caldrail

It's a very special day today. have you forgotten? You have? Okay, I'll remind you. This tuesday is World Pirate At Work Day. Now much of the eastern world is already back at home having missed this wonderful opportunity for japes, drinking songs, Johnny Depp impressions, Errol Flynn heroism, and old sea dog stories. Incidentially, most of America still has time to get involved, so come on America! Join us down the tavern for tankards of rum and a right 'ole sing-song. Here goes... This way, that way Forwards and back Over the Stockroom Sea Piles of clothes And boxes to stack That's the life for me That little sea shanty was written and composed by J, who wondered what I was on and where could he get some. My own contribution was... Old Silas had a pirate ship He sailed the ocean blue And on this ship he had a boss Who told him what to do With a yo ho ho And a ha ha harr Old Silas had a pirate ship Steered by that Blind Pugh Old Silas had a pirate ship He sailed around the world And on this ship he had a bird Who never said a word With a yo ho ho And a ha ha harr Old Silas had a pirate ship His parrot had expired Old Silas had a pirate ship He weighed anchor back in port He couldn't read his porno mag Because he had been caught With a yo ho ho And a ha ha harr Old Silas had a pirate ship His court case he has fought Old Silas had a pirate ship The mainbrace he has spliced He's not on the dole no more They found him working twice With a yo ho ho And a ha ha harr Old Silas had a pirate ship Ain't the government nice? Sadly the girls from the shop floor were a little confused by this outbreak of eighteenth century tomfoolery, especially Miss G, who by now thinks I'm a complete raving looney. Well, she was bound to find out sooner or later. Our Latest Reader It's with a big big hello that I welcome Miss A to the Rushey Platt Villa. Today she discovered piracy, banter, and the web address of my blog. So it's without further ado that I accede to her request and pass on a personal message... KS smells Well she should know. I have to say it was pleasing to discover this young lady has developed a taste for cider, a much maligned tipple much loved by me. I remember that short time in the eighties when cider drinking was fashionable. Designer brands and hugely inflated prices for what was in effect expensive scrumpy. Thankfully today cider is back where it was, a simple and alcoholic beverage for the discerning, and a source of oblivion for the undiscerned. Our Quest For Fame Our lunchtimes are normally quiet in the rest area, but I do notice how jokes start to fly back and forth whenever Manager G is present. On this occaision I was reading a newspaper which featured a series of photoshopped photographs, and one was a car festooned in cardboard boxes. Now I'm seriously jealous. That is a car to be admired. You see, the subtlety and variety of cardboard is much underrated. Even J, our trusty ships captain, hadn't realised how interesting boxes could be and when I suggested how much fun packing materials were, he suggested I was nuts. Surely cardboard is just a non-descript and dull colour? By no means. Let me educate you, J. I showed him a stack of cardboard boxes waiting to be crushed in the baler and pointed out the variety of shades. A yellowy beige here, a brown beige there, in smooth and rough textures. "He's right" Added a nearby manageress. And that was that. But I digress. The important point was that I decided that the department store should strive for immortal fame and fortune by being the first team to successfully sail a cardboard boat across the English Channel. "Sponsored by the Labour Party" Added Manager G. He has a point. P.S. Before I forget, friday is our last day at work, and also Au Naturelle Day. I will definitely be keeping my hat on regardless, just for decencies sake. Who is the mystery person that Miss L wants to see naked? We shall see.

