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There it was again - Another flicker of light. What on earth is going on? Curiosity got the better of me and I opened the back window last night to try and see what was causing that phenomenon. It was a pretty ordinary evening. Not too cold, perhaps a bit damp, and apart from the odd swish of a passing car, or the flitter of a bat to and fro, nothing stirred. The local cat was making its way home across the yard, a sign that the foxes were coming out to play. Then I realised what those strange flickers were. Far away to the west a thunderstorm was in progress, too far away for thunder to be heard. Normally our vision is very limited in stormy weather and we only get a more immediate and dramatic experience. It just so happened there wasn't much cloud to impede the firework display, and that's the first time I've ever seen such a distant storm in this country. What a fascinating and surreal sight. Close Quarter Battle Has anyone seen this series about special forces and military tactics? Generally it's quite informative if not exactly gripping, but I had to laugh at the reconstruction of a French Foreign Legion attack on an airfield. They couldn't afford blanks and had to add barrel flashes with some cheesy special effects. Naturally. Tantrum of the Week "What gives him the right to use that title?" screeched some lady at the library earlier today, clearly outraged that her socialist sympathies were being ignored by legal rights and thousands of years of tradition and custom. Off with my head? Not around here lady. There's been a few people muttering darkly just lately. Not that it makes any difference. I'm entitled ,you see, and that's all there is to it.

Times may be a'changin', but Swindon carries on going its own way. Or is it? Just recently I notied our local HMV store has re-opened after falling victim to the terrible economic Black Death that stalked the towns and cities of England not so long ago. Not only that, but just the other afternoon I spotted the first white metal frames at the Old College site. As if I could miss them. They tower above the surroundings and make the assurances of the developers that the buildings wouldn't be any higher than the yard look like promises made by megalomaniac German dictators not to invade neighbouring countries. Yes, the Old College is a'changin'. They've stopped shuffling piles of mud, sand, and gravel around and everywhere I see machines and building materials in a chaotic life or death struggle for space. You mean... They're actually going to build it? Oh Joy Not everything changes. The male population of this town still seems to have trouble with orsinary social contact. These days I only have to be caught glancing at some people and I get accused of being a pervert. I had no idea rolling cigarettes was such a private and intimate experience. Perhaps if the gentleman concerned might care to do that in private no-one would notice him. On the other hand, I if walk past minding my own business, I get sarky comments for not being sociable. It seems the only way to avoid such social difficulties is to walk with your head down looking at a mobile phone. Half the population seem to be dowing that now. Is it just me or am I living in some kind of fifties scifi B movie? Any moment now and I'm going to hear a Tardis appearing with some extrovert idiot waving a sonic screwdriver around. The good Doctor had better watch it though. We have plenty of joy riders in this area... Foggy Start It was foggy this morning. Just thought I'd mention it. Stain Of The Week Every so often I make a vain attempt to take a decent night-time photograph. The results are always blurry and unsatisafying no matter what setting I use, but I try, nonetheless. Anyway with that new frame on the building site and a somewhat misty night, the scene was atmospheric, full of shadow and soft light in amber and pale green. Having made the effort I stopped to take in the scene properly. The night air had a bite to it, yet without a breath of wind to make it uncomfortable. For a moment I I took it all in then noticed an odd shadow in the yard below me. Is that a fox? It was. Staring up at me as if transfixed by the activities of some idiot human being who really ought to be doing something useful like catching mice or digging nice warm holes. Once the young fox had realised the show was over it got on with being a fox, and incidentially, if you're the owner of a silver hatchback with some mysterious stains on the left hand side, I know who did it.

