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Found 97 results

  1. caldrail

    Lovely Island

    One of the great truths of Britain is that for every run of good weather, you pay for it by rainy days to come. Right now the weather is prone to heavy showers. Typically I got dampened by drizzle as I arrived at the library, only to see sunny skies out of the window as I'm typing this. I'm not tempting fate by declaring when I want to go home. The other day I was watching the birds in the park. The feathered ones I mean. Their antics are fascinating, especially when one gets cross with another. They don't just spar and conclude it like mammals, birds really do bear a grudge and once they don't like somebody, the aggressor keeps attacking the victim incessantly until it goes away. Or until an RAF Typhoon fighter screams across the park overhead. What a racket. But then he was shifting, using that surplus of power for airspeed, going about his potentially dangerous business. I didn't think of it any further, other than he blasted across Swindon at more or less the same altitude that civilian light aircraft often do. Come to think of it - there weren't any light aeroplanes about. Perhaps the Typhoon had chased them away? Then I spotted the unmistakeable presence of foreign airmen trying to understand the British cabbie as they flagged down a taxi. Not in ordinary or dress uniform either, but in their flying gear no less. Hmmm... I surmise, Dr Watson, that an air show is taking place within driving distance. I further deduce that since RIAT takes place at nearby Fairford Air Base around this time of year, that the town is strangely packed out with shoppers, and the roads jammed with endless queues of cars, that they are about to take part in Britain's premier airshow. But you don't have to be Sherlock Holmes to work that one out. Life In The fast Lane Although I'm not a Formula One fan, I did watch the British Grand prix this weekend. It started under a cloud, literally, with one of those heavy showers. This made for some dramatic racing. The drivers must have been all too aware how easy it was to lose control of their powerful lightweight machines, not known for being easy to drive at the best of times, and you could see real seat of the pants driving going on as cars wobbled and slid all over the place. I though F1 was boring? This was good viewing. Here's the funny thing though. The danger hotted up as the sun came out and the track began to dry. With grip returning, drivers were pushing their cars harder right up until they strayed into a puddle and whoops - there goes another rubber tired car, sliding spectacularly for hundreds of yards, unstoppable in true Hollywood fashion by any of the run-offs or gravel traps. I saw formula one cars doing four wheel drifts as they coped with unexpected issues in the bends. You don't see that every week, not in a sport that relies on downforce and grip. The speed of pit stops was stunning. The last time I took any serious notice of F1 racing crews took six or seven seconds to change tires. These guys were doing it in half that. I watched spellbound as Verstappen overtook his rival on the outside, earning a 'fastest lap' in the process. Woah - that was racing, full on. But as the water evaporated the average speeds of all the cars lifted and the race turned into the usual high speed traffic jam. Yawn. Oh well done Hamilton. Nice victory. I fancy a spot of lunch. Time to raid the fridge. So there you have it. To rescue Formula One from the dullness of anonymous insectoid machines buzzing around the track in an endless technological blur, hold the races in Britain. Forget all those exotic foreign locales with guaranteed sunshine and yachts in the harbour. Bring it back home to Britain where the weather can turn a certain result into a jaw dropping spectacular. Or at least until technology eventually finds a gizmo to cope with British weather once and for all. TV program Of The Week I nominate Love Island. Get a bunch of working class hunks and babes and watch them compete for lurve. Or not, if you have the gumption to change channels before you get sucked into this pointless farrago. The television announcer breathlessly sets the scene for us, musing over whether one guy or another will get a certain girl. Oh how the tension builds. Truth is, the entire rationale appears to be that we watch a bunch of nobodies trying to be somebody by shagging anybody in front of everybody. Truly missable.
  2. caldrail

    Almost There

    In the last few weeks I've rediscovered a television series from the sixties. The Saint were the adventures of gentleman adventurer Simon Templar, played by Roger Moore, a sort of poor man's James Bond without the gadgets and evil villains taking over the world. Moore plays the part with his usual bond-esque humour but it is hard to imagine a real life counterpart so genteel and light hearted. In his world, just like Bond, he's infamous and known to everyone yet can wander around incognito until the he gets betrayed by a twist in the plot. The thing is, like most sixties television in Britain, production values were very low scale. You can see that corridor is a painted backdrop. That car chase across Germany looks more like Essex. The train carriage is a simple sound stage set. Paris no more than a backdrop of Notre Dame. But you don't mind that, because again, like most sixties television, these programs tell stories. The adventures might be contrived, predictable, sometimes even completely implausible, but unlike modern series the episodes don't rely on emotional wrangling or deep significance. It's actually fun to watch, a guaranteed gritty fistfight in every episode, and the sixties cut scenes and cars add period flavour. Of course, when Ian Ogilvy took over in the seventies, changing the charismatic Volvo P1800 sports car for a lumbering Jaguar XJS, the mood had changed. Gentleman adventurers were a thing of the past, aside from James Bond. American imports introduced us to the Ford Torino of Starsky & Hutch, Kojak and his lollipops, and in Britain, series like The Professionals had opted for a more down to earth and working class feel. The Seventies - when Britain joined Europe and the Old World finally withered away. Hmmm... We've just decided to leave Europe. I wonder.... Pole To Port Stanley The Douglas DC6 is a pleasing shape in the air, a fifties four engine propliner descending from that old warhorse, the Dakota. In the night sky a few miles south of the Falklands, the Pratt & Whitney Double Wasp engines, each capable of 2400 horsepower, droned on. Below us, hazy patches of sea mist lit by the moon. A few whisps of cumulus drifted by. Above, the stars, strangely static despite our two hundred mile an hour cruise. Most of the passengers would be dozing off by now, too tired by the white knuckle ride on takeofff and the subsequent journey across the South Atlantic to stay awake, too distracted by the vibrating rumble and the stale interior to sleep well. Finally, the radio messages became more frequent, and the command comes through to descend and head for the approach to Port Stanley. In real life my hand would have spread across four chunky levers, but with a couple of keypresses, the angry noise reduces to a quiet grumble, and the plane starts to lose altitude. But of course this isn't real. Finally with some time to relax and forget the busy schedule of the past year, it was time to break out the flight simulator. I'd been watching Pole To Pole, a travel documentary by Michael Palin, and fancied a go at flying down there. My first attempt was hopelessly inept. I ought to have known better, given my real life pilot training, but I took off without planning and quickly found the cold air causing engine failure after take off, made worse by the prospect of ending up in the icy waters of the polar seas. Not good. Okay. Lets think about this. The gravel runway in the simulator at the end of a rocky archipelago was too short for the heavily laden DC6 so I prepared every trick I could think of, and took a lot longer to warm the engines, running them up to power much more gently. Without that two hundred foot cliff off the end of the runway all would have been another disaster, and the random weather I took off in was appalling. All that had been coped with. There was the runway lights at Port Stanley. Realism? Well, Microsoft might claim its as good as it gets, but I certainly wasn't. Might have to practice a bit more before I get that phone call from a desperate airline. Crisis Ot The Week This star prize has to go to Brexit. it must have been obvious there was a chance the British public would choose to go, and everyone quickly forgot that until we kick off Article 50, nothing changes, and even then, there's still a two year negotiation period. Come on Simon Templar. Shoot the bad guys, kiss the girl, and put Britain back on course. At the moment you're a lot more real than some of our overpaid politicians.
  3. caldrail

    Going Wild

    Right now the wildlife in my home town is on full throttle. Most of the older foxes I got to know and name have disappeared, replaced by lots of young striplings who are busy learning the art of surviving in Swindon now that mum has kicked them out of the nest. Along one street in particular, you often see rubbish in those blue polythene bags the Council supply left out for collection but in a few instances, ripped open and the contents spilled across the pavement. I suppose for the most part residents blame the very same foxes I see every night, as well as the ones you hear shrieking in the distance. But they might be wrong. In fact I know they are. I often see a badger on this one street in the early hours of the morning, waddling around at a brisk pace. Normally he sees me coming and scarpers. Once I surprised him in one of those tiny front yards you see in Edwardian brick terraces. Again, it made a quick escape. The other night I was heading the same way. There he was, snuffling at a bag of rubbish, a silhouette in the lamplight but unmistakeable. It didn't matter to me. I had other places to go, and so continued along the pavement, wondering when the badger would notice. he didn't. Tucking into someone's discarded takeaway, he was lapping up every morsel and enjoying his free meal to the max. So engrossed he was that I walked right up to him, stunned he could be so careless. There he was, right at my feet, a wild badger doing badger things. The moment had to pass because I needed to carry onward, so I tapped the ground and quietly said hello. Immediately the badger realised something was not quite right. He tensed. Then, with a careful sideways glance, he realised the danger, and immediately fled under a nearby car. I went my way, he went his. Life goes on. Oh No You Don't I live in what must be described a noisy part of town. Drunkards and partygoers often stroll past the house. In the quiet hours of the morning, they sometimes pay rather too much attention to my home than I would like. Last night I kept hearing noises that made me suspicious, as far as you can be when you're half asleep. Upon investigation I saw nothing untoward. However, later that same night, I heard the sound of a few miscreants being herded into a police van and driven off. Whatever they were getting up to, it ain't happening now. Scramble of the Week At the local park it's usual to see a swan or two on the lake. On one particular morning there were five, lazily drifting around the surface of the water aimlessly as they do. Now once in the past I witnessed an angry swan cross that lake semi-airborne, heading right for me. It was a fairly intimidating sight. But for some reason these five swans decided it was time for a squadron scramble. All of them hurtled across the lake, their wings audibly beating, stretching forward and really going for it together. Erm.... At the last minute they realised the Luftwaffe were not bombing Swindon and gave up their race across the lake, settling down into the water again with a noisy bow wave. Oh good. But that was definitely an experience.
  4. caldrail