Monday mornings always have one thing in common. You know exactly what is going to happen. The alarm goes off, you get out of bed, get washed, fed, watered, and straight to work like some sort of condemned zombie. But not this monday. Today has an air of uncertainty brought about by the forthcoming end of our work placement. This is officially my last week at the department store. That means a return to unemployed status and all the red tape and bureaucracy that goes with it. KS has already been called to interview by the Job Centre. He was of course greatly annoyed at having to spend an hour in the town centre waiting to see the claims advisor after work, but if he doesn't get away with doing almost nothing about his job search I suspect he'll be much more upset than that. I haven't received a letter telling me when my interview is taking place. The tension is mounting. The Baby Crew After discovering myself the delights of working under Baby G, it's become clear how little respect the other bods at the department store have for him. Miss L spluttered dire curses at the very mention of his name, but then she'd been told to work on my section today and so she was fed up anyway. Since we're lesser mortals who don't understand the brilliance and wisdom of Baby G, we decided to follow suit and give ourselves 'gangsta' names. J told me that anyone who calls themselves Baby Whatever will not be listened to or respected in any way. So that means we have Baby J, Baby K, & Baby L. I was given Baby C, or Baby B (because of my high-vis label), but in the end I returned to my old 'gangsta' name, Alfred T. That's the one that Big Momma Miss J gave me way back when I worked with DS as my boss, which actually predates the start of my blog. No, there wasn't any point to this at all, but hey, we survived Baby G and lived to tell the tale. This last saturday and sunday his weekend gang did twice the work they normally do. Well done. So what was it he was claiming about working harder than anyone else? It seems his other claims are based on his fervent imagination and desire to be the biggest, baddest, gangstarest team leader in the whole department store. I wish him well on his quest and could he please stop talking about it and start out? A Bright Spark one of the hazards of the workplace I've found over the years is static electricity. Sometimes you can feel the arc between you and a piece of architectural metal, and it's literally quite a shock. I used to approach the lift at one workplace with great trepidation knowing full well I was going to set off a small blue spark the moment I touched it. Today it was KS suffering this phenomenon, and he thoughtfully passed on his electrical charge to Mrs T. I'll bet you all can guess what KS said when he told me about that. But he's not all bad. In between visits by Mrs T to see whether he was working, KS whipped out his mobile phone and ran an app that he described as a 'brain-trainer'. So far his brain hasn't responded to treatment, but we hope long term exposure to mental activity will improve his cognitive performance. Hi There Bumped into Sophie out in the street at lunchtime again. She's one of those researchers who stop and ask you questions before taking your name and address so you can be hounded for charitable contributions. I gave a her wave and said hello, and since I was being so cute, she let me go about my business unhindered. Have a nice day.

Actually the Roma legions c.AD50 were professional in terms of contract and organisation, but bear in kind they weren't the responsible caring sharing warrior we expect our soldiers to be today. Far from it, most were lowlifes with shields and swords, kept in order by brutal discipline and some clever regime factors such as the 'close friends' eight man grouping and the 'fraternity' of the legion. Also I think you underestimate the capabilities and qualities of the greeks at this time. In another century or so they would conquer an empire reaching as far as India. The Romans, even with their much vaunted organisation, failed to do that. I don't recall who wrote it, but one Roman left us an anecdote of a sitaution developing where he was, and although only a civilian, he grabbed a sword and rushed outside to see if he could do something about it. It so happened that an off-duty legionary had the same idea. He looked at this bloke with a sword and wasn't convinced. "What are you supposed to be?" He demanded. The man replied (dishonestly) that he was an off-duty soldier. "Oh? Then why are you wearing slippers?". The legionary requisitioned the mans sword immediately.

Such is the good weather we're getting this weekend that Yahoo is making a news item of it. That said, I look out of the window this morning and the sky is a plain white sheet of cloud. Perhaps Yahoo need to be a bit quicker off the mark with their journalism? Grand National We have a horse race in Britain called the Grand National. It's something of a national event these days. It was televised yesterday and some outsider won it, leaving bookies with huge losses. One complained that they'd lost last years profit in one hit. Dodgy game that, horseracing. Personally I'm not that interested. Those horses who get in front at the start generally stay there, and curiously enough the winning jockey was being lauded as a hero when the race finished. Erm.. Didn't the horse run the race? Oh look. Who should crawl out from under his stone but fatboy John Prescott, telling the British public that the Grand National is a public event and should remain on freeview, not payview, and he went on to make a political point and criticise the opposition.. Well I suppose that's to be expected, thre is an election around the corner. But does he actually believe I care about the Grand National? It can go on payview with my approval. At least that way the neighbours won't be able to afford to watch the race with the sound turned right up. Surely there's something more interesting to do this weekend? Modelling The Latest On my way from the library yesterday I passed a crowd assembled outside the model shop justacross the way. That model shop is a small place, but stuffed full of wonders to delight a child of any age. It's been there since I was very young and still does good business, though sadly I'm less of a customer than I once was. There's something wonderful about assembling a plastic kit. You get a box of light blue bits and create a shape, a scaled down facsimile of something that was real, and of course in your childhood days the completed model is a doorway to games and fantasies. On the other hand maybe you just get high on fumes from that horrible solvent glue. But I digress. The reason the crowd had assembled was due to an impromptu display of a pair of radio controlled trucks out on the pavement. Big, american style lorries, one tanker and one box freight rig. I have to say it was an impressive performance. The models generated all the correct noises. Diesel, horns, reversing beeps... I wonder if there's button for the driver to lean out the cab and yell suggestions to other motorists? Thing is though both models were finsihed in chrome. Okay, it was bright and shiney, and thus all the more impressive as models go, but is that really how a truck would appear? I recall that recently some guy bought himself a BMW-Mini finished in chrome and got spectacular quotes for insurance. A Ferrari would've been cheaper. Ahh, who cares... Look, the rear doors open remotely... Wow...