Just one of those days I guess. All of a sudden everyone wants to talk to me, everything has to happen as soon as possible, and poor little me has to rush around like an overstressed gibbon trying to get through it all. I have to point out of course that most of you do this all day every day. I don't. Being unemployed for a long time rather reduces your pace of life. For me popping down to the shops is an event. A phone call? For me? I didn't know this thing actually worked. Anyway, I was at the library and having finished reading important emails, sending urgent replies, and recording that all important online information my claims advisor doesn't read, I had one last phone call to make concerning a job opportunity. So log off and down to the foyer where I can use my mobile. A librarian followed me down the stairs. Going about her business rather than actually following me, you have to understand, but hey, I live in hope. Funnily enough though she was watching me descend. I know this because as I stumbled and risked a much quicker and painful descent, she made a helpful comment that I had nearly fallen ass over tit. I wish to extend my appreciation for her helpful observation on the matter. Could save my life one day. Under Observation On the subject of being at the library, and having previously written about my own personal conspiracy theory, I notice that there's a young gentleman who seems to be taking an interest in my going to and fro. Normally that would worry me somewhat. Blonde female librarians are more than welcome, big burly blokes are not. The reason I mention this is that after I stride past he mutters "He's on his way back to the house". A paranoid individual might assume that some super secret intelligence agency is putting me under surveillance. Pfah! Yeah right. Since when did a 'tail' make himself obvious by passing information within earshot of the subject? Now as it happens, I learned about surveillance techniques courtesy of Wiltshire Polce many moons ago. So, matey boy, where are the other eleven personnel needed for a minimum close surveillance team? Don't tell me, they're on Facebook like all the rest of your fantasy friends. Hey, I've just realised - I am my own wikileaks! Forget Julian Lozenge and Edwin Snowed-under, check out the reality of conspiracy theory right here on this very blog. Now if you'll excuse me, I have some red laser dots to avoid. Can't wait for the car chase. Observation of the Week The other day I bumped into a mate of mine. We worked at the same warehouse over last christmas. I got laid off for the same old reasons; being too good at my job, being too scruffy, and being too friendly with female managers. The usual. He still works there in between getting blind steaming drunk, but I guess he can afford the booze. That's the advantage of a steady job. Anyhow every time we bump into each other he's always got an anecdote about his latest inebriated night out. I so look forward to his tales of derring do and falling over. Mostly the story ends with him waking up in some ridiculous situation. This last episode culminated in him waking up beside a female shop mannequin. Trust me, the British Board of Censors won't like the climax of this tale. Maybe it's just me, but I prefer blonde female librarians. As I know from my own experience they make useful life saving comments.

Poor old badgers. They do seem to be getting in the neck right now, with a government authorised cull in progress. As it happens badgers have always had a difficult existence what with rural baiters and the like. A couple of years ago I headed out into the countryside for a hike and by the roadside was a dead badger impaled on a stick, clearly left for someone to see. I wonder who? I must be honest, at the time that gory sight left me unmoved. Hard to understand why. Witnessing the natural world, especially those moments when something unexpected happens, can be a wonderful experience. The inanimate corpse seemed a little unreal. Deprived of life the badger had become an ordinary object in some way. That's the trouble with nature. A tiger is a magnificent creature, full of colour and character. It's also a very powerful and dangerous carnivore. I watched documentary footage of a mother tiger leaving an unconcious deer to one of her cubs so it had the opportunity to discover how to kill it. Life goes on. Personally I don't want to see large numbers of badgers slaughtered. However, I'm also aware that the countryside is not a public park even though, like most townies, I tend to treat it as such. It's a working enviroment, a place to cultivate and produce food, and if the threat of badgers spreading tuberculosis to agricultural herds is real and will affect my own ability to eat and drink, then survival kicks in and I must reluctantly allow those who know better to get on with it. Is it any wonder that badgers and foxes see towns as a better bet? Giving Generously Every so often you see adverts on television asking for donations for charity. They usually show children, because our natural instinct is to help the helpless. Background music gives an emotional edge, accentuating the tragedy of their situation, appealing to us to right wrongs with a smal gesture of what is curently a fashionable

As a jobseeker the vast majority of vacancies I find are pretty mundane. So dull and boring, I suspect, that these companies need to advertise for desperate jobseekers to fill the role. For a country with a National Minimum Wage, it comes as a suprise to see so many advertised for

