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caldrail

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Blog Entries posted by caldrail

  1. caldrail

    Half-Baked

    By caldrail,

    Every year the English go one better than spending a weekend parked on a Bank Holiday motorway. They go on their summer hols. I always find it remarkable that the English generally regard the rest of the world as their playground.
     
    The most popular playground for many years has been Spain. Now up until now I always thought this was because Spanish hotels were so unfinished that it didn't matter if drunken English tourists wrecked them. We English do like to remind other countries of our victories over them and indeed we did clout the Spanish in 1588. So every year we hold re-enactments in nightclubs all over Spain just to make sure they haven't forgotten.
     
    It is interesting that one Roman writer commented on the similarity between the Spanish and some British tribes, especially since it now appears that Basque natives were amongst the first settlers of Britain, crossing the Ice Age river valley that is now the English Channel. So it seems the popularity of our Spanish hols is nothing more than a migration instinct, as the British return home empty handed after their hunting trip and expect to get drunk instead. No wonder fights break out. It also explains the British tea break, that infamous ritual where no-one does anything for twenty minutes, a mutated descendant of the siesta (since the British Isles are never sunny). In fact, is our need to head for half-completed Spanish resorts a deeply rooted instinct for an annual siesta?
     
    This half baked theory has been brought to you by the Independent Peanut Republic of Rushey Platt. "Flying the flag for Spanish ex-pats"
     
    Pic of the Day
    Another sunset. We get a lot of those in Swindon.
     

    Job Vacancy of the Week
    Occaisionally I still come across a job vacancy. Despite the best efforts of our current government, some companies still manage to find enough profit to pay someone to work. I was alerted about this one by a telephone service who told me there was a part time warehouse job available. What are the hours? School hours? What's that all about?
     
    Anyway I rang the agency who are determined to find someone desperate enough to enslave themselves and asked them. Apparently the job is intended for working mums wanting to earn a few quid while their demonic offspring are someones elses problem. What on earth could possibly interest me in a job working for a warehouse full of bored mothers whose families are somewhere else?
     
  2. caldrail

    Dropping Bombs

    By caldrail,

    In some ways I'm lucky. I'm just old enough to remember seeing steam locomotives working mainline services on British Rail. Steam engines have this animistic quality which endures despite the nerdy image of those who like them. As for me, I've always had a soft spot for this powerful works of art that belch smoke and hiss and chuff... Well, you know what I mean. The distant sounds of whistles still draw my attention. I remember this forgotten world. All those sounds behind rows of trees, the exquisite paintings in books illustrating locomotives from around the world, or the little Hornby trainset racing around a circle of track on the living room carpet.
     
    It's often said that every small boy wanted to be an engine driver. Actually I didn't - I wanted to join International Rescue, launch Fireball XL5 off it's ramp, or plunge to the rescue of Seaville. Oh all right... I admit it... I wanted to be Batman too. Adam West has a lot to answer for.
     
    A few days ago I watched a documentary about the railways of Britain during World War Two. That opened my eyes. I once stood on the footplate of a small restored steam locomotive in New Zealand and admired the hard teamwork of the crew as they ran up and down the line. Imagining that but with bombs dropping everywhere is something else.
     
    As a small boy, dropping bombs was something on the boxlid of an Airfix kit. I simply had no idea of the real effect a high explosive bomb could do. Probably just as well. The Russians were pointing something even more powerful at my home town during my childhood years.
     
    Confrontation of the Week
    Last night I opened the window at the back of the house and looked out over Swindon. There was a faint residual warmth from the day, but a cold breeze. Along the alleyway the local cat was on patrol, making sure his territory was still safe from other cats. He spotted movement, a bird, about twenty feet away and landing on the branches of a tree growing out of the disused college grounds. The cat immediately followed the bird, looking up intently, patiently waiting for the bird to make a mistake and stop low enough for that fast sprint to a prize to please his owner.
     
    So intent was he that he failed to spot the ginger cat waiting in the car park. The tension mounted as the cat jerked to a standstill in suprise. Both cats watched each other from a dangerously close distance, neither keen to give way. For twelve minutes these cats sat there warily until a man walking his dog upset the equilibrium. Both cats wandered away looking behind them.
     
    Mark my words - this ain't over yet. The War of the Alleyway has begun.
  3. caldrail
    Where to start? As one novelist once wrote, "at the start". Joining or forming rock bands as a teenager is something of an exercise in folly.
    A chap I used to used to know at work would say it was all about acceptance, that by making yourself an entertainer, even at such a low level, you improve your popularity. He might be right. It would account for the endless stream of people who joined my bands only to wander away again when they found out they weren't going to be rock stars the day afterward. Perhaps the realisation that rock music was hard work made up their minds. Sometimes the new girlfriend demanded more attention (which for a youth is a very strong motive), sometimes the allure of a motorbike and it's status amongst the 'have-nots' proved stronger.
     
    In my case, it was rebellion, pure and simple. My parents were horrified to discover that I'd found out about forms of music they'd sheltered me from. Encountering Deep Purple's Strange Kind of Woman for the first time was a revelation, and my future was being plotted and designed with youthful optimism... or perhaps more accurately, youthful fantasy, but that was before I'd actually done anything.
     
    The funny thing is that I can't remember why I chose to be a drummer. Wiltshire County Council paid off my first kit (guess where I spent my student grant) but I have to say for all the fun I had in those early years, it was always a case of Go Back To Start, Do Not Collect
  4. caldrail

    Personal Disasters

    By caldrail,

    Todays post on my blog is something of an obituary. My computer, a veteran of many hardware changes, has finally succumbed to a nasty virus and expired yesterday aged nine.
     
    One point of view is that it's merely a machine, one that can - eventually - be replaced. Up to a point that's correct, assuming you can afford one that is equally reliable and capable over just short of a decade of hard use. The issue isn't the hardware however, but the software collected on it's hard drive. Over the course of nine years you collect files that become important to you. More than that, I have projects on that hard disk going back eight years, and even with the many backups I've made, reassem,bling the jigsaw is going to be a long job and pieces will be missing.
     
    I can imagine some people will be already muttering "Ahh diddums" and dismissing my own personal disaster as inconsequential compared to their own petty dramas. I have no choice but to regard that attitude as one displayed by petty people. Look at it like this. I've seen many natural disasters reported on television and for me, the result is always a two dimensional image of something I haven't experienced. I can sympathise with the victims of course, even offer a tiny donation to help if I feel so moved, but I'm comfortable in my own little world just like everyone else. My recent loss might not be quite on that sort of scale, but I do now have some appreciation of what the loss feels like.
     
    Ah but there's no comparison is there? Between the loss of loved ones and the homes they lived in, to the final gasp of consumer electronics. In a sense, there is. My work on the PC is essentially creative, apart from an occaisional game or episode of Star Trek to ease the boredom. Creative work is something to admire (or perhaps criticise) when it's finshed and on public display. Music, art, lierature - in a small way I have contributed such things to the public arena and had others bubbling in my semiconductor driven cauldron. These things don't always happen magically on the spur of the moment. All to often, it takes hours of work to approach the end you're trying for, and more hours of work when you fail to achieve it and begin again. It might even take years in some cases, and for me, that's a familiar obstacle to the ends I've sought.
     
    When your work is taken away by circumstance there's an emptiness inside you. It's a difficult void to fill. The inspiration you had to begin with might not be there any more. It's been my experience that the second attempt is never as fresh as the first. Starting again from scratch not only requires something of the original conception, inspiration, and desire, but also the discipline to wearily tread the same old path.
     
    To those who sneer at what I've written, to those malicious characters who've set out to destroy my work, I simply smile and remind myself that they've proven me a better man.
     
    Inspiration of the Week
    There was a guy on these forums some time ago who suffered a similar loss to mine, probably even a worse one. I offered a poem by Rudyard Kipling, written around the turn of the 19th/20th centuries, and still as applicable today.
     