    Dark Omens And Obstructions

    Some say... He's stuck in an ailing BBC motoring show. Some say.... He might soon have a new master. Poor old Stig. I've watched a couple of the new Top Gear episodes and I have to say it's a bit painful to watch. It's like the old Top Gear but without the same camaraderie or intelligent comment. Me no likee. Can the show be rescued from the evil clutches of the mad radio presenting tyrant? Well, rumours suggest an F1 star is being lined up, and has already pleased fans with his approach. Poor old Stig. Being ruled by someone who can drive a car.... Black Cats Crossing My path Can't remember whether it's lucky or unlucky, but black cats have featured in superstition for a very long time. Personally I haven't noticed any correlation between the proximity of feline mammals and events within my life, but then I suppose I'm not that superstitious. The other night however was noteworthy. I was walking along a main road adjacent to a trading estate, which for those unacquainted with British life is an area of small industrial or business units. The nearest was about eighteen to twenty feet high. I saw a falling object, hitting the ground with almost no noise, a black flash. It was a cat, emaciated to a degree I've never seen before, almost like an animal composed of black pipe cleaners, which had apparently jumped off the roof in a desperate move to avoid death by starvation. How the heck did it get up there? Clearly an omen. Never live on a roof, my friend. The Gods have spoken! More Bad Dreams I have two strange dreams to report. The first was a night time foray with me at the wheel of a car, heading into a rainy old Victorian terrace street, only to encounter trees lying in the road and a car that refused to obey the laws of physics by neatly skidding into position in a side street without obeying a single control input from me. A message that I'm not in control of my life. Good grief, I didn't need a dream to tell me that. The second was more interesting. I was at the wheel of a van minibus, filled with arguing migrant workers from some obscure poverty stricken part of the world. So I drove off, and followed the road into an area that seemed to be fenced off. Quite soon I found the road blocked. Oh pooh. So I turned around, and found my starting point blocked off too. No matter. using the van as a sort of low speed battering ram I pushed through the temporary fencing, whereupon hordes of nearby policemen descended on me and demanded to know what I thought I was doing disobeying road signs and breaking through their palisades. Fill in this form? Summons? Oh pooh. Still, at least it was only a dream, one I have no wish to live out. A clear warning from the spirit world to drive with due care and attention even though I don't drive and haven't for some years. Still, warnings are warnings. Loyalty Card Of The Week One of my local fast food outlets has for some time issued me with a loyalty card. Pay more than five pounds and I get a stamp. Five stamps and I get a free meal. it's been a good deal for me, I have to say. Only the other day the proprietor refused to stamp it because... erm.... Well he's from a racial minority and when upset his English is difficult to follow. So now I can only have my loyalty card stamped if I spend more than five pounds on meals numbered one to eight. I think that's what he said. But it says if I spend more than five pounds I get a stamp. He reluctantly stamped it, quote, for the last time, unquote. I see..... So what have falling black cats, fallen trees, and obstructions on her majesty's highways got to do with problems in paying for food? This omen business is hard.
  5. caldrail

    May The Sith Be With You

    "It's Starwars Day" proclaimed one of my colleagues at work. Huh? What's that all about? Well, it turns out that "May The Fourth Be With You" has become an annual urban festival amongst those who cannot tell fantasy from real life. My boss noted my disapproving expression and chuckled. So in order to restore the balance of the Universe and allow the Dark Side its right of public expression, I suggest "May the Sixth Be With You", which for those who have lived in backwoods cabin for the last three decades is a play on words between the date, sixth, and the alien dark side faction, the Sith (Who featured in Starwars Episode One, The Phantom menace. Okay. You can go back to sleep now. Wake Up Call Trumpy has done it. He's got the Republican US presidential nomination. A triumph for celebrity tycoonship. In Britain we're a bit more canny, preventing Alan Sugar from world domination by making him a noble. However international politics will change as a result if he wins the final vote. Expect hard bargaining and a gruelling thirteen week 'last man standing' battle as America seeks its Apprentice. Talk about the Dark Side.... Cute Moment of the Week The other day I discovered Herbie the Hedgehog has a friend. There they were, both snuffling in the grass together. Awww..... Funny thing is normally hedgehogs end up as a somewhat flat pile of squishy goo, and given that Herbie snuffles next to a main road, you have to admire his survival instincts. Or perhaps he stretches out with his feelings? Letting the Force guide him in his do or die struggles with Dark Side motorists?
  6. caldrail

    Live At The Library

    Right now - this moment - it just started pouring with rain. Sunshine and showers the report had said and lo and behold as soon as I risk a journey to the local library, fate punishes me for my presumption with a cascade of water down the windows. So now I'm trapped in the same building as the rest of library going public. Oh ye gods, the rain it doth rain harder. It has just become a veritable deluge out there. Stand by for more updates as we go Live At The Library. Changes at the Industrial Estate Every day as I plod back and forth from work I pass through an industrial estate, and in particular, the back of one factory. Over the years a growth of silos, ducts, electrical transformers, cabling, piping, and extractor fans has spread out of the back wall like some industrial fungus. The racket it used to make was extraordinary. I swear one of the reasons I got into trouble not so long with benefit payments was because I answered my mobile in that locality and the person on the other end thought I was stood next to a jet airliner at an airport. Now it's all gone. Swept away by the cutting torch. All the myriad holes in the wall covered over with plywood and wire mesh. And in it's place the inevitable result of a blank canvas. The graffiti mice are busy decorating the wall with the usual urban hieroglyphics. More Foxy Stuff I saw three foxes hunting together a week ago. Three. If that's a mating trio, something strange is going on in Fox-Enders. Having spotted a number of foxes I don't recognise, clearly the wee beasties are doing well. Bertie the Badger still noses around peoples houses late at night, and Herbie the Hedgehog still snuffles in the grass beside a main road. Oh... Hang on.... Weather Latest The rain has stopped. yes, ladies and gentlemen, in a surprise move Nature has decided that Swindon will be spared any further downpour, or at least until I venture out of the library. And now, back to the normal program.... Yet More Foxiness I was told something interesting by a work colleague. He keeps a young cat and because he lives close to a main road, he only lets it out late at night. One night he'd gone back out to the call the cat in. It didn't answer. Naturally he began to worry. Again and again he called but no cat. Fearing the worst, he was about to give up when his precious pet wandered back through the undergrowth happy as larry, with his latest friend, a young fox, walking beside him. Awww.... Cute. Secure Shopping Now that the new shopping mall is available and just around the corner from where I live, I have begun availing myself of its products and produce. This frequent visiting has resulted in the security guards watching me closely, and to be fair, some of the comments made by the fresh meat staff haven't been exactly complimentary. The other day I'd had enough of the close scrutiny, so as the security guard passed me, I followed in a non-provocative manner watching him. He got the message. Now they watch me from thirty yards further away. And Finally The sun is out so it's bye for now. This is rainy old Swindon you know. Use that sunshine while it lasts.
  7. caldrail