Switch on the television today and chances are a car advert will appear. Not sure why they're so frequent all of a sudden but it might have something to do with the daft names they give cars these days. Go? Ka? Cee'd? What's all that about? Now I see one for the Vauxhall Adam. What next? The Nissan Nigel? Toyota Terence? The Ford Fred? God forbid someone should build a car called Eve. That will bring new meaning to a warning sign for "road humps". I can't help thinking that the use of 'fun' names is to try and compensate for a boring motorised shopping trolley. That would be bad enought, but the adverts themselves are just so daft Watching a vehicle swerve through an urban landscape to avoid getting splashed wiith paint by jealous buildings is an interesting piece of media, just not an interesting car to feature. Watching a high diver slip majestically through the space left by open doors of a suspended vehicle is clever, but when would you actually park a vehicle on its side twenty feet above a swimming pool? Truth is, it's the visual theme or the music soundtrack that's more interesting than the hybrid eco-buggy they want you to buy. Good album that. Must log onto iTunes and download it. Adverts can be pretentious too. "Soul of motion"? What's that? A mystical force created by all moving things that surrounds us, binds the universe together? I have this image in my head of car designers sat at their workstations with the blast shield down, stretching out with their feelings to try and create a car that Han Solo will say is a match for a good blaster. I seriously don't believe that the adverts are right when they descrivbe a car as "breaking with convention". Not only do they look exactly like everyone elses, they probably are the same vehicle to all intents and purposes. Face it, a truly unconventional car wouldn;t sell. Car names used to be classy, or at least, better than the monosyllabic versions we get now. Even if the cars themselves were heaps of junk built in between tea breaks and strikes by union activists in the midlands of darkest Britain, the names were in a different league. Forget this idiotic obsession with trying to make customers believe their cars are in any way interesting. What we need are bold exciting names like Ferrari Fury, or Lamborghini Lacerator, names that inspire the designer to put a bit of life into their project. As it happens Audi has saved civilisation as we know it by showing their R8 with the engine cover removed on a rolling road. A quick acceleration through the gears then coming to a standstill, engine burbling menacingly, interspersed with some vicarious snorts and growls, exuding testerone and to my mind one of the best car adverts ever. Building Site Update Still fascinated by the Old College site visible from my back window. So are many other passers by, who stop at the wire fence to oggle the wierd and wonderful machinery used to excavate a massive canyon in the side of Swindon hill. It just keeps getting deeper. At the far end the channel is now so deep that even from my high vantage point, the diggers are almost lost inside. Before long it'll get so feep that the site will generate its own climate. There'll be hairy sub-human mutant tribes descended from long lost construction workers, dragging peoples cars into the depths at night to worship the starnge God of automobile mass production. Maybe they'll find archaeological evidence of my stolen Eunos Cabriolet? The Bicycle Cometh The road junction at the bottom of the hill can get quite entertaining. The traffic lights sometimes get out of sync and you can always tell when that happens because suddenly every vehicle in sight draws to an undignified halt with a crecendo of horn blasts. So noisy in fact that motorists are forced to communicate with sign language. Coming round the bend at the other end from me was a black BMW, accelerating quickly and risking angry gestures from frustrated motorists. I've noticed for a ong time that BMW drivers are often quite arrogant and self absorbed. He just couldn't resist a couple of hundred yards of empty road ahead of him. This was one of those strange moments when time seems to slow almost to a halt. Even at that distance, even with his tinted windscreen, we locked eyes on each other. We knew each others mind. He wanted to tear past me enjoying his germanic performance. I wanted to cross the road at a pedestrian crossing. He looked at me. I looked at him. He gunned the accelerator, I pressed the fateful button. He gritted his teeth in a determined dash to beat the lights. I waited patiently with a smug grin. His car slithered to a halt before a red light with a flattened nose visible on the glass. I walked across the road unflustered and victorious. Bow down before the might of civilisation, BMW driver. But what's going to happen after the government have invested gazillions of pounds promoting bicycles instead of keeping roofs over the heads of unemployed people? Truth of the matter is cyclists have a rule book all of their own, and it isn't very thick. They routinely ignore pedestrian crossings or bye laws prohibiting cycling on the pavement. Just the other morning a youngster performed a wheelie whilst managing to avoid the pedestrians. He aimed his bike in my direction. I looked at him with raised eyebrows He brazenly defied sanity by continuing his wheelie. I got out of the way. So there you have it. The bicycle is more powerful than the BMW. Or me.

