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caldrail

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  1. caldrail

    People Spotting

    By caldrail,

    Today I'm at the local library.. So who's in this morning?
     
    Ahh.. As usual Mr AM makes his unhurried entry. He's an elderly New Zealander, over here to find his family, and after seven years they're still not answering his emails. Always first through the door, always slowing everybody else down with his two walking sticks, always bullying an unsuspecting interloper off his favourite PC, and always smiling at young Miss L (She's a pretty lass, desperately bored with library work). Give him a few minutes and he'll be chatting at the top of his voice. Give him a few more and he'll have a problem with his emails, an excuse for some personal attention from Miss L, who grits her teeth and shows him the obvious. Ahh, there he goes... We're in for a good whinge this morning!
     
    His best mate, a jovial chap who hasn't washed, shaved, or cut his hair since 1971 sits down and proceeds to lay out his belongings on the desk in a slow deliberate manner. I'm not even sure he uses the PC, he just comes in for a chat with AM. Apparently his main ambition in life is to visit a park four miles away. You go for it mate.
     
    Two soldiers from a regiment I don't recognise drop in. You don't usually see soldiers in here, but these two seem personable lads and don't bother anyone... except they've got a problem with their emails and ask Miss L to sort them out. I think she's happy with the distraction. So are they.
     
    And over by the aisle - yes, its that young lad whose name I don't know. He fancies Miss L desperately, and fidgets without actually logging on, plucking up the courage to search for an excuse to chat her up. Is he going for it?.... Yes? No?.... He's watching her go by.... She's not paying attention.... He's on his feet!.... False alarm, he asks her about logging on. Good grief boy, even I wasn't that bad at your age. Just ask her. Before AM does.
     
    There's a new blonde librarian sat way back at the enquiry desk. She keeps looking at me in that sort of 'Whats he doing?' way. Well I'm watching you as it happens dear. Guess we're made for each other really. We'll spend happy hours staring at each other across a crowded library.
     
    The other blonde librarian (I must say, this library is well stocked with blondes) is a thin irritating girl who thinks I'm a wierdo. Thanks for telling everyone, that was diplomatic. She likes to ignore me when I walk past and always seems to choose that moment to inspect her nails.
     
    Passing me now is a huge gorilla of a man I've seen a few times. He's at least seven feet high and and very burly, so slope shouldered his knuckles should drag across the carpet, except they don't because he's too tall. His arms hang limply as he thuds along the aisle. He sits beside me and it looks ridiculous, like a giant poised over a toy computer. Each key press is soooo slow....
     
    ...Compared to the slightly annoying woman the other side of the desk, who types so fast my instinct is to take cover and radio in for an artillery barrage. She just doesn't stop! Meanwhile that even more annoying child of hers is busy re-enacting last weeks Top Gear, attempting for the fiftieth time to break the Library Speed Record For Toy Cars. Oh there he goes again.... There's a loud BONG! I look round and he's collided with something. Driving without due care and attention I'd say. I cannot suppress a grin, and the woman gives me a hard stare, torn between giving me grief, helping her crying child, or doing some more typing.
     
    Three young men of afro-carribean origin arrive and shunt each other around the available PC's. In sharp suits. With black bandana's? Bizzare. One sits the other side of me, leaning back in a streetwise manner and browsing the net, obviously disinterested, and I sort of wonder why he bothered coming in.... or is he here to look cool? I hate to admit it, but he does. Ten out of ten for image. But what's it for? Are they Gangsta Rappers? In this neck of the woods? Or are they affluent terrorists? Should I call the police? Should I call Bruce Willis? Decisions, decisions....
     
    Well that's my hour on the internet. Just another day in Rushey Platt.
     
    Incident of the WeekIt happened last night. This guy is on the other side of the road, waiting at the pedestrian crossing, as I am, for the lights to change. Except he doesn't. Looking the wrong way and seeing a gap, he steps into the road into the path of a taxi. THUMP! The taxi skids rapidly to a halt, whilst the guy rolls along the pavement looking a little stunned, leaving the taxi with a broken wing mirror. Despite the efforts of myself, the taxi driver, and a small crowd of ladettes on their way to an all night binge, the guy refuses to stay around to speak to the police or get medical help, and wanders off down the road... Whoops there he goes again..... Not my idea of a fun saturday night, but if headbutting cars is your thing, he's available for functions and childrens parties.
     
  2. caldrail

    Trouble At 'Mill

    By caldrail,

    Oh dear.... The floor of the warehouse is crumbling under the weight of the forklifts trundling back and forth. The builders are in, cutting gaping holes in the floor, filling them with concrete, and getting miffed when they discover lumps of cement nearby or a forklifter knocking plastic cones aside.
     
    The guy who fixed the electrics in our porta-palace finally finished wiring up our area today, and slowly (expertly) manoevered his cherry-picker out onto the main aisle, whereupon his platform got wedged thirty feet up on top of a stack of car parts. Oh we had such fun. Pass the beer mates...
     
    The car manufacturer that we share this warehouse with has appropriated a section of floor next to ours (and had armco barriers put in - thats fightin' talk mister...). Thats all very well, but now there's a huge stack of metal and plastic stillages containing car parts right next to a manual work area. Not quite acceptable to health and safety that... For now they're ignoring me jumping up and down, waving my arms and pointing. You can laugh, but you'll be sorry... You will....
     
    Promise of the Week
    AD, my mentor and boss (I base my entire life on his teachings) is aware of my interest in roman history, and mentioned a dig that took place near his home at a building site. The roman walls present were only twelve inches down! He's promised to bring me back a Roman tomorrow. I'm waiting AD.
  3. caldrail
    We interrupt your normal reading to bring you the latest story, hot off the press. The Independent Peanut Republic of Rushey Platt has announced that they have annexed the state of South Carolina. Rushey Platt apologises to the USA for the incovenience, and assures citizens of their new dominion that they will not be required to fill in british tax returns. That concludes this newsflash, we'll bring you updates on this story as it happens. Over to our on-the-spot reporter, Sally Forth. Whats happening out there Sally?
     
