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Cold, wet, miserable. That's pretty much how Swindon is right now, and that's probably not far different from how the rest of the country feels, give or take a flood here and there. Even my local Subway aren't smiling when I arrive to spend a few more hard earned dole payments on something to eat. Hey - It's not my fault this that or the other is on special offer this week. All is not lost however. The old Thompson Insurance place on the High Street - It's been empty for years - is being refitted as a suntan emporium. In Swindon? We don't know the meaning of sunshine. I've seen the machine itself, looking like something out of Star Trek. Well, I suppose it's appropriate. What with all the saturday night klingons we've got wandering around the town. Road Manners The work on the Old College site has spilled out onto the road junction beyond the fence. The pedestrian crossings are replaced by temporary versions next them, plastic fences erected everywhere, railings uprooted, traffic islands dug up. Motorists are a bit confused by all these changes - the other day a workman shouted at one old guy "Look mate! GIVE WAY!", which of course is exactly what most druivers aren't doing, turning the junction into a motorised russian roulette. Mind you, the presence of a police car certainly made some motorists a bit more obedient. There's a dark blue Ford Mustang that I sometimes see burbling around the town. Not one of the classic versions, it's the new model, looking oddly exotic in rainy old Swindon. For my tastes it stands too tall on the road - practical but not really sporty. The thing is the driver, for reasons known only to himself, likes to rev the engine when he passes me. Sorry mate, Im not gay, no matter what that fat idiot on the gate of the Old College site says. Anyway, I was walking along the local high street and there he was again. Vrooom! Actually, the V8 sounds great,and for that matter I can't condemn him for exuberance. Heaven knows I've done my share of exuberant driving in the past. But unfortunately I wasn't the only one who heard that blip on the accelerator. The driver didn't see the police car waiting to pull out behind a parked vehicle. Ooops. Car Advert Of The Week There's a glossy television advert doing the rounds right now for the Nissan Qashqai. I suppose they have to advertise it - cars of that sort don't sell themselves - but I had to laugh. The advert features a man taling hold of a metal bar suspended on a pulley and cable, wafting down the city boulevard at night, with the voiceover claiming that all cars should drive like that. What? Hanging on for dear life, unable to stop, and unable to steer? Not my idea of driving a car, I have to say.

Many many years ago in that Jurassic era I call my childhood, I sometimes made a journey across the countryside to Lydiard Park. Back then West Swindon didn't exist. Just abandoned railway yards, farmland, and overgrown flak emplacements from WW2. I always remember passing through a village on the way where beside the road was a brake of trees that never seemed to grow any leaves, just existing as towering stalks of dark grey, always surrounded by flocks of crows that made the most unholy noise. Of course now the village is absorbed into West Swindon and the unholy noise is made by late night drunkards. The crows have gone. Maybe that's because they had more sense than to stay. After all, crows and ravens are very clever birds. I've seen a video clip of a crow using its puzzle solving abilities. Within seconds it retrieved a little metal basket full of food from an upright plastic cylinder by using a small metal rod with a hook at one end. I have to say, it was a very impressive display of animal intelligence. A few weeks ago I was taking a shortcut through my local park. Normally it's quiet, a useful quality for a remembrance garden, but on this occaision four crows were having a bit of a tiff. They flapped their wings ceaselessly, hopped from branch to branch in some avian parody of martial arts fighters, going at each other hammer and tongs. I can't remember what I said. Something like "Oh shut up" as I remember, and whaddya know? The crows stopped making noises, stopped moving, and the garden returned to its normal peaceful condition. Thank you. So there you have it. Crows and ravens are not only quite intelligent, but very polite too. Don't know where they learned that from. It clearly wasn't the average Swindon youth. Sermon Of The Week I lost my temper. I really did. There I was, minding my own business as I strode homeward, when I encountered those pesky christian preachers. As they often do, one bellowed praise of Jesus and excerpts from his best seller whilst his mate handed out little cards with his phone number on them. Out of the corner of my eye I couldn't help spotting his approach (the card distributor, not Jesus), grinning like a cheshire cat and determined to intercept me. That was when I lost my temper. "How many times do you have to be told NO!" I barked at him. Poor bloke. He backed off ever so quickly. He wasn't in much danger of course - a policeman was but yards away chatting to a member of the public and must of heard me explode. Funnily enough the preacher stopped shouting too.