    Things That Go In The Night

    The agency had booked me for a very early start at a warehouse an hours walk away. At that time of night the streets of Swindon are usually empty, perhaps just an occaisional drunken bellow from some unseen club-goer bumping into pavements, or more usually, a passing car taking less inebriated club-goers home. And so it was quiet. All of a sudden a white BMW blasted past me, almost out of nowhere. I have no idea what speed the driver was doing but it was seriously over the top. It was so fast, the engine so aggressively snarling, that the effect was startling. it actually felt like violence. I've never experienced that sensation before, and I'm well acquainted with fast cars. Later on I passed an industrial estate and experienced a bright flash. What the....? My first impression was that someone had taken a [photo in the night, but there was no-one about. How odd. No matter. Anyway I arrived at work and being sociable I began chatting to my boss about idiot BMW drivers attempting to break the land speed record in town streets. He interrupted me as I began and said "You're going to tell me about a bright light?" No I wasn't, but it turned out that his colleague had seen it too. The whole sky lit up for a moment./ Some of my fellow workers saw it as well, one describing it as 'Seriously weird'.. As we worked through the small hours of the morning there were some news report over the radio - always impossible to hear properly when lorries are reversing in and out of the premises and sweaty blokes pushing parcels of all sorts here and there. Eventually we found out that it was an atmospheric disturbance and nothing to worry about. Not the North Koreans then. Oh good. Foxenders Almost every night there's been life's little dramas played out among the fox population. Urban foxes are pests, certainly, but I can't help watching their activities with some casual interest. They all have names now. Ferdinand, the big male, is unusual in that he just isn't fazed by human beings - I've walked past him within feet before now.. He's potentially dangerous. Having kept a low profile since Christmas I had thought he was dead and gone, but no, I spotted him, glaring at me in the dark as he always does. Only the other night I incurred his displeasure by disturbing him as he was getting it orn with his chosen vixen, who ran off when I strode into view. Ferdinand stayed put and glared at me. Fuzzy always retreats in the direction of his set when he gets disturbed. He was injured and limping not so long ago - I haven't seen him since. Ferkles simply moves on and knows that once he's inside another persons garden, pursuit is unlikely. Flakey is well funny. Always going into a panic when disturbed and never knowing which way to turn. Then there's Frodo, with his distinctive black ring on his tail and a penchant for disappearing much sooner than most foxes who see you coming. Lately Frodo has found himself a girlfriend and he's become positively careless. You can actually see a dazed grin on his face. Bless. I have heard it said that foxes kill and eat cats. I don't believe that, or at least, consider it unusual. Reason being of course is that I see foxes and cats co-existing quite comfortably. The other night I disturbed one fox - Ferkles I think - and as it ran off to a safe distance it passed a cat sat on the pavement. The cat simply watched it run past and didn't stir. Didn't even tense up nervously like cats do if they perceive danger. A cat who knows foxes won't bother him.
  8. I'm getting fed up of being labelled. Categorised. And mostly in some derogatory fashion. So I've decided to issue a public statement. Am I gay? No. Absolutely not. Never was, never will be. If two blokes want to go off together and do whatever two blokes do to each other, fine, get on with it - Just don't bother me with it. I know quite a few people will have heard otherwise and find that hard to believe - some will refuse to believe it because it makes them look like fools or bigots - but that's the way it is. All my sexual partners were female. I'm single due to circumstance, not preferences. Am I a Conshy? No. Absolutely not. Never was, never will be. For the uninitiated a 'Conshy' is slang for "Concientious Objector", or someone who refuses military service out of some moral, political, or religious objection. I would point out that I tried to join the RAF twice in my younger days. The first time I was turned away because "There are no vacancies". The second time I was told I couldn't hear properly. It is true that my rejection eventually came as a relief. My teenage urge to serve my country had wilted with experience of the Air Training Corps and an increasing desire to forge my own path rather than follw my fathers footsteps. As it happened, by my twenties I wanted to be a musician, a path I followed for many years. But despite these meanderings through life, I have had no issues with military service from any concientious grounds. Am I Trying To Live On Benefits? No. Absolutely not. Never was and never will be. Truth is, I've been told in a letter from more than a year ago that I'm no longer eligible. So I couldn't even if I wanted to. As it happens, I like my creature comforts and that requires I pay for them, thus I want a profitable living even if no-one particularly wants to provide me with one. A shame really, because I come well qualified, capable, reliable, adaptable, and put up with no end of personal discomfort to turn up on time every day I'm required to earn my keep. Finally.... There you go. My statement is complete. I'll swear to these facts in a court of law or on anything sacred because they're true. I know they are. No-one can take that away from me, however hard they try.
  9. caldrail

    Feed the World

    I saw a report on BBC News recently about how the western nations are going to have to set aside their usual taste for meat dinners and instead gorge themselves on insect protein, because the insects are cheaper and require far less land to produce in quantity. The problem is that the worlds population is growing. And that is why eating insects instead of meat isn't a solution to the problem of starvation - it's merely feeding the problem. You see, the natural limit of human population has always been around two billion. Whether it was war, disease, diet, natural disaster, or whatever, our global population never really challenged this number even when civilisation was invented. Unfortunately we're now getting better at avoiding death, so now the populations of the world are getting bigger, especially in those regions who had previously seen childbirth as a lottery where having more kids was an investment in the future. The thing is, if struggling populations are fed and cared for, they breed. That's simply how humans behave, just like almost every other species of life on the planet. All we're doing with these humanitarian initiatives to rid the world of hunger is creating a bigger problem in the future, when the system really cannot meet demands. But there's another problem. As in nature, if an enviroment cannot support the species, they die off. It's horrible and I wouldn't wish that on anyone, but aren't we going to have to face that unpalatable choice sooner or later? Can the West allow a few to starve to prevent far more from starvation when the bubble bursts? It isn't an easy choice, although many will prefer to follow thewir social instincts and try to assist. But then, aren't we guilty of ignoring the future threat because we see a different problem in our own time? Politicians like to say they're building futures for us. They aren't. Maybe loading the dice for another generation, or more likely, lubricating their own careers and prosperity. But of course when this bubble bursts we'll probably all be dead and gone. So why should we care? Quote of the Week The President of the USA has said that the recent UN Global Warming deal is the 'best way to save the planet'. No, it isn't, because the planet isn't in any danger whatsoever. What is threatened is a change to the enviroment we don't like, can't cope with, or spoils our safe little vision of daily routine. Human beings have been extremely lucky since the last glaciation - our global climate has been quite stable for 8000 years. But now it's all going horribly wrong. The reason isn't industry - nature can pollute the enviroment far worse than human efforts - but our growing population. There are too many of us now and that's what is driving the scale of damage our species is doing to its own interests, though I agree a great many other species aren't particularly wel suited to the world we're creating. So now we're doing a deal to control the worst of it. As if. Since when has humanity ever been compleltely succesful at controlling the world around them? Truth is, the climate is going change no matter what these politicians agree to. So deal with it.
  10. caldrail

    What A Difference A Year makes

    What a difference a letter makes. There I was, jobsearching in a mad desperate attempt to keep the authorities happy, when everything went horribly wrong. They have quotas for finding dole cheats and unfortunately my number came up, even though I was exceeding their demands by an order of magnitude. So innocent or not - I was declared guitly by any pretext and the money stopped. Luckily for me an employment agency eventually found me ongoing work - though I have to say, for two months it looked pretty bleak for me. The Job Center had sent me a letter telling me that from the 2nd of November 2014 they could not pay me. No reason given, just that. I'd already realised that the money wasn't going to continue but by then I was trying to find someone who would look kindly upon poor wee Caldrail and give him a job before he ended up destitute. Just today I received a letter from the Job Center, more than a year later, explaining that I may not have been properly informed about my rights concerning the job center sanction and offering me a chance to appeal. Are they kidding? A year afterward? I wasn't even sanctioned officially. The advisor never said the word. She just stopped my money after I'd followed her demands under duress and then had her boss send me the original letter saying no more cash from now on. That was, therefore, the second time she had kept my claim open while I was thrown off the dole for her own purposes. I knew she was dishonest - I'd already told her that to her face. Now I have the proof. These days the unemployed get a poor rap but not all of us were dole cheats trying to eke out an easy living on benefits. Some of us genuinely couldn't get employers to show any interest at all. I am thoroughly disgusted at the shamefaced exploitation of unemployed people that goes on. I'm well aware that many jobseekers are only making excuses or making token efforts, but at the same time, I was used and thrown down the toilet. I wonder if that advisor got promoted for her unceasing efforts to fight for truth, justice, and the government way? At any rate, truth and justice is something that is now officially ddenied a great many people. Unemployed? Sorry, but that's a label that will get you nowhere in Cameron's Britain.
  11. caldrail

    Smoke And No Fire

    The big deal this week was the fire alarm at work. Like all other businesses large enough to have fire wardens we regularly have fire drills, but nobody expected the alarm to go off fifteen minutes before the end of shift. Even after hearing the noise I still didn't realise a real fire alarm was happening , right there, right then. Finally somebody remembered that a fire alarm sounded like that and we were supposed to exit the premises by the nearest convenient exit. So we did. It wasn't too cold, but none too warm either. We spread out across the car park aimlessly before the management began herding us in a quiet corner, and just in time, because the fire engine turned up, blue lights flashing. Looks like a real fire then. Rumours were spreading. Something had burst into flames. A few firemen loked busy but there wasn't any smoke or signs of heroic fire fighting. Everything seemed quite calm and businesslike. Then a second fire engine turned up. Oh hello... Is this a serious fire? Rumours began to spread again. Apparently a forklift battery charger had ignited itself. By now the more curious of us were brandishing mobile phones with the vain hope of videoing the end of the warehouse in glorious high definition. Now a third fire engine turned up. Only this one stopped at the entrance to the car park and then reversed away. "Put that fag out!" Yelled a manager. For the unenlightened, 'fag' is British slang for a cigarette. A startled warehouseman did his best to look innocent. "I'll see you tomorrow" The manager warned. And then, a fourth fire engine turned up. It didn't even stop, turning around to go home disappointed that the building wasn't burning to the ground, or more likely, that the naughty warehouseman had put his cigarette out as ordered. The 'All Clear' was given so we went home. Didn't even miss the bus. The Importance Of Doing Nothing Of late I've been pretty busy at work collecting wooden pallets and related tasks. It gets a bit physical, even on the days when I can get a powered pallet truck to use, which isn't so easy because another section tends to nab one sooner than me. One of their team doesn't like doing manual labour. On one day the manager told me pallets were an emergency because no-one had left any from the previous shift. I was lucky to get a truck that day, but as compensation for the forthcoming 'headless chicken' duty, I was to be given the help of Hamster (not related to a certain Top Gear presenter). There's a number of youngsters in the warehouse who form a social clique all of their own. Basically they do all the things the managers don't want them to, but because there are two senior youngsters, Baby Face and Hamster, they pretty much get away with their shenanigans. I was just preparing to shuttle lots of pallets in 'rush hour' when I spotted Hamster walking past. Usually he drives a powered truck of a different type, and seeing him walk is a rare event. I asked him where he intended starting pallet collection, only to be told that he didn't have a truck. I see. Well, how about grabbing a hand truck and manually stacking pallets so I could wheel them to their destination? He walked away. Hamster doesn't do manual work. His job is to look important driving pallet trucks. Oh, and laugh at Baby Face's jokes. Very important duty onbviously. It Happened Again Apparently there was a solar eclipse last friday. I wouldn't know. Partly because the sky was cloudy, partly because I live too far south, partly because I had dozed off watching a dull episode of Star Trek, and partly because I seem fated never to see a real astronomical event ever. Almost time to go back to work. Welcome to my life. Cigarette Of The Week At last the working day has come to an end and warehousemen in various stages of tiredness and disgruntlement amble up the road to catch the bus. Many of us face very long walks home if we miss the last one. One of my colleagues has become quite popular with the managers, mostly because he comes across like Paddington Bear with a midlands accent. He's not as cute and cuddly as the managers think but since when did a manager ever assess someone correctly? Anyway, once at the bus stop Bear felt the need for a smoke before the bus arrived. Suddenly there was a desperate need for a lighter, because he didn't have one, neither did I, nor anyone else, so he took to waylaying colleagues on bicycles as they rode by. Finally he managed to get one to stop and help him out. Just as he was about to take that first puff on the wretched cigarette a passing lorry blew it out. His midland accent remained, but where was the Paddington Bear demeanour all of a sudden?
  12. caldrail