    Well not much Caldrail. Everyone seems unpeturbed by the news, and having asked several South Carolinians, it seems they're totally unaware they're now part of Rushey Platt
     
    Thats excellent news Sally. We're still hoping to get a reaction from George Bush later in this blog. Stay with us, and we'll return to blow by blow coverage of Rushey Platt vs Spittle Croft.
  4. caldrail

    Watching Car Chases

    By caldrail,

    I was watching one of those cop programs last night. The usual sort of thing, car chases across america with exciting heavy metal music and a breathless commentary. There was one that stood out. It started as they all did, with a suspect making a break for it and piling down the highway without regard to safety. At one point he swerves to avoid an obstacle, and at over a hundred miles an hour, very nearly loses it completely. Thing is though, what I notice with all these chases is that the suspect runs out of enthusiasm. The police obviously don't give up, and refuse to do anything that causes collateral damage or injury if they can help it. Anyhow the suspect has been through the initial 'high' of the chase, the desperation at trying to escape it, and finally comes off the pace feeling in a hopeless situation. He actually pulls into a petrol station to fill up! At this point he's dawdling along with a multitude of police cars with whooping sirens and flashing lights dawdling after him. Then, all of a sudden, one police car rams him sideways at some speed. A somewhat frustrated police officer there I think. The suspects car smashes into a pump, ignites it, and the police audio says "Oh no, he's hit an Exxon!".
     
    No he didn't. He was rammed into it. I do understand the frustration of the police officer concerned but this was one instance where collateral damage took place!
     
    There's a part of me that views this sort of program with some concern. Its turning justice into entertainment, and to be honest it doesn't actually do anything to dissuade others from this behaviour other than the cops always get their man, but since the criminal mind always believes he won't get caught isn't there a danger that such programs encourage car chases?
     
    Illness of the Week
    This time its me, suffering a bout of flu or some such bug. All sympathetic replies most welcome. Sniffle.
     
    Target of the Week
    I do hear that the US are preparing to shoot a satellite out of the sky. The malfunctioned object has a fuel tank full of poisonous hydrazine and understandably the US don't want it plummeting to earth on a sensitive area. I guess this sort of thing is one hazard of space flight. Mind you, what happens when Virgin finally manage to get their orbital joyrides going?
     
    This is your captain speaking. We're experiencing technical difficulties at the moment so please be patient whilst our cabin crew do their best to restart the engines. Incidentially, if you look out the right side, you can see the US missile on its way to intercept us...
  5. caldrail
    I woke last night dimly aware that my bed was wobbling. Now usually the rattles and vibrations I experience at night are the result of heavy lorries thundering down the hill, or perhaps my neighbours stereo (or just my neighbours), but this felt different. Objects were rattling around, and the bed was still wobbling. Its an extraordinary sensation and one that left me wondering "Was that an earthquake?"
     
    Yes it was. Measuring 5.2 on the Richter Scale and centered in Lincolnshire, the earthquake struck Britain in the small hours, the biggest in twenty five years. Funny thing is I don't remember any earthquakes at all ever. What suprises me even more is that according to the Geological Survey we get two hundred earthquakes a year and no-one notices. Want a vacation? Come to Britain. Even our earthquakes are polite.
     
    Eurovision Song Contest Entry of the Week
    Ah yes. Once again the nations of Europe and Asia Minor are voting for their favourite entry to compete against each other in a televised final. God won it at least once by inventing Cliff Richard. Sweden won it by inventing Abba. Now everyone else wins it by exporting the worst performers they can find. Ireland has decided to send a tv puppet called Dustin this year. Can you believe people take this competition seriously? Null points....
  6. caldrail
    If you've wondered why I don't say much about fun things at work, its because work isn't fun right now. AD, the guy I've been trained to replace, has decided not to retire after all. Orders are small and right now I spend about ten minutes every morning labelling goods for transport. Job done. I know there are people who would give their right arm for a laid back existence like that, but isn't an inactive workplace the worst possible place to be stuck in? The clocks move backward, everyone else vanishes, the radio plays the same songs as yesterday. Our emails are due to connected in the next couple of days, so at least I can console myself with the need to wait by the phone for the IT man to call.
     
    Have you ever noticed how slow IT people are to react? You make a call, and wait forever for someone to pick up your case. I do not lie. Recently I bought some expensive software - it took nine hours to install - and I discover I can't register it the normal way, so its effectively useless. I emailed their customer support, and their suggestions bore no relation to what I saw on the screen. So, after much huffing and puffing, I told the vendor I wanted my money back and threatened legal action if they didn't do so. Then I get a phone call from their customer support telling me that registration is only a ten minute process and would I like to register my product? The real question is would I like to do business with a company that takes three months to get around to a ten minute job?
     
    Car Accident of the Week
    Some of you might have heard of a car accident in Gloucestershire. Some guy previously banned for drink-driving drove head on into a car coming the other way. Its all very tragic and horrific, my sincere condolences to those who have lost. But you have to wonder what difference a government sponsored safety camera would have made. None whatsoever. I remember driving round a corner once and finding a car overtaking a landrover and horsebox coming right at me. I was luckier - I had time to brake hard and avoid a collision. What difference would a government sponsored safety camera have made? None whatsoever.
     
    No, I've changed my mind. The safety cameras would have made a difference. The speed limits would have been reduced and drivers fined or banned for exceeding it. Except the people liable to actually have an accident already have. Talk about closing a stable door. And profiting from it.
     
    Jesus Moment Of The Week
    The Jesus Shop has reopened for business. You have to admire the mans persistence, he's gone out business at least once. The window currently has Jesus ads posted up, including the classic Jesus was born as a baby because he loves you. Can't quite see the logic in that, but then religion was never about logic in the first place.
     
    A Dogs Life
    A Dogs brain is more like a Mans brain than a Cats brain. Heard this piece of wisdom on the radio just now. Its so true. Who's ever heard of cat biscuits? Prove me wrong.
     
  7. caldrail

    Eye On Rushey Platt

    By caldrail,

    Cue upbeat theme music and close ups of scantily clad women between clips of Caldrail goofing
     
    Hi there, and welcome to Eye on Rushey Platt. I'm your host Caldrail. In todays entry -
     
    Did Miss L do that to her hair on purpose?
     
    Why has AM been banned from his favourite library PC?
     
    Does DS know I've heard her mocking me as she walks past my home on Friday night?
     