I am officially upstaged!

Professionalism? In 480BC the Roman armies were citizen levies gathered for the campaign before they all went home again. They were, to all intents and purposes, a militia. Hardly professional in the correct sense of the word. But that isn't what you mean. The 'professionalism' of the imperial Roman legions is something of a seductive image. if you read the sources you can pick out clues that show them to be somewhat less than the image suggests. Oh for sure they were well organised, and some of their activities are hauntingly familiar to our modern experience, but the quality and behaviour of Roman troops was often less than desirable. The Romans were very keen to encourage the image of their 'invincibility' and that image survives to the modern day. A real success for ancient propaganda. What sort of person became a legionary? In 480BC they were men keen to prove their adult credibility. Ordinary people, whose naturally aggressive instincts and sense of civic responsibility would have led them to volunteer. There was quite a long winded selection procedure, much like playground kids choosing which friends will play for their team, and even if you volunteered there was no guarantee you'd be chosen. Sons of perfume sellers need not apply. If you're discussing the later imperial legions, then what sort of person do you have? For the most part, pretty much the same, but in this case they join as a career choice rather than any sense of duty to the state. The Romans wanted thugs and toughs in their armies. If they bribed a centurion or two, or if they requisitioned the odd animal from a civilian, isn't that worth the price for the knowledge these men were willing to fight for Rome? That was the theory on which they operated. Bear in mind however that Roman politics were very competitive, even cut-throat, and that senior officers were not career soldiers. They were men of good family or political ambition. These legionaries had just as many deserters as in previous times, or as many as other armies for that matter. The flip side of brutal discipline is that not everyone can cope with it. My own feeling is that the presence of 300 Romans would have made no difference to the Persian advance, except possibly the Persians may have lost fewer casualties (since the spartans blocked the pass with phalanxes and the Romans wouldn't have)