Where shall I go today? The library, so I can do more internetting? Or the Support Centre so I can do more job searching? It doesn't really matter because I'll end up doing both today as I do every day. Today I will go to the library first I think. Nothing ike variety in the working day. The road crossing outside the library also happens to be where the main entrance to the Old College building site is. The tarmac is crumbling under stress and has become a building site all of its own as repairs to the road take place. With lorries coming and going from the Old College site regularly, combined with the wet weather we've been having , the road is a shade of sandy brown with little ridges of half dry mud. The lads on the gate are often seen sweeping the mud away and occaisionally a lorry is parked nearby with a tank of water and cleaning apparatus. I've gotten used used to it I suppose. But I had to laugh earlier - I was following a pair of east european lads when one of them stopped short of the muddy entrance and refused to go any further. It's just a thin patina of mud, my friend, not quicksand. Honestly, they leave friends and family behind and travel hundreds of miles to discover that despite our wonderful benefits payments, they're just as at risk of getting their clothes dirty. Our Wonderful Benefits Payments It's a wonder I still qualify now that our glorious leader has declared war on claimants. Just the other day I received a huge form to fill in. it must be returned by the due date or payments may stop - the information must be correct or payments may stop - it must be retuirned in the correct envelope or payments may stop - Okay, okay, I get the message. I'll run around everywhere like a headless chicken collating all the information demanded. Phone the doctors surgery to get an exact date. No point phoning the Council - their phone system is designed to induce apoplexy in those attempting to pierce its defenses. I swear there are skeletons with boney fingers around a handset with a tinny voice repeating periodically "Please wait - we're trying to connect you to an advisor". Apparently I missed an interview at the Job Cente about my future as a jobseeker, which is why the form arrived through the post in the first place. It might help if I received it before the day afterward. But hey, that's how things are done in rainy old Swindon. Annoyance Of The Week Yes, it's our old friend, BFG. This morning I had the misfortune to be at the computer when she decided to sit in the next computer. If anyone else made the same running commentary of her woes concerning the library computers she'd throw a tantrum. Just ignore her. When she realises we're not paying her any attention, she'll eventually shut up.... Except she discovered the young lady on the helpdesk is a very helpful person and basically demanded that she ran errands while BFG struggled with her argumentative computer. Ding ding... Round three...

Work at the Old College site proceeds apace. I know this because firstly there's a huge jungle of steel girders blocking the view from my back window, and secondly, because they've starting demolition of the brickwork in one corner of the site in order to create the entrance to a new car park. Every time the digger brings down the bucket to smash the bricks the whole terrace of houses in which I live vibrates. Really, the house has been shaking intermittently for the last few days. I'm actually bouncing on my seat. Little Monkeys Monkeys can be entertaining to watch. Like other people I've marvelled at the graceful slow motion of Orangu-tangs, the lightning quick bursts of gymnastics from gibbons, or laughed at the parodies of human activity from chimpanzees. Actually, come to think of it, the closeness of human and primate behaviour can be a bit embarrassing sometimes. Like that male chimpanzee sat on top of a climbing frame in Auckland Zoo. As soon as he saw me watching him, he gave a big monkey grin, stood up, and enjpyed a very full on wee. Yes yes yes, I see you. They share 99% of our DNA you see. What do monkeys eat? I suspect the obvious answer for most of us is bananas. Finally, after millennia of keeping animals in captivity, one zoo has realised that monkeys are happier eating green vegetables. They behave better, and I suspect, enjoy fewer visits from the veterinarian and his pesky blowdarts. Here's the thing. Primates that eat bananas have too much sugar in their diet and it drives them... well... bananas. Which I suspect is largely the cause of Attention Deficit Disorder in young human beings. Not because of bananas I have to say, but because there's so much sugar in our diet overall. So give your kids less Sunny Delight, Cocopops, Halibo sweeties and maybe the local policeman with his pesky blowdarts won't be dragging the kids home every evening with acres of unreadable grafitti left in their wake. After all, why wouldn't the same thing work for our little monkeys, assuming you can ween them off stuff that tastes nice? There you go. Helpful dietary advice from Dr Caldrail. You know what? I fancy some chocolate right now... Ahh yeah... Yeah.. Oh that's good... Wow. Ah'm feelin' bad... Pretty Woman of the Week You have to be a bit wary of tabloid news stories, especially those connected with celebrities, but I couldn't help noticing recently that Cameron Diaz has been quoted as saying that we shouldn't refer to women as pretty because it forces the female of the species to strive toward a visiual ideal they may not be able to attain, and to suffer the mental torment of failing to achieve it. Cameron my love, you are such a silly girl. Quite apart from the fact that the female of the species causes the male no end of grief regarding their appearance, behaviour, commitment, and domestic capability, is your career based entirely based on your talent as an actress? Face it, if you were a frump, where would you be? You're a very pretty woman Cameron. So please stick to the script. It is, after all, your lifestyle choice.

