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caldrail

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Blog Entries posted by caldrail

  1. caldrail

    Boo The Black Hats

    By caldrail,

    I saw a mention earlier that there's been a call to ban 'cartoon' villains.
     
    Pardon? Which idiot thought that one up? No doubt they're concerned that our little offspring will be irrevocably harmed by exposure to images of bad guys and grow up as adult Dick Dastardly's.
     
    Children are not blank slates. However primitive and limited their experience of the world might be, they are born with a character of their own. Nature does this as a survival strategy. By including a diverse set of primal behaviour instincts, then a portion of the human herd will thrive in whatever enviroment they find themselves. So if killing, stealing, or helping old ladies across the road works best, then those instincts allow the herd to cope with policemen, irate householders, and modern traffic. Of course it also allows you to exploit any enviroment effectively and is one of the primary influences of evolution.
     
    So why are cartoon villains so bad for us? They were after all dreamt up by adult humans, and are intended as a parody of real baddies in order to laugh at their inept villainy and enjoy their miserable or painful fate. many cartoons actually have a moralistic underlay, despite the penchant for extraordinary violence. So is it the violence thats wrong? I used to enjoy thiose Roadrunner and Tom & Jerry cartoons in my younger days. You never see those any more do you? Well, strangely enough, I haven't grown up to be a violent villain who regularly receives explosives in the post courtesy of Acme Inc.
     
    The problem then lies not with cartoons or the imagery they present, but our own guidance of our children and the failure of society to instill moral behaviour in our young.
     
    My belongings are vibrating and bouncing to the throb of the stereo downstairs, so if you'll excuse me, I'll just go down there and knock his block off. You may laugh and say the cartoons did affect me. I would argue I'm simply angry and following my aggressive instinct is nothing more than everyday human behaviour.
     
    Or should we ban the evening news too, for fear that a terrorist will shown to our kids?
     
    Question of the Week
    Well the surveyor visited my home to decide how energy efficient it is. He asked me whether it gets cold. I looked at him straight and answered that it did, every winter, regularly as clockwork.
     
    I don't think he understood the joke.
  2. caldrail

    Books and Bullets

    By caldrail,

    I finally achieved the impossible today. The bins were cleaned up and emptied of incorrectly placed stock.
     
    It's a funny thing really. How do we measure the importance of achievement? In the grand scale of things, what I did today is small potato's. Okay, the boss is pleased, and that might affect my chances of getting a full time job, thus add to my properity and reputation, but in real terms the event doesn't interest anyone else and has probably been forgotten already.
     
    What about saving a persons life? We might stress the dramatic situations, risking life and limb to help another person, but without influential witnesses who would remember (other than the person saved, who generally feels grateful for the act of courage required to keep them from harm)?
     
    That's the trick. Any event in human culture only becomes important if the scale of its significance impinges on the media or generates enough rumour. What is the difference between stopping an old person stepping in front of a moving bus, or taking a bullet for Mr President?
     
    Well, I've blown my own trumpet, and maybe a few dozen people around the world have even registered my version of heroic stock maintenance. I must admit, I didn't hear any bullets whizzing past, so this once I'll settle for being the stock assistant time forgot.
     
    Bazza!
    I bumped into my old mate Bazza in town this afternoon. He's quite a character. He's also getting on in years and once again I prodded him to write that book he always should have done. You see, old Bazz is something of an expert on the American Civil War - he's even given lectures in the US on the subject. There are people who can tell which unit fought at which point at Gettysburg. Bazza can tell you who the commander was, what he had for breakfast, the name of the dog he fed the scraps to, and who stepped in the pooh afterward. He's an incredible bloke.
     
    He's had his share of ups and downs as much as anyone else in this decadus terriblis just gone, but I'm glad to see he's still kicking and in good health. Go on, Bazz. Tell the world what you know. Like you told me every time I carelessly thought to mention any fact on the subject...
     
    Confessions of a Bomb Maker
    Saw a documentary about afghanistan insurgents, with a camera crew following a team of those guys around. Strange stuff. You can't doubt their idealistic motivations, though calling Americans 'crusaders' is stretching things a bit. It does kind of illustrate the impact the medieval world made in the Middle East, if it isn't just a modern reinvention of the genre for propaganda purposes.
     
    What amused me, if you'll forgive me, was the young afghan expert telling us how technical bombs were and that his creations were too clever for the British and American soldiers to defuse. "It goes over their heads" he said. Funnily enough, his mobile phone activated device failed to explode when a US column drove past on a highway unaware of the danger they were in.
     
    I guess though the fun stops when these things actually work.
     
    Researcher of the Week
    This goes to the african guy I saw sat at a library table on the way in today, studying a glossy picture of an AK47 (with wide angle telescopic sights attached) and nodding thoughtfully. I used to think it was just white teenagers who got off on stuff like that. I wonder where this bloke will end up? Dead in some foreign country with NATO munitions embedded in him? Or locked up in some jail somewhere? Or maybe just reading the same old book over and over?
  3. caldrail
    It's the Easter weekend and of course that means today is a bank holiday. Is it just me or is this extended weekend something less than it should have been? There was a time when bank holidays were an event. Families migrating to the coast and spending the day parked on a motorway waiting for the queue of traffic to move forward another few feet. Or the thrill of the obligatory James Bond movie. You just don't get that excitement these days.
     
    So I suppose I'll pull a can from the fridge and sit slack jawed through Worlds Most Idiotic Videos. That said, saturday unveiled the New Doctor Who! (Cue fanfare and strong hints from BBC newsreaders)
     
    I must admit, when it started, I cringed at the excruciatingly unfunny childrens television moment. But it got better. Slightly. What saved the program from utter direness was the lack of those extended goodbyes and emotional wrangling the series indulges in these days. We've got all that to come. But congratulations on the series nonetheless. Not quite a high point, rather a bump on the bank holiday road. Uhh? What was that? Oh never mind...
     
    Victory!
    A few days ago Swindon Town Football Club won a game against Leeds United. You will never know what an orgasmic piece of news that was. Okay, I'm not interested in football as a rule. It's not the game that bothers me but the idea that I should be automatically interested in it. However, my old boss DS supports Leeds and any victory against them 'oop north' is worth a cheer or two. But lets put that victory into perspective. It's like me walking out of a nightclub with a girl under each arm. Such things are the stuff of myth and legend.
     
    Hallo Hallo, What's All This Then?
    Strolling along the ghetto area of Swindon to the internet cafe, I pass a large pub daubed in green paint and irish-esque lettering. There's something about irish themed pubs that immediately puts me off. Not sure why. It's not as if I'm allergic to leprechauns or such.
     