The sunshine is glorious. It really is. Not a cloud to be seen and for a warm saturday surprisingly quiet in Swindon. You would think the place would be humming with people out to enjoy the day but apparently this isn't the case. I wonder why? Is it the recession? Has anyone got any money left after Gordon Browns Tax Police have slapped bills on everything that moves and almost everything that doesn't? Or is it the danger of collapsing walls at our plentiful building sites, following this weeks shock horror near-disaster (saved only by the scaffolding knocking against a lampost)? Me Tarzan, You Recycle Tarzan is coming back. Our jungle dwelling loin-clothed knife wielding gymnast is making a comeback. Ah yes... I remember Johnny Wiesmuller shouting "UNGOWA!" to scare off lions and rolling with rubber crocodiles in muddy water. But that, I'm afraid, is the old Tarzan, a horrible politically incorrect quasi-victorian macho figure who doesn't belong in our more sophisticated and ecologically concious world. Yes, you've guessed it, Tarzan is going green. No, not ripping his shirt off at the first sight of Nazis colonising african film-sets, but a new eco-warrior to meet the needs of the modern day, fighting against loggers and hunters and generally being very caring toward animals that once used to be so ferocious and aggressive back in the thirties/forties. Jane will be there too, this time with an I-Pod. Just the sort of handy gizmo you need for survival in the rainforests. Hang on a minute... Where does she get the power for that device, I wonder aloud? The manageress in the stockroom rest area looked up from her copy of Russell Brands autobiography and said "Maybe it's solar powered?". Of course. How stupid of me. Just ask the woman in charge. She'll know the answer. Me Tarzan, You know better. Somehow I don't think this new Tarzan will work. I sort of guessing he'll have a modern intellect and a cute line in gags (in between bouts of stand offs with greedy corporate exploiters). I hope he's not squeamish. Jungles have lots of insects. Looks like he might have his work cut out protecting Jane from the dangers of jungle life... Or am I being too sexist? Too stuck in a bygone era? We know who wears the trousers in african jungles these days. More Disquiet At The Library? A few times in the past I've mentioned the unwanted noise that some people generate in libraries. I'm going to mention it again, largely because this is saturday morning and I haven't got anything else to write about. The number of times some woman has parked her offspring in the next cubicle to me and ignores the frantic and confused efforts of her child to communicate with the world around it. And naturally, being ignored just makes them louder. The impromptu business meeting is taking place on the other side. Two middle aged guys concentrating hard to figure out how to access this or that and what it actually means. neither really knows but they try to convince each other they know. Each points at the screen and reads off the text to the other in an attempt to make the other understand what it means. At least they're too busy talking to use mobile phones. Young asian lads are the worst for using mobile phones, far more casual and ubiquitous than teenage girls. There's one now, chattering away in that sort of monotone gibberish, making deals, catching up with gossip, maybe even plotting the downfall of the western democracies for all I know. A bald headed chap wants to sing along to the mp3 he's downloading but obviously that wouldn't be appreciated, so he sort of whispers it in a tuneless chant. It seriously is creepy and I don't think he realises how loud he is. Then there's that big guy who always sits near the top of the stairs. Quite a jolly chap, but he gets so wrapped up in the videos he downloads of boxing matches. Everythings quiet... Just a background rattle of computer keyboards... "GOO ON MY SON!" He roars in appreciation, and adds "Can't beat a good fight." He might enjoy the one he's about to get with Dragon Lady, the scottish librarian who doesn't stand for any of that noise malarkey. There's going to be blood...

"It's our last week" Claimed KS. Not only does he fail to understand how a baseball cap should be worn, he also can't count. So convinced was he of this final week at our work placement that we all thought he was right, managers included. Today the issue was sorted as my boss went off to the office and returned with confirmation that we all have another week to run. Good news for J, who had to take the day off work because it's his girlfriends birthday (Full marks there J). He was so keen on a booze up after work to celebrate the completion of our tour of duty. Actually I noticed a few of the managers were asking whether we had another week to run. Makes you feel wanted, it really does. That brings me neatly round to the subject of Baby G. He's the understudy for J today while he's off work. Normally he covers the weekend when we're not there, but this friday he opened the door for us and out poked a gimpish head. He's a youngster. Oh no... I hate youngsters with authority. I'd been warned that Baby G was something of a prat and I must admit, there was a wave of pratishness as he leaned out the doorway to appraise these two dole seekers he'd never seen before. He never bothered to introduce himself. Not a word. He just handed out tasks for the day in that irritating "Do it, Doleseeker" kind of manner. Worst still he assumed I didn't know how to do the job. After twelve weeks? With two decades of warehouse experience behind me? "I'm going to be a supervisor next year" He told me. Oh? Really? Am I supposed to be impressed? Every five minutes he gave me a job to do and as soon as I'd gotten into the swing of it, gave me another. No wonder the stockroom is such a mess every monday morning - no-one gets to finish anything. Conclusion - Wet behind the ears and a little full of his own importance. He didn't like me either apparently. I imagine he found me a little harder to impress than his mates. Anyone who gives themselves a 'gangsta' name like Baby G deserves to be taken for a fool. They say first impressions count. At least I know how to. From The Heart A few pieces of poetry I discovered discarded on notepaper in the stockroom. No idea who wrote them, but here they are, as written... Let me in from the rain Never let me go again Feel the water run down my face A little piece of me moves on I keep on walking down this road I've seen a million people change I used to think if I never tried I would never fail Now I realise I can do anything Take another photo for your book Because I won't be there A little piece of someones inner thoughts and emotions. No, I'm not poking fun at it. Sometimes we get drepressed and unhappy about the way the world is and our failures at coping with it. I know I have from time to time. A part of me wants to help. Well... Whoever you are, smile. Take pleasure in small things. The world can be a crap place sometimes but it's up to each of us to make it worthwhile. Stick around. You might like my photos. Or maybe other peoples too. Wouldn't want you to miss out on that.