    If you can keep your head when all about you
    Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
    If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
    But make allowance for their doubting too;
    If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
    Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
    Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
    And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:
     
    If you can dream -- and not make dreams your master;
    If you can think -- and not make thoughts your aim;
    If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
    And treat those two imposters just the same;
    If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
    Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
    Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
    And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools;
     
    If you can make one heap of all your winnings
    And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
    And lose, and start again at your beginnings
    And never breathe a word about your loss;
    If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
    To serve your turn long after they are gone,
    And so hold on when there is nothing in you
    Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on!"
     
    If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
    Or walk with kings -- nor lose the common touch,
    If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
    If all men count with you, but none too much;
    If you can fill the unforgiving minute
    With sixty seconds' worth of distance run --
    Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
    And -- which is more -- you'll be a Man, my son!
     
    Well, perhaps I did breathe a word about my loss. Such is the modern world, where the internet has become something of a global meeting place and a venue for painting portraits of our otherwise insignificant lives. But then again, if it helps someone else cope with their own loss and 'petty drama', surely that is something good to come from it?
  5. caldrail

    Surviving In Swindon

    By caldrail,

    A couple of nights ago I watched a program on Channel 4 about some guy who wanted to see if he could survive on his own in verdant wilderness of the Yukon. It is still an area largely left to nature and the mountains, forests, rivers, and lakes create jaw dropping vistas of natural beauty, teeming with wildlife. His early optimism soon gave way to the ennui of solitary existence and the constant need to find food, however small and unappetising it may be. There was also the possibility of encountering bears, and whilst grizzly's are sometimes fooled by playing dead, black bears are less easily satisified.
     
    It came as no suprise to me that he suffered emotionally as well as physically. Human beings are social animals and we don't really like being on our own that much, though some individuals are better able to tolerate that sort of situation. Determination, discipline, and for some even religion all help you survive, but ultimately, you get worn down by the ravages of the enviroment and the lack of food begins to tell on your health. It reminds me of the survival programs by people like Bear Grylls and Ray Mears, both of whom stress determination, knowledge, and practice at the skills required to stay alive. I think one point they don't stress, though they often mention it in passing, is the limited time you have as a survivor. Very often people are forced to cope with conditions that don't suit human beings, possibly with scarce food and water sources.
     
    Some years ago a criminal had vanished and a nationwide search for him was underway. Eventually he was spotted in a dishevelled condition attempting to buy matches. Apparently the man had bought one of those SAS survival guides and thought that was all he needed to manage his covert existence in some woods out of public gaze. Clearly his experience was tougher than he expected. It also occurs to me that the densely populated English countryside isn't always the easiest place to hide in for very different reasons too.
     
    Walking back to Swindon from a hike into the farmland to the north I hauled myself step by step up the grassy slope toward Blunsdon village. The pack wasn't overly heavy, but it felt so, and it occured to me that my my relative lack of fitness, and mature years, were making this much harder than it had been in my youth. What will happen in a few years from now? Will I have to reduce the load I carry? Shorten the distance I walk? Commonsense tells me I can't keep this up forever. Another part of me eggs me on, willing me to push the boundary a little one more time.
     
    Of course I can afford to. I live in a nice warm brick cave with water available for the asking and supermarket shelves within easy reach. My survival isn't about finding and exploiting natural resources, but paying for them. I have to perform daily tasks to obtain the money I need to survive. I need to cope with the social isolation that unemployment generates. In a small way, I can sympathise with the man in the Yukon. Then again, walking along a main road on my way to the countryside, a passing car sounded his horn and the driver waved at me. About two hundred yards away, all I could see was a pair of shades. I have no idea who it was. Whereas in the Yukon there's probably no living sole for hundreds of miles, out here in the urban wilderness of Swindon, you're never far from someone. But doesn't that present its own survival challenges?
     
    That Was Close
    Crossing a busy junction near my home is a daily occurence. The single decker buses always turn right down the main road toward the bus station and so I often walk across the road knowing full well there's no risk. Yesterday evening one flashed his indicators to show he was heading my way. For a moment I hesitated, then seeing a sign of a swing to the right, I assumed his indicators were incorrectly applied and that I was safe to cross the road. Needless to say, I soon realised it wasn't and got out of the way very quickly!
     
    The urban enviroment has its own particular dangers . The thing is though, I'm used to them, or at least those I normally encounter. Attuned to them in some respects. It's second nature and you instinctively look for those hazards. Had I been born and bred in the Yukon, shown how to survive at an early age, hunting and fishing every day, perhaps I might have found it easier than the man from Channel 4. For now, surviving in Swindon is enough.
     
  6. caldrail

    Know Your Subject

    By caldrail,

    I've had a bit of an argument with someone. There's an american chappie on another website, who claims to be a pilot of fixed and rotary winged aeroplanes over fourteen years, who's said a few things that to me seemed casually ignorant. I do actually have some sympathy for Americans, I know they get a lot of stick, but then sometimes they really do ask for it and a few times in the past I've encountered their brash arrogance - or at least the behaviour we Brits see as such. I think sometimes they get a little bewildered by our differences in language and ettiquette.
     
    Who's right? Me or him? Well, I was trained as a pilot in Britain largely by a World War Two veteran, so naturally I can sleep safe in the knowledge that I fly the right way. There is a persistent point of view that "Americans can't fly". Actually, a great many of them can, but just as in any nation you will find good or bad pilots. I'm not the worlds greatest after all.
     
    Perhaps the most interesting real comparison was a chap who popped over from the States to give flying enthusiasts a lecture about his companies homebuilt aircraft range. He knew his subject. Clearly his knowledge of aeronautical engineering was well up to the job of building, or indeed selling, his companies products. The most telling thing though was when this Californian man was asked what he thought of flying in Britain.
     
    "Well..." He mused thoughtfully, "I sat as a passenger on a flight between the Isle of Wight - Is that the right name? - and Fairoaks. Heck, I was lost in the first ten minutes".
     
    My Very Own Aeroplane?
    People do get a litle suspicious about my claims sometimes. I understand their reasons. Maybe I just don't conform to their preconceptions of the sort of people who 'do' things, or that they cannot comprehend that someone they know has done something beyond their own horizons. What I never do is lie about it.
     
    As a child I was always imaginative. My desire to fly aeroplanes emerges from those early years, playing out battles with plastic kits and wondering what it would be like to fly those wonderful machines, never mind the inspiration of the books with page after page of exotic aircraft beyond my experience.
     
    As a schoolchild I designed a sidevalve V8 as a project for my technical drawing classes. As an engine, it was horribly crude and it's doubtful it would ever have run succesfully had some idiot actually decided to build it. But it kept me busy. And my teacher was more than happy about that.
     
    Then along came adolescence and my leanings toward aviation could not be contained. My creative instincts took over and I began doodling not only sleek and slippery shapes, but all those interior details that an aeroplane would need. Little by little a seed took hold, and without really understanding what I was taking on, I found myself developing a concept. An aeroplane design. My very own aeroplane.
     
    Ah yes. The "Mark One" as I called it. There was never any official designation. If I were honest it was merely an attempt to realise an adolescent daydream. The problem with making something real however is that daydreams make no account of the realities. In any case, it should be pointed out that a large proportion of designs never reach fruition even with aircraft manufacturers.
     
    It wasn't an especially ambitious design, just a single engined, two seat, low wing monoplane taildragger. Wooden frame, glassfibre skin, fixed undercarriage. I didn't like the typical 'club' trainers or the flashy teardrop 'cruiser' aeroplanes that were becoming the norm back in the seventies, and some of the american oddities like Jim Bede and Burt Rutans offspring, often featured in magazines, were viewed with increasing concern by officialdom. I think deep in my heart I wanted a substitute for warbird flying and at the same time the satisfaction that I'd created this thing myself. Unfortunately, even in the less stringent regulations of the time, my design fell outside the accepted categories.
     