    Two Bars And Other Tales

    Caldrail's blog is missing. Or at least the last weeks entry is. Well, no, not really, I just forgot to write one. So I apologise for the tension this had caused around the world as people bite their nails hopin g my next entry will magically appear. David Cameron and Ed Milliband exchanged insults in an angry row. Three schoolgrils gave up and went to Syria. Even Jeremy Clarkson punched his producer over an argument about it and caused the BBC a multi million pound commercial loss. Sorry about that. Lucky for me I'm not actually responsible isn't it? As it happens I've also been leaving my emails untounched for a couple of weeks. Although I've been employed for three months now the many and various agencies are still sending job laerts regularly. Last week I got a phone call from an agency asking if I wanted to do two weeks labour in a role in which my certification has lapsed, that I have no qualification for, and is in the next county. No. Not really. And do they expect me to be available the next morning? Perhaps they ought to read my CV properly. I was trained for a decade to write one after all. Out! With most of my time devoted either to sleeping, shopping, or working, I've had little time to wander around my usual haunts. I popped into the local aprk on my way to the library this morning and yes, the birds are still fighting. One goose has clearly become unpopular, with the others evicting it very loudly. Know how you fell buddy. It's like my last claims advisor. She trampled me into the dust, squished my indentity, and then began trying to recreate me as an embodiement of a figment of her imagination. Turning me into someone I don't know, don't understand, or even like. And I was supposed to get a job while I was trapped in psychological quicksand? Ridiculous. Like all women, she believed she could change me. Only this time she had the authority to do it. Get On With It! Lately I've been doing less floor sweeping and more pallet collection at work. Not sure which is the most tiring. Sweeping the floors involves walking all day and constant bending down to pick up rubbish. Pallet collection requires guiding an electric truck around everyone elses in tight spaces with the clock ticking, lifting one pallet after another onto a pile for the lads to use on the container bay, and some of those pallets are seriously heavy without any load on them. The warehouse boss was wandering around the other day, as he often does, and stopped by a bunch of guys who were doing the sweeping job I used to do alone while I got on with the pallets. "You've all done very weell" He told them, to my utter chagrin, since they amble about and haven't been doing the job for longer than a week or two. "Credit where credit is due". Really? Hello, Mr Boss, I'm over here.... No? Typical. But it isn't all mindless tedium and hard work. The last time I got a pallet truck out I noticed the meter was quite low, only three bars out of thirty, and it looked unlikely the truck would survive the whole shift without the battery going flat. Those vehicles are at a premium. It's a wonder fights don't break out over who gets to drive one. Then I noticed another truck out in the warehouse with twenty bars. Some of the lads thought I was trying to do something sneaky, but no, I did speak to the colleague whose truck it was and we agreed under the circumstances that a swap was okay. Shortly after I had to take a toilet break. It happens, even to the best of us, and certainly to those of us with fifty year old bladders and energy drink habits. When I came out, my truck meter said two bars. What the...?!!!!! As it happened I didn't run of electricity. Pallets were delivered all day, I became tired and broken by the end of the shift, and the managers were happy. Two bars on my wagon, and ah'm still rollin' along.... Language Of The Week Definitely Polish. With so many eastern europeans in the warehouse it's difficult to avoid hearing it, a strange arcane tongue impossible to understand, and I suspect those pesky poles know it. So I'm making an effort to learn a litle Polish. As it happens some of the lads are delighted, and take great pleasure in pointing out that my pronounciation is hopelessly wrong. But I'm getting there... One word at a time... do widzenia!
  13. caldrail

    Every Day At Work

    Every day at work begins with a team briefiing. Slowly at first, then in a great rush as the canteen empties, the shift personnel gather at the allotted place to discover who is on the premises, who is doing what for the next eight hours, and what will happen if certain lazy activities continue. The manager calls for silence so he can call the register. After a five second wait he calls again with a stern stare at the knot of youngsters who don't understand what 'quiet please' means. Eventually the buzz of conversation subsides to whispers and the register is called. "Gary?" The manager spoke aloud without looking up from his list. With no answer, he calls again, this time looking around in case Gary is either too busy whispering to his mates or has failed utterly to comprehend that he has to acknowledge his presence. In this case I did the decent thing and reminded him that Gary was on holiday. The manager sighed as he realised his list of work allocation was completely ruined. He had no choice but to note down the lack of Gary's in the warehouse and submit to my superior know;ledge of who was standing around in plain sight. Sometimes we have to confirm that the person is on the premises for them. There's always one or two who aren't where they're supposed to be. Punkman, our resident refugee from society, made a joke of it a few days ago. After each name he said "Yeah, he's here". Yet when his own name was called he stayed silent, failing utterly to remember that he was supposed to answer. So I said aloud "Yeah, he's here". It's as well Punkman has a sense of humour. On the day the manager decided that Punkman was to be in charge of a team he muttered "Let the facism begin...". Talking About Fascism Islamic State are back in the news again with a trip down to the local museum where objects of antiquity are being smashed with sledgehammers as 'false idols'. Fundamentalists do seem amenable to this sort of behaviour - the Taliban dynamited antiquities and vandals in Egypt swept through a museum in Cairo not so long ago. Quite apart from the loss of pricelss articles of regional interest, is Islamic State so feeble that relics whose religious significance vanished hundreds if not thousands of years ago is somehow some kind of threat to their ugly regime? I suppose that's an obvious thing to ask. It does strike me however that the non-entities who smashed statues energetically really wouldn't know a false idol if they saw one. That is after all why they've been sucked into a religious movement and told what to do. They simply obey because they don't know any better. News that Islamic State is opening schools in Syria doesn't fill me with optimism either. Talk about the blind leading the blind. Working In The Jungle The big rumour at work right now is the impending fashion choices being made for teams. Already the quality control people sport a snazzy purple high-vis. What amuses people is the assertion that those of us on the hygiene team will be allocated pink high-vis vests. Hard Hat refuses to believe this slight on his honour, manhood, self respect, his very identity, can possibly be true. Funnily enough, those of us on the bottom rank of warehouse status often find ways to gauge each other. I for instance got quite a boost when I was trained up on pallet trucks. Earlier this week a team leader started approaching me with news that complaints had been made against me. No-one had said anything to me of course, but that wasn't the point. Eventually the leader in question ordered me off the truck despite my tantrums and logical arguments, but no matter, my line manager supported me. That's how hard work affects your status. There's always a testing period between the envious and the grateful. On some days I have no choice but to get a pump truck, a sort of parcel trolley you push, pull, and swear at, and do the same job without the assistance of electrical power. It's called manual work. It's also considered by many the sign of a lowly person who does not have the influence to be authorised to drive trucks. "You got a license for that?" One wag called from the gloom of a container being unloaded, when he saw me hauling a pump truck across the warehouse floor. Funny. No matter. Give it a day or two and I'll be whizzing around on a powered truck again instead of heaving boxes out of a container. At least until those pesky pink high-vis vests get issued, at which point no-one will have any sympathy. Day Of The Week That's enough about work. Today is Sunday and there's a clear blue sky out there..... Erm.... Bye.
  14. caldrail

    The Benefits Of Waiting

    Oops... I believe I missed a week in my blog entries. No matter. We're still waiting for the Ukraine and their Russian backed rebels to adhere to an agreed ceasefire. We're still waiting for the government to realise that all those changes to benefits payments is only going to produce more beggars on the street. Or for passers by outside my home to finally realise I really couldn't care less what they say. A Quick Night Out "I fancy a pint" My colleague mused out loud as we strode homeward from the bus station. As clues go, it was a strong one. "You fancy a pint?" He asked. Okay, but you'll have to pay for it. This sort of negotiaton I have some experience in. Truth was I was well tired after a hectic week of pallet collection and the usual cut and thrust of driving trucks around a busy warehouse. As much as I wanted to go home, the lure of alcohol in that circumstance is hard to ignore. So we diverted into the local Wetherspoons pub on the high street. A cider for me, as is my preference, some obscure lager for him, then he made straight for the one armed bandit machine. The pub was busy as you'd expect for a Friday night but not heaving with customers. I like that sort of atmosphere. Everybody enjoying a night out and still able hear yourself think. Eventually my colleague got bored of putting coins in the machine, his pint, my company, and the endless texts from his missus demanding to know where he was. He downed what was left of his pint and said "I'm going to have to go. You going to be all right on your own?" What? Finish a drink in a pub full of dark dangerous drinkers all on my own? Yes. Funnily enough I think I will be. I mean, it isn't as if this has never happened before. I quietly finished my cider at my own comfortable pace, then departed in a mellow mood. The security guards outside wished me a good night. Cheerio lads. Mr Cod Kabul I hear that Afghanistan has just opened its first British style fish and chip shop. A bit late now the British troops have all left, but after years of kebab shop domination of the high street, a small victory for democratic consumerism in the face of Taliban conformity. Universal Election The government have declared that Universal Credit is to be rolled out in Job Centres across England. They're claiming that it will work better for those looking for work. No, it won't, I know it won't, because my claims advisor would simply use it as an excuse not to pay me any benefits irrespective of how concientious I was. Despite making more than fifty applications a week, attending interviews when required, and any activity required by the Job Centre, I was still deemed a dole cheat and refused benefit. Being used as a scapegoat isn't something I take kindly to. Not that I'm bitter and twisted about it you underdtand... Either the government are blissfuly unaware of the abuses of the system their administrators use to further their careers, or they're too busy furthering their own by issuing this sort of nonsense on the evening news. Then again, having declared that al benefit payments will be amalgamated ynder one umbrella, now the government have announced a new youth allowance for those school leavers at a loose end. There is, after all, an election on the way. Oscars Of The Week Bafta's, Golden Globes, Oscars.... Yet another round of 'thank you' speeches to wade through to find out who the best actors and films are. Right now film producers are wining and dining, performers crossing their fingers, and the television news is full of speculation. I nominate the claims advisors of Swindon Job Centre Plus for their role in bringing my finances to the point of ruin. Utterly convincing performances obviously.
  15. caldrail