The phalanx is very specific in terms of composition although numbers vary. The important point is that solid mass of men advances with multiple ranks of pikes presented to the fore. Other formations had other names but the problem is that the phalanx was effective in its heyday and thus became the predominant formation for infantry until some leaders (Romans amongst them) realised the shortcomings of this rather inflexible attack strategy and formulated means to counteract it. Warfare has a triangle of options that has always applied whether in ancient or modern times. Firepower, Protection, Mobility. Any unit (or machine if you want to include the modern day) can only have a certain maximum potential which is shared among the three factors with differing emphasis. If you wear more armour, you're better protected, but your mobility will suffer. And so forth. With the phalanx, the emphasis is on 'firepower', albeit limited to the forward direction, the idea being that it's difficult to stop a big block of men closely packed together with row after row of sharp points ahead of them. There are other ways of attacking with pikes, but essentially that means you've opted not to form Phalanx. Unless you have better protection or mobility, the only way to counter a line of phalanxes is to form phalanx and advance back at them (may the sturdiest phalanx win).

Today is... Errr... Let me think... Oh yes, Thursday. That means Programme Centre Day. It also means a lie-in, so if you

I woke up this morning in a sort of tired downbeat mood. Sort of like that monday feeling but delayed by two days for extra suffering. Wednesdays in Swindon are always greyer than normal. Don't know why, they just are. It's traditional. You see, the thirteen weeks of my placement are coming to an end. I hate to admit it but I've actually enjoyed being there. Well, maybe not quite all the time, just enough of it to bring a tear to my cheek as I look back and remember my time as J's disciple. So inspired were we by his leadership, his sense of humour, his complete lack of respect to authority, and his general "What am I doing here?" attitude, that we left a big message scrawled on carboard and taped across his favourite baler. "WE LOVE YOU J" it said. Now before you start thinking that working in a clothes shop has radically altered our sexuality and self image, I would like to point out that KS today made strong hints that his love life isn't over. And that from a guy who reckoned he was temporarily celibate. So to celebrate our last day under J's tutelage we headed down to the sandwich bar at lunch and got all nostalgic. To be honest, what I really wanted to do was get drunk, but... Stupid Tax of the Week The Chancellor of the Exchequer had announced in his latest budget that cider is going up in price. Oh brilliant. Does the government really think I'm going to apologise for my criticism of their cack-handed financial skulduggery? Not only have they made life more expensive for me, but now they want me to foot the bill for it too. Except... The second item of good news today is that the government might not be able to raise the price of duty on cider after all, because they're all so busy fighting for their political lives now the election date is set for May 6th. Woo-Hooo!!!!!!! Stupid Repair of the Week Today they fixed the air conditioning. So now the winter is over the heating has been turned on. "We want it at least twenty degrees all over the store" Proclaimed the management. More like twenty five to thirty. It was sweltering hot under that renovated fan. So hot in fact that I felt it important to my well-being to strip off and enjoy the summer-like heat. Mrs T even popped her head around the corner in disbelief I'd done that. How she giggled. She was in such a good mood she even let KS play with his mobile phone. And she came past for another look. J saw me too and crept past in embarrasement. The Rampant Rabbit saw me but claimed he hadn't looked. And my boss enquired later that afternoon as to why I had my shirt on. Miss L had already gone home and was spared the psychological trauma of seeing me in the flesh. Song of the Week That old classic by The Eagles On a dark Swindon highstreet Cool wind in my hair Warm smell of burgers Rising up through the air Up ahead in the distance The place to earn my pay My head grew heavy and my sight grew dim But I'd found the shop okay There I stood in the doorway I rang the outside bell And I was thinking to myself "This could be heaven or this could be hell" Then a manager opened the side door And he showed me the way There were voices down the corridor I thought I heard them say Welcome to the lonely high street stockroom Such a lovely place Keep up the pace Plenty of room in the racks of the lonely stockroom Any time of year You can find it here The manageress is twisted She got the Mercedes-Benz She got a lot of pretty, pretty boys That she calls friends How they dance in the shopfloor In amongst the clothes Some dance to remember Some dance to forget So I called the supervisor "Please bring me my pay" He said, "We haven't had any money here Since 1968" And still those voices are calling from far away Wake you up in the middle of the day Just to hear them say Welcome to the lonely high street stockroom Such a lovely place Where we work in haste They're living it upstairs in the darkened stockroom What a nice surprise Bring your alibis They've just fixed the heating At some outrageous price And she said, "We are all just prisoners here Of our own device" And in the managers chambers They gathered for the feast They stab it with their steely knives But they just can't kill the beast Last thing I remember, I was Running for the door I had to find the passage back To the place I was before "Relax," said the night man "We are programmed to unpack You can check out any time you like But you'll only get the sack!"