    Of course I was only eighteen or nineteen years old. With no qualification or practical experience of aeronautical engineering, my design fell woefully short on overcoming some of the basic obstacles of system functionality, and I knew very little of the mathematics I would have needed to succesfully convince the Popular Flying Association that the design was airworthy. They set a higher standard than the EAA and for good reason. Back then I wasn't a pilot either, and my experience of aircraft was limited to that acquired as a member of the Air Training Corps. In retrospect, I have to accept I was being hopelessly naive.
     
    That said, I did make the effort. I learned a few things. There was a positive atmosphere in my life at that age. I remember one chap who was part of my cadet flight and in the year above me at the same school who'd managed to get a board game produced commercially. It all felt as if everything was possible if only you found the right door. In my case, I ldidn't know the right equations, and I didn't know anyone who did.
     
    Perhaps if I'd found an engineer who knew more about the practicalities of aviation then something might have emerged from that particular project. As it was I'd reached the point where even I realised it was going no further. It didn't matter. I'd left the air cadets, moving on to further education at college, and music was to become the major focus of my life for the next twelve or thirteen years.
     
    I was thirty one when I found the time and finance to qualify as a pilot. There was a brief flirtation with the PFA but had I found the money and workshop facilities to build an aeroplane for myself, I would have built an established design, which the PFA naturally encourage.
     
    If any paperwork concerning the my little "Mark One" survived the passing of time, it was sent to landfill eight years ago. My father was never a man to value paper you couldn't spend. I have this cute mental image of a seagull nesting in a ragged sun-bleached remnant of faded notes and diagrams with my name on them. You never know.
  7. caldrail

    Face To Face

    By caldrail,

    This is ridiculous. Now that I have to sign on the dole every single working day, my usual routine is upset. I don't know if you've noticed but my blog has mutated into a television critic webpage, and I'm gaining weight because I'm just not active any more. Seriously, I have this notion of turning up to my signing slot tomorrow with my pack and hiking gear.
     
    I can just imagine a caustic "Going somewhere Caldrail?"
     
    Oh hi Mr Claims Advisor, yeah, I'm off hiking when we're done here, why not come along if you're not signing anybody else today? Fresh air, grassy hills, heavy showers... Can't beat it.... Jobsearch?... Oh... Yeah....
     
    Of course I can't leave the reservation because they'll get annoyed and stop my money. And this "Mister Lord" business? I just cannot tell you how stupid that situation is. It's like having dual status, or at least it would do if the first part didn't devalue the second.
     
    You see they had this sort of business sussed back in the Middle Ages. You were either a peasant or very important, and any attempt to be anything else was usually punishable by something painful. Or then again, I imagine myself in a regency country house, set in verdant and manicured parkland. Ahhh, Jeeves, be a good fellow and pass the turnips will you? Oh, and do have the ox cart at the front of the house, Lady Rail and I are going farming this afternoon... Hmmm? What was that Dearest?... Jobsearch?... Oh... Yeah....
     
    Today is my weekly pow-wow with the big chief claims advisor. Does this white man speak with forked tongue? We'll see. Okay, time to head down to the Job Centre. Gird your loins, Caldrail, this might get ugly.
     
    Later That Day
    Loins girded, I waited for my name to be called. To be honest, I'd reached a state of vacant meditiation when some chap in a shirt and tie asked "Is Mister Caldrail here?"
     
    Gaaah! Not again! He ushered me to a seat and immediately I took the initiative. Pointing out the correct title on the signing booklet, I added politely but firmly that if that was too much for him to swallow, as it was for most people in this office, he was welcome to use my first name.
     
    He remained calm, said what he needed to, and printed off an entire wad of job decriptions for me to apply for. I'm not sure who was the winner of that negotiation.
  8. caldrail

    Feel Better About Tuesdays

    By caldrail,

    What a miserable, rotten, rainy day. Sorry to go on a downer, but it just couldn't be any greyer. A fine drizzle driven by blustery winds is definitely dampening my spirit. But Yahoo has the answer. Twelve tips to brighten your otherwise dreary day. Okay. Let's have a look.
     
    1. Resist the urge to
  9. caldrail

    Standing Around

    By caldrail,

    Why? Why did they do it? Why did they make Ed Milliband leader of the Labour party? He makes you wince every time he stands in front of a microphione. It isn't the first time the Labour Party have made an odd choice. Remember Michael Foot? Probably a great guy, but not the man future prime ministers are made of.
     
    Politics is a funny game sometimes and I can't help wondering if the sole reason Eddy Baby got the job was to stop his oolder brother David from achieving his ambition. He was disappointed, a natural reaction, and gossip indicates he might quit frontline poltics altogether, and now I see a news report that sharp eyed cameraman has caught him making a barbed comment about his younger brother. Hell hath no fury than a politican thwarted.
     
    After David Millibands public love affair with Hilary Clinton it looked sort of certain didn't it? But then, he was in Gordon Browns government, and that I suspect is exactly what the Labour party didn't want.
     
    Standing On The Corner
    That's enough politics. You can only swallow so much of that in one day. So I switch the television off and instead of people standing for parliament, I see people standing on street corners.
     
    One chap in particular caught my attention. There's an asian lad who works for one of the fast food outlets at the bottom of the hill. He spends his day positioning a placard displaying all the low low prices for burgers and other fat inducing nourishment so that passing motorists can see the offers and think how great it would be to stop and eat them if only they didn't have to drive through this road road junction on their way elsewhere.
     
    Come to think of it, there's a sandwich bar in town that has an employee stand all day long holding a sign saying sandwich bar this way. Maybe it's just me, but one wonders if their loaction isn't working for them.
     
    Standing Still
    I'm not interested. Instead I'll get better value for money at my local supermarket, and as it happens I do need a few things this week. It so happens I spotted a rather attractive young woman standing at the exit promoting a charity. I confess I can't remember which one, but I'm sure you understand.
     
    Usually in circumstances like this I can't resist the temptation to have a quick flirt. Can you imagine what I'm going to be like when I get old? I always said I wanted to grow old disgracefully. Funny thing is though I wasn't tempted. She was stood absolutely stock still, frozen, static, looking for all the world like a wax dummy. Perhaps she copes with terminal boredom by entering a state of hibernation, but how odd that it put me off completely.
     
    Just a little eye contact. A welcoming smile. I might even have popped a few pennies in the slot. What a lost opportunity.
  10. caldrail

    Tell The World About It

    By caldrail,

    Much of the news is about Wikileaks at the moment. Quite why this site is viewed with such regard is beyond me. Anyone else who goes around telling everyone everybodies elses secrets usually gets cold shouldered. No, that's not right, I do know why. It's because their readership are anonymous idiots who take great delight in finding out stuff they shouldn't know.
     
    As to whether any of these former secrets are actually true I can't say. Chances are a great deal of it is fiction to begin with, sent by malicious or mischievious individuals who take great delight on telling everyone everybodies secrets, and of course they get away with it because they alert the world anonymously. Personally I find the idea of this site a little sad. Even sadder is the hero worship attracted by the sites founder, and whilst he may be innocent of the sexual misdemeanours he's accused of, he doesn't across as the saintly image he wants to project.
     
    I suppose in a way you could argue I'm doing the same thing on this blog, alerting the world to the amazing secrets of my private little world. You are amazed, aren't you? Please tell me you're amazed. I cannot sleep at nights worrying that my readership are not thrilled, amused, and stunned by the revelations of ordinary life on the dole. After all, it might save me from a criminal prosecution one day.
     
    CaldLeaks Latest
    For years the official line is that global warming is heating the world to catastrophic levels. We have been forced to spend more to use less, and every year thousands of schoolchildren are brainwashed with politically correct ideas about climatology in the hope that they will one day support government policies. But here at CaldLeaks we have uncovered solid evidence that the world is as cold as it's always been. Behold. The camera never lies!
     

     
    Oh yes. The gentleman on computer 64 is watching a football video for free. Shocking.
     