    To The Max

    Health issues are very much in my mind right now. As if the dust at work wasn't provoking enough coughing, I seem unable to completely shake off symptoms of a bad cold. The lads I work with now expect me to break out the Lemsip. Hard Hat, my Jamaican colleague, sometimes offers a can of energy drink when I look especially tired. That weary demeanour hasn't escaped the attention of other colleagues either. But, if I don't stay, I get no pay, so to quote from an old Red Jasper song, I'll carry on "Crawling into work". Cough splutter. One chap on another shift might not be working there much longer. Carelessly he left a packet of cigarettes in the toilet. Worse still, a small supply of drugs was secreted within it. There's been quite a flurry of activity over that mistake and no shortage of gossip. I say bring in Sherlock Holmes to work the Case of the Discarded Fag Packet. But of course, we all know it was Colonel Mustard with a lead pipe. Max Power Time to go home, so I tramp tired and weary up the road to the bus stop. Sometimes you see the same old regulars waiting in the cold for bus rides somewhere close to home, sometimes you get occaisional adventurers out for a double decker thrill. As we mere mortals wait, those blessed with vehicles demonstrate their superior social status by blasting past at high revs, sort of like beating their chests but faster. Naturally that stirs discussion among the young lads, and once fast cars become the topic of the night, everyone taks about their own machines, always chipped, tuned, and stage three everything. They boast earnestly about how their car's capabilities allow them to ignore common sense and the laws of physics. Come on guys, I was young once. Who are you trying to kid? On the money we get paid affording hyped up cars really isn't realistic. Sure, I've done my fair share of speedy driving - we human beings have a strange fascination with going faster than anyone else unless it's do to with working for a living - but at least I showed some restraint if conditions weren't suitable. I was, after all, only ever caught speeding once. But those modified and lowered shopping trolleys roaring past the bus stop are probably no faster than the version their granny bought from the dealer, although I will concede, the idea of an eighty year old woman hurtling down the road, aggressively using her horn to persuade those youngsters to stop obstructing the road, and challenging their Women's Institute colleages to traffic light drag races is just bizarre. Max Canyon Thee's been a series of adverts on television for a breakfast cereal in which the fictional survival expert 'Max Canyon', is about to demonstrate a source of protein, if only you had the guts the try it, only to hesistate when his camera crew tuck in to a healthy bowl of something more palatable. Exotic game meat has become available at my local supermarket. At least that saves me the bother of travelling to faraway places to find something different to eat. I must admit to a vicarious interest in consuming animals simply because I haven't consumed them before. Wild boar sausages were quite good, ostrich burgers perhaps a bit bland but they never taste quite as you expect, or at least, until you try crocodile. A pair of crocodile burgers looked suspiciously like gammon and funnily enough didn't taste much different. However, I didn't take to it and I now understand why they're survivors of a lost era. They're just not pleasant to eat. Having seen the first series of The Mighty Boosh, the prosect of consuming kangaroo meatballs are challenging my determination. Breakfast cereal it is then. Philosophy of the Week The site manager at work has been spending time on the shop floor and needless to say has left havoc in his wake. Especially for me, as it happens, because his expert eye has detected that our rubbish exraction system isn't making enough profit. Now I'm told off if I try to obtain some means of dropping off the rubbish I collect, and told off if I leave it lying. Never have I seen a warehouse that generates such amounts of rubbish. Cardboard, shrinkwrap, paper, cans, bottles, packets, shards of wood, it's all out there, until we wave a magic wand and make it all disappear like the site manager wants. Naturally the presence of senior management is intimidating for some. He is, after all, a pretty decisive guy. He doesn't have much time for practicality or any input from me about the realities of warehouse waste management when profit margins are too small. Hard Hat has other ideas. "A man is just a man" He says in terms of true equality. Yes, I agree, but we can't sack people. He can. On the plus side we can only hope that he accidentially left a cigratte packet in the toilet and we can go back to making the warehouse look respectfully tidy.
  16. caldrail

    Hands On The Reins

    Don't you just love conspiracy theory? Despite everyones manifest inability to control their own destiny and Mankind's penchant for getting it wrong, people believe their lives are being controlled by some strange unseen group of elite conspirators. Personally I find it a bit hard to imagine that the typical career politician reaches the top of his political tree and becomes top dog in his own country only to be told what to do with it by Men In Grey. The whole genre is nothing more than religion by another name - the very same sense of our lives being buffetted by forces we don't understand gave rise to ideas of gods, devils, and things that go bump in the night. Now we invent secret cabals of influential people that somehow control every aspect of our existence. I met a convert the other day. A young Romanian worker who was adamant that our dearly beloved BBC news was 'controlled'. I pointed out that the news team make editorial decisions about which stories it runs with, allowing for authenticity or public interest. "No no no" He urgently interupted in wide eyed piousy, "The news is controlled. I see on internet video of three thousand people being shot in back of head by ISIS terrorist with AK47. But BBC does not show it.". Oh. I get it. The internet is the source of all uncontrolled and real news is it? As much as I believe ISIS is liable to inflict such violence, even they have to obey the laws of terrorist practicality. In order to watch a terrorist shoot three thousand people taking an average of ten seconds overall for each, in order to aim, move, fire, and reload, would require a video eight hours long. I seriously doubt the BBC would contemplate showing that. Not even excerpts either - most people don't want to watch snuff movies. It's also worth pointing that something like a hundred AK47 magazines would be required for the task at the very least. That's a lot of ammunition to carry around. "No no no" He replied to my explanations, "I give you link to website that shows these things." No, don't bother... Under A Pass Walking back and forth through a pedestrian underpass near the bus station there's three things you an be sure of. Firstly it's going to be packed with people walking back and forth, secondly there's going to be some unfortunate soul who did not survive the encounter with their claims advisor sat under a duvet, and thirdly, someone will be busking. For some time we've been subjected to some old guy with a guitar, performing endless and half hearted blues music. This last time was a little less palatable. A youngster was banging the heck out of upturned pots and pans to an amplified drum track. Quite badly too. Of course it's easy to criticise. I learned that lesson in the music business. It did occur to ne though that back in the days when I was a teenager attracted to playing a drumkit and unable to own one, that I'd gone through a process of starting my experience of percussion with a mattress annoying everyone who could hear my efforts. Will this youngster go on to see his face on Drummer Monthly? A house in the country? Audiences of thousands around the world? Don't laugh - I used to think that was where I was headed. Okay, I did achieve a few big audiences and my stick skills ended up somewhat better than his. These days I keep a warehouse tidy. Maybe I ought to warrn him that no matter what his ambitions are, his life will be controlled by Men In Grey who will frustrate his efforts for the betterment of Mankind? Heck, I need to startb using the internet more... Training Of The Week Proof that my life in the workplace is controlled by management, I was offered an opportunity to get trained up on a pallet truck the other week. Not that big a deal in some respects - I've driven such vehicles in warehouses for years - but the fact the company was willing to invest in my training is a good sign. So I watched the non-violent videos, listened to the advice, took the truck out into the warehouse and guided it through an obstacle course, and finally passed a theory test. All passed. All smiles and handshakes. Once let loose my colleagues took the opportunity to poke fun, though some did congratulate me on my achievement. Eventually I came across Hard Hat in the racks who was most amused at my new mode of transport. I also got a phone call asking me what I wanted to do with those qualifications I'd gotten whilst unemployed. You mean the ones I asked you to tear up? Don't bother me with trvialities lady, I've got a pallet truck to drive...
  17. caldrail