    Is there any truth to the rumour that SB is about to get his revenge?
     
    But first, a shocking new development down the road. There's a commercial building that used to be a music store, more recently an internet cafe, and left empty when its owner decided to sell the property for the outrageous price of
  8. caldrail
    The Toyota Prius.
     
    Heard of it?
     
    Its that fashionable eco-car that celebrities buy to look like they actually care about the enviroment. Its the car that Top Gear entered in its Comedy Handling Competition. That Jeremy Clarkson gave to a cowboy to shoot with a .50cal heavy machine gun. Its slow, ugly, the seats are uncomfortable, and never does achieve the fuel economy that Toyota claim. Its also the car my father bought.
     
    My father wants me to buy his Prius. A couple of years ago I threw his offer of a Corolla back in face - dies he really think the Prius is going to be any more desirable? Road tax is only
  9. caldrail

    Inert Boxes

    By caldrail,

    You can't have a museum without exhibits. Every so often we find new ones. Or should that be old ones? Anyway, our boss came across some stuff being thrown away at Portsmouth and couldn't resist an ancient computer. You should see it. Straight out of a 70's Doctor Who episode.
     
    It turns out our new exhibit is a bog standard Bloodhound missile control box, or in civilian guise, a nuclear reactor control box. I'm not joking. Some power stations are still using these things to this day. Our boss grinned mightily and made clear his intention to get the old machine fired up. when we finally figure out how it was done.
     
    So if you see a missile trail on its way to Moscow, or loads of people fleeing the immediate area of the local nuclear power station, you'll know we succeeded. In the meantime we need to find some dusty instruction manual before the KGB do. Who said museums were boring?
     
    Are You Blind?
    Having spent the week finding more and more 'apply' buttons to press on job websites, enough is enough. So I wrapped up, logged off, and made my usual noisy exit from the office. The girls at the programme centre laughed at that. Not because I was actually funny, but at the suggestion that I worked there.
     
    Oh great. It's raining. Pretty heavily too. I think I'll wait until I leave the premises.
     
    Meanwhile I became aware that someone was trying to get in to the building. They have this security door now that stops you until you speak into a metal grille and telll some disembodied female voice who you are. But this chap didn't seem to know that. He just stood in front of the door pressing the wrong button.
     
    In a sudden inexplicable need to be generous I decided to open the door for him, so I walked over to the exit button and waited for him to realise he could enter. He stared back through the glass patiently. This is pretty spooky.
     
    Oh! I see! Or rather, he doesn't. I physically opened the door for him and asked if he was blind. He was and we had a chuckle over it. He didn't need any further help, finding his way around the programme centre without too much difficulty. Normally I don't encounter blind people other than stepping politely around them. I was struck by how easy he made getting about seem. Fair play to him.
     
    Well, I can't stay here all day. Time to brave the weather and KGB assassins.
     
    Down Again
    Having previously booked a session on the library computers, I made my way upstairs. Barely had I noticed how few people were up there than a librarian kindly informed me that the system was down. Amazing how quiet it gets up there when no-ones got a computer to play with. Funnily enough, it got even quieter after I went back downstairs.
     
    Strange coincidence that. Almost as if the computers were sabotaged by the KGB in an insidious plot to prevent me discovering the lost instruction manual.
  10. caldrail
    Another one of those articles on how to be successful at dating the opposite sex has appeared on the boards. It makes interesting reading but clearly anyone following the advice is going to struggle. Let me explain...
     
    A connection
    A man can tick all the boxes in the world, but in so many cases if the woman feels no chemistry, it
  11. caldrail

    Musing on Motorcycles

    By caldrail,

    Funny things motorbikes. When you're young they seem so iconic. When you old they seem so symbolic. When they blast up the street they seem so noisy.
     
    When I was very young I used to see Evel Knievel featured on the news, preparing once again to crash his bike spectacularly in front of thousands. He wasn't the first to do motorcycle stunts by any means, the 'Wall of Death' sometimes featured in circuses and so on, but Mr Knievel had a talent for publicity. It seems though he had little talent for riding. Nonetheless, he had no regard for the dangers involved, and you can't help but admire him for that.
     
    You can't help but admire the media circus that followed him. I too had a motorcycle stunt toy. A sort of wind up thingy that shot off a launcher across the jury-rigged leap of death-defying scale between stacks of books and plywood boards. That poor toy always ended as a mangled heap of plastic againt the opposite wall. The funny thing was the painted expression on his face. A permanent grin like "This is hell... Help me..."
     
    These days though the level of talent involved in motorcycle stunts has improved a great deal. I see tv programs where youngsters make astonishing leaps and arrive with astronautic precision on the earth ramp the other end. A few days ago I watched a 'freestyle motocross' event in which they not only leap, but perform backflips and aerial gymnastics en route. Astonishing.
     
    For me though motorcycles were never a step toward manhood. I went straight for cars. I've done some pretty daft things in them in my younger days (good grief why are human beings so completely irresponsible when they're eighteen?) but to be honest I can't claim to have leapt thirteen double decker buses in one.
     
    I also know that many older people buy motorcycles to recapture that spirit of youth. Harley Davidsons seem to be the most popular for that, though why this is so is beyond me, since almost everyone else spits in fury at at the very name of that manufacturer. Personally I have no intention of trying to recapture my youth. Why would I need a second childhood? Most people think I haven't left my first one yet.
     
    Reminisence of the Week
    I was working as a delivery driver, and one of my stops was a boatyard north of Henley. I found the place, delievered thepackage, got the signature, and set off for my next destination. I stopped before pulling out onto the main road. Look left, look right. Some distance away to my right was a lone motorbike. No conflicting traffic then, so I turned left onto the road and proceeded toward a nearby bridge over the River Thames.
     
    This bridge was at an angle to the road, almost hidden by riverside trees. It was also an old victorian humpbacked stone bridge with no way to see anything coming the other side of it. Then in my mirror I spotted the rider. Just before the bridge he was attempting to overtake. I widened my eyes in alarm. He can't be serious?
     
    He was. He went for it. The little two stroke opened up and buzzed like a manic wasp. Then I noticed a car coming over the bridge. Being in a van, I was much higher than the rider passing on my right, and I doubt he saw it. I braked to let the rider past and winced as the car turned the bend in the face of the bike.
     