2014. At last. All those god awful christmas songs have been put back on the shelf for another eleven months and life returns to normal. Apart from floods in Britain and blizzards in the US, or the usual woes of war and famine elsewhere. There's also been a distinct lack of a Rapture - that's when Jesus returns and magically transports his believers into paradise leaving behind their worldly goods, which lets face it, would be a charter for looters here in Blighty. You have to admire End Timers for sheer stubborness in the face of reality. Ever since the Great Disappointment of 1844 they've been waiting for Jesus to get his act together - Still hasn't happened. Oh but it will, they tell us, and those of us not whisked away will suffer drunkeness, looting, and party political broadcasts. What kind of year has it been for me? Well, I've been Lord Caldrail for four years now and suprisingly it seems to be gaining some acceptance in the hallowed halls of the local Job Centre. Who would have thought the last bastion of working class socialism in Britain would find it in their hearts to recognise that dole claimants aren't all the same? So I look forward to another year of progress and who knows? Perhaps there really is gold at the end of a rainbow, a car that really is what the adverts describe, a lost city of Atlantis waiting to be discovered, or a government that will get it right. A Dog Is For Christmas Pets seem to be perrennial gifts and sadly, as we know, many get discarded one way or another. A mate of mine has had a different experience. His erstwhile girlfriend decided the dog was too cute to be left behind and departed with the animal. From what he tells me it was turning into a strange sort of 'tug-of-love' contest, but not only is the confused animal now back with its original owner, my friend has inherited a another puppy to keep it company. Of course putting two dogs together causes a slight problem in that they had to negotiate social status, rights, and pecking order, resulting in growls, chases, bitten fingers, much shouting and the usual chaos of animal interaction. However, all is well, as the next day he came downstair in the morning to discover that a treaty had been signed and both dogs were curled up asleep together. Awwww... Cute.... Well it was Christmas after all. Job Interview Of The Week A few days previously I'd applied for a job over the internet. The recruitment agency tried to get in touch, I tried to get in touch with them, but between the vagaries of my mobile phone and the hussle and bussle of recruitment, somehow contact was as easy as contacting space aliens on Planet Zarg. However, in the evening I received a phone call from a lady who wasn't my contact at the agency, but who was following up the application nonetheless. At least something's happening. She asked what I normally applied for then enquired why did I want this job? Well, it has something to do with being unemployed, needing to pay my bills, and satisfying a government hell bent on forcing me into the gutter. It isn't difficult to understand. Actually, it turned out she didn't understand. Not only was she unable to grasp why I applied for the job, she went into a minor tantrum and tried to give me the benefit of her opinions. Hmmm... Think I'll hang up and leave her to it. Clearly a woman without a dog this year.