    Outside were a line of bad lads against the wall, chatting quietly as a gang of policemen hovered close by. Not quite tense, just sort of a constrained ambience. One policeman studied me as I passed by. By now I've been catalogued and appraised regarding my potential for trouble or lawbreaking, or perhaps he suspected I was an alien in disguise. There's certainly enough of those in Swindon these days. I've learned to recognise space aliens. They speak Polish. Had a guy come to the door a few days back asking if I spoke Polish. Like you do.
  4. caldrail

    Boys From The Bang

    By caldrail,

    TV personalities often describe Swindon as dull and rainy. Well, nothing has happened in the last two days and today... Yes... It's raining.
     
    So I'm sat in the library typing this out desperately trying to think of something meaningful to write.
     
    Life, The Universe, And Everything
    You can tell I'm bored, right? In todays blog I address the most fundamental question of about everything. Douglas Adams attempted this and got the answer of 42. Can I do better?
     
    Lets start at the beginning. The Big Bang. Now this is odd, because the universe contains everything there was, is, and ever will be. Now the religious people among us will be already shrugging and claiming their particular god invented the core of energy that spawned our existence in the first palce with a flick of his pinkie. Let There Be Explosions? It seems so.
     
    The thing is, the universe is such a wierd place. If you go right down to the minimal level possible, it turns out that the universe has a frame rate. No really it does. For anyone who isn't a computer gamer that means that time is composed of lots of freeze frame moments, one after the other. God has a pretty good PC though because he gets frame rates something of the order of 1034 per second, and thats quite a lot. Smooth action.
     
    Then there's this feeling that whatever choice I make, there will always be obstructions. And eventually you have to face the Boss at the end of a level.
     
    There's no getting away from it. I'm living in a virtual computer game. Sims Swindon in 3D. When you consider that, 42 does seem a bit lame doesn't it?
     
    TV Advert of the Week
    In their end-of-series episode of Top Gear, the tem were tasked to come up with television adverts for the new diesel Golf Sciroocco. It was quite amusing, but if I were brutally honest, I actually preferred Jeremy Clarksons "It's Explosive!" ad, the one he did first. Simple, visually impressive, and none of that arty nonsense (though I confess I did like the "Berlin to Warsaw" joke too).
     
    Explosions. We love 'em don't we?
  5. caldrail

    Boys Will Be Boys

    By caldrail,

    Manhood is a difficult quality to define, for no other reason than it means something different to everyone, and even then the definition can vary according to the situation you're in. In general, its defined by the various social groups by their own standards.
     
    I remember my school days. The 'lads', the dominant members of our youthful community, would always inhabit the toilet so as to smoke cigarettes in seclusion away from the disapproving gaze of irate teachers. They regarded smoking as symbolic of their manhood, it was a required activity of their exclusive tribe. I also remember how they used to panic when a teacher got curious and decided to enter the toilets in the hunt for misbehaving youths. Oooh look at me, I'm smoking, aren't I a man? Oh no, teacher! Quick, put it out! Muffled expletives and much foot stomping followed. Was I impressed with their manhood?
     
    No. I wasn't. To be honest, thats the major reason I never smoked. It all seemed a bit false, an act, and the people doing it really not as manly as they liked to portray themselves as, even if they could beat me up. All part of growing up I guess. Things have changed since I was young. Fewer adults smoke, attitudes toward smoking have changed, and it really isn't the desirable symbol of adulthood it once was. One thing about kids that hasn't changed is their quest for such symbols. These days the knife has taken its place.
     
    The problem with carrying potentially lethal weapons is that sometimes people are tempted to use them. A morbid curiosity perhaps. Or lashing out in a crisis that they're too emotionally immature to handle peacefully. Or simply to prove their manhood to their peers. It shouldn't suprise anyone that the majority of stabbing victims are youths. Young men compete amongst themselves for dominance according to the primeval instinct, testing themselves against each other. With each generation, you must recreate civilisation. Unless you educate and impose the values and morality of the civilised world you get little barbarians, whose only restriction on behaviour are what they believe they can get away with. The modern bully now has something much more threatening to dominate his victims with than a closed fist.
     
    It annoyed me a few days ago as I watched David Beckham giving a press conference telling kids not to use knives. Very commendable, but what makes anyone believe the kids are going to listen to a bunch of self-important footballers? They may be sporting heroes but that only matters when they score the goals on the pitch. Or as fashion dummies perhaps. But as role models? These people live outside of our reach, in secure privacy or exclusive and select social circles. Beyond the 'heroism' of the pitch (and I use the term extremely loosely) there's nothing for kids to identify with because they cannot see these players acting out their normal everyday lives. They cannot interact with them for any significant period and learn from them. Not that it matters, because their lives are just so beyond those of kids wielding knives on the street.
     
    So sporting heroes are not suitable as role models. The problem, they shouldn't need to be role models at all. The fathers of these youths are often missing and that certainly doesn't help. But even that isn't to blame entirely. The underlying problem is that whereas once a child was thrown into the deep end of adult life at a certain age, now he's allowed to become a teenager. A group with its own standards, its own tribal structures, learning behaviour from their peers in isolation of adult guidance. Thats where the solution will be found, otherwise boys will be boys all over again.
     
    Doomsday Moment of the Week
    No, not some apopalyptic prophecy - This one's sponsored by William the Conquerer. I was checking through the entires for my local area and very revealing it is, even with the terse and sparse nature of the descriptions. The king, Winchester Abbey, Glastonbury Abbey - all owned land around Swindon, itself on the edge of Savernake Forest. Forest of course meant something different back then, meaning kings land rather than large areas of trees. There's also a guy called Miles Crispin who appears to a major landowner, letting some of his holdings to his fuedal underlings. Alfred of Marlborough does something similar. Swindon itself, the old market town on the hill, was owned by Odo, Bishop of Bayeaux and a relative of King William. All thats very interesting, but when I looked the entry for Highworth, I did laugh. Stand up and take a bow, Ralph the Priest. Monty Python eat your heart out.
  6. caldrail
    I can remember how it felt during the 1970's Munich Olympics. Is was as if the entire world had stopped and taken time out to show every single event. To some extent thats the case, because with limited tv channels and dire programming what else could compete with it?
     
    These days there's hundreds of tv channels with all sorts of specialised programming that wouldn't even consider showing olympic footage. Is that a good thing? I'm actually starting to wonder. The media hype about events like the olympics is however the usual baggage we have have to bear. There's so much money tied up in it now and the propaganda value isn't ignored by the nations involved. perhaps its this constant flag-waving that tires me out.
     
    Don't get me wrong, its great to see Team GB (isn't that a little comercialised for what is supposed to be amateur participation?) raking in the medals and getting fourth place in the national league, but notice this is only happening because Britain is funding these people to train full time with professional assistance in much the same way as the nations ahead of us in the table.
     