Britain was never intended to be this warm. Could someone do something about that please? Or does that mean I have to pay more tax? My Big Mistake Of The Week I made a huge mistake. I admit it. Sometimes it happens. There it was on the television schedules - Doctor Who Live. pardon? My curisosity was aroused. I don't paricularly care for the childish and hyped up modern Doctor Who (it's just Harry Potter with a sonic screwdriver instead of a wand, a tardis rather than a Nimbus 2000) and I've ranted against the reliance on visual imagery instead of interesting stories (not to mention an intrusive and overwhelming music score), but genuinely I wondered what a live Doctor Who programme was going to be like. That was my mistake. I should have realised. What I witnessed was a half hour programme dedicated to revealing the actor who will play the new Doctor Who. All done in true game show style. I paid my license fee for this? What was the BBC talking about when it said 'quality programming'? I think Jeremy Clarkson should be the new Doctor Who. Powersliding the tardis around a time/space anomaly whilst on fire is right up his street. And he can have james May expaklin all the science as he goes. And Richard Hammond to fix things when it all goes horribly wrong. Let's face it, with the Stig at the controls, who is going to travel in time faster? A lost opportunity to save civilisation as we know it. Baby Alert Ooops. Too late. Sorry about that. Moan of the Week Having looked closely at my finances I discover how frighteningly small my profit margin is. Happily however being paid every two weeks means that in two months of the year I get more money than usual. That being the case this month, I decided it was time I allowed myself the luxury of a visit to my local Subway. That might not seem very luxurious to some, but then a meal for four pounds is quite expensive for my budget. Besides, it gets me out of the house for a while, and who knows, I might meet someone. Isn't that what self-help pundits normally tell us? My shrinking world could do with stretching a little. Sometimes it feels like that episode of Star Trek Next Generation when the ship gets more and more restricted in size - I think they did two episodes on that theme as it happens, once with Captain Picard retreating from a deadly radiation sweep whilst battling terrorists, and once with Dr Crusher quite literally in a universe of her own. Fact is, if my world gets any smaller, I'll pop out of existence altogether, which I strongly suspect would please some people no end. Since there's no Scotty to beam me up, I'll just have to make what I can of the situation. I sat down to enjoy my meal. Normally I don't get bothered by anyone, but I couldn't help noticing that a couple were staring at me from across the aisle. Not admiring glances, or genuine curiosity, but quiet contempt and outrage. Ah yes. Being unemployed these days means that you're not allowed to spend money on anything enjoyable - that's a right reserved for decent hard working people. So despite paying my billls and taxes, despite complying with all the requirements of the jobseekers coontract, despite my continued search for gainful employment, I must suffer the social disgrace of not having a job. Welcome to David Cameron's brave new world, The Big Society. If anyone doesn't understand what it is. what it amounts to is a charter for moaning minnies to make other peoples lives even more unpleasant than they already are and claim a moral right to do so. The sooner that idiot is voted out office the better as far as I'm concerned.

The last few days have been quite warm, a typical British summer, and that wa quite enough for me. Luckily the nights cooled things down. A bit. Before the weekend however, the weatherman on television was beaming with malicious delight. Watch out for the weekend - it's going to be a scorcher. Okay. yawn. I got up late this morning having been up all night. As usual in summer, the air within my home was a little stuffy but I had things to do, so the atmosphere was of little concern. As soon as I opnened the front door to go to the shops - Woah! A blast of hot air hit me. That weatherman wasn't kidding. This is seriously warm folks. Turning Into Ash At the bottom of the hill traffic was held up. Roadworks? There's been some further down. I was wrong however, as a small fleet of fire engines were parked up on the road junction. On the pavement, a burned out sports car. The local lap dancing club gutted by fire. It turns out some guy reversed his car into the premises and poured pertol over the vehicle before setting it on fire. Good grief, as if it wasn't warm enough around here already.... Turning Toward Triump Andy Murray has won the Mens Singles at Wimbledon. I apologise for the late news but since it took Mr Murray seventy years to win the match, I thought no-one would mind if I neglected to tell you immediately. Unfortunately David Cameron was a bit quicker off the mark. His suggestion to give Mr Murray a knighthood for winning at Wimbledon has left me a bit peeved because I won a game of conkers when I was twelve and the letter confirming my OBE still hasn't arrived. Oh yes, I forgot, the Health & Safety Executive made the game of conkers a threat to civilisation as we know it. I'll shut up before I get jailed for living dangerously. Vote for Murray - Turning Britain around. Turning Countries Around The dramatic events in Egypt have been the subject of considerable news footage. During an interview with some guy who apparently understood what was going on, the scrolling headline underneath said "Britain does not support regime change". Really? So we were right about those weapons of mass destruction in Iraq after all? My advice to the people of Egypt is to keep practising. Eventually you'lll get this military coup business right and finally win. Turning Jobseekers Around Our local library has been hosting a job club for a few years now. It's useful getting an extra couple of hours to search the world wide web for all those vacancies the jobsite adverts promise are out there. It's easy too. Unfortunately the library service have decided it's too easy as well, and now we're only going to get eight weeks each. How exactly does that assist me getting a job? By giving the opportunity to everyone else? And I've got a claims advisor who seems to believe I spend the entire day sat in front of a computer waiting for the next vacancy to appear.