Employment agencies are the bane of the jobseeker. Love them or loathe them, anyone on Jobseekers Allowance sooner or later must do business with them during their search for work.The problem is that these agencies aren't interested in finding you work - you're just not that important - but instead need to shove you into the first convenient role to fulfill their contractual obligations and profit margins. Unlike employers, agencies always do things at the last minute. There's always a sense that if you don't immediately agree to be enslaved then someone else will, the point being that they get paid for signing away their freedom and human rights whereas you get left with having to explain your failure to a claims advisor. Just today I struggled through the gale force winds to attend a work registration run by an agency, only to discover my on-going opportunity was merely two weeks casual labour. "It was in the email" He assured me. No, pal, it wasn't. This sort of thing happened to me a few days ago. I was at the ocal shopping mall, my mission to buy some frozen chips, when my mobile phone activated itself for the first time this year. Hello? The call was from a desperate recruitment agent. Can I start work early tomorrow morning? Errm.... You see, my world has pretty much ground to a halt. My day was planned to the last detail. Go to the mall. Buy frozen chips. Go home. Cook chips for dinner. Sorted. Then this frantic guy on the other end of the phone wants to meet me at the local library to sign me up for a job on the outskirts of the known world and suddenly my brain starts remembering all the things I ought to have done by now and hadn't planned for. Seriously, you get so used to very simple lifestyle decisions as an unemployed person that conversations involving decisions on whether to do the right thing and return to the workplace before sunrise tomorrow actually become stressful. Eventually I agreed. There was nothing in his sales patter that meant the job was not for me, so I accepted that my fate was sealed. That meant I would have to notify the support centre, the dole office, Swindon Council, or anyone else with a vested interest in knowing whether I work for a living. A busy afternoon then. Here goes... Then he suggested we meet for a registration interview at the local library. Huh? Why the library? Apparently his office was way out of the town centre. It was just easier for all concerned. Okay. So I ended the call, bought my frozen chips, went home, had some chips for dinner, and then waited at the library as agreed. He never showed up. All I got afterward was a text message telling me he couldn't make it and that he'd speak to me later. He didn't. Is it just me, or did I just get used in some way? Threat of the Week There was a time when you could walk the streets in Swindon without hassle. Now little children hurl dog poo for a laugh, and youths trty to enforce territorial rights on passers-by like petty gangsters. Just today some acne-ridden wretch busy trying to make his secondhand hatchback look 'hot' said "Don't come this way again" in a hideously immature tone. Look mate, if by some quirk of fate you learned how to read and happen to be reading this instead of Facebook, then I have to tell you I was walking along a public thoroughfare. Since I was only going about my lawful business, you mind yours, and by the way, where did you get the money for that car?

Shopping? Done. Interview at the job agency? Done. Gas account cancellation? Done. On my daily checklist I had only the obligatory online job search to do, so off to the library for another struggle with Microsoft's worst. Balloons? What's going on here? It's usually excessively warm in our local library but there seemed to be a much livelier atmosphere, and evidence of small scale partying. Worse still, as I ascended the stairs a jazz band started up, creating a very genteel background noise, like the sort of music you get in resteraunts. Years ago our band was driving through London along the embankment on our way home from a gig in early hours of the morning. We passed that odd resteraunt that stands on the riverside by itself between the trees, and our singer, Dave, commanded that the van be brought to a halt. Enough was enough. We'd all noticed the place every timne we went this way and finally his curiosity could bear no more. He had to find out what it was like in there. So I parked up for a while as a slightly inebriated folk-rock singer tried to gain access. The bouncers actually let him in to have a look. Apparently it was a very strange mystical experience with a rock band doing the impossible by playing at low volume as the clientelle ignored them in favour of expensive morsels and famous brand wines, and finally Dave re-emerged with the advice to bring a tie next time if he wanted to come in and eat. Sadly we were all struggling musicians without a penny between us, so that never happened, Okay, reminicense over, back to the library. I was expecting to be distracted by the music, but strangely, the easy listening tunes suited the mood and I got on - I strongly suspect I was typing in unison with the beat, but don't tell anyone. A guest singer was introduced who completely tortured 'Summertime' to death. Clearly not a finalist in X Factor then. Whether she was supposed to sing one song or not, that was it, and the band called everyone together before they found something interesting to do. A chorus of 'Happy Birthday' explained the change of pace. Oddly enough, when the band finished, the library started to empty. Maybe the guest singer was planning to sing again? Cold Facts I must be honest, now that my flat has no heating I am starting to notice the cold. Not for the first time, I have to say, just that now I can't do much about it except report my shivering on this blog. I notice that an MP has warned the gas companies not to use their customers as cash cows. Too late for me, I've already escaped the meadow, and worringly I quickly noticed newspaper headlines at the supermarket. A sharp freeze expected. Four inches of snow expected. Oh great. Well at least I live in Swindon. Thankfully our much maligned town doesn't seem to be greatly affected by weather - we never suffer the extremes you see on the evening news. One winter, the whole country was inundated with snow, drifts up to six feet deep, but Swindon? Not a flake. With luck the snow will pass us by this year too.