    There's been talk of drugs in sport and whether performance-enhancing chemicals will eventually see acceptability. I suspect the biggest drug of all will win out in the end. Its called Money.
     
    Film of the Week
    Already released in America is a feature film called Anti Social Behaviour, described as "Death Wish without guns". One man is spurred y conflict with out-of-control hoodlums to seek revenge against them dispensing vigilante 'justice'. As films go, its probably unremarkable apart from one small detail of interest to me.
     
    It was filmed in my own home town. Dull old rainy Swindon. Thats about as far away from the bright lights of Hollywood as you can get.
  7. caldrail
    Most of you haven't been to our central library. Partly that's because most of you live in better parts of the world, but mostly because it's also somewhere I go to hang out. As a regular visitor to the library you'd think the librarians would know me by now. One does. He's the chap who signed as a witness to my elevation to lordship. Always gives me a cheery nod as he walks by. What a nice chap.
     
    On the other hand, there's a lady who was working behind the help desk when I strode in yesterday. My incessant requests for obscure reference works that have long since self-combusted brought her to the point of a tantrum at least once. Nonetheless she's always cheery and polite. So when she realised I was standing there, she smiled nd asked if she could help.
     
    You have to understand that the library does not realise that the world communicates via the World Wide Web.. They seem to have their own technology and internet protocols that bear no relation to anyone elses. Time and again I can't access a site or a service because it might harm little children. It's as if they expect you to access the internet for certain specific reasons, such local community services or perhaps tracing your ancestors, as if any of my ancestors ever came anywhere near Swindon or managed to get the council to do anything except throw a form at them.
     
    So when I popped into the library yesterday, I strode toward the help desk intent on asking them to allow me access to a site about world war two aeroplanes. How could that possibly harm children?
     
    The first thing was to ask for a pen and a piece of scrap paper. She ummed and ahhed and eventually allowed me to recover the pencil lodged in the bottom of a plastic holder. Suitably armed with writing implements, I proceeded to write out the information she would later send up to the libraries mysterious and reclusive I.T. experts. They never show themselves in public. I have this image of unkempt nerds kept chained in a straw filled cell, sweating over hot computers for hours on end with security guards goading them on with leather whips. No-one, and I mean no-one, ever goes up to the forbidden third floor.
     
    Information provided, I made the request. She glanced through the pencil scribbles and asked "Lord?... What's that?"
     
    Oh that's me. That's my name. With a subdued look of incredulity mixed with horror she quickly recovered her composure and apologised that she would have to send it to her prison... Erm... I.T. department upstairs. Good. Job done. She left the premises soon after, no doubt keen to be well clear of this nutcase who thinks he's a noble and sends her on impossible missions should she choose to accept them.
     
    There she is this morning, chatting to her colleague on duty at the desk. It might be just me, but I think I managed to get a mention dispatches. And no cheery wave either.
     
    Get Yer Back Into It!
    Yesterday I saw the first attempt at demolishing the old college site. A chap in a white tee shirt and shorts ran up the pavement, stopped, then leant forward against the painted plywood security fence as if to push it over. He failed, and continued on his way to report that demolition machinery or explosives would be needed. If only I had a camera with me. You wouldn't believe how ridiculous that looked.
  8. caldrail
    The weather has taken a turn for the worse and its temporarily goodbye to long hot spring days. Yep. British weather has reasserted itself and its raining. Just in time for the traditional downpour on a Bank Holiday Weekend.
     
    Dream of the Week
    Nearly decided that getting a job was the front runner for that prize, but no, it was last nights dream about tornado's. Don't remember the details, but someone pointed out the window and there they were, four or five funnels under a thick black cloud, one heading our way. Of course we hid and I have to say, for a dream about a weather phenomenon I've never experienced, the special effects were pretty impressive. Luckily the building withstood the tornado as it passed over and I was spared a visit to Oz.
     
    TV Comedy of the Week
    Has to go to The Mighty Boosh. I'd not seen it before but came across a repeat on freeview tv. For those that don't know, its a surreal comedy about a young mystic and his pet familar, a talking gorilla, and the two local musicians he rents rooms to. Its bizzarre stuff but genuinely amusing at times, and I hate to say it, very observant of life in Britain. Might be a bit challenging for non-brits though. The gauntlet has been thrown down...
  9. caldrail

    Broken Glass

    By caldrail,

    This morning I was walking up a street around the corner from where I live. Strewn with yellow and brown leaves, damp after last nights rainfall. It was also covered with broken glass in one place beside a car.
     
    Yes, the mystery car thief has struck again. Its hard to understand what he gains from this. Its entirely opportunistic, his targets are at random, and judging by the stuff left lying around the car I passed today, he simply isn't interested in what he finds. So is after anything specific? Apparently not. I actually start to wonder if he's doing it just to be anti-social, though it has to be said he did search my car fairly thoroughly.
     
    After all the vandalism thats been going on, the garage across the yard have left their external lights on all weekend, leaving me to sleep through a dull orange glow from my bedroom window. It must be said, the volume of people hurling taunts and insults in the small hours has decrased noticeably - along with an increased police presence I'd suspect.
     
    If only that were all. The alleyway beside the block of houses where I live has become a favourite dumping ground for someone. Mattresses and binbags regularly appear, and of course, so do broken bottles.
     
    To quote Blondie, they 'like the sound of breaking glass'.
     
    Breakage of the Week
    We all do it. In a moment of detached clumsiness we all drop things. Only this time, I didn't just drop it. The plate slid out of my hands like it was propelled by strange forces, scattering piled crockery and utensils waiting to be dried on my kitchen top before sliding to the floor and disassembling itself into random molecules. Then the dislodged stuff followed, and despite my heroic efforts to catch things, most ended up following the plate like inanimate lemmings.
     
    I definitely heard the sound of breaking glass. Don't like it.
  10. caldrail

    Bruised Ego's

    By caldrail,

    I woke this morning to discover that bruises have a life of their own. Sounds strange? Well, the bruise obtained in my argument with a door the day before has now migrated from a large lump over my eye to a black ring around it. Oh no. I have a black eye. I look like like I've done ten rounds with Mike Tyson, though in all fairness, experts would probably note I only have one bruise thus did not last beyond one punch. Doors are tough opponents.
     
    What bothers me though is that I nearly achieved a fifty year unroken record for not getting a black eye. Now look. I'm the same as everyone else, except that I wasn't drunk when it happened.
     
    Will They Or Won't They?
    The tension was mounting. Would the department store ring me or not? Would I be offered a fast paced and rewarding career in furniture removals, or be cast aside as a worthless loser by high street consumerism?
     