    Getting All Fired Up

    Sometimes I encounter opinion regarding my blog. Well, it is there to be read, and I'd rather people formed an opinion good or bad than simply shrug and go back a *or* video. Mostly I hear how rubbish it is. Funny how the loudest people are those who want dismiss or abuse. No matter, but I do understand that not everyone wants to hear the latest whinge or moan from me. So before I whinge and moan some more, here's the fun bit. There I was, bored and miserable, sat on a bus bumping and swaying in unison with all the other passengers, when this old chap sat down next to me and started whinging about how bad the world was today. I agreed with him. The thing is he turned out to be an old railwayman, an engine driver, a man who had stepped onto the footplate of Castle class locomotives for the Great Western Railway in those good old days when coal was king and everyone employed when they were fourteen. He was one of those drivers who deserted the railways en masse when steam finally gave way to diesel. No way was he going to drive one of those 'tin cans'. Funny how much attachment people have toward steam engibnes. I do. The blessed things almost have a life of their own, like big animals that need constant fettling and feeding. "I'd like to get some of those yobboes on the footplate" He growled, clearly full of despair at our nations youths, "That'd teach 'em a few things". Sadly it wouldn't. I agree that working on a steam engine footplate, the control cabin if you will, is no easy option where steam engines concerned. I remember hitching a ride on a preserved line in New Zealand, and even for a little locomotive, the physical effort was impressive. never mind a much larger express locomotive gulping down several tons of coal per trip. Buit the sad truth is it would only be another job to avoid. Bad backs, migraines, too many interesting tunes on their I-pod, or perhaps just a strange tendency to shrug their shoulders would result. Aside of course from injuries inflicted by a coal shovel wielded by an irate driver I suspect. But I admit the conversation was fascinating. He told me about an accident on the railway. A train driver had misread a semaphore signal thinking he was cleared for mainline operation. The fireman realised that he'd made the mistake but by then the locomtive had accelerated to 25mph and derailed on the points, taking with it six wagons from Wills Tobacco factory. "Cigarettes everywhere" He said. "Absolutely everywhere..." I also discovered the sad tale of a canadian flight sergeant in World War Two, who was flying near the Vickers-Supermarine factory that used to be at South Marston. At low altitude he turned and a wing fell off. No chance of survivng that. Apparently his family still cross the Atlantic regularly and visit a small memorial to him. Gone but not forgotten. Not Again... I happened to catch Prime Ministers Questions before I went to work this week. There was Cameron, happily pulling the arms and legs off Mr Milliband, who sat there shaking his head. They've almost become a comedy duo. What I didn't find funny was Cameron crowing about how unemployment figures are down. Of course they are. People are being forced off Jobseekers Allowance by any means fair or foul and forced onto a hardship grant which the figures don't count. That's what they did to me. I went from trusted and hard working jobseeker to petty fraud and dishonesty in one fell swoop. An entire months dole money refused. Suddenly no-one believed my submissions. My evidence was unacceptable or 'not realistic'. For thre love of God, Cameron. Go. Your plan is only working because not enough people have cottoned on why you're able to claim it is. Beggar Of The Week Finally I'd gotten to the bus station and shivered as I strode through an empty town centre on my way home. It was perishing cold, and after sitting on a bus for half an hour, I really felt it despite wrapping up warm. "Hey mate, you got a cigarette?" Said the down-and-out in a shop doorway. Sorry , no. "Eff off then". He replied. One wionders how he expects any sympathy with that attitude. Suit yourself buddy, but stay under that cardboard, it's a cold night. By the way, does David Cameron know you're not earning a living?
  18. caldrail

    It's A Wonderful Life

    "You've had a wonderful life" My claims advisor had told me, having gleaned that pearl of wisdom fom my CV. Of course like all CV's it merely accentuated the positive. All those disasters and mistakes over the years never made it to the final draft, never mind the interminable hassles that life forces us to endure. She was of course trying to win my approval for her state sponsored rebuild of my appearance, character, and history, in the vain hope I might actually become employable. Little did she know that my lucky rabbit's foot would strike again and I'd get a job by my own efforts, unemployable or not. Is my life wonderful? That's an interesting question. It is true I've done things many people never will, but then again, the price was high. I've lost out on many aspects of life that those same people take for granted. Okay, the decade of being an aspiring musician gave me some purpose in life. And the following decade of fast cars and flying aeroplanes was very enjoyable, thank you very much. The following decade of unemployable mediocrity and occaisional disaster hasn't been quite so fun, no matter what Eva believes. Is my life wionderful right now? Erm, no. I'm doing a job that is the most physically demanding I've ever undertaken, at a relatively unfit and unhealthy fifty plus. Not well paid or secure, either, not to mention being forced to use a bus to get to and from my home, which for me is tantamount to raising a white flag. Truth is I'm just not used to going home barely able to walk. On the bright side, I can of course thumb my nose at Eva, my domineering and ignorant claims advisor. Maybe life ain't that bad after all. Pallet Man Having to cope with my persistent cold means I've taken to imbibing some much needed Lemsip during my lunchbreak. I hate the stuff. True, it helps me get through the day, but the taste is foul. They say medecine only works if you can barely swallow it. Hard Hat, my afro-carribean colleague who believs NASA overlooked him in the race to land on the moon, noticed I was getting abit drowsy. He generously offered me a can of some energy drink or other. I don't usually have much time for the stories of how these drinks affect people, but ye gods, that on top of Lemsip did the trick. I feel myself changing... Growing stronger... Stand back mortals. I am now Pallet Man, superhero and defender of the oppressed warehouseman. Up up and stack 'em! Wonderful Life Of The Week Right now I'm sat at a computer cubicle at my local library. Next to me is the same guy I always seem to be sat next to, irrespective of when I actually sit down for a couple of hours. He looks sort of like Bilbo Baggins evil twin brother. I wouldn't ordinarily take any notice but he talks to himself all the time. I get a running commentary of his internet activity. Almost as annoying as BFL, and the last time she sat down beside me (obviously losing a struggle with Gibbering Baggins for that accolade), she very loudly proclaimed what she was doing and moaned when she couldn't. It's been several years and she still hasn't got the message that I'm not interested in being her best friend. That lady who moans about my presence at the library moaned at me again today. And last night, a lady on the bus demanded to know where I got my travel pass from. Why, the bus fairy, of course. All I have to do is lay down a large sum of cash on a particular desk and it magically appears in my hand. Easy.
  19. caldrail

    Coping With Lifes Little Winters

    The colour of light through my bedroom curtains this morning was unmistakeable. Definitely snow. Not a great deal of it, but the yard and car park beyond had been given a white sheen. As I wearily glanced outside, the snow was still falling - it's tailed off right now and the sun is breaking through. Winter has a bit of a problem right now. It doesn't seem to know what sort of weather to throw at us. Wind, rain, snow, bitter cold sunshine, it changes on the hour every hour. Yesterday it started to hail. British hail is somewaht weedy compared to the icy cannon projectiles you get in some parts of the world, but that makes it a mere inconvenience to us Brits. Especially when a hailstone drops straight down the back of your neck, which is what happened to me. There I was, minding my own business, when all of a sudden I'm squirning uncontrollably in the street and making strange moans of discomfort. People notice this sort of thing, usually when they don't know what caused it. Crawling Into Work Another cold morning. TIme then to answer the call of the alarm clock at some ungodly hour of the morning, ignore the protests shouted through the walls of my home, and head down to the bus stop, hopefully fully dressed, for that all important bus to work. I feel so ordinary these days. The town has an empty clammy feel. A long high street is almost deserted and tinged in an amber glow, aside from some guy who I know will be taking the the same bus as me. He stops at a cash machine to pay for his ticket. He's already paid for his cigarettes which he'll chainsmoke as he waits behind me at the bus station. That's his business of course, it's just that he has the annoying habit exhaling as noisily as possible. Swindon's bus station is doomed. They're going to build a new one sooner or later but for now the dull brick edifice hiding under the shadow of a disused multi-story car park will do. A few hardy souls hang around here and there, aside from my chainsmoking fellow passenger who queues up behind me every day so I can derive such pleasure fro listening to his cigarette habit. A van turns up to drop off piles of newspapers. The Devizes bus turns in off the main road. That'll be full of several passengers shortly and probably on its way. Second comes our bus showing 'No Service' as it turns into the bay. The driver gets out and heads into the admin offices for a few minutes. Eventually he'll be back, fussing with the controls of the ungainly double decker, and then allowing us to present travel passes, coins, or desperate pleas for assistance. Some bus drivers are quick, others aren't. Some struggle with issuing ticketrs, some are incredibly efficient. I see the same people boarding or disembarking at the same stops. No-one says hello. We're all too miserable at having to get out of bed to go to work. My Day At Work One of the team leaders goes through the register. After four weeks of persuasion I finally managed to get them to put my name on it. "Caldrail?" Yup. "Pallets today please" That means I'll be wandering around the racks finding empty pallets so the guys unoading containers can put more boxes on them. Well that's the next eight hours sorted then. End Of The Shift Finally it's time to go home. Suddenly the warehouse comes alive and it's a life or death sruggle to find your bag, wrap up for the cold weather outside, and clock out out as the next shift rushes in desperately trying to arrive on time. Hard Hat, my chilled out colleague at work, never rushes at any time. He's never frantic, breathless, urgent, or even remotely rushed for any reason whatsoever. At lunchbreaks he sometimes takes a quick nap. When we wait at the bus stop after work, he's guaranteed to amble up the road long after we've settled who's going to be first to board the bus. A couple of times I've mentioned that my life would be complete if I ever saw Hard Hat running for the bus. My life is complete. And The Winner Is... As a fourteen year old I went with the school on a skiing trip to Austria. All a big adventure at that age, made embarrasing by parents giving us last minute advice and emotional send off's. No matter. We negotiated the unfamiliar hazards of a Dan Air flight to Munich and a long coach journey across the border, finally arriving at the resort. One kid got caught smoking and would have been sent home had that not meant a teacher would have cut short their holiday. On the other hand, the much hated geography teacher got hit by a snowball. By the end of the week, it was time to settle the most important question of all. Who was the best skier? Naturally the dominant lads, the ones good at football, pretty much figured it was one of them, with one character a clear favourite in the stakes. So we gathered on the slopes that last morning for a timed slalom run, not just the school, but every tourist at the site. I was number five in the running order. With mounting trepidation I watched the others head off. Gate 1.. Gate 2... Gate 3... Then Gate 4, a nasty tight left turn on the brow of a steep drop. Every skier in front of me fell over at that point. Okay. I'll make a note of that. Ready!... Three... Two... One... GO! I was off. My mind was absolutely focused on the task. I didn't harbour any fantasies of doing well, but I sure as heck was going to try. Then I arrived at Gate 4. Snowplough braking... turn as I reach the edge and lean in.. Oh yes. That's how it's done. I carried on and headed for the finish line quite satisified with my efforts. The austrians at the finish line were yelling at me, urging me on enthusiatically, and somewhat bemused I gave myself a few pushes with the sticks. They were all thumbs up and germanic appraisals, which I failed utterly to understand. Here's the thing. I was the only skier that day who did not fall over at Gate 4. The only one. I watched amused as each and every contestant did a sort of helpless swan dive off the dip. Not only that, I sat there in disbelief that night when the instructors handed out the certificates. My name wasn't appearing. Until the end. Not only had I beaten my classmates, I'd beaten everyone at the resort, adults as well. Defintely one of my finest moments.
  20. caldrail