I woke this morning from my slumber as the rat made a loud plop exitting the house via the toilet. Not that I'd gotten much sleep - my computer has once again succumbed to the vagaries of electricity and fizzled out. There I was, working away, when the monitor went blankl and I could hear raw current arcing somewhere. With such a strong smell of burning I even had an electrician out in the middle of the night to check I wasn't going to burn the house down. Sadly it appears the rate escaped electrocution. Or maybe the the rat is now a fully fledged member of the Special Air Service, boldly sabotaging where no rat has sabotaged before. Well not to worry, the clocks went back this morning, so I've got an extra hour to figure out another way of ridding the world of little furry mammals. Idle Dreaming A couple of days ago I opened the back window and stared out across the early evening scene. The sun was already dipping below the horizon yet the sky was a lustrous blue, devoid of cloud, and even with the frantic rush of urban life at rush hour going on beyond the building site, it all seemed very peace and quietful. I could hardly miss the six or seven airliners on their way across the Atlantic. It's the usual practice with air traffic control to send airliners in waves back and forth. Too high and far away to see the actual airliners themselves, their short contrails were lit up bright yellow by the sun, looking for all the world like rocket exhausts of a salvo of ballistic missiles. For a brief moment one of the contrails widened and lengthened, then as the airliner turned on a new heading, it looked like one missile had been hit by some unseen defence, arcing downward to expend itself uselessly in the Atlantic. For a while I forgot these were aeroplanes packed with tourists, holidaymakers, or freight, and watched my imaginary missiles slowly diminish and vanish into the haze on their way west, mindful of how many times we all came to nuclear holocaust during the Cold War. Dream On Over the last couple of years I've had no choice but to economise on my gas use, what with rising prices and all. That won't suprise any British readers. I have in fact cut my bill down to a manageable quarter of what it was. No sooner had the gas company realised they weren't getting the same profit from me as before than they announced they were imposing a standing charge to make sure they do. Naturally I was miffed. I called the customer enquiries number - too busy. I called again a couple of hours later - too busy. Finally I made one last valiant effort to contact my gas company - too busy. Fine. Log onto the internet, please cancel my gas account. It's just blatant profiteering and I don't care to pay for their cars, mortgages, and holidays in the sun. And there was Cameron, blithely telling us to search around for a bargain tariff. Dream on mate. Date Of The Week A friend of mine known for his inebriation and habit of waking up in surreal and funny situations has been on the lookout for a girklfriend. Not a plastic shop mannequin - I think he's realised the downside of that lifestyle choice - and tells me this time he chose his dentist as a potential partner. Don't ask me why - I have no idea - but apparently she understands his sense of humour. I chuckled when he told me was going to, but fair play to him, he did. Not the lady he intended to unfortunately. His usual dentist wasn't there, so he made do with the foreign female dentist instead, and asked her out. "I don't understand your sense of humour" She replied.