    It's All Their Fault
    I remember back when I was a college student and the time came to set about some project for our engineering exam. As sometimes happens, I was paired off with the the worst student of all, a guy from Iran who clearly had no intention of taking part in the Islamic fundamentalist revolution that was going on at the time, and instead, managed to convince everyone that he was a bona fide foreign student. As it happens, it was like working with a middle east carpet salesman. Sorry, but it was.
     
    Thing is though we were chatting one day and he mentioned that the CIA was responsible for some tragedy. Yeah right. Come on, mate, it was an accident. "No, No," He earnestly proclaimed to me, "It is always CIA. They do everything. Always the CIA."
     
    For a man escaping a religious revolution he certainly managed to display a certain zealous belief that an american spy agency was causing my friends car accident the month before. Apparently the police believed he failed to negotiate a bend. But we know what really happened, don't we? My protestations that the CIA couldn't be responsible for every evil went disregarded in my Iranian colleagues need to communicate his dark message.
     
    And it goes on. During my forklifting course the other week one guy made an assertion that the Falkland War was all about Southern Chile. Pardon? Yes, he told me, because he'd been there and someone had told him. Oh come on!
     
    Anyway, we had a bit of a fierce debate about Britains military and political obectives. He accused me of reading too many newspapers. I think he listens to too many barflies. But at that point the guy with a ginger beard and woolly cap piped up and asked if believed whether such things were just accidents. It's the CIA. Black ops. It's real, man.
     
    Would the CIA please stop vandalising my car?
     
    I Woke Up This Morning
    It came as no suprise really that snow had fallen. After all, the blonde woman on television has been warning me to expect it for days now. The whiteness of the light coming through the curtains made it clear that all was snowed under outside. In fact, last night had been the coldest I'd experienced for some time. It even woke me up during the night. Not pleasant at all.
     
    As the picture reveals our snowfall is nothing to boast about. Not even half an inch out there. It certainly hasn't stopped parents bringing their kids to the library for a good old sing song. Other than that the library is strangely quiet today. Better not say too much. It might get leaked on the internet.
  11. caldrail

    Fizz And Bang

    By caldrail,

    In case anyone didn't notice, it's now 2011. That means I haven't written an entry in this blog since last year. Strange... Only seems like a few days since I last typed a message... Oh well, never mind.
     
    With the new year the weather has ceased to be quite as frigid as it was prior to christmas. I've even turned the heating off again. Maybe I'm just getting used to living in cold conditions that I can't bear being in a warm room any more, at least not without dozing off every five minutes.
     
    But hang on... I am dozing off. Where's all the seasonal festivities? The conga lines wandering down the street? The late night chorus of taunts and chest-thumping displays? The shrieks of party girls for whom anything entering their perception is a reason to recoil in amused horror? Where's the police siren rushing up the up toward Old Town? Darn it... Where's the party?
     
    What a damp squib of a new year. Okay, I know someone celebrated the arrival of 2011 because I heard a couple of fireworks going off. I suspect the insidious influence of television. I note that countries around the world seemed to vying for the title of the Worlds Most Extravagant Firework Display award. I wonder who won that? Good reviews of all entrants makes the decision a tough one, especially for someone like me who thinks watching people celebrate on television is sadder than stamp-collecting.
     
    All right, I admit it, I haven't helped the situation at all because I too didn't bother. Instead I stayed in and got bored with the thoroughly unispired television schedule. Don't know why I didn't emerge from my cocoon as I might of done once. Perhaps my current poverty dissuaded me? Or perhaps, like everyone else, I'm just getting bored with the same old expectations.
     
    Therefore my New Years Resolution is to do something unexpected this year. Stay tuned for developments as they occur.
     
    Bonfire
    Having said all that, I notice some of the prisoners at Ford Open Prison have rioted and set fire to the buildings in a frenzy of drink related arson. At least they wanted to party. On the other hand though it hasn't escaped my attention that the people who wanted to party were banged up in jail, the violence precipitated by a crack-down on booze found inside the wire.
     
    A New Year To Play With
    Glancing out the window I can see the clouds losing a battle to dominate the weather. Here and there the blue sky, a pale winter blue, is making itself felt. What a good omen.
  12. caldrail

    The Joy of Flight

    By caldrail,

    Looking out the window this morning I see a vista of clear blue sky. After yesterdays squalls and blustery winds it's a welcome change. Years ago, on a day like this, I would phone the flying club and ask if there was an available aeroplane. There is? Brilliant, I'll be there in an hour.
     
    There wasn't much to it. I arrive, park up, and pop by the control tower to check for weather information. Oh yes. You never take british weather for granted. It's suprised me more than once. Also there was the endless notices to airmen, photocopied lists of do's and don'ts which might apply to flights in my area. Thruxton was unusual in that they bothered to map out the directives on the wall, so that you didn't have read through page after page of dull government agency text. Only the relevant ones for my flight were of any interest.
     
    That done, it was down to the office to sign out my reserved aeroplane. Stroll across the race track (I only had to dash across to avoid a racing car once), and toward the gate to the infield.
     
    On one occaision a kit car was parked out there and I gave it a casual perusal as I past by. The owner was not a tolerant man. I heard a very loud and abrupt "HEY!" to warn me that proximity to his beloved creation was going to end in something very inconvenient. I was only looking. Good grief, if you drive an unusual car, surely you expect a certain amount of interest from passers-by? Still, I don't blame him for being protective.
     
    Now I cross the grass apron amongst the ranks of stationary aircraft. Most are club aeroplanes, small two seater american trainers, such as the Piper Tomahawk I'd booked. To be honest, whilst they flew well enough and were the cheapest available, they were quite dull machines. I much preferred the rare Beagle Pup when I got the chance. Now that was a suprisingly spirited aeroplane, a definite favourite of mine.
     
    On that day I hadn't the choice. Approaching the aeroplane on a warm day provides a sense of anticipation. There's a host of things you need to see to before you take off, so I set about stowing my bag, doing a walk-around to check the aircraft exterior for function and condition, then at last climb in and set about my pre-flight checks.
     
    The heat! If you've never sat in an idle light aircraft in the sun, my advice is don't unless you have to. Those large curves of plexiglass trap all the sunshine and boy oh boy is it warm in there! I always used to ask my passenger to hold a door open when I was taxiing, to get some propellor draft into the cockpit. But today I'm flying alone. So I have to put up with it.
     
    Well, everything seems to be working, and I have enough fuel for my intended hour of local flying, aimlessly enjoying the that sincere pleasure of being up there. Starting the engine is a bit of an art. Some engines fire up eagerly, others are sullenly stubborn, and all require a little coaxing with a number of levers and plungers designed in the 1920's.
     
    Usually there was no problem. With a loud shout to warn anyone lurking near the propellor out of sight, the engine fires up and the twin blades vanish into a circular blur. Aircraft are noisty little things. Just as well my headphones ward off the worst of it. Without them, you end up battered by the insistent roar.
     
    The normal routine is to radio the tower and inform them of my intentions. They pretty well know what I'm up to, and the clipped reply sounds very bored of the same old information. A little odd that. There's no-one else out here. I have the field to myself. A few years ago this field was buzzing and communication a frantic experience. Now we're all getting a bit lazy as the economy, regulations, and other reasons witherdown the activity I expect at Thruxton.
     
    With the brakes off the Tomahawk accelerates readily. Turn using the rudder, avoid fast taxying despite the impatience of an intruder to my little world, a larger Robin four seater, whose brash pilot clearly has better things to do than wait politely for me to trundle out, and I make my way to the far side of the field and the appropriate end of the runway.
     
    My rival asks for permission to turn off the taxiway and rush down the runway to take off first. To be honest, everyone, including me, are keen to let him. There's a sense in flying that rushing around is bad for you. It probably is, but he roars away and leaves me to bumble along the grass in peace.
     
