiracy) February has plagued mankind with its quadrennial bloat. If February was struck from calendars meaning we went from January (which was definitely a year long this year) straight to March and to compensate we added a few extra days to the remaining months, I'd be much happier. 

Of course, why stop there? While we're at reducing the months, let's do away with Wednesdays. Geldoff might not like Mondays but I don't like Wednesdays. Wednesday makes the week seem more of a chore, in conveniently placed in the centre of the week it gloats at you with its "Ha! You're further away from the weekend than you'll ever be" attitude. So let's do away with Wednesdays too. 

And while we're at it, let's bin the number seven. Never liked seven. Difficult to add up with and always where you end up losing count, going directly from six to eight would be much better and with less numbers we would not need February and Wednesdays either.


17th January 2018

An unusual British Rural Tradition @ 20:30

Current Garden: Daventry
Current Grassiness: frustrated frustrated

Every year, round about this time, during that post Christmas period, amongst the hedgerows and gateways of rural Britain one might be lucky enough to espy the remains of a long standing British tradition.


I know, rather than use council services, I'll just leave all this shit here.

I've got no idea why, at this time of year, in this current age, certain types of people decide to load a van with rubbish (usually in huge laundry bags), old toys, stuff, books, furniture, bicycles and broken bits and bobs and dump them somewhere quiet and rural. What gives? All of this crap anyone who has a wheelie bin can leave it outside for the bin men to take away. Even if you miss a collection, you can wait until the following week or drive it to the local waste dump.  And if you don't have a car or are completely incapable of disposing of your shite, you can contact any council and explain how you don't have the money/ability to drive/sense to put the correct bin out/discretely use neighbours bins and they will usually advise you on how to  dispose of stuff. 

Honestly, it's so much easier (and cheaper) than paying that shifty transit van owing bloke from the pub £20 to take it all away. And I've no idea why this only seems to happen more frequently in January and the weeks around Christmas.  It's as if some dirty scutters in the UK get so monged on Buckie or crack or whatever during the festive period and forget to put their shite out for collection by the bin men. 


The Existential Compost

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