You're the worst kind of propagandist who thinks he knows better than everyone else Guest private messge (some-1-better-than-u) Wow! Praise indeed. But Im not entirely sure what I'm propagandising. However, lets for the moment ask a serious question - Do I think I know better than everyone else? Of course I do - just like everyone else does, including my crtitic quoted above - it's a fundamental part of human self worth to believe your opinion is as good as anyone elses. Even when it isn't. As it happens I do know who some-1-better-than-u is - he made the mistake of calling me the same thing once before on a forum thread. However, despite his blatant immaturity, I remain calm, cool, and unconcerned that he stuck his virtual finger in my digital face. Mate, seriously, I was in the music business for twelve years, I know what criticisn feels like. But thanks for the compliment anyhow. More Facts And Figures For Non-Propagandists I also know other stuff too. My head is buzzing full of all sorts of stuff. Now before anyone thinks I'm on strange medication or suspicious substances, I can't help all those E numbers they put into food. So, did you know that my co-habitee at home is a rat called "You little monster"? You see, if you read my blog you'd know these things. Did you know how long rats live for? Three to five years in the wild, or until poisoned or caught by the human cohabitee who's getting a mite fed up of little puddles of piss on the kitchen floor. Did you know rats are intelligent creatures? Clearly in this battle of wills I'm outclassed by a small furry mammal, who so far has managed to elude every trap and stratagem I've concocted. Now unless this rat is Julius Caesar reincarnated (like most people are), it represents absolute and demonstratable proof that I don't know how to catch rats. No Hot Debate I had to laugh. There's some idiot on the internet news headlines who's declared that he's going to try and do without domestic utilities for a year to see if it's possible to live cheaply without them. Clearly he hasn't read my blog. It's already tried and tested mate. It's called unemployment. Propaganda Message Of The Week I know better than you. I know this because I have been told so. Now you know too. Knowledge is power! Send

Must be a rainy day. The library is half empty. Oh well, at least the early morning rush for a computer isn't the usual death before dishonour charge up the stairs. I see a certain youngster has been released from prison (he was jailed for drug dealing) and even he isn't bounding up the stairs the way he normally would. Actually most of the familiar characters are somewhere else. The guy who likes to threaten me every time a I say anything, the woman who thinks the library is her personal servant, the lady who doesn't know she hums to herself, the bloke who cannot bear to parted from his mobile phone, the eastern european ladies who chatter incessantly about eastern european things, and the strange guy who always asks at the desk for assistance and cannot make himself understood. All missing. You know, this would be a pleasant session if I didn't have something to moan about. I have been advised by the Swindon Critics Society that my blog is dull - sorry about that, but rest assured there's a blockbuster finale to today's episode. Idiots What is it with the internet just of late? Why do web page designers believe that I want lots of pointless themes and features that really only convert handy internet sites into a jumbled mess. There's nothing worse than software that tells you what you want. Or idiots who create all that stuff for no other reason than to justify their pay packet. More About Idiots Talking about idiots, just of late there's been a crabby old biddy at the library who seems to think I'm interested in listening to her whinging on about what a poor excuse for a person she believes me to be. Heard it all before, dear, and I don't listen to those who speak to my back. The funny thing is she sometimes makes sarcastic comments about how good it is see me searching for work. The reason it's funny is that I've been using the library computers almost daily for the last five years to help me find work. Obviously too busy moaning about my military surplus trousers to notice. More About Whinging As it happens I had reason to moan myself the other day. A new neighbour has moved in and seeing her trying to cut back the jungle the previous residents cultivated in the front yard, I took the opportunity to advise her how little sound proofing there is between our houses. Like there isn't any. With her predecessors it was like living in Albert Square sometimes. Anyway despite my advice next doors radio could be clearly heard all around my flat. Right. That's it. This needs to be sorted. She came to the door and after listening to my complaint asserted that her radio wasn't loud at all, even though it could be heard blaring out behind her from the back of the house. Not exactly quiet, is it? Holy Grail Secret Of The Week By sheer coincidence I discovered last night that I'm very distantly related to Jesus Christ. The maternal side of my tribe is connected to all those stories circulating about Renne-Le-Chateau and the Priory of Sion. After more than a decade of trying to debunk such things it came as a bit of a shock to find out my family is part of it. Now, I have to say I'm not entirely convinced that this revelation is even close to being factual, or even believable, but those of you who swear blind that the 'Blood Royal' legend has real basis now have no choice but to defend me from strange homicidal monks, or if you really want to do me a favour, that crabby old biddy at the library.

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.