Those sweaty summer nights are with us again. I blame America - we always get our weather secondhand from them. Hiowever I can't blame them for the behaviour of the locals. As soon as the warmth kicks in they start behaving like they're on a mediterranean holiday, shouting, throwing, or generally hitting each other. You might not be suprised to hear that happened last night. Again. Clearly the way to improve social behaviour is not by fines or visits to a magistrates court, but banning summer. When is our government going to do something useful? Move Along Please There's a bunch of african lads who've moved into the area turning our little preserve of working class England into some kind of Los Angeles in red brick and elm trees. They were out in the yard behind my home last night, enjoying themselves in a rowdy fashion and without having anywhere else to go in the wee small hours. They went quiet all of a sudden. Certainly wasn't down to me. i was too busy trying to find a comfortable sleeping position. Move Along, Please As the British normally do any hint of sun means we get into this strange contest to see who can wear the least clothing. I can't help thinking that people do that because it's merely fashionable or simply their way of fitting in with the crowd of aimless citizens wandering around town for no better reason than to justify minimising their wardrobe. Move Or Else Sorry lads. Not your house.

"Our house!" For a while now I've been hearing that phrase. Usually I hear it from young males in the street outside. I must admit I thought it was just kids being silly with some kind of catch-phrase. On one occaision however a shiny black car pulled over to the side the road as I wandered on my way to a local supermarket. It was driven by a youngster, which was unusual in itself. How many eighteen year-olds in Britain can afford any car insurance whatsoever? Kids drive bangers or their parents second car. That's the way it is. But anyway the youth at the wheel poked his head out and and asserted confidently "Our house!". Just last night it all got a bit more menacing. A passer in the street said to his mate "It's all right, he'll be out of there by the end of the year". Clearly they meant me to hear it too. Well the flat doesn't belong to the local bad lads any more than it does me, it's the property of the landlord and whatever financial agencies he chooses to do business with. However I do have a long term tenancy (I've been there a decade) and a rental agreement. Anything more than polite negotiation and these individuals are in breach of anti-social, criminal, and property law. Chances are those idiots can't read beyond the fatuous world of tabloid newspapers, or indeed understand that there's a world beyond gangsta rap, but assuming they happen to be keeping their eyes on my activities - sorry boys - you're out of order. And now everyone knows it. Hey - I can shout too. The Camp Fire The unsettling development put me in a pensive mood as you might imagine. Shakespeare might of had me wandering around my camp incognito, listening to the troops conversing and gauging their mood for the ensuing struggle. Instead I have to make do with opening the back window and watching the world go by as the daylight fades. It didn't take long to spot Mr Fox, busy searching his new domain dutifully. Against the pale dry gravel it's difficult to miss him even in low light. Sure enough I spotted the cat too. It seems the feline instinct is to leave the area when the fox hoves into view. The cat was already heading for home, leaping up onto a weed infested earth bank on the public side of the fence. Then I saw something else appearing onto the stage. No! It can't be! It was. Mr Fox is actually Mrs Fox, and there, not far away, was a youngster, already with his bushy tail and busy copying the searching tactics of his mum. Thing is though, if there's one fox cub, there must be... Yes! Two more came into view. Playfulness got the better of them and the gravel pile became a kingdom to win. Mother wasn't bothered. Her cubs are old enough to watch out for themselves now and there's a dinner to be found and caught. They probably won't survive much longer given they've taken up home on a major building site, what with the local vermin problem and all. Having written this, there's an outside chance I've sealed their fate. C'est la vie. But it was a genuinely uplifting sight nonetheless. Actually right now they're probably doing more good than harm. So Mrs Fox, if you wouldn't mind eating the pesky little varmint that keeps piddling on my kitchen floor, I'd be grateful. Dawn Breaks Well, I must be on my way. My appointment is drawing nigh and I must do bloody battle with the evil Claims Adviser and his minions of officialdom. Once more unto the job centre dear friends, once more...