    The rider swept past me and swerved back into lane with inches to spare. He wobbled a little before accelerating away across the bridge and that was it. He was gone.
     
    He was very nearly a goner. Why are eighteen year olds so irresponsible on motorbikes? Actually, I can imagine his adrenaline rush afterward, and a big grin on his face from having faced danger and surviving. Somehow though.... I doubt he was competition for Evel Knievel, talent or not.
  12. caldrail

    Getting Serious

    By caldrail,

    Greek and Armenian monks in Jerusalem have always argued over petty issues. Such is the religious significance of the site. A monk need only stand in the wrong place to incite a confrontation. the only difference this time is that it came to blows. The sight of monks and priests lashing out at one another in a holy riot isn't something we've seen since the Spanish Inquisition. Nobody expected that.
     
    Christianity, in all its forms, likes the moral high ground. It presents a set of absolute rules and values to live by. The problem there of course is that human values are relative. Yesterday, human values got relatively violent. They forgot the Eleventh Commandment - "Thou Shalt Not Make Media Gaffs".
     
    Roll on the Male Voice Hail Mary Choir.
     
    Getting serious about cars
    For anyone who believes my taste in cars infers I've been spoon fed Top Gear for too long, I can assure you Jeremy Clarkson failed utterly to impress me last night with the latest Fiat 500 Abarth SS. I don't care if its got a 160 BHP turbo engine in a car the size of a shoe. I don't care if he reckons "Its a pretty serious racer".
     
    Shame it looks like a Fiat 500 then.
  13. caldrail
    Many years ago, I met up for a game session with a bunch of guys, some of whom I knew well, others I didn't. One chap who was a friend of someone else and not known to me at all, interrupted the proceedings and said "Your mascara is running".
     
    I was pretty mystified by that comment, but his leering expression made itself felt. I wasn't happy with that slur, and just to make the point, my friends seemed as mystified by his attitude as I was. The week after, as I was leaving, I noticed a book open beside him and enquired bluntly as to its purpose.
     
    "Ahh... Poetry. I'm a poet..." He looked a little flustered as I grinned with relish at this symbol of unmanliness. "Its not all serious... I do some funny stuff... I... errr...."
     
    Revenge is soooo sweet. He never came back. Serves him right. However, I wonder if there's a poet in each of us struggling to get out. Perhaps not in Swindon, since most of the local performers prefer yelling insults in the small hours, and poetic it isn't. A mate of mine in the music business, a local singer/songwriter (We'll call him TB), once told me how his poetic spirit once took hold.
     
    He was walking through a well-to-do area, looking musically shabby of course, and heard the sound of the wind swishing through the tall trees along the side of the road. He was captivated by it, and stood there engrossed in its subtlety. A passing police car thought otherwise, and since policemen are not known for poetic leanings, TB was promptly called upon to explain why he was staring at the bedroom of an expensive house.
     
    "No, officer, I'm not, I'm... err.... listening to the trees.... ummm.... The sound... Its.. you know..."
     
    "Don't do it again Sir" The policemen rebuked him, "Now move along."
     
    Some people just don't appreciate poetry. Actually I don't either. Still, people who claim to be artistes tend to survive better on the dole, and since I'm too old to claim rock superstardom at grass roots level (I don't live in a country mansion after all), I'm left with no recourse to claim that as a local poet, I'm a vital cultural resource. Unfortunately, that means I now have to prove I'm a poet. So here goes....
     
    Poem of the Week
    I wandered lonely as a local poet of cultural significance
    That floats o'er hill and theatre
    A woman smiles and offers me a chance
    Of activities peculiar
    Yobboes jeer and call me 'nance'
    And ask why I won't bonk her
    In serene contempt I retain my stance
    And remind them of their failure
     
    Ok. I 'll move along Officer...
  14. caldrail
    I woke this morning earlier than I wanted - another job interview today. As usual, the bedroom is mildly cold but probably warmer than the front room! Anyhow, I threw back the duvet, shudderred in the loss of warm air, and tip toed to the curtains for a look outside. Snow!
     
    It snowed last night. Not a huge blizzard by any means, more of a thin coat of that fine wet snow that quickly clogs and becomes frighteningly icy. We don't usually get any snow in January. These days, we tend to get a light dusting around early March or April. Does this mean we're in for more? Luckily, the smiling presenter on the weather report last night (and I didn't hear him mention any risk of the white stuff) says no, at least not for the next week, as we move from cold sunny weather to the usual British claggy fog.
     
    Outside of course the traffic was moving slowly as you'd expect, sensible given the roads are ice rinks in places. Right then, down to the library to log on before I attend the interview... steady.... Sorry to disappoint you, but I didn't fall over. That will come tomorrow when the ground freezes again.
     
    Investigation of the Week
    It seems there's been an accident or crime on the side street opposite where I live, the street blocked off by orange and white bollards. My guess? Someone reached the left turn at the end of the slope and carried straight on. Couldn't see anything, but your roving reporter for the Rushey Platt Almost Daily will be reporting as events unfold.
  15. caldrail

    Are We There Yet?

    By caldrail,

    Apparently farmers in Sub-Saharan Africa will benefit from detailed digital maps of soil nutrient quality. At last they'll know why their farms are not doing well. Isn't technology useful? Perhaps not, considering the Skycar, a para-sailing dune buggy, currently setting out on a three thousand mile journey across Africa. These skycars are ridiculous. They proved it was a daft idea back in the fifties. Can you imagine the telephone calls from frustrated motorists?
     
    "You have reached Traffic Control Helpline. If you wish to reserve a parking slot, press 1. If you're hopelessly lost over southern England, press 2. If you want to declare mayday, press 3. If you want to speak to a Controller, press 4..."
     
    Press 4.... Aha, the tone is ringing.
     
    "Yes Sir."
     
    Ah Right. This is Mr Caldrail of 22 Acacia Avenue requesting clearance for local flight to Jones Industries routing via the Primary School, over.
     
    "Roger that Mr Caldrail. Taxi to main road and hold short, weather is 23 degrees and light rain expected, please be aware traffic is heavy and currently you are number thirteen at the roundabout."
     