    2015 Part One

    Woo hoo! 2015! Yeah. 2015. Who would have thought we'd make it this far? What with the Nostrodamus prophecies of global apocalyptic disaster, global warming, outbreaks of Ebola, christians preaching the return of Jesus and mysterious disappearances, the relentless advance of the electric car, my unemployment benefit payments cancelled, no heating in my home, and finally discovering that being more than fifty years of age really does mean you have to resort to a bus pass. The other day I had a phone call from somebody. Not sure who it was, but they enquired about my involvement in a road accident two and half years ago. Hang on... That would mean the summer of 2012... I haven't driven a car since 2008, which means the only auy I could have gotten involved was if I had driven through a time-space anomaly, the sort of thing my claims advisor stops a claimants money for. Wow. Some accident. New years Resolution I faithfully undertake not to have so many car accidents. Bird In The Hand "Look!" Said the slovakian forklift driver, pointing toward the edge of the racking. Yes. I can see it. What's the big deal? I mean, it's just another piece of rubbish on the floor. I'll pick it up as I go by... "No, look!" He insisted. Then I saw what the big deal was. Not a piece of rubbish, but an actual little brown bird, sat there on the squeaky pale blue dusty floor, trapped in a strange rectilinear forest of cardboard, wood, and steel that we know as a warehouse. I know how it feels. A Pop Song Too Far I happened to catch a television documentary the other day. All about those Swedish superstars, Abba. You know, they may not be exactly the coolest artists to remember from the seventies, but face it, without them, where would Brotherhood of Man be? Truth is I found listening to all those familiar hits from long ago difficult to deal with. So synonomous with my formative years that all those uncomfortably embarrasing memories of being an awkward teenager came flooding back. It wasn't that I had any particular fantasy about the two lovely ladies (and none about their male partners), it's just that Abba were everywhere in those days. Television, radio, music stores... Inescapable. Of course these days I'm a bit older and now I've reached the age where being embarrasing is fun. Such as my guitar playing, military surplus trousers, and a complete inability to balance when the bus is in motion. Mystery Of The Week So now if you'll excuse me, I have another episode of Star Trek related entertainment to wait for. In the meantime I sit there watching the Father Dowling Mysteries. Not that the program entertains me you see, it's just that I live in hope I'll catch the episode where Father Dowling finally succumbs to temptation and seduces Sister Stephanie on one of their late night stakeouts of the villains HQ. I know this sort of thing goes on... I've listened to Abba lyrics.
  21. caldrail

    Tales From A Warehouse

    Although I've already mentioned I'm currently a dustman inside a warehouse, the company did briefly try me on unliading containers. That's where I got the bruises from, both physical and ego related. It turns out that my age and physical fitness have somewhat reduced my ability to handle boxes in excess of twenty five kilos in weight. There's quite a few of them packed into a typical container. Some are more a hundred kilos. Help. Of course I'm not working alone. I joined a bunch of cheery youths engaged in the task of unloading. One lad vanished deep into a gap between boxes to help push them out. Obviously a former housebreaker, he was quickly nicknamed 'Gerbil'. I on the other hand inevitably got called 'Grandad'. Cheers guys. Another chap happened to be in the wrong plae at the wrong time as a box corner buried itself into his groin. "Mind the penis!" He said, somewhat concerned for the continued safe operation of his anatomy. "Nah, you don't need it." I quipped, clearly stung by references to my advancing age. Later on he noted my wheezing helplessness. "I'm not young any more" was my excuse. With some artistic license he replied that he was twice my age and hence my excuse was invalid. "Twice my age?" I answered, "That's why you don't need your penis". Warehousing is such fun. Houston We Have A Challenge One of my colleagues is a very laid back afro-carribean chap. So laid back that the word horizontal loses all meaning. Imagine my suprise then when he told me he liked a challenge. Pardon me? Face it, you're not NASA material. He insisted he could be. Houston - "Ahh, Apollo Thirteen, we have some strange readings back here. Is everything okay up there?" Astronaut - "Housten, we have no problem at all. Houston - "Right. We're showing oxygen leakages. Please confirm." Astronaut - "Oh yeah. Sorry 'bout dat. Heh heh..." I have to work with this guy. Not that any work gets done. On A Mission One of the team leaders called me over. For a moment I thought I was about to get told off for some obscure misdemeanour, but no, the warehouse needed two boxes from the overflow warehouse across the road. So me and a company veteran popped over to the deserted building to risk life and limb in a vain search for two boxes among thousands stashed in tall rows in utter darkness. He found them because he had a torch. I just bumped into a lot of cardbiard and got lost in the darkness. So once I'd been rescued we girded our loins and heaved the boxes out into the damp dark night. Talk about ridiculous. We would have been fine but with strong blustery winds our simple task turned into a sort of kamikaze mission. Once the wind caught the box staying on the pavement was all but impossible, you either wandered helplessly into the road or fall over a herbaceous border. Fear not. Mission accomplished. Eventually. Criticism Of The Week Thee I was minding my own television when some udiot outside the house shouted "Your blog is rubbish!" What? Again? Oh well. At least he read it.
  22. caldrail

    License To Xmas

    Three weeks of winter mayhem they promised us. We do tend to get wintery weather second hand from the States, albeit weakened by its long journey across the Atlantic, and the news reports of deep snowdrifts over there certainly seemed to confirm our impending doom. So what happened? We've barely had a cold day and it's end of December. No white Christmas then. And now the weather warnings are telling us to expect more winter mayhem. In fairness it does seem that some of us are being stopped by snow. Is there any other country in the world so completely unable to cope with a few flakes and icy conditions? License To Kringe Someone at work said you can always tell it's Christmas when a James Bond movie gets aired on television. That might have been the case ten years ago, but high definition digital tv has pretty much destroyed the significance of MI5 and their loveable assassins in our xmas celebrtations. I'm suprised there isn't a James Bond channel by now. Or perhaps there is. I've got so many channels on freeview now that finding something I want to see is turning into anything between a desperate search for the lost entertainment and a nail biting agonising decision over which program is the one to watch. I never knew being a couch potato was so stressfull. Now I come to think about it, Christmas seemed to be a bit muted this year. Even my local supermarket didn't start their annual assault on the nerves with Christmas Hits Of The Last Century until they had two weeks to go. Just enough time to fit them in on a never ending loop interminably then. Not that I'm complaining mind you - one of their shop assistants said hello to me for the first time since I started shopping there twelve years ago. Just another step on my ladder to fame and fortune I guess. I don't know about James Bond movies any more, but certainly at Christmas there's a sudden outbreak of singing and busking. Sure enough this hapened just recently. A smiling rastafarian making the worst racket you've ever heard on some badly tuned tin drums, a small choir in the town centre who hadn't realised that singing in tune sounds better, and a down and out guitar player who repeats the same song over and over just to pass the time of day. It wasn't all bad. There was an amusing puppet mandolin player (the actual player was in an oversized backpack). Funnily enough there were none of these people around when a police car idled by along the pedestrian way. No Deal Of The Week According to the letter from the Department of Work and Pensions, they can't pay me the benefits I claimed from November. Cute. So I exceeded the terms of my Jobseekers Agreement by an order of magnitude, conducted a consistent jobsearch record even when I wasn't being paid for it, and accepted an offer of paid employment way below my level of skill, education, and experience. Worse, I suffered accusations of fraud, defamation of character, and found myself financially coerced into a deal that pretty much amounted to enslavement. Sorryy Eva, but you should have been honest. You reneged on the deal, not me. Lord Rail is back.
  23. caldrail

