License to Drill

I've been a bad old blogger of late. Trying to get my head around the craziness of local government, interspersed with rediscovering old Bob Dylan (New Morning is just beautiful, plus the best song about chauvinism ever, The Man In Me), and orienting myself around Grimsby (am yet to find the posh bit), whilst interviewing John Shuttleworth and trawling through Creative Writing handouts and catflap implementation instructions (in some kind of Scandanavian language). Manic, then.
A mate of mine who has also been snaffled up by the crazy world of PR e-lamented me the other day. "What has happened to us??" he exclaimed, as I told him I was off to a 'stakeholder and public engagement' course in Sheffield. I've been having that internal conversation quite a bit of late. On an equalities and diversity (none of this lark in provincial journalism, I tell ya) seminar, I heard the phrases: "We'll have to drill up to the next level on that" and "grasp the nettle of public conception" without even an acknowledgement that that is, frankly, bobbins. Today, in further hi-jinks, I was taking photographs of dignitaries dwarfed by a giant organ (Grimsby Town Hall's brass one)
Reading: GB84 - David Peace; Saturday - Ian McEwan
Listening: LCD Soundsystem; Burial; Johnny Rivers (he of Secret Agent Man fame