    At the runway end, time for those last vital checks. Satisified everything is working the way aeronautical science demands, I radio the tower again and announce my departure. To be honest, although the tower is termed an 'advice service' only, he's in charge when it comes to traffic around the field. Not only politeness, it's good practice. But there's no problem, no-one around to obstruct my take-off, and he lets me go.
     
    Turning on the runway is always an odd experience. So much wider than you expect. Thruxton is an olsd WW2 airfield, where P47's and glider tugs operated from in support of D-Day, but the runway is in fact only a portion of what it used to be. The other end is now the concrete part of the apron by the tower.
     
    Line up on the centreline. A quick mental check that everything is in order. That runway disappears into the distance, but trust me, it's not as long as it looks. I confess, this is the moment I feel the thrill. Push the throttle lever forward, all the way, and that rumble you'd gotten used to this last ten minutes erupts into an angry bellow as you sense that propellor turning ever faster.
     
    Quickly the Tomahawk gains speed. They don't take off as readily as Cessna's, so a little back pressure on the yoke is called for, and in any case, it's good practice to keep the weight off that nosewheel. The aeroplane wants to veer. The rudder feels sensitive and keeping the aeroplane straight is occupying my attention. You can feel a relentless increase in speed. At the same time it feels impressively rapid yet agonisingly slow.
     
    A new sensation appears. The aeroplane is wallowing just a little, feeling lighter, and the pit of your stomach registers that first hesitant rise as the wheels begin to lose their grip on the runway. We're flying! With the speed increasing more rapidly, ease back the yoke, adopt the climb attitude, and away she goes.
     
    The ground is falling away.I would enjoy this a lot more if I didn't have to stay alert for the possibility of engine problems. The take-off is the most safety-critical part of the flight. Despite my wariness, there's no problem, and the little plane gains height above southern England lazily, not coping so easily with the thinner warm air outside. The draughty cockpit feels cooler, comfortable, and now I must deal with the protocol of flying near the ground within an airfield's territory, trimming and raising flaps, looking about for other aeroplanes, keeping to the circuit, and announcing my departure from the area.
     
    Strictly speaking, I should change radio frequencies and tell someone else what I'm up to. The miltary airfield down the road for instance, who control the airspace around Thruxton. Truth is I don't want to. Although the air is a little hazy, perhaps a little bumpy as I fly through thermals, it just feels great to be up here alone for a while at the controls of this obedient little machine.
     
    Oh yes. That was why I flew.
     
    More On How It Was
    There's a book at the library which I've leafed through this morning. Probably the reason why I'm waxing lyrical about flying. It's a collection of reminiscenses of World War One veterans, flyers with the RFC and RNAS. Now of course they were flying in wartime, in aeroplames made of very combustible material, without parachutes, in aeroplanes that were barely more capable than the first to fly ever.
     
    You know what? For all the danger, I notice that they all enjoyed it too.
  13. caldrail

    Comings And Goings

    By caldrail,

    Just in case you all thought I was going to do something impulsive or inspirational, fear not, for today is just another day in the life of a dedicated jobseeker. So once again it's another fifteen minute stroll to the programme centre and delve into the myriad advertisements on the internet.
     
    On the local high street I spotted an articulated lorry parked on the side of the road, with a van parked the wrong way round on a one way street, with goods being transferred from one to the other.
     
    I noticed the lorry had german license plates. Nothing unusual these days. We get more foreign lorries than our own what with fuel prices and competition. I regularly see a dutch lorry at the bottom of the hill offloading supplies of foliage to the local flower shop. Quite what happens to the foliage afterward is another matter, because I never see anyone buying any.
     
    Then I noticed the van was displaying italian license plates. Eh? Now I've always thought I was a little clued up about logistics, but a german lorry offloading to an italian van on a british high street? How is that profitable? Me no understandee...
     
    Record Breaking Burgers
    I see Burger King have totally ignored the latest health advice and created a product oozing with calories. Currently it's only available in Japan, but if British people decide that consuming curries is old hat, or poisonous, considering one takeaway down the hill from me has been fined for rat infestations, how long will it be before television adverts for burgers show government health warnings?
     
    I imagine that soon we'll be banned from eating them in pubs. Like somkers, there'll be small crowds huddling in the cold evenings under street lamps enjoying their distasteful habit. Or worse, will people be banned from eating burgers in public entirely because it's not nice to maltreated cows to be devoured in the sight of the law abiding majority?
     
    Death Rehearsal
    What a horrible headline. Apparently someone has said that the upcoming royal wedding will also be a dress rehearsal for the Queens funeral. She isn't dead yet, you know. Oh well. Practice makes perfect I suppose.
  14. caldrail

    My Name Is Lord

    By caldrail,

    I can't tell how how pleasant a day it is right now. Bright sunshine and a cool breeze. Even the mood is relaxed as I go about my business among the throngs of people feeling exactly the same way as I do. Okay, I avoided the marching band, but hey, each to their own.
     
    The museum has been unusually busy too. Paying customers? Whatever next? Asking that question was my mistake. For those who've ever watched the comedy series My Name Is Earl, Karma is alive and well outside of California too.
     
    Karma never misses a trick. Unable to blow a winning lottery ticket out of my hand for asking dumb facile questions, or have me mown down by a passing saloon car and thus sent to hospital to think about my place in the universe and how to be a better person, it instead created a problem for the guy who runs the job club. So he's not in today.
     
    Most of the time being Lord Caldrail isn't a problem. Even yesterday a very polite lady phoned me about a vacancy I applied for and asked me if she needed to call me by my title. Bless. Course you do dear - although I was equally polite and told her 'Caldrail' was sufficient.
     
    Unfortunately, some of the time you need to do stuff. Laurence Olivier (as "Crassus") said it best in the 60's film Spartacus - "The problem with being a patrician is that sometimes you're obliged to behave like one".
     
    So Karma arranged for me, as the senior unemployed noble, to run the job club today and cope with computer illiterates and other disadvantaged jobseekers. My name is Lord.
     
    What's In A Name?
    It's a funny thing really. My Employment Mentor did her level best to persuade me that using my title was not helping my job search. I knew she was wrong of course. Half the time it seems the title wasn't even noticed at the top of my CV. But it was nice that one job agency rang me and confirmed that the title got me noticed.
     
    I knew I was right all along. Thanks, Karma.
  15. caldrail

    Ready And Waiting

    By caldrail,

    No-one could accuse me of not being prepared. With the risk of heavy showers predicted by our faithful prophets of the television weather report, I was not taking chances. Okay, I wasn't in hiking mode, dressed in outdoors survival gear, but in clothing I know from experience is able to cope quite well with the minor downpour or two. So military surplus it is then.
     
    All day long I was going here and there, seeing to my daily business, and to my utter disgust the dark clouds came and went without discharging their load of rain. Swindon does this. No matter how prepared you are, something else happens.
     
    I had all but given up. Finally, late in the afternoon, it began to rain as I headed home from the supermarket. Everyone else headed for shelter while I continued on my merry way, beaming with delight that I was immune to the effects of rainfall. At least temporarily. But that's okay. The shower only lasted less than a minute.
     
    All In The Stars
    Would you believe it? A lunar eclipse for yesterday evening. I wonder how many times I've heard of astronomical phenomena to be observed only to find the british weather has denied me the opportunity. It would be worth catching this one as the next won't appear in british skies until 2041. Good grief, I'll be an eighty year old man when that one comes around - and I'll bet the clouds will obscure it. Like they did last night. Patience. Everything comes to he who waits.
  16. caldrail
    It's a funny thing about storms. I mean, if it rains, there's every chance you'll get wet. No matter how careful you are with watching weather reports or how many folklore rhymes you recall, wet weather is out to get you. I speak from bitter experience.
     
    But storms? Almost invariably you're indoors when they announce their presence. Niw I find this peculiar. There's no obvious warning in many cases other than heavy looking clouds, yet like virtually all the other animals, wild or domestic, you just seem to know that a storm is about to unleash rain, thunder, and llightning in no particular order.
     