    Thank you Control. Roger and out.... Now kids, stop messing around back there and buckle up your parachutes.... Johnny! Stop hitting your brother with your oxygen mask.... No, we're not there yet....
     
    Its Your Fault... No Its You...
    The squabble between Russia and the Ukraine concerning gas supply goes on. Someone didn't pay, someone didn't supply, someone cut the supply again, someone sent gas through the wrong pipes... Meanwhile, people in Europe are freezing. Having suffered some low temperatures this January, I have every sympathy for those without heating at this time of year.
     
    The problem with the Russians is that they have a reputation for pulling wool over peoples eyes thats well deserved. It seems the Ukraine has learned that lesson, but you can't help feeling this is a squabble over cash. Not so much whether people get paid, more about who gets paid. For the moment it still goes on with accusations flying back and forth.
     
    Are we there yet?
     
    Wagging Fingers
    A statistical study has suggested a link between the link of a man's finger and his success in the financial center of London. Good grief, did someone get paid to research that? Seems to me that Pinnochio has already proven that financial success is more dependent on the length of your nose.
     
    Slogan of the Week
    I shall take George Bush's advice and not misunderestimate Hilary Clinton. She gets Slogan of the Week for telling America that their foreign policy should employ Smart Power. What a fantastic piece of politics that is. When you look at what she's suggesting, it means they're going to do exactly the same as before but now they have a plan.
  16. caldrail

    Watch Your Language

    By caldrail,

    There's a tree in Savernake Forest that I know of. An unremarkable tree at first glance until you discover how old it is. That old fella was sprouting out of ground, fresh from the seed, roughly the same time William the Conqueror was striding ashore at Hastings.
     
    That day in 1066 changed everything. From that point forwards, England and France would be uncomfortable neighbours, no doubt made worse by the Germanic roots of the Anglo-Saxons. Of course now we're on good terms, despite my successful attempts to enrage my French teacher as a child. Nobody else liked her either.
     
    It's an instinctive thing, this antipathy between the British and French. Even some of our insults derive from our little upsets. The English two-fingered salute originated from medieval archers who taunted the French by showing they still had their bow fingers - the French had taken to cutting them off every time they caught one of them.
     
    We don't fight wars with the French any more, and to be honest, I'm a bit old to annoy French teachers now. Instead, we have a rivalry over language. A couple of decades ago the French created legislation to stop their countrymen using anglicised words in everyday conversation. They felt it was poisoning their traditional language. Imagine then my suprise when I see on the news that the French government are encouraging the education of English in their country. How times have changed. I watched as their schoolchildren underwent physical education classes entirely in English. They have free lessons and language camps out of term time, just to learn how to speak our tongue.
     
    The pervasiveness of the English language is something we take for granted. Usually when an Englishman encounters foreigners who don't understand him he simply shouts louder. Despite this traditional English ignorance of foreign languages, I did learn some French at school, inbetween annoying teachers. On an industrial visit to France back in my college days I had many opportunities to display this mastery of conversational French. I don't know if the bus driver actually understood me or not, but he took my money anyway and I arrived back at the hostel safe and well. As for the toilet cleaner we asked directions of, I can assure him we did find the Harbourmaster later that day. As for that idiot I tried to buy chocolate from - I wanted two bars of the stuff, not to haggle over the price. So I got to shout louder at a foreigner after all.
     
    Phone Call of the Week
    Talking about communication, I got a wierd phone call the other day. I found it on my answering service, three minutes of wheezing and a distant voice asking "Are you done yet?".
     
    My phone tells me there was no phone number, so I'm inclined to believe I have been contacted by aliens from the Planet Zarg who want to abduct me for sex. Thanks for the call guys, but lets stick to taking you to our leader, yes? Oh.... They've hung up......
  17. caldrail

    The Lurve Fest

    By caldrail,

    Over the weekend we had that inevitable media circus that is Valentines Day. I have to be honest, the search for lurve was quiet this year, and as far as I'm aware there wasn't much on tv apart from the usual late-night adverts for mobile phone fantasies. Yes, there were some groups of drunken girls squealing at every suprise as they do. A group of adolescents chanting and beating their chests in a display intended to impress us with their manliness. Heard it all before lads. Sorry.
     
    For some people, it isn't a fantasy. In the news lately is a 15 year old girl who has been made pregnant by her 13 year old partner. If that wasn't bad enough, two more 13 year old boys have stepped forward and claimed they are the father. One gets the impression the girl isn't entirely virtuous (she claims there's no-one else), or that the boys are trying to compete for status. For them I suspect its all a bit of a fun thing. It will be until the bills stack up and the kid keeps on crying.
     
    There's been comment before about how teen magazines encourage their readers to dip their toe in the adult world, that such behaviour is normal, admirable, and whats wrong with you if you can't? A part of me thinks these magazines should pay toward the upkeep of their lurve child.
     
    Mission of the Week
    In Norway people are rushing to store 100,000 species of crop seeds from potential extinction. Is it just me, or is it the fact these species (most of which were created by us anyway) are no longer commercially grown just a small pointer to Darwins Theory of Evolution? Survival of the fittest. If Kellogs doesn't make cornflakes from it, it's going to die out. So come on Norway, stop storing these seed packets like rabid collectors and start making lots of breakfast cereals.
  18. caldrail
    Last night the tv news news waited to show Barack Obama live as he gave a speech about his stimulus package to revive the flagging economy. The audience, which seemed to composed mostly of photographers whose trigger fingers couldn't resist taking photo's of the empty podium, needed to be entertained whilst they waited for the presidents appearance. So a recording of a brass band played over the speakers. It happened to be the theme tune to Monty Python. I had this image of the US Department of Ridiculous Ambulation arriving in suits and shades, twisting their legs in impossible sequences as the assumed they position on the stage.
     
    "And now for something completely different..." Says another as the President takes the stage. The CIA guards go into a song and dance routine...
     
    We're on guard with the C.I.A.
    We sleep all night. We work all day.
     
    Security Heavies : He's on guard with the C.I.A.
    He sleeps all night and he works all day.
     
    I shoot my gun. I wear my shades.
    I go to the lavatory.
    On Wednesdays I go shoppin'
    To save my great country.
     
    Mounties: He shoots his gun. He wears his shades.
    He goes to the lavatory.
    On Wednesdays he goes shopping
    To save our great country.
     