    This is nailbiting stuff. A failure brings a risk of further humiliation from the Job Centre, who have already sent me another accusation that I didn't apply for an offered vacancy. They don't ask whether you applied or not. The office have no record of it, so you haven't. Please grovel, apologise, and make some useless explanation before they decide to stop your money.
     
    They've done this sort of thing before. No matter. The form is sent off, along with evidence of application and one of ny trademark 'irate citizen' letters. Actually, humour aside, this sort of things bothers me immensely. English law is supposed to based on the principle that you're innocent until proven guilty. Apparently no-one told the Department of Work & Pensions about that.
     
    tThe Finale To Caldrails Big Interview
    The votes are in, the phone lines are closed, and now the golden envelope is passed to be read out in front of the audience... Todays winner of Department Store Recruit of the Year 2011 is.... Not me. Not invited to the induction. Do not pass Go, do not collect
  11. caldrail
    I read this mornings local paper with a smirk. It appears that a local club (the Lava Lounge) hasn't got a music license so under british law it cannot provide music for its customers without incurring a large fine - and they already have to pay more than
  12. caldrail

    Butterflies Wings

    By caldrail,

    You know, I'm starting to wonder about that Chaos Theory I mentioned yesterday. On the way home from the shops I wandered down the alleyway at the back of the house. The sprouting foliage has become quite thick now the College is an abandoned site. Where once you could drive a car along the rough gravel surface, now there's only a narrow path between the grass, brambles, horsetails, and overhanging trees. A solitary butterfly, in shades of brown, went about it's erratic business.
     
    Later that day I paused to look upward and the edges of heavy cloud were very apparent in the hazy sky. Rain? Possibly, those clouds looked heavy enough, but the sun was still shining so I took no notice.
     
    During the afternoon I was indoors, enjoying a good read. So intent on the written word was I that I really hadn't noticed how dark it was getting. What attracted my attention was a background noise, a rising tide of rainfall that was loud enough to overcome the barrier of my double glazing (which isn't all that soundproof, as I know to my cost). I looked up and yes, there was the rain, absolutely belting down.
     
    Yawn. The book's more interesting.
     
    A sharp crackle and a resonant rumble followed soon after. A thunderstorm? I looked out and found a very curious scene. The edge of the towering cumulo-nimbus cloud was above the house. To the east, it was slate grey heaviness, a curtain of falling water that obscured the view beyond a few hundred yards. To the west, bright sunshine. Looking out the back it was odd to see rain pouring onto the yard with the sun shining. You could see the water evaporating on the asphalt like thin steam.
     
    The storm drifted gently northeast, following the prevailing wind and rumbling away elsewhere. Butterfly - I'm impressed.
     
    Storm of the Week
    Hurricane Jimena had hit a tourist spot in Mexico. Wow... Those guys have some serious butterflies....
  13. caldrail

    By Strange Coincidence

    By caldrail,

    Some years ago a guy I knew from my schooldays looked me up and we decided to have a pint or two, catch up with events, and basically fall over drunk at some in the proceedings. By strange quirk of fate, MS and I originally crossed paths over music. I was a keen up and going nowhere drummer, he was busy inventing new and interesting beeps on toy keyboards. I must confess, it was his idea to stage a charity rock concert at a local sports hall but an idea I got behind. We formed a band to take part in what turned into a 'Battle of the Bands' contest.
     
    All in all the event went well. We won Best Instrumental Track (we'd found a decent guitarist) and that was pretty much the last I ever saw of MS, though I suspect that was because he thought I was a complete looney. You see, we'd borrowed a car to haul our gear to rehearsals. It belonged to the bass players father, a generous man who had no idea of what sort of driver I was. RH, the guitarist in Red Jasper, used to describe me as using an accelerator pedal as an on/off switch. Yep. That about summed me up. So eventually the car, a sorry looking Datsun that had seen better days, finally gave up trying to stay on the road, and I had a fun thirty seconds demonstrating the finer art of losing control. When the dust cleared (and without damage), I fell off the seat laughing at the shocked expression on MS's face.
     
    Oh the fun we have when we're young. Anyhow, on our reunion bash we headed for a pub in Old Town. There was a strange atmosphere in there. Everyone stopped talking and looked at us with smirks on their faces. What? Have I got a bogey on my nose?
     
    "What'll it be Gentlemen?" Asked the barman who could barely conceal a grin. Oh, ahh, two pints of lager please.
     
    "Certainly Sir. Would you like a room too?" He asked quizzically. Huh? What do I need a room for, I responded scornfully, I came in for a drink. Then the penny dropped. I was in a gay pub.
     
    Quickest Escape of the Nineties
    Oh heck. I'm in a gay bar. I wonder how quickly I can drink this pint?..... (glug glug glug belch)... That's it, I'm outta here. As far as I'm concerned, if two gays want to go off and do whatever it is they do to each other, fine, I don't care, just don't involve me in it. How far away is a safe distance?
     
    Strange Goings On In A Queer World
    First there was that comedian from Little Britain whose partner died. Then a gay singer pops his clogs on holiday. Tragedies like any other unexpected death I guess, but what an odd coincidence, both events occuring so close to each other and presented in such a non-discriminatory way by the media. What? No scandal?
     
    Final Statement of the Day
    And you thought I'd lambast Gordon Brown for having to repay a years wages he spent on his own comfort? Life is so full of suprises, eh?
     
  14. caldrail
    During my last years at school I was a little less than well behaved. Nothing malicious, just totally unable to act in a mature or acceptable manner. It was of course a teenage rebellion. The teachers were not impressed and I remember stern lectures and demands to know what I intended to do when I left school and went out into the big wide world.
     
    I chose to join the Royal Air Force. So I popped down the recruiting office and the man in uniform there said "Sorry, Son, no vacancies". Huh? Well that sounded a little odd. So I travelled to a nearby town and applied there. They told me I couldn't hear properly.
     
    Now that I'm a lot older, I've come to notice certain trends in people who once served in the armed forces. One of those trends for instance is the delight ex-squaddies take in telling people who ask about their service that it was in a special unit. Usually they weren't, but your average civilian doesn't know that. Ex-RAF men always seem disgruntled. My local locksmith mutters darkly about his lack of promotion. He spent long hours poking a machine gun out of the back of a helicopter and considered that a waste of his talent. At least he had some.
     
    A gentleman I used to work with once served in the RAF too. He is prone to fits of anger, and with a complete inability in handicraft (he originally applied as an RAF mechanic), his idea of assembling flat pack furniture is to demolish it with a hammer because screw A does not fit in hole B. As he was so incapable of doing anything else than punching sergeants on the jaw, once released from punishment they had him working on nuclear weapons. Seriously. Unless he's pulling my leg too, but then he's a disgruntled ex-RAF type.
     