kin right Doc

My boss was busy. Downstairs, out on the shop floor, crowds of youngsters on their half-term holiday were pouring in through the door demanding the latest fashions to wear incorrectly. I, the unkempt apprentice, was given my chores for the day and left to complete them. This was going to be a trying day. Piles of boxes had been set aside for me to process and unpack. If only there were an easy way to deal with this onerous task... If only... In the dark and stygian stockroom, I opened a carton of jeans (stonewashed, low pockets, zip fly, 13 to 14 year olds) and lo! What is this strange garment wedged in amongst the trousers? Gasp! A woolly hat! Well, the temptation to try it on was too much. Sadly I too suffer from being unable to wear the latest fashions correctly so the various descriptions of me were... J - "You look like you burgled my house" Miss L - "You look like a beggar" KS - "It suits you, Caldrail. Makes you look like Santa Claus" My Boss - "What's the matter, Caldrail? Your head feeling cold? Hmmm?" You probably get the picture by now. I would describe myself as Noddy at a heavy metal gig. Or perhaps Santa's Little Coal Miner. Still, it made the stockroom a fun place. Now, as for these boxes... The first was easy. Then another. Then a trolley was filled and more boxes arrived to fill the vacuum left by my endeavours (cue The Nutcracker Suite). I was indeed the Manageresses Apprentice. The Wizard Of Blighty After being snowed under with unpacking I decided to get rid of some of the waste cardboard that had pretty well filled the aisle. I spotted Miss L standing in the lift. She glowered impatiently with arms folded. What's up, L? "'Kin lift won't work" She moaned. She was right. The doors remained open defiantly. Okay... Let Caldrails Magic Woolly Hat work wonders... I studied Evil Lift for a moment then tapped the brushed aluminium door frame. DING! and the door slid shut with Miss L staring at me in stunned amazement. Well I'm not australian so I can't claim to be the Wizard of Oz, so instead, I'll settle for the Wizard of Blighty. News From The Dole Queue Miss M has now decided that her former target is no longer of any interest (mostly we suspect because the poor lad complained of being stalked). Unable to spend life without her primal urges satisified, she spent the day at the Programme Centre (after I'd left) reserving her future boyfriends by marking them on the back of the head with a black marker pen. An excellent idea for finding partners at short notice. Simple and easy to do. Such is her determination to find true love amiongst the dole-seekers that she's decided to keep on turning up even now her thirteen weeks are finished. I have no idea which bloke is her current object of obsession, but I hope he likes temporary tattoos. On this subject the Malignant Pixie has begun to show interest in KS, and tried to arouse his passion by demonstrating her ability to swallow a pen whole repeatedly. She desperately needs to stop eating sugar too. Falling Over There's a building site just a few doors down from Department Stores Ltd where another rival store is rebuilding its premises. Today the facade fell over. The area was cordoned off, police and other disaster services wandering around asking people to move on, there's nothing to see here, but sadly it was too much for one old lady who tragically collapsed. Strictly speaking, a joke about this event would be crass and insensitive, so I'll move straight on to the next paragraph... Gah!... Urge to poke fun rising... Cannot resist pressure to write gag.... Oh all right then. It was KS's lunch break. No, really, it was. Smugglers of the Week Three and a half hours before I sat down to write this blog entry a pair of women attempted to smuggle a corpse through Berlin airport on a wheelchair, telling everyone the man was merely sleeping. Luckily airport staff are trained to spot dead bodies and immediately became suspicious. The smugglers are now detained for questioning. Wasn't there a comedy film about taking a dead man on holiday? Life imitates art. In this case however, the two really ought to have declared the man dead for tax purposes.