    I look so cool. Can't help myself.
    I like to taunt the press.
    I put on women's clothing
    And hang out in a dress.
    Security Heavies : He looks so cool. Can't help himself.
    He likes to taunt the press.
    He puts on women's clothing
    And hangs out in a dress?!
     
    I stand on guard. I wear high heels,
    Suspendies, and a bra.
    I wish I'd been a girlie,
    Just like my dear Mama
    Security Heavies : He stands on guard. He wears high heels,
    Suspendies, and a bra?!
     
    "Right" Says Obama, "Thats enough of that! I wish to register a complaint." (The owner does not respond.)
     
    Mr. Obama: 'Ello, Miss?
     
    Owner: What do you mean "miss"?
     
    Mr Obama: I'm sorry, I have a cold. I wish to make a complaint!
     
    Owner: We're closin' for lunch.
     
    Mr. Obama: Never mind that, my lad. I wish to complain about this President what I purchased not half an hour ago from this very audience hall.
     
    Owner: Oh yes, the, uh, the Texas Blue...What's, uh...What's wrong with it?
     
    Mr. Obama: I'll tell you what's wrong with it, my lad. 'E's dead, that's what's wrong with it!
     
    Owner: No, no, 'e's uh,...he's resting.
     
    Mr Obama Look, matey, I know a dead President when I see one, and I'm looking at one right now.
     
    Owner: No no he's not dead, he's, he's restin'! Remarkable guy, the Texas Blue, idn'it, ay? Beautiful plumage!
     
    Mr Obama The plumage don't enter into it. It's stone dead.
     
    Owner: Nononono, no, no! 'E's resting!
     
    Mr Obama All right then, if he's restin', I'll wake him up! (shouting at the cage) 'Ello, Mister Bush! I've got a lovely fresh cow for you if you
    show...
     
    (owner hits the cage)
     
    Owner: There, he moved!
     
    Mr Obama No, he didn't, that was you hitting the cage!
     
    Owner: I never!!
     
    Mr Obama Yes, you did!
     
    Owner: I never, never did anything...
     
    Mr Obama (yelling and hitting the cage repeatedly) 'ELLO GEORGE!!!!! Testing! Testing! Testing! Testing! This is your nine o'clock alarm call!
     
    (Takes President out of the cage and thumps its head on the counter. Throws it up in the air and watches it plummet to the floor.)
     
    Mr. Obama: Now that's what I call a dead President.
     
    Owner: No, no.....No, 'e's stunned!
     
    Mr Obama STUNNED?!?
     
    Owner: Yeah! You stunned him, just as he was wakin' up! Texas Blues stun easily, major.
     
    Mr Obama Um...now look...now look, mate, I've definitely 'ad enough of this. That President is definitely deceased, and when I purchased it not 'alf an hour ago, you assured me that its total lack of movement was due to it bein' tired and shagged out following a prolonged cattle drive.
     
    Owner: Well, he's...he's, ah...probably pining for the desert.
     
    Mr Obama PININ' for the DESERT?!?!?!? What kind of talk is that?, look, why did he fall flat on his back the moment I got 'im home?
     
    Owner: The Texas Blue prefers keepin' on it's back! Remarkable guy, id'nit, squire? Lovely plumage!
     
    Mr Obama Look, I took the liberty of examining that President when I got it home, and I discovered the only reason that it had been sitting on its perch in the first place was that it had been NAILED there.
     
    (pause)
     
    Owner: Well, o'course it was nailed there! If I hadn't nailed that bird down, it would have nuzzled up to those bars, bent 'em apart with its beak, and
    VOOM! Feeweeweewee!
     
    Mr Obama "VOOM"?!? Mate, this bird wouldn't "voom" if you put four million volts through it! 'E's bleedin' demised!
     
    Owner: No no! 'E's pining!
     
    Mr Obama 'E's not pinin'! 'E's passed on! This President is no more! He has ceased to be! 'E's expired and gone to meet 'is maker! 'E's a stiff! Bereft of life, 'e rests in peace! If you hadn't nailed 'im to the perch 'e'd be pushing up the daisies! 'Is metabolic processes are now 'istory! 'E's off the twig! 'E's kicked the bucket, 'e's shuffled off 'is mortal coil, run down the curtain and joined the bleedin' choir invisibile!! THIS IS AN EX-President!!
     
    (pause)
     
    Owner: Well, I'd better replace it, then. (he takes a quick peek behind the counter) Sorry squire, I've had a look 'round the back of the shop, and uh,
    we're right out of Presidents.
     
    Mr Obama I see. I see, I get the picture.
     
    Owner: I got a slug.
     
    (pause)
     
    Mr Obama Pray, does it talk?
     
    Owner: Nnnnot really.
     
    Mr Obama WELL IT'S HARDLY A BLOODY REPLACEMENT, IS IT?!!???!!?
     
    Owner: N-no, I guess not. (gets ashamed, looks at his feet)
     
    Mr Obama Well.
     
    (pause)
     
    Owner: (quietly) D'you.... d'you want to come back to my place?
     
    Mr Obama (looks around) Yeah, all right, sure.
    Book of the Week
    Today, as I climbed the stairs toward the upper floors of the library, I spotted a book on the quick-read shelves. Yoganetics it was called. Is it just me, or can you too imagine rows of robots contorting their metallic bodies whilst a harsh monotone voice says "Hommmmmmmmm".
  19. caldrail

    Seeking a Bettamorphosis

    By caldrail,

    You know it's a funny thing. Women always say that middle aged men are weighed down with emotional baggage and you know what? We are.
     
    The reason is partly biological. Us blokes go off the boil a little and get steadily lukewarm as we realise out fragile bodies aren't coping with the demands we desperately want them to. Instead, we have to claim we're getting steadily cooler but you just know you're not convincing anyone. It's getting harder to keep hold of the harem. The aggressive young males are circling. The females aren't impressed any more.
     
    The second reason is cultural. For a long time now British managers have increasingly concentrated on image, one of the least useful american imports to our country. Even as old as I am, employers have for many years tried to treat me as a malleable teenager and force me to become something that I'm clearly not and seriously haven't any understanding of.
     