    So.... Why is it ex-Royal Navy personnel never ever discuss it at all? Or even tell anyone they were sailors?
     
    Plea of the Week
    A cat has adopted my parents. Would the owner please reclaim this animal before it enslaves them totally. Thank you.
  15. caldrail
    There I was, blissfully asleep after a long night before, woken by my mobile phone. Its AD, asking me if I wanted to come in on my day off. No, not really, but one has to make sacrifices to impress the boss (don't really want to be dumped by the roadside again). So, hungover and bleary eyed, I trudge into work to find that AD has decided to take the day off and so I must assume command of the operation.
    Lorries turn up to collect our goods but don't know what they're supposed to be taking away. I don't know which vendor I'm supposed to be supplying. Daily and seasonal picks delayed by our move are now going live. Where's the pallets? Where's the shrinkwrap? More containers coming in and I can't subject them to qualtiy control because our machines are stacked up in the racks. Not that it matters, we still don't have an office. Has AD done this on purpose? Is this some sadistic trial by fire designed to forge the ultimate manager? Stay cool Caldrail.... Oh no, not another stock query....
     
    Obituary of the Week
    Its with some sadness that I must announce that my poor car, Maxie, is been put in mothballs, probably for disposal at some future date. The various unrequested modifications and mechanical defects, not to mention an engine that is now solely responsible for global warming, has meant that getting it through a Ministry of transport Test is all but too expensive. She's going to be a hard act to follow.
  16. caldrail

    Caldrail FM

    By caldrail,

    Welcome back to Caldrail FM, and for those just tuning in, it's a special hello to J, my stockroom supervisor, who's just discovered this blog and is probably sneaking into the office to read it as I write.
     
    Hi Mr J. Love the nunchucks.
     
    Meeting People
    leaving work just now I bumped into Sophie again. She's a lovely blonde lady who does all this charity work, where she lulls you into a false sense of security then gets you to sign away all your money for gay eco-deaf children or whatever. By now I'm used to this sort of thing so instead I chatted her up for a few minutes.
     
    Her friend is from New Zealand. We both watched him scare passers-by and fail totally to raise conversation, never mind money.
     
    "Do you want to hear my spiel now?" She asked nicely.
     
    Nope. Nice Seeing ya, Soph... Next week okay?
     
    Meeting The Stockroom Boss
    We don't get much managerial attention up on the haunted top floor, but today, our manager turned up in civilian clothes, looking like a scarecrow in a football shirt. It turns out that he's a bigger and louder looney than anyone else on the premises (including me) and I seriously had my work cut out making a fool of myself with that sort of competition. Nedless to say, Caldrail FM swung it. My constant radio chatter in the aisles attracted much comment. Any publicity is good news. That's showbizz.
     
    Meeting The Lift
    The lift to the loading bay has a serious attitude. It's already tried to kill me once before, crushing me against the boxes by closing it's doors without warning. Today was no different. With an afternoon emergency to cope with our team of selected expert unloaders were assigned the dangerous and heroic task of clearing the bay of everything left untouched during the week. With no other course of action available to us, we had to fill the lift with boxes to take upstairs, and not suprisingly, the lift tried to kill me again. It sulked over it's failure too, refusing to operate. usually I would have said that I'd broken the lift. This time? I got threatened by a psychopathic access facility.
     
    Well that just about wraps up todays program... So it's goodbye from me, Caldrail, your host on Caldrail FM. I'll leave you with Deep Purple's hit, Strange Kind Of Cardboard...
     
    Strange Kind Of Cardboard
    I once found some cardboard
    A strange kind of cardboard
    The kind that gets written down in history
    It looked kinda brown
    Left there on the ground
    What's inside is just another mystery
     
    I want it, I need it
    I gotta see in it
     
    I want my box on the nearest stack
     
    I want it, I need it
    Recycle, and crush it
     
    Maybe if I just open it a tiny crack
     
    (guitar solo)
     
    Newsflash
    We interrupt this song for an important newsflash. Today was the dullest ever. KS was so bored he was driven to hide my red pen. He is such a child. We ask the public not to panic as the Pen Police have found the missing writing implement and it's been returned to the grateful owner.
  17. caldrail

    Caldrail's Busy Day

    By caldrail,

    Sometime around dawn this morning I woke knowing my day was going to busy. Normally at this time I groan, roll over, and go back to sleep. Today I don't have that luxury, so it's out of bed - Gah! Cold! - and a quick dash to the bathroom for the daily ritual of turning myself into a human being again.
     
    First
    Now for a stroll down to the Job Centre for my daily signing. They told me to come in at a certain time, but neglected to tell me the place was closed for an hour due to staff meetings. Oh great. Now that's my schedule up the spout. Think, Caldrail, think! What would any normal employed person do in situations like this?
     
    Second
    With time to spare I dropped in on the park and watched the builders cementing new stones along the lake edge. The birds seem all bored of this activity and swim away, convinced that the stingy sweaty humans moving stones around won't have any bread with them. If only they knew... But this is boring. And I need to get on with my day, so...
     
    Third
    A quick stop at the library and book a computer for this afternoon, at the last slot available. There is method in my madness, because...
     
    Fourth
    A quick dash down to Swindon railway station and off to Chippenham, fifteen minutes away, a sort of dingy stone-coloured town where I'm being interviewed for a job. I did actually take an earlier train than I intended and just as well, as the office I needed to visit wasn't well signposted. Wasn't signposted at all. Wasn't even a bold title above the door. I just happened to see the company name in the window.
     
    No matter, I found out where they were, and I still have an hour to kill. What can I do in Chippenham on a Wednesday lunchtimne?
     
    Fifth
    One sandwich and a canned drink later, I was sat watching the birds by the river. Still quite a pleasant day, but these birds are ferocious scroungers, not like the polite queues you get at Queens Park. One duck caught a piece of bread and every - I mean every - other bird lunged at it. Swans, pidgeons, ducks, and various other birds I don't know, they all made the poor little duck run the gauntlet. Eventually it swallowed the bread almost whole in a desperate attempt to stay alive.
     
    Sorry birds, but I haven't got any spare breadcrumbs. Why is that swan hissing at me?
     
    Sixth
    After escaping the wildlife by the river, it was time for my interview. A very pleasant positive atmosphere and pretty young ladies to chat up. What could be better? Eh? I sign here?
     
    The crunch came when the agency boss interviewed me. He looked at my CV and asked me with a frown how long ago it was I drove vans for a living.
     
    This is where it gets painful, I admitted, that was twenty years ago. Well that about wraps up this part of my schedule, and before I catch the train home, just one more item to go in Chippenham...
     