    Of Dreams And Dungheaps

    Last night I wearily wound my way home from work. That's right, I'm working. Or at least I'm trying to. I've discovered that being over fifty years old isn't what I thought it would be. Blisters on my feet, a long bruise on my leg when a sixty eight kilo carton fell on it, stiff legs from constant walking, and worst of all, a well and truly bruised ego. Being a dustman in a warehouse isn't exactly what I 'd planned for. Across the street were two doormen outside a gentlemans club. I've always called them the 'Bruise Briothers', identikit bruisers with overcoats and bald heads, looking like refugees from a Bond movie audition. They don't think much of me. I'm not bothered about that, but making it known at the top of their jocular voices wasn't welcome. So I'm living in dreamworld, eh? Feels more like a nightmare right now. But maybe you're right. Maybe I should stop believing the world is about possibilities, that I should be arrested for conspiring to be success, or that a migistrate should punish me most severely for several counts of gross assistance to others? Perhaps I should take their example, and stand in a doorway all night haranguing passers by? Then it occurs to me. These two idiots have nothing in their lives other than the right to obstruct whoever they don't like from entering a premises. So they feel powerful. Big fish in a very tiny pond. You know what? They're welcome to it. Okay. Back to the dreamworld. Well And Truly Mistered There is also a rumour that I've had my title taken away. Not true. I can squish that rumour with one sentence. What did happen was that instead of an interrogation, my claims advisor then decided to try and become a sort of mother figure. Why is it that middle aged women from northern England have to be so odious? Or is that people in the north push these harridans elsewhere because they can't stand them either? In an impossibly condescending tone, she informed me that my title was 'just a bit of paper' and that it was a serious impediment to getting a job? Pardon me? I've had more interest from employers in the last six months than I did in the last six years. Well. She's devalued all my efforts to find a job, reduced me to plebian status in the eyes of the Job Centre, accused me of acting illegally, virtually blackmailed me by witholding dole payments, and then had the gall to think I would in some way begin to respect her. No wonder I'm feeling a bit woebegone. The irony of this is that barely minutes before I was obliged to change my CV on the internet to a politically correct and colourless mini-me version, my somewhat more colourful CV with title and heradlry finally got me a job. As a dustman in a warehouse. Unfair Life Of The Week It so happens that one of my colleagues at work is a caucasian immgrant from Bradford. He sympathised with my description of my claims advisor - maybe I was right about northern women after all - but what amzes me is how this twenty one year old is getting interesting things to do. Technicaly he's supposed to be doing the same sorts of things as me, but on one day he was asked to go upstairs into the IT department to help out, then the other day, got a message that he would spend the next day in the offices doing photography for their marketing department. Yeah. See you at work mate. At least I've still got the weekend to feel sorry for myself and find the will to do the dishes.
  24. caldrail

    Documenting My Week

    "I'm cold" mentioned a young lady to her friends outside the library this morning. She's right. It is. That usually happens around the start of December so quite why she's dressed in the bare minimum of clothing I don't know. Dogs don't have this problem because they come with fur coats attached. I spotted a little keeshond puppy last night and couldn't resist the temptation to approach the owner and find some excuse to pet the little bundle of furry fun. We used to have a keeshond many years ago. Wonderful dogs, full of character, full of spirit, and this little one was no exception. They break your heart but every tear is worth it. Not sure about the half naked girl outside the library though. Who's Kidding Who? Our chancellor, some guy called George Osbourne who seems to have popped out of thin air, has just released his Autumn Statement, the last chance the government have to impress us with their economic policies and results before Cameron starts his campaign to justify another five years of the media catwalk. So has George Osbourne impressed us? I have no idea. I changed channels. I did notice that they claimed unemployment was down. Yes, George, I know. You shameless fakers pushed me off benefits along with everyone else to claim that. With a bit of luck they'll catch a few of you on illegal earnings. Wouldn't be the first time, would it? Dealing With Dole Documents Talking about benefits, my self imposed exile is up and my new claim is under way. The bad news is that I'm back with Eva Braun as my claims advisor. She doesn't like me. Or my jobsearching. Or my evidence. Or my military surplus trousers. She's northern. They don't have fashion in the north of England. In order to claim nil earnings payments from the Council to compensate for my self imposed exile I must complete my submission of documentary evidence before the deadline because I voluntarily exiled myself from benefits and if I don't meet the deadline I get no cash. With me so far? Okay, keep up. I have submitted all the documentary evidence I have so far and now I'm only awaiting the letter that tells me I'm back on benefits at the specified rate. You may now breathe once to maintain conciousness. That would have arrived within the specified deadline except that the Department of Work and Pensions have decided that I must submit my bank statements that I failed to submit to the claims handler who took photocopies of them at the Job Centre. Still here? I'm impressed. So now that I'm unable to submit that final letter confirming my new benefits payments because submitting my bank statements again will delay confirming my new claim, and so in order to inform the Council of my inability to meet their deadline for nil earnings submissions, I had to submit my letter from the Job Centre telling me to submit my bank statements that I already submitted. Not only that, I had to explain all this to a lady from the Council who probably woke up this morning expecting a dull boring afternoon. Just another day on the dole queue - as soon as the letter confirming it arrives. Sorry Apologies to Ghost for trumping his b-fortnightly blog entry yet again. It isn't deliberate - I'm just losing track of which year it is. I noticed this morning a letter from the Job Centre telling me a payment had been made for "going into full time work". What the...? So I made a phone call and the DWP contact centre didn't know what I was talking about. Then I made a visit to the Council to register the evidence when the kind lady behind the desk pointed out the letter was two years old. DOH !!!! Salute of the Week It seems my neighbours are beginning to get the hint about late night noise. Just this week one of them warned me he was having a birthday celebration. That he was expecting guests wouldn't bother me, I was only concerned at what would happen after they came back from the clubs. No problem he assurred me. So I'd like to thank Black Sabbath, Led Zeppelin, the Who, Deep Purple, and any other pioneer of very loud music for providing me with the tools to achieve peace and quiet in the wee small hours.
  25. caldrail

    When Will We Be Famous?

    It's no good. After several evenings of cheap ready meals and the leftovers of my fridge, I felt there was no choice but to succumb to temptation. So I took the oportunity to blow some of my savings on a takeaway meal to stave off dietary diseases and boredom. At the local fired chicken store, one I frequent now and then when I have money to spend, I selected my favourite peri-peri meal. It'll blow my head off but for the english, this culinary torture is a masochistic pleasure, and for me, a welome relief. As a patient and indullgent father proceeded to order the deaths of several more hapless chickens, his daughter and a friend were turning the fast food establishment into an impromptu dance floor. I wonder if they're students at the performing arts school up the road? Not quite the colleges we get in England for that purpose (there's one in Swindon too), and far away from the psuedo-professional arts education parents throw thousands of dollars at every year to try and get their kids into a child-actor role in their summer break, but the result is the same. These two kids clearly believed utterly they were going places. "When we're famous..." One started, listing her favourite and desirable lifestyle accesories to achieve before her career implodes in a haze of drugs and divorces, the other simply giggling at the prospect. At this point I have to be honest. I have after all some experience of the performing arts, even professionally for a few years, and at a glance I noticed something. Despite these two girls confidence, their movements were less than elegant, their voices unpleasant to listen to at giggling volume, and whilst I'm sure their fathers think the world of their little angels, they aren't going to grow up to be lookers. It's a tough world. Especially when you want to be famous. Was I like that at their age? Dreaming of fame and fortune? Yep. I was. The difference is that I had parents who refused point blank to tolerate my adventures in music and so I did them anyway, pushing at the inertia of world ignorance with every ounce of my feeble efforts. These two young ladies are going to learn sooner or later that fame costs. And this is where you start... Well, you know what I mean.... I shook my head at the foolish ambition before me then hurriedly explained to the fast food assistant that I did want my meal with fries. Lacking Balance The sun has come out this morning. That's pretty much the good news today as I wade through the formalities of keeping the authorities notified of changes in my circumstances and benefits claims. My first gripe is my sense of balance. I'm reaching the age when falling over is no longer funny, and tends to get a bit painful. Caught in one of those 'banana skin' moments with wet leaves this morning... Woah!.. No, I've recovered, no I haven't... Uo-oh, this is embrarrasing....AAARGH! Thud. Ouch... I discover I've thumped my hand on the ground leaving very uncomfortable bruises and skin abrasions.What is happening to my life? Forty Things To Do Last week I saw one of those news items on my email service, the sort where someone lists all the things you should before you're forty. Most of them are faintly ridiculous, impossible, or self contradictory, written by some moron who thinks that visiting Paris is romantic, or jumping from an aeroplane an achievement, or that eating at a michelin rated resteraunt says something about you. One of the things to do was having children , which the commentator corectly pointed made the others more or less unachievable. But there's something more important here. It's the idea that we can claim a measure of esteem from our peers if we conform to their ideas of achievement. It's nothing more than keeping up with the Joneses. Do you really want to measure your life to a list of social requirements made by someone else? Or would you prefer to strive for something you decide is worthwhile? I suppose you could argue that wanting to be a rock star as I did in my younger days was nothing more than attempting to conform to some ideal. Perhaps. It didn't feel that way for me - that was far more of a personal struggle to free myself of family restraint and become my own man, forge my own future, and not have the fixed plan laid out before me that my mother and father clearly were striving to foist upon my shoulders. My mother always manipulating me, my father always making arrangements behind my back. I was so angry in those days - no wonder I became a rock drummer. Die, audience. Feel the power of my percussive wrath. Well I had my few moments of fame. Not so fortunate, as it turned out, but life throws those banana skins at us. Performer of the Week I came home a couple of days ago and ionce I'd thrown off footwear, jackets, shopping, and had the chance to sit and catch some breath, there was some weird music coming from somewhere. Sort of like Gary Numan's Tubeway Army when they're feeling sad and lonely. It was my downstairs neighbour, whose attempts to be deep and meaningful in the medium of song was seriously mournful. I turned the television on, raised the volume, but she didn't get the hint, the music was still audible. So there was nothing for it but to raise my morale and lift the mood with a blast of death metal. Ahhhh....... So peaceful.....
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