    It must be that electricity in the air, that sense of buolding tension, that feeling that if you stay outdoors something bad will happen. Yet despite this useful instinct, some @ people a year still get hit by lightning. Some people never learn.
     
    With rumours of storms crossing the country last night I made sure I sat down and watched the weather report on television. Yes, I know, they never quite get it right until it's about to actually happen, but unlike @ a year, I haven't so far gotten myself zapped by 13,000 volts. Imagine my disappointment when the screen animation showed some feeble spots of pale blue evaporating over my home town. No storms then? Typical. Now I'm going to have to re-schedule my entire day.
     
    The Best Bits From Tuesday
    I have a strange optimism about tuesdays. After the average monday, it can only get better. I like to believe that for fear the rest of the week will be just as bad. After all, my AOL horoscope says a friend will create problems for me all week. Not really sure what friend they're talking about, but hey, if it's written in the stars...
     
    Anyhow, I ambled down the hill for my daily dose of internetting at the library. Sideshow J, our jovial and strange-haired coordinator at the work club, shot past me on a bike and refused to stop. Very important man is Sideshow J, and he had business to attend to. Hmmm.... That doesn't appear to have caused me problems.
     
    I reached the traffic island, the last stop before entering the hallowed gates of Swindons brave new library, when I heard a familiar sound. You know how it is when you hear something in the background and react without thinking? Of course the sound was an original 60's series Star Trek communicator warble, which some idiot decided to use for his mobile phone ring tone. I actually stopped and looked around. Hopefully no-one noticed what a trekkie-phile I am.
     
    Sadly the delights of internetting have to wait untiil I've done my chores. Trawling through the ads for jobs here and there I click on 'apply' in rapid progression. Is it just me, or is the job market getting silly? Administrator wanted. Must have lifetime experience of office enviroment, able to leap tall cabinets in a single bound, must be faster than a speeding memo, and obviously only graduates will be considered. And that's for a three month contract only. Sheesh.
     
    Click on 'apply'. Yes, I know, I don't even come close to their requirements, but the job centre will have me turned into a refugee from a Charles Dickens novel if I don't make the effort It's getting like that everywhere now. Employers and angencies are asking for stupid qualifications and qualities.
     
    It wasn't just me of course. A chap in the next cubicle was trying to find work as a security guard. There was a time when security work was easy to find. They couldn't get anyone to apply at all, such was the low pay and terrible conditions they offered. Now, with government regulations introduced, only the highest calibre square jawed hero may be even considered for permission to apply. And of course you need SIA certification.
     
    Unfortunately the chap was being assisted by a librarian whose knowledge of security work is not extensive, and he mentioned that a CIA card was required. Really? Wow, that's cool. Where do you get one of those? Five minutes later a stranger with an american accent approached him asking questions about using the computers. I kid you not.
     
    And The Storms?
    Nope. Not a flash or rumble anywhere. I can only conclude that this was a CIA plot to prevent Cliff Richard singing at Wimbledon.
  17. caldrail
    We return once again to the issue of the Old College site. It's.. Erm... Still there. Only the other day I saw a youngle couple taking photographs of the rather shabby edifice blocking the afternoon sun at the bottom of the hill. Or rather he was, she was patiently waiting for him to do something interesting.
     
    This morning I received another newsletter from our ever enthusiastic labour party. All the political parties put these comunity newsletters through our postboxes in the optimistic hope that we actually believe their statisitcs, excuses, and triumphant claims of achievement.
     
    The excuse for the old ruin still standing was that no-ones talking to each other any more. The site is in private hands and it's up to the developer as and when the demolition goes ahead. So the councillors went ahead and told everyone it would be demolished by now. We've all been misled, claims the pamphlet. Yeah? No kidding. I guess that's politics.
     
    Oh, before I forget, demolition starts in August. The pamphlet says so.
     
    Palin: The Undefeated Years
    I see Sarah Palin is releasing a film made about her rise from obscurity to bear hunting political almost-running. It's called The Undefeated. Not sure the title is entirely suitable, since she hasn't actually achieved her perceived goals, but I guess there's a fair few bears and fish that fell to her amazonian lust for victory.
     
    I can see it now. ordinary housewife with fishing boat encounters violent hoodlums from a rival political party determined to eradficate bear hunting. After they leave the area filled with overturned burning cars and immobile stuntmen, she grits her tetth, cocks the pump action shotgun, and heads for election success. Good warm hearted family fun.
     
    Do I sound a little sarcastic? The problem with the american film industry is the stereotypical production line it pretends not to be. There's a familiar pattern to Hollywood productions. Boy meets girl, girl needs rescuing, british achievements get rebranded. Just add lots of lame gags, fuel based explosions, and keep blank ammunition makers in business. How can you go wrong?
     
    Okay, I still sound a little sarcastic. Do you really blame me? Why can't this Sarah Palin film be about her inability to make a speech? Or about the character interplay inside a damaged space capsule with little hope of returning to Earth? Or about standing on the prow of a ship that's about to sink very dramatically?
     
    You know what? I'm struggling to be serious here.
  18. caldrail
    The bells... The bells... Ten o'clock and all is well. I know the time because the bells are tolling. You see, the library is built as an annexe to the old town hall, now used as a dance studio, and the clock tower is clearly audible. With victorian engineering to rely on, how could I possibly be unsure of the time? There was a time of course when the Great Western Works sounded that old steam horn at regular intervals. It was to mark the start and ends of shifts in our local dark satanic mill of course, but the whole town lived by it. I even used it as a child to warn me my lunch break was over and that school awaited my studious presence (or else).
     
    Nonetheless, all is well. The library is quiet, and even BFL thought better of attempting to engage me in conversation. So she started talking to someone else, and lo and behold, she's having problems with her Open University Social Sciences course because she's lost the email address to send her homework too. You see, that's the trouble with modern technology, you just can't depend on it in the same way as great chunks of mobile cast iron.
     
    On a slighter lighter note, I bumped into Sideshow J again. This time he was walking his bicycle up the hill. Despite the introduction of moder materials and manufacturing, bicycles haven't greatly changed since the days of flat caps and coal sacks. So far, at least as far as I'm aware, bicycles don't come with flappy paddle gear changes, crumple zones, or crash protection airbags. Anyway, we exchanged our usual jovial greetings. So... You're not in a hurry today?
     
    "No" He chuckled, "Buit you could have stopped me the other day."
     
    Pardon? At the speed you were cycling uphill? I'd still be laid there spreadeagled on the pavement with tire marks along my chest.
     
    Again he chuckled and enquired how things were going. You know, the usual. "Have you been on a course lately?" He asked.
     
    A course? Oh gawd no, not another class for people who never attended one in the first place. No thanks.
     
    "No no no," He insisted, "There's lots of courses. You could do one on business management. Get a certificate."
     
    A certificate? Wow. Imagine what I could with that! Alan Sugar, you're fired. So there you have it. Buy a victorianesque cast iron machine, make sure you have a certificate, and success will be yours. Good grief, I'm starting to sound like my claims advisor. That reminds me... I need to send him my job search record. What was his email address again? If I'm not careful my claims advisor will end up with a report on the significance of adolescent divergence from traditional and cultural conformance, whilst BFL gets a list of vacancies applied for, which I have no doubt will be advertised loudly at her next library appearance.
     
    Not All Certificates Are Gold
    I see in the news that a driver who bought a personalised number plate from the Driver & Vehicle Licensing Agency for
  19. caldrail

    Warning Signs

    By caldrail,

    Iraq has been returned to sanity. Libya has been returned to sanity. Egypt, Tunisia, and Yemen are undergoing counselling. Afghanistan was always a pretty insane place to begin with and so far has proven difficult to pacify. Now President Assad of Syria has spotted the trend and warns the west that intervention will cause an earthquake that will burn the whole region.
     