    Conformity is declared to be good for business. Yet it never actually makes any difference. It's simply a means by which a boss enforces his control over his minions by expecting them to wear the right shirts, display the right badge on the bonnet, and say all the buzzwords that make your line manager go all gooey in your presence. It is, to all intents and purposes, a mild form of slavery, and we declared that illegal in 1833.
     
    It struck me last night how hopeless my situation seems. Now I'm over forty and thus too old to be useful in the workplace, finding a job has become an exercise in endurance, not to mention morale. Britain is wobbling at the knees and jobs are vanishing fast. Job Centers have told the government they can't cope with the ever increasing numbers of highly skilled ex-employees on their books. There's talk of a major motor manufacturer closing a factory in a few days time if no government assistance is forthcoming, and that could just as easily be Swindon as Sunderland or Cowley.
     
    It doesn't look good does it? I'm getting older, poorer, balder, bogged down, and ever more solitary as people realise I can't afford to socialise. My horizons have shrunk to the point where the edge of the world is now down the road. Heck, this world can be a cruel place. What happened to that determined young man defying all reason and going on the road with rock bands, driving fast cars, flying aeroplanes, wandering around the wilderness of foreign countries? I look around my home and wonder if I'll be sat on a park bench in five years time.
     
    No, I won't succumb to depression or cheap flights to Thailand. Watch out world , here comes Caldrail.... Again. Sigh. I'm slowly turning into Grampa Simpson. Well at least I've had a few years practise...
     
    False Alarm of the Week
    This poverty is a pain in the backside. So I've decided to get rich quick, and that means a march up the hill to the newsagent to by a lotto ticket. Six numbers is all it takes and I can finally afford my tax bill (at least until Gordon Brown realises I've won money). Later that night, staring slack-jawed at another mindless BBC gameshow they hide the Lotto draw within, I pick up my ticket to unbounded wealth. Come on come on... Oh someone stop that second rate gameshow host...
     
    For some reason the fact they were using 'Guinevere', one of the Lotto selection machines, wasn't hugely significant to me. I don't care about this rubbish. Just tell me the nummbers for crying out loud. God they like smiling. Aha! First number...Yes! Brill, but don't get cocky Caldrail... Second number... Yes! A cold sweat starts to form... Third number.... NNNOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!
     
    Sigh. Now I'm left with Mrs Smith standing confused in front of a TV camera searching her vacant brain for the multiple choice answer that will land her the star prize. I know how she feels. The gameshow host would confuse me. Must... reach... tv...remote... starting to enjoy... gameshow....
     
  20. caldrail
    Last night, during the small hours, I went to the back of the house to answer natures call. Whilst there, I became aware of a loud conversation between a group of lads out the back. The car park is sometimes used by passers-by so I didn't think too much of it... until I realised they weren't walking past.
     
    Open the window... Just a tad...
     
    They were standing beside the corpse of my Eunos Cabriolet discussing events leading up to its abandonment. Not just the car either. Informed opinion was exchanged regarding my past. Well this is curious....
     
    Yep, agree with that...
     
    Nope, thats rubbish...
     
    I never did that!....
     
    Oh now really, you're making it up!....
     
    What a strange sensation. It was like switching on the tv and watching a panel of experts reviewing your latest release and elements of your personal life that got into the papers. It seems I'm more famous than I thought.
     
    Pride of Swindon Award
    Apparently our local newspaper is now looking for the bestest person in Swindonland. You know the sort of thing. Rescuing puppies from raging inferno's, helping old ladies across motorways, killing dragons, climbing tall towers to kiss princess's, and so on. Does digging a way through fifty or more yards of thick ice on a hillside path count? Please tell me it does. I would like late night revellers to discuss something more meaningful than my fall into poverty.
  21. caldrail

    Cars Are Women

    By caldrail,

    I've decided cars are female. They just are. most are frumps unfortunately. Some are reliable, others not. Some have interesting personalities, many simply don't talk to you or keep on nagging because you left the bootlid up.
     
    Then there's cars like Ferrari. Curvaceous redheads with tight leather, vivacious, demanding. You just know she's going to be trouble but you can't help yourself.
     
    I say this because going through some old papers I discovered my report from a racing school where I drove F355's at Thruxton circuit. Now that takes me back. It was the first time I'd driven a real Ferrari. I was expecting it to be a real beast, twice the power of anything I'd driven previously, and my brain was telling me to take care.
     
    You might not be suprised, but the tasty redhead won my heart in the first ten seconds. She beguiled me with all her italian charms. She was doing strange things to my anatomy, but luckily the lady owner who instructed us plebs in the driving of cars that cost more than my home had seen it all before.
     
    You see, german cars are a bit cold. Very good, but like female scientists with whips. "You vill take zat bend faster Caldrail *crack*". You come to a bend and you wonder 'Can I go round it a little quicker?'. To your delight, you can. Then the same thing happens again, up until the point you realise you really have exceeded what the laws of physics allow. Ooops... Close your eyes Caldrail...
     
    But Ferrari? She snorts in disdain at your sensible driving and starts stroking your ego. "Go on Caldrail-a, I want-a to see you drive-a!". The woman was insatiable. And I didn't mind in the slightest. As it turned out, she was a pussy cat. She handled almost the same as my long-serving Toyota MR2 (albeit considerably faster). There was that momentthe instructor told me to go for it, to drive a hot lap. I floored the accelerator and the car went light, lifting on its wheels and sudden;y this well mannered and sophisticated lady was lap dancing in front of me in a wild frenzy... *dribble*
     
    That was a fun day. Thing was though, I went back to work the following day and a workmate approached me. "So you need to take a day off to get a haircut do you?" He asked me with obvious contempt.
     
    "No." I answered, "I take a day off to go flying in the morning and drive Ferrari's on a race track in the afternoon".
     
    "Oh." He said, "Your day was better than mine."
     
    Yep.
     
    Conundrum of the Week
    Ferrari's are red, fast, powerful icons of motoring. Symbols of excess, tempting you to break speed limits, behave like arrogant playboys, and earn more money than you could possibly spend. Cars that evoke passion, cars that make you choose between them and your partner, cars that change you from ordinary caring sharing Joe Bloggs to greedy, demanding, sexually jaded Schumacher Junior.
     