    Seventh
    A quick trip over to the Wiltshire History Service building and delve into their archives. Sadly, all I can do is submit requests for stuff to be located in their dark vaults and wait for it to arrive at my desk. Come on, come on, I'm catching a train in half an hour...
     
    Sigh. They failed. very friendly people, very willing to help, but nothing moves. No, wait, I saw one of the archivists breathing. No, really, I did. Wish I'd brought my camera to prove it. I apologised to the helpdesk and told them I wouldn't require the requested documents as I was going home. I wonder if First Great Western would delay the train for me? I mean, what use is my title if I can't make very important phone calls?
     
    Apparently I'm not that important yet. So I'll have to catch the train. Bye...
     
    Eighth
    So I found myself back at Chippenham railway station waiting for the ride home. An announcer warned that a train was approaching that wasn't schedukled to stop, so stand well back! Good advice. The freight train thundered past me at an alarming rate. English trains might not have the majesty and scale of their American cousins, but they certainly don't hang around.
     
    Oh, here we go, that's my train. See you in Swindon.
     
    Nineth
    My return to the library, plus a few pit stops along the way. A magazine here, a baguette there, and another visit to the Job Centre to get advice on what to do if this agency actually comes up trumps.
     
    Now I have a rapid search online for jobs and vacancies. There's one. I can do that. There you go, it's applied for. You know what? This multimedia age has some advantages after all.
     
    Tenth
    Made it! Home again, collapsing on the sofa after rushing back and forth across Wiltshire. All I need now is for some crazy old hermit to wander out of the kitchen, check my temperature, and say "Rest easy Son, you've had a busy day".
  18. caldrail
    Back by popular demand, a selection of my musical past. Enjoy!
     
    Company Director
    CompanyDirector.mp3
    A live recording of Red Jasper from the Bristol Bierkeller in 1988. This was a monitor mix (the same sound we heard on stage), so the audience was a lot bigger than it sounds, really! The song originally appeared on our first release, England Green & Pleasant Land.
     
    Vocals - Dave Dodds
    Guitar - Tony Heath
    Bass - Robin Harrison
    Drums - Caldrail
     
    Just Another Night
    JustAnotherNight.mp3
    A garage demo from 1985. The band was Bardiche. Anna had retired from microphone duty, and we recorded this, literally, in a garage, with our new singer shortly afterwards. This line up played one gig only.
     
    Vocals - Pete Farrar
    Lead Guitar - Glynn Stevens
    Rythmn Guitar - Mike French
    Bass Guitar - Phil Peters
    Drums - Caldrail
     
    Old Jack
    OldJack.mp3
    From the 1989 album Sting in the Tale. I'd left Red Jasper by this time so this was my parting contribution. I'd written the lyrics for it.
     
    Vocals - Dave Dodds
    Bass/keyboards - Tony Heath
    Lead Guitar - Robin Harrison
    Drums - Some interloper who doesn't deserve fame.
     
    Pull That Thumb
    PullThatThumb.mp3
    The title track of the 1988 EP of the same name. Recorded in Swindon above a motorbike dealership.
     
    Vocals - Dave Dodds
    Bass/Keyboards - Tony Heath
    Lead Guitar - Robin Harrison
    Drums - Caldrail
    Saxophone - Wots 'is name.
     
    Second Coming
    SecondComing.mp3
    My very own masterpiece. This is a demo recorded in the attic of a fifteenth century thatched cottage. A much altered version was recorded by Red Jasper after I'd gone. This track earned Red jasper a recording contract and they still owe me
  19. caldrail
    It's been strangely quiet in Swindon. I dare say many people like me were up into the small hours following the events of the General Election on the news. I won't bore you with the commentary on the details of our current hung parliament - we all pay television license fee for that. What interests me is perhaps less than the news that the Conservative Party are now running Swindon South, but rather the maneovers in high places as the various leaders jostle for dominance and influence.
     
    This afternoon I watched as Gordon Brown stepped out of No10 Downing Street to make a statement. Of course he had to, or else lose initiaive entirely. Although he technically lost the election he still remains Prime Minister with a minority government because the opposition didn't score an absolute majority, and the law says the Prime Minister keeps his job until obliged to resign.
     
    Now call me suspicious, but I seriously doubt Gordon Brown will relinquish power as honour demands. For all his fine words in front of the press outside his highly polished black front door, he doesn't want to give up, rather like a spoilt child who's now expected to pass on a borrowed toy. In fact, whatever the news commentators have said, Gordons Brown statement really didn't say anything at all, and I watched him walk back inside No10 with his head down and no urgent questions or applause to follow him.
     
    Meanwhile David Cameron manoevers for power, forming his reserve government and clearly pressing for official status, whilst Nick Clegg of the Liberals waits to decide which side to back, essentially holding the balance of power.
     
    This sort of thing reminds me of the plots and skulduggery of powerfiul samurai warlords, only in this case razor sharp swords are not an option, and I suspect most politicians aren't quite so good at martial arts, never mind dressing in black and scaling walls to poison their enemies in the dead of night. But then, is it not truly said that the pen is mightier than the sword? The most fascinating thing is that these events are unfolding around us and we all have a ringside side thanks to the modern media. British politics has never been such fun. I might as well enjoy it while it lasts. I'm sure the smiles are going to wiped off many peoples faces in the near future.
     
    Enter The Bunny
    Forget Jackie Chan... Forget Bruce Lee... Forget wise-cracking anthropomorphic turtles... The biggest bad-ass martial arts hero is your average bunny. I'd like to thank Bill Oddie for enlightening me to the astonishing ability of rabbits to kick each other, and when the time comes to sort my enemies out, I will definitely be dressing my fiercest rabbit in black clothes and two-toed plimsols.
     
    J, you are so sacked. Go get 'em Bunn...
     
    Red Tape of the Week
    Nearly two weeks ago I went to the Job Centre for a review of my work placement. Strictly speaking, I should have been advised by letter to turn up as required. As it turned out I had to arrange that interview myself to avoid being without income. During the course of that interview my claims advisor slapped me down like a twelve year old at the top of her voice. But alll this you already know.
     
    On the way out of the Job Centre I stopped by the enquiries office and made a complaint against my claims advisor. Since the Department of Work and Pensions have a policy of supporting cultural diversity on any grounds and respect for customers, I felt that was the correct action to take.
     
    That was two weeks ago. Call me a little suspicious, but two weeks without any contact regarding the complaint process seemed a little too much like filing under miscellaneous. Time then to take matters a bit further. This afternoon I popped down to the Job Centre and asked the lady whether I could be advised on what action was being taken. Naturally she didn't know, nor did she make any effort to fetch Customer Services. Instead she suggested I went upstairs and dealt with the office concerned. It's called "passing the parcel".
     