    Now apart from his complete ignorance of geology, this does sound like the usual arabic vitriol. "Rivers of blood" is another popular warning. You get the idea? One might wonder if Assad is feeling a bit exposed at the moment now that the worlds media have no other middle eastern country creating any news stories worth reporting.
     
    I have no idea if the western governments plan to liberate Syria from despotism. They have been keen to aid the overthrow of them just lately, and as for worrying about how Gaddafi died, that would seem to be little more than crocodile tears. That's the problem with regime change - it has lethal ramifications.
     
    In democracies you can simply oust your least favourite dictator by marking an X on a ballot paper. In many foreign lands, they don't generally take any notice of other peoples opinions and ultimately if the decision is made that the tyrant has to go, you might need to apply something a little more forceful, like a riot of armed men or a battering from military jets.
     
    Well Mr Assad, I can understand your concerns. You might want to reform a little bit quicker. That might impress the west rather better than a shaking fist.
     
    Tremors
    On the news pages I spotted an article telling us chaps how to watch out for mini-strokes. Like the persistent earth tremors that warn of an impending eruption, these mini-strokes are tell tale signs that a major stroke will occur within four weeks.
     
    Good grief, I've had those symptoms for twenty years. Not sure whether I should be relieved or worried. The article says phone 999 immediately. Should I warn the doctor that there will be rivers of blood? Decisions... Decisons...
     
    Look Left, Look Right
    This has been a weekend of idiocy on the roads. Drivers are going the wrong way up one way streets, pedestrians are running in front of cars, and bus drivers have lost any sense of safe braking distances. Not to worry. The clocks went back an hour this morning so everyone should be calm and accident free again.
     
    Stand Up
    There's a standing joke at the museum - literally. When I'm sat there on duty at the front desk no-one comes in. The moment I stand up and walk away, crowds rush through the entrance in a mad desperate bid to pay for a ticket.
     
    Your first thought might be that I'm frightening people away. Apparently not. Last night I was sat quietly doing boring un-weekend stuff when I heard a voice in the street say "The truth is you're a wuss."
     
    Actually the truth is your opinion means nothing. Face it kid, you don't amount to anything. So why should I be worried because you have a big mouth? Oh, and by the way, I couldn't tell if you were a boy or a girl. Sorry about that.
  20. caldrail

    Hot And Dirty

    By caldrail,

    Eat your greens. I wonder how many kids these days get that traditional command? Sometimes I wonder if the whole point of the old Popeye cartoons was not to entertain, but to sell truckloads of unwanted spinach. Of course Popeye was violent so like Tom & Jerry, it doesn't get shown on television these days. Without the mighty forearms of Popeye to inspire kids to engage each other in fistfights, these days the kids resort to knives anf firearms in a playground arms race.
     
    Our boss at the museum (the real one, not Young L) has found a solution to the problem of that most hated of all vegetables, the ghastly Brussel Sprout. He made a Brussel Sprout Vindaloo. For the purists among us that isn't possible without meat and potatoes, but these days anything that sets fire to the taste buds is measured in curry type.
     
    There are some people who say that you can't taste hot curries. I'm not one of them. Of course you can taste it - if you can take it. Mind you, a recent competition to eat the hottest curry saw loads of people ferried to hospital recently, and what about the withdrawal of Lloyd Grossman's disease-inducing curry sauces? Some years ago I had to stop cooking with very hot jalapeno peppers because they were starting t do strange things with my stomach. But I still like my vindaloo's. Yum.
     
    So I guess the prospect of a volcanic curry isn't so daunting for me. But brussel sprouts? Sorry. No curry, not even if radioactvely hot, is ever going to make me want to consume those horrible things. So I guess when Claude Van Damme gets tired of advertising lager, there's a career just waiting as a fist fighting champion of the downtrodden given strange violent powers by consuming brussel sprouts. I mean, wouldn't you be pee'd off if you were served them?
     
    It Might Rain
    Here we go again. The Prophets of Global Warming have prophecised that extreme weather is ever more likely. Well it would be. We're still coming out of the previous Ice Age and the last few thousand years have been unusually stable. With an estimated fifty thousand years of very warm climate before the glaciers return in the next ice age, surely this would be expected? But we humans like scapegoats. Let's scape the car, or industry, or people who fart.
     
    I was reading a learned volume about climate changes and it points out that there are cycles in the climate, some short, some long, linked to wobbles in the Earths orbit or the variations in the Sun's output, that cause these wild swings. But I've said this all before. The UN never listened when I asked for national independence, so I doubt they'll listen to my prophecies of climate change. Actually I'd better stop whinging or they'll be imposing sanctions on me. Good grief, I might be in danger of UN Peacekeepers patrolling my premises. Oh well. At least they might shoot the burglars for me.
     
    It Might Download
    As something of a ferro-equinologist, I do like to explore the virtual world of railways. It's okay, I admitted this years ago. Lately one of the librarians has decided my hobby is against regulations. Worse still, she seems to regard it as something like the straw that broke civilisations back. Either that or her eyesight can't tell the difference between a russian diesel and a naked lady in a silly and provocative pose. Then again both of them are dirty, right?
     
    So a few times now I've gritted my teeth at being refused permission to access my favourite railway website because it falls within the category of evil decadence. Finally I managed to negotiate the bureaucracy involved in accessing such politically incorrect sites.
     
    Ahhhh.... Time to relax and browse the 3d replicas that talented modellers create for download. This site looks interesting... It's all written in cryllic so I haven't a clue what the text says, but after a while you sort of get used to it. Hey wow! Look at this! That I have to download!
     
    Except that I can't because I personally exceeded the total bandwidth used by the native Russians and unless I pay thropugh the nose for it, they've forbidden me from completing the download. Yeah? Really? Listen you Russian secret agents, if I can get past the obstacle of the local librarian, the FSB is no challenge at all.
     
    Errrr.... Where's my phone?... Oh hi. Is there a Mr Bond there?
  21. caldrail
    Six More Years Of Pain.
     
    Falling standards of living, lower pay, fewer jobs, and all the other doom and gloom of austerity predictions. Makes you feel good to be British, doesn't it? I was only a child during the Winter of Discontent. The financial wobbles that ended the yuppie era barely affected me. Well, I'm certainly affected now.
     
    Funny isn't it? Today there's a public service strike across Britain. Signs have been posted to invite the public to attend the rallies, and almost everywhere in town there are canvassers attempting to gain our support. I can understand the concerns these people have for their pensions, but I really don't think they understand that we pay for them as well as our own. I suspect their schemes are probably more likely to fund their old age too. Sorry, but no, I'm not interested.
     
    As for me, well, I don't seem to be too popular right now. Last night I had two phone calls out of the blue from people who wanted to respond to my efforts to find work. In one case, a training organisation offered me a course on warehousing. Oh brilliant. So I get a piece of paper after a couple of weeks telling me I know how to do the stuff I've been doing for nearly twenty years? I felt like calling him an idiot, but no, these things are sent to try us.
     
    The second call was from an agency. "You applied for bar work?" He asked me. Bar work? I don't think so. Mind you, I did apply to your agency earlier today for....
     
    "Oh yes" He suddenly remembered, "That admin job. I'll pass the application on to the right desk. The emails must have gone astray."
     
    Seems to be a lot of things going astray right now. It isn't the first time I've gotten the bums rush from a job agency. One had phoned me a few weeks ago, the boss herself, and whilst she's never so much as recognised I existed, now she took the trouble to fob me off personally. A few years ago, the boss of another invited me to the office for a personal put down. Funnily enough she advised me to look for bar work. Bit of a coincidence there.
     
    Actually some of my woes are spiteful mischief makers attempting to goad me into using my title as an excuse. Sorry, but that's not what my title is for, so I'm afraid that as much as these idiots are enjoying the human talent for crapping on others, it isn't going to happen. Since getting a job from agencies doesn't look like it's going to happen either, I do feel sort of excused from any shame in being unemployed. But don't worry, I'll carry on applying for jobs. That's what the government pay me for after all.
     