Another day, another jobsearch. My claims advisor doesn't like me doing anything other than seeking gainful employment and is trying to force me to waste more of my time looking for jobs I applied for last week, but you see, all work and no play makes Caldrail a dull applicant. So my claims adviosor can... well... off. As I write this I'm entertained by the efforts of a young man to woo the pretty young blonde sat next to him. He started quite well - she liked the attention - but he hasn't gone in for the coup de date and she's starting to lose interest. Ahh - he's realised the attempt is flagging, and is now deflecting her attention by helping her with a problem on the PC. Good move actually - he's drawn closer to her. Oh no, he's run out of technical details he can get away with, and backs off having achieved nothing. She's replying in shorter and quieter sentences - disaster. Well young man, you tried. Both have stopped talking and all he does now is glance at her occaisionally. I feel like interrupting and teling her that the guy next to her wants a date. A part of me thinks I should ask her for myself and to heck with him, but of course she's a lot younger and probably wouldn't dream of dating her granddad. Mind you, I would probably tire of her mobile phone activity and empty conversation quite quickly, so the only real option I would have would be to bankrupt myself with a child. At least the first twenty minutes is fun even if dealing with messy breakups and conversations with authorities isn't. Ohhh... Hang on... She hasn't lost interest completely. Funnily enough, he has, because it turns out her conversation is horribly monotone and nasal. The thought of discussing which side of the bed to use puts me off as well. Oh well, back to the job website. There's a job for a customer service advisor going somewhere. No. Me neither. Back On The Site Lately I've been watching developments on the old college site. The local cat has been prowling around, slowly, sniffing at almost every lump of gravel, almost as if it's exploring the new enviroment. The fox I saw the other night doesn't care about new sights and smells, it wants dinner, and trots here and there looking for likely spots to nab a furry rodent or two. It spots me at the window - I wonder if that's the same fox that prowled around my home last year? - but after an appraisal decides I serve no useful purpose, and continues his search for lunch, zigzagging over the angular gravel terrain. Back on the Farm The rat has been sighted. twice in my bedroom - which was an alarming sight to say the least - and it left a calling card on the floor of the kitchen a few nights ago. So far I haven't figured out where the little monster is getting in but mark my words rodent - you future is grim.

How things are changing outside my window. For some time now the Old College site has been no more than a mountainous lanscape of crushed college, but now that work is ubnder way to develop the site (at last), the hillside is being cut into and levelled. It's extraordinary how much gravel and dirt has been removed. Even more extraordinary are the metal bolsters that are used to shore up the alleyway at the back of the site. They must be something like fifty feet in length or more and each is being driven into the ground until the top disappears. All in all a fascinating sight. Trouble At Mill Somewhat less impressive is my claims advisor at the job centre. He clearly has no intention of taking any notice of what I tell him, and indeed, delights in rubbishing everything I say. This has happened before and is a precursor to having my payments stopped. There's a sense of injustice about this, not just because the advisor is known to me as a dishonest person, but because I exceed the requirements of my jobseekers contract by a factor of three or four. More Trouble At Mill Some of the youths in my area are getting a bit above themselves. In the hours of darkness they've taken to claiming property as their own and announcing their ownership at the top of their voices. Sometimes they taunt and threaten quite brazenly. Someone in my street is being told to leave their house or face the consequences. And the Police? You may well ask.