    The lady upstairs was a great deal more polite and helpful. My complaint, so she informs me, hadn't reached the manager concerned. It's called "filed under miscellanous".
     
    Not any more it isn't.
  20. caldrail

    Calm Before The Storm

    By caldrail,

    It happens today. it's inescapable. And it will cause suffering and hardship.
     
    That's the message I've been seeing and hearing in our media. It's a womnder there's no-one wandering back and forth the local high street with a placard saying "The end is nigh". I am of course referring to the imminent assault upon british shores of another arctic blast.
     
    It's now late morning and if I were honest, there's little sign of our impending doom. The sky is sombre with dark grey clouds under a lighter grey blanket, and if I were honest, yes it does feel wintery. So far though the temperature is not entirely uncomfortable. Chilly, certainly, but I didn't need gloves today. Maybe I might tomorrow? After all, the weather people have been warning us. The arctic apocalypse is coming, people, and we warned you sinners not to get used to balmy indian summers!
     
    Cutting To The Chase
    I see in the news that two policemen were stabbed in a London street yesterday. That is shocking news. Okay, maybe the police aren't very high on my christmas card list at the moment, but I don't want to see anyone hurt in this manner, and the fact that some idiot lashed out at our law enforcement in that way is depressing, even though such things aren't entirely unknown. It's just that it thankfully happens so infrequently and we tend to forget the episodes of previous decades that the media once related at every step in the media.
     
    Compared to an event I saw yesterday it makes the news of this attack is in a real sense very shocking. leaving the Job Centre I saw two police cars parked by the side of the busy dual carriageway, the constables crowding around a young man who was persuaded in no uncertain terms to get in to the car. I suppose in most cases that's how it is. Faced with stern and numerous opposition, the irresponsible youth realises he can't do anything but obey and suffer the consequences of his actions. As it should be.
     
    At the end of the day, our shock at the latest outburst of violence reveals, quite literally, how safe our streets usually are. And that's a cause for congratulation for those that enforce it.
     
    Trouble is, having said that, there's bound to be a politican seeking to take credit for this state of affairs, or enforcers seeking more authority to extend their 'rule of law', and all the other ambitions and vagaries of human nature. All I want is the perpetrator of my rusting car's demise sent behind bars. Oh well. Something to add to the list I'm sending Santa Claus.
     
    Weather Update
    Yes, it's confirmed. In the last ten minutes a darker, more threatening cloud has drifted into view. It's our own fault of course. They've been telling everyone to use less petrol for decades. Well now I don't use any at all. Can I be excused this wintery blast, please?
  21. caldrail

    Camp Hell?

    By caldrail,

    Being unemployed is a bit of a wierd situation. You get paid for doing nothing and investigated to make sure you are. Then they get impatient because you're not doing anything.
     
    In reality of course you sign a Job-Seekers Agreement. It's a contract. You have to fulfill certain obligations before they can pay you benefits. That way people don't enjoy being unemployed and subliminally get the message that looking for work is a good idea. Now someone has touted the idea of 'boot camps' for the jobless.
     
    So, as I step off the coach at Camp Hell there's a black guy in a slouch hat, hand on hips, sizing up our merry band of misfits in the blistering heat of Wiltshire, England.
     
    "Awright..." He growls, "Welcome to Camp Hell. In the next six weeks aah will teach you to fill application forms, to post letters, to knock on doors. Aah kid you not people, in six weeks you will become fully qualified job seekers. There is no room for failures in mah job queue..."
     
    Yeah right.
     
    "What was that? Did aah hear you squeak? Gimmee twenty, Job-Seeker!" He yells, pointing at the mud.
     
    But its muddy
  22. caldrail

    Can't Talk, Won't Talk

    By caldrail,

    The other day I was chatting to a colleague about popular music. In my youth music was scarce, hard to come by, and watching Top Of The Pops on a thursday night was an event to be savoured even with Noel Edmunds introducing the evenings mime actors. If one of your mates bought an album, a fragile twelve inch disc of black plastic, we all converged for that all important first listen. We all sat around admiring the artwork of the cover, wondering who all these names were on the credits, or discussing when we too would be releasing our very own record.
     
    Now you get music everywhere. Delivered electronically to your latest gizmo for entertainment for the busy lifestyles of the modern day. As much as music has improved in quality over the years I can't help feeling that so much of this garbage we download is... well... garbage. All you need is a steady thump and a wierd chorus and success will be yours. You think I'm joking?
     
    Take one of the latest offerings. "I got the moves like Jagger" the singer repeats a few times before his vocal chords are warped beyond human performance by the technological boxes that enslave creativity. The thing is though, the odd sound is no more than a gimmick. So desperate are the producers to make this song stand out that they've resorted to idiot melodies that no-one could sing without admitting to having extraterrestrial parents. The listener simply has to put up with psychological trauma.
     
    What's worse is the message of the song. That's about slavery too. Apparently the singer believes that behaving like Mick Jagger will make him a sexual tyrannosaurus, bringing helpless females to point of orgasm, totally reduced to abject obedience in the face of an imminent bonk. It is in fact arrogant sexist tripe, but then, what do you expect with nightclubs? No wonder the song's been doing well in the charts.
     
    That said, pubs and clubs aren't doing so well these days. Those that put on live acts appear to be doing better. Those that play recorded music seem to shutting up shop faster than european banks. Is that a coincidence, I ask myself?
     
    I chuckle as I switch on the television. In a way I consider myself lucky to have experienced popular music in the good old days. As it happens a channel is running repeats of Top Of The Pops from the seventies. With a sudden urge to savour the nostalgia of my youth, I sit back and watch Noel Edmunds telling us which mime act is on next. You know what? They say you should never revisit the places of your youth. Good grief - I never realised what a complete load of rubbish we were listening to....
     
    Little Burdens
    We were expecting a party of 'special needs' children at the museum and they arived pretty much as expected. Unless you meet these children and see for yourself, the phrase 'special needs' doesn't mean anything. Most were what you'd expect, hyperactive kids with no attention span whatsoever. Others had different afflications, such as one youngster who seemed unable to interact with anyone or anything unless it was a vehicle, real or toy. It saddened me. It also left me with no shortage of respect for the patience of the teachers who shepherded these kids around our hallowed halls.
     
    For some reason our events manager decided that I would introduce the museum and recite the instructions for safe enjoyable visits. To tell the truth I wasn't in the mood for that, still less after the events manager put me on the spot. What made it worse was that he wouldn't shut up. By the time he'd finished talking, everything had been pretty much said. I think I uttered one sentence to complete my duty.
     
    After a short silence one lady asked "Can we go in now?"
     