    Christmas Trees
    It isn't just Britain suffering. I see on CBS that Texas is undergoing a harsh drought right now. So bad in fact that one farmer is unable to profit from sales of christmas trees. She grows christmas trees? In Texas? But it's okay. With a mind to offsetting the worst of any further climatic wobbles, she's investing in christmas trees sourced in Arizona.
     
    I'm speechless.
  22. caldrail

    Driving Me Mad

    By caldrail,

    Right. Chores completed, job clubs attended, shopping done. Time for me to head home and do the usual 'feet up' routine. I might be unemployed, but I need to stay in practice for when someone figures out how to get Britain out of the recession. Whichever one it is we're currently suffering from.
     
    As usual there were crowds of unemployed immigrants standing on street corners just about everywhere. At least I think they were unemployed. No matter. I have seat to fill at home. So with a quick glance over my shoulder I stride across the road junction and pay the crowds no further attention.
     
    As I did so a young manager type in his spotlessly white and chrome base model executive car decided to turn into the side street. I was about halfway across when it was obvious I was about to be run over. Luckily the driver in this case was a moderate sort who didn't believe in mowing down innocent pedestrians. Unfortunately, he was one of those who likes to challenge pedestrians for ownership of the ashpalt.
     
    So without further ado he drove right up to me, and I mean, within inches. I made my displeasure known to him. Well clearly that young man either hasn't read the Highway Code or considers himself exempt by virtue of his base model executive transport. I suspect my angry response didn't teach him anything either. A part of me hopes he'll learn an important lesson about patience and respect for other road users, but it does appear that eventually it's going to be a magistrate who instructs him.
     
    Snow?
    Snow? What the...? The warning symbols as the weather report got underway were something of a suprise. I mean, it might have gotten colder of late, but in real terms it really isn't that bad for this time of year. Oh, I see, it's just Scotland that's going to get it. Oh that's all right. They're used to it. Let's face it, there some drivers who can't handle snow south of the border. Can you imagine? Snow on a monday morning? What a disaster that would be.
     
    News Of The Week
    "Hey!" Cried an breathless Young L as he rode his bicycle through the door of the museum. "Have you seen the news about Jeremy Clarkson?"
     
    Funnily enough we had. I'd even mentioned it on my blog a day or two before. Sadly Young L regards football as more important than my literary efforts so once again he launched into a series of anecdotes about his favourite Top Gear moments. I think it was a series. Bit difficult to tell because he didn't pause for breath. Either that or the lads from Dunsfold made one heck of an episode.
     
    Finally I could take no more. Interrupting Young L in full flow, I turned to Young S and asked him how many episodes of Top Gear had ever been made. That many? Really? Okay, carry on...
  23. caldrail
    Back in my sadly deluded childhood I used to read books. No really. In one of them, there was an account of the life of Jesse James, or more pointedly, the end of it. Now Jesse wasn't a Scottish homosexual as you might expect, but an American unemployed irregular soldier who took up banditry to pay the bills in the 19th century. Stranger than that, he became famous for being shot dead from behind by one of his mates.
     
    Anyway, yesterday I saw a tv film about the man, and in typical modern Hollywood style he was depicted as a pretty boy hero, a martial arts expert, turning into a stuntman periodically n an effort to wreak vengeance on the dastardly railroad baron.
     
    Its that birth of a legend. Robin Hood made the same transformation. We know him as the dispossessed Earl of Locksley, defender of the downtrodden Saxons against their Norman overlords, stealing from the rich and giving to the poor. So why did Errol Flynn burst into wealthy Nottingham Castle and hand back the stag he'd just illegally killed? Maybe things were different in the days of Black & White.
     
    That happens to be my point. Look how these people change. They start as social undesirables, and end up becoming noble heroes that fight for the right to give movie stars two years work.
     
    It's occured to me that as a social undesirable that won't conform, I stand a great chance of being remembered as a famous hero in two or three centuries.... Caldrail Hoody - The hero that claimed from the state and gave to the shops....
     
    Switch Off of the Week
    On the news I saw something about the Great Switch Off. Everyones supposed to turn their lights off to demonstrate they want action on global warming. Apparently this started two years ago in Sydney and no-one's found the on-switch since. This does mean of course that since the climate change brigade can't see anything in front of their face, they're not going to able to change anything whatsoever. After all, is it not true that ideas come with light bulbs?
     
  24. caldrail

    Welcome to Rushey Platt

    By caldrail,

    Deep in the rainforests of Darkest Wiltshire, the natives are restless. The Independent Peanut Republic of Rushey Platt has decided to go public, to reveal its ancient mysteries to the world. I suppose that means we have to accept tourists too but you can't have everything.
     
    So what is the Republic of Rushey Platt? Well, when I was unemployed I decided it might be a cool idea to declare my idependence from the UK government. That way I could ask for Foreign Aid and get paid millions of pounds like those immigrant families with thirty eight kids.
     
    Needless to say, the british government has steadfastly refused to acknowledge my little realm in the depths of south west England. Nor did the United Nations. Nor did I get paid.
     
    Well things have moved on since. I now work in a shed at the back of an old hangar once used to build spitfires. Its a rotten little edifice that the architect proclaimed as structurally dodgy, and currently provides dwelling for thirty nine thousand species of native woodland spiders. And from the mess we found lurking under the pallets at the back, one or two rats, although we think the spiders ate them.
     
    The idea was to move some of these dust-gathering pallets and get rid of them. The days of our tenure in The Shed are now numbered, and a plush warehouse awaits our business (and rent payments) down the road. So let me introduce AD, a veteran of a warehouseman, a Bristolian, my mentor in the ways of The Shed.
     
    "One day, Caldrail, all this will be yours..." He said, though I must admit there is a rival to The Sheds throne. He is SB, a true troglodyte in british fashion, a man for whom sunlight is a forgotten experience, a man whose tyrant of a wife demands a new house every year and therefore poor old SB must go without holidays or weekends.
     
    However, there's an even rarer species of warehouseman at large behind the Hanger. The Big H himself. Trolls were never this big in fairy tales, and never was a man so adept at communicating with a grunt. A shrug of his shoulders says more than words can say.
     
    Or those wandering scavengers, the scrap metal dealers, who take away anything not bolted down. Or use an axle grinder if it is. UT, a fine figure of a man whose hobbies include racing dogs in Ireland, is nonetheless poor and humble. Dogs are very expensive. Not so his sidekick, the Small H, who's understanding of the world is limited to Lift That Bale, Tote That Barge. Come to think of it, UT nearly had me manhandling industrial motors into his truck...
     
    Welcome to Rushey Platt. It only gets better...
  25. caldrail
    In the shed next door to ours is a load of disused racking. UT, otherwise known as the 'Gypsy', has always insisted that the site manager, NF, had told him he could take it away anytime. NF on the other hand argues the opposite, and insists on payment. Well finally The Gypsy had his way and turned up to dismantle the racking and cart it away fror scrap. He borrowed a screwdriver from us for the purpose.
     
    UT and Small H have their own way of dismantling. Instead of top down as any sane person would, they insist of doing it from the bottom up, and manoevered their van to support the structure and prevent it knocking the sheds over.
     
    As usual UT stopped by to eat lunch and have tea, and apart from having to chase after his van to pull the handbrake on, life carried on at a leisurely pace.
     
    "Have you got that screwdriver? " I asked.
     
    UT told Small H to fetch it. Small H said he didn't know where it was. There then followed a series of farcical searches and accusations. This continued until AD threatened to withdraw teabreak privileges. The screwdriver was quickly found in UT's toolbox.
     
    "Don't know how it got there..." They said....
     
    Revelation of the Week
    According to Small H, millionaires have the habit of going to London and busking as One Man Bands. He knows because he's seen it, and Small H admitted to performing as a One Man Band in his younger days. He had to give it up because he didn't want to be famous. Now you know...
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