    So why did the Pope bless Ferrari?
  22. caldrail

    Officially Sheffield

    By caldrail,

    Women are such fickle creatures. In Newcastle, the opinion of one young lady who passed me by was to say "Ooh not him, he's fat" Now that I'm officially fat, I can no longer attract women in Newcastle. Sigh. Scratch Northumberland off my list.
     
    Yesterday afternoon I took a stroll down that road where all the posh houses are, the one that leads to Coate Water. A group of ladies jogging in their lunchtime began discussing my finer points. as they approached in the opposite direction. That conversation didn't last long, and one lady with little restraint reckoned I was good all the way until my neck. I'm also a nutter apparently. Sorry, do I know you? Obviously now I'm officially ugly (and officially insane). Sigh. Scratch Swindon off my list too.
     
    Still, lets not be pessimistic. Since the two local opinions are almost diametrically opposed, I've calculated that the woman most likely to think I'm acceptably ordinary lives in Sheffield. Sorry Sheffield. You're officially fat, ugly, and not right in the head. Just one consolation - Swindon wants to be just like you. Trust me, it's well on the way.
     
    Weather Forecasts of the Week
    Weather reports are so amazing. In our modern high tech wolrld, we have satellites recording images of whats going on in the world's climate. Computers that distill that information and make scientific predictions about what weather to expect tomorrow. Not only that, we have weather forecasters that take those results, screw them up, throw them over their shoulders, and completely blow it on national tv.
     
    It happened this week. The weekend shift on the weather report predicted a dire Monday and Tuesday. Grim wet weather set to dampen British spirits. Oh? So far Monday and Tuesday turned out to be gloriously sunny. Not that warm perhaps, but thats down to the time of year (or perhaps the frosty young woman who thinks I'm ugly).
     
  23. 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
  24. caldrail

    Little Reminders

    By caldrail,

    Yesterday I was called upon to attend another internet session at the programme centre. Nothing unusual there except of late I've had to sit and wait before they open the room. I mean, don't they know I'm Lord Caldrail and must not be delayed? Apparently not. I had to send them a letter reminding them that I wasn't plain old Mister Caldrail anymore. People do struggle to remember that I notice, unless they intend making light of it like those two single mums I passed in the street.
     
    Yes, ladies, sometimes people do call themselves Lord. Sometimes we get rewarded for doing so,. It's called 'perks of the job'.
     
    Back to the plot. As I sat down a young lady decided to start a conversation with me for no apparent reason. I have to say it's unlikely, as sexy as I am, that she actually fancied me and although it's increasingly common for plebian women to express their mirth at my assumed status, she was genuinely polite and friendly.
     
    I soon learned she had been unemployed longer than me despite her youth. It turns out she was born the day before Halloween. Not sure what the significance of that fact was, but I understand her brother was born on April Fools Day. If anyone can figure out what all this means, please let me know. Just remind me what this was all about.
     
    Reminder Of The Week
    Remember to feed your dog everyone. Apparently one guy forgot to feed his for two weeks and was probably eaten by them when he returned home. Personally I think it was a revenge attack for their doggy friends finding their way into a curry, but who am I to say? Clearly hungry dogs are not to messed with. They are, after all, domestic wolves.
     
    I know how rational this idea is. Our dog had to be starved for a day before going to the vet, and made a desperate grab for some chocolate I carelessly had in my hand when it rushed in through the door afterward. Trust me. never come between pets and their food. You will lose.
     
    Mind you, there was one time when the folks were on holiday and left the dog with me. As this wasn't my usual chore I completely forgot to feed him. Realising this mistake in the late evening, I went off to the kitchen and started preparing his bowl of brown goo that dogs have a love/hate relationship with.
     
    I heard his footfalls on the kitchen floor behind me. The dog stared at me with a hilarious look of mystified innocence as if to say "But you don't feed me..."
     
    Phew. Close call there.
  25. caldrail

    The Oxford Man

    By caldrail,

    There was an obituary in our local paper recently. Bill Slater had passed away at the grand old age of 65. I don't think many people outside the Swindon area knew him, but he was an Oxford man, a rugby player, a stage performer, but most relevant to me, my old history teacher.
     
    I read that small story on the bottom of the page with mixed feelings. In all honesty I wasn't aware of his understated stage career performing the works of Gilbert & Sullivan, and I knew from another source that he'd been wheelchair bound for many years. A part of me wishes that he'd known I was now a keen history buff.
     
    There was a time when I wasn't. As a youth plotting to become a rock drummer and so beat the world into submission, he once heard me play. The year after I left school I helped a friend put together a charity gig at a local sports hall, and also became the drummer for the band we both formed for the occaision (we won Best Instrumental Track). During a rehearsal he'd heard the racket we were making and investigated, sharing a joke about our musical effort. What I found out later was that he'd made a very vocal complaint to the authorities about us. Were we that bad?
     
    That was the problem with Mr Slater. He was a towering individual of strong opinion and character. He was also a little quirky. There was a kid in my year by the name of Chaudrake who always got pulled up by Slater for one reason or another. On one particular day, we waited outside the locked school library on the first floor, a balcony overlooking the quadrangle. Slater appeared beneath us, reached into his pocket, and lobbed the keys into a sub-orbital trajectory. We all turned our heads to watch the keys land on the roof above us. He gritted his teeth, went purple, and shouted "Chaudrake! Why didn't you catch those keys? I'll see you later!"
     
    Anyway, now he's gone, and he'll never know I'm studying history. Probably just as well. He'd only tell me what a complete mess I was making of it. So come my final day, with St Peter making himself scarce, Bill Slater will be there at the Pearly Gates, impatient as ever, demanding to know why my homework had taken a lifetime to hand in.
     
    Examining Examinations
    The funny thing is that I see in the media stories of how children are suffering stress because of the school system these days. Apparently the prospect of examinations is too much to bear. What on earth is going on? I used to get tests and exams every other week. No-one slit their wrists over it back then. I notice that the standards of examinations are nothing like what they used to be either. A recent experiment with some kids who took a bogus equivalent examination from the fifties did miserably. No wonder schools are reporting more children than ever getting good grades. The grades just aren't good anymore. I hate to say it, but there's a lot to be said for traditional teaching. Even with psychopathic history teachers.
     
     
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