    Oh yes. Please do.
  23. caldrail

    Career Possibilities

    By caldrail,

    Entertainment is becoming harder to achieve without my trusty computer. Certainly I'm going to be a better guitar player from this interlude of electronic fulfillment (my neighbours might disagree) and I'll have time to get to grips with keyboards again. It also means that the desire for news has led me to start listening to the radio, which I usually ignore for more visual information.
     
    Last night it so happened that Ricky Gervais was being interviewed. He's released a film called The Invention of Lying which I admit, I haven't seen. I'm not really a fan of Ricky Gervais (Sorry, Rick, but you wouldn't want me to lie, would you?) but he really is an engaging conversationalist. It turns out he too has a mother who wanted him to be christian. In his case however, the matter has been settled.
     
    He did make an interesting observation about fame. He stated that becoming a celebrity is worthless unless you've actually done something. Thanks, Rick, I can now continue as a minor Rock God safe and secure in the knowledge I fell flat on my face. All my own work, too. The way things are going I might well try falling over again. Hey, Norman Wisdom made a career of it.
     
    Cure By Fire
    The US Army has acted on the issue of servicemen returning from active duty in Iraq suffering from Post Traumatic Syndrome. In Britain this was once known as 'Shell Shock', very mmuch an issue with men in the trenches of World War One exposed to continual bombardment. I remember the sorry tale of one artilleryman who simply got up and walked into No-Mans Land purely to have his suffering end. The British have traditionally taken a 'stiff upper lip' attitude toward this. Stop snivelling man, and pull yourself together.
     
    Perhaps we've become more enlightened. Modern training methods are much more focused than they were in the heady days of the war to end all wars, so perhaps it's right that care is taken to rehabilitate those who have risked their lives in the service of their country. What I found extraordinary though is the latest technique from America. They simulate the battlefield with sights, sounds, and smells common to a war zone. How ironic that to ease the suffering of former soldiers, they're put back in a simulated enviroment that causes them grief.
     
    Job Opportunity of the Week
    Royal Mail are going to hire on 30,000 temps this winter - twice the usual number - in order to compensate for the expected industrial dispute that is looming in the busiest postal season of all. That's great. There's a depot in my area. So now I can apply to work there if I manage to get through the picket lines. Nothing like a challenge, eh?
  24. caldrail

    Caring & Sharing

    By caldrail,

    There was a change in the air after my traumatic visit to the job centre. The library was way emptier than usual, clearly indicating most of the regulars had frozen to death overnight. I was almost pleased to see Mr Fidget arrive. He began his daily ritual of slapping pockets and searching bags before he even sat down, with a whiole morning of uninterrupted fidgeting to look forward too.
     
    Even the Lady Who Hisses At Me was in a friendly mood. She is now officially the Lady Who Whispers Objections To My Internet Use. But there's somebody missing. Among the casualties of our freezing weather was....
     
    Nope. I was wrong. BFL had indeed survived the night and instead of bringing a sense of order and direction to everyones lives at the library, had decided to colonise the supermarket where I encountered her a couple of hours later. I think that's the first time I've ever seen her there, which is a bit worrying because someone might blame me for having led her there in the first place.
     
    Sure enough the till queue ground to a halt as BFL was served. Nothing to do but wait until the supermarket staff have been browbeaten into surrender then.
     
    Favourite Spot
    "This is my favourite computer" Mentioned a lady as she waited for the assistant to log her on with the job club PC's. She's right. We all have favourite computers. I joked about them being reserved individually. How we would throw a tantrum if someone else nipped in ahead of us. Joking aside, we do tend to be creatures of habit. Therefore today I have broken with tradition and increased the number of applications I've made by a third.
     
    Someone, somewhere, is probably cursing my name right now. Yes, I have applied for that vacancy once before. Serves you right for advertising it again.
     
    Shared Homes
    Big on the local newsletter is the issue of shared homes. Apparently some home owners and landlords are attempting to cash in on the high cost of property by sub-dividing their property into smaller and smaler units. By now it's probably possible to rent a toilet cubicle at sensible low low rates. Worse still these pesky landlords have discovered a loophole in planning regulations which means they can effectively expand the size of their properties by making new homes out of them.
     
    I can see why the local councillors are up in arms. Before long there's going to be skyscraping towers of brick tenement with staircases requiring oxygen masks. Even that new house across the alleyway has finally been completed in a mad rush after laying there disguised as a ruin for several years.
     
    "We've got enough shared houses!" The complainers say. I agree. After all, the rotten scoundrel who's been pilfering my goods hasn't paid a penny in rent.
  25. caldrail

    Caring And Sharing

    By caldrail,

    I happened to spot a book at my local library today, memoirs of a man named Alfred Williams, who was born in 1877 and spent twenty years in the Great Western Railways workshops in Swindon. It seems that he was a man who enjoyed the Great Outdoors more than the hellish graft of his daily grind (literally). In his own words...
     
    One has to die before his mates in the shed would think there is anything the matter with him. Then, in nine cases out of ten - especially if he happens to be one of the poorest and most unfortunate - he is mercilessly sneered over. Probably that was his own fault. They even blame him for dying; in three days he is almost totally forgotten. Cruel hearts and feelings are bred in the atmosphere of the factory
    Life in a Railway Factory (Alfred Williams)
     
    I doubt it would suprise Alfred one jot that life in Swindon displays similar attitudes today, though his frank and dystopic vision of victorian industry is one born of a man with no sympathy for working class tribalism. I do understand Mr Williams plight, as his attempts to learn greek by scribing verses in wet tar are erased by his workmates when his back is turned. You know I used to think such ignorance was a modern phenomenon. It seems that nothing really changes very much at all.
     
    Shock Announcement
    At my Work Experience session our resident sex-change person tells us that she(?) "Brought some dinner money today".
     
    Wow. Never would have guessed that in a million years. Joking aside though, I always find these people very uncomfortable to be around. Their need to create relationships with their workmates is understandable (and I do mean the platonic kind), but there's always a sense they're trying to catch a fish. Ugh.
     
    It so happened that the person concerned stood up for no apparent reason and made a personal statement about their condition and why they chose to turn into females. It got polite applause from most of the audience. I didn't. Not because the person was wierd or anything, but because it seemed a little less than spontaneous. My suspicions were proved right. This person explains the situation courageously to every group she(?) encounters. For this person it's all a plea for attention, not some desperate need to right natures big mistake.
     
    Lecture of the Week
    Today we had a three hour talk by an ex-policeman. It was strange to hear of a man who'd served between 1974 and 1992 in South Wales Police and became a down-and-out afterward, but there you go. It's been observed before that policemen are always such insufferable dullards. Trust me on this. Three hours of misfortune is a lot to take in without yawning. I fell asleep during the bit where he... ahhh... What was it he did?
     
    What a caring world we live in.
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