Me? Old? (*splutter*) No, not old, just matured in oak vats for a hundred years or so for extra taste. Mind you, given my recent behaviour in singing very loudly at work (and the boss catching me with a silly baseball cap on, and attempting to traverse the north side of the pillow stack) one might question whether oak vats work.

Thanks Kosmo. My life is complete

Any unit composed of any soldiers you like can form phalanx if they have spears/pikes of sufficient length. Roman legions had a flirtation with phalanxes for a while. The phalanx is a formation. If the unit assumes another formation, it isn't a phalanx anymore. How hard is that to understand?

It's the Easter weekend and of course that means today is a bank holiday. Is it just me or is this extended weekend something less than it should have been? There was a time when bank holidays were an event. Families migrating to the coast and spending the day parked on a motorway waiting for the queue of traffic to move forward another few feet. Or the thrill of the obligatory James Bond movie. You just don't get that excitement these days. So I suppose I'll pull a can from the fridge and sit slack jawed through Worlds Most Idiotic Videos. That said, saturday unveiled the New Doctor Who! (Cue fanfare and strong hints from BBC newsreaders) I must admit, when it started, I cringed at the excruciatingly unfunny childrens television moment. But it got better. Slightly. What saved the program from utter direness was the lack of those extended goodbyes and emotional wrangling the series indulges in these days. We've got all that to come. But congratulations on the series nonetheless. Not quite a high point, rather a bump on the bank holiday road. Uhh? What was that? Oh never mind... Victory! A few days ago Swindon Town Football Club won a game against Leeds United. You will never know what an orgasmic piece of news that was. Okay, I'm not interested in football as a rule. It's not the game that bothers me but the idea that I should be automatically interested in it. However, my old boss DS supports Leeds and any victory against them 'oop north' is worth a cheer or two. But lets put that victory into perspective. It's like me walking out of a nightclub with a girl under each arm. Such things are the stuff of myth and legend. Hallo Hallo, What's All This Then? Strolling along the ghetto area of Swindon to the internet cafe, I pass a large pub daubed in green paint and irish-esque lettering. There's something about irish themed pubs that immediately puts me off. Not sure why. It's not as if I'm allergic to leprechauns or such. Outside were a line of bad lads against the wall, chatting quietly as a gang of policemen hovered close by. Not quite tense, just sort of a constrained ambience. One policeman studied me as I passed by. By now I've been catalogued and appraised regarding my potential for trouble or lawbreaking, or perhaps he suspected I was an alien in disguise. There's certainly enough of those in Swindon these days. I've learned to recognise space aliens. They speak Polish. Had a guy come to the door a few days back asking if I spoke Polish. Like you do.

There's some pictures from yesterdays expedition to Liddington Hill. The photos don't really convey the scale of the hill and how steep those slopes are. It fascinating to think though that Iron Age Brits and Romano-Brits once lived there, and that possibly Saxon invaders might once have defended those slopes against a certain 'Arthur' and his army. It feels a very lonely place these days. Learn When You're Young The course of the old Wilts & Berks canal forms a back street these days. It isn't one of Swindons most salubrious areas it must be said. Rows of collapsing garages, building sites for flats squeezed into any possible gap, and at times I wonder if the Swindon Grafitti College