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Noise Alert


caldrail

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This weekend is going to be noisy. Today is after all Guy Fawkes Day, when we celebrate a plot to blow up the British government hundreds of years ago. Given how sensitive the authorities are to security issues right now, I'm probably going to be arrested for this blog entry.

 

The weather is not encouraging. It's a damp morning, grey and unwelcoming, and I suspect a lot of firework parties tonight will suffer the problems of setting off their noisy and colourful gunpowder fests.

 

That of course won't stop the evening revellers from having a great time. They'll be hooting and whooping, chanting football songs, and shouting taunts all night long. Bless.

 

I did see a bit in the newspapers that police have stated that a large portion of their law enforcement takes place because of nightclubbers wandering around drunk without having found a camel to wake up beside. I mean, wasn't that obvious? Is that the sum total of expertise of law enforcement garnered over the years since John Peel decided truncheons were a good idea?

 

How To Win Friends And Influence

Having mentioned fireworks, I was stunned to find my current claims advisor chatting about them in a friendly manner. What? Isn't this the guy who signs me on half an hour late and hardly says a word before he tells me I can go? Amazing what happens when you get shirty and remind a pleb he's talking to nobility (even if it is a little faux)

 

Actually, most claims advisors don't like treating their customers as anything else than people to be bossed around. It's a social status thing. They happen to be employed by a government agency, and possess some authority over us. We on the other hand are lazy good for nothing's who darn well ought to know which side of the bread is buttered.

 

It's been nearly a year since I got my title. Three people have voluntarily used that title in a respectful manner since. Incredible, don't you think? To a large extent that's down to my appearance. I just don't resemble most peoples idea of an upper class person in any sense whatsoever. Partly it's my circumstance, since I'm unemployed and upper class persons aren't supposed to claim benefits, or even work for a living, as John Prescott proved recently.

 

Well, since my claims advisor has decided to be friendly, I'll let him get away with it. Especially since in the not too distant future I might well get my tail feathers singed. Fireworks? There's a lady in the Department of Work and Pensions who has demanded my attendance and proof of identity. Uh oh.

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He who passes for our local "Lord of the Manor" is sadly lacking when it comes to performing his Parish duties. The residents here in Aquis-of-the-Romans are simple village folk who need a steady hand on the manorial tiller. Perhaps you could attempt to usurp his position? A pretty big manor house does go with the position (I bet you could nearly fit OfClayton Towers into the entrance hall,) though I'm sure it would be a bugger to heat.

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Unfortunately the authority of your local lord is handed out by the government and assured by loyalty to the crown, whether he does a good job or not. For me to usurp his seat would be treason against the state. Further, the government are currently cracking down on benefits payments and for me to ask for housing support for a stately home is not politically prudent at this time. Nor likely to be successful.

 

Rest assured, simple village person, that I shall strive to right wrongs wrought by the evil Baron of Clayton and free a couple of your common folk from serfhood as a sort of motivating competition for support.

 

Actually, I do need a herald for this. Do pop down to Clayton Towers and tell him to surrender his fief, will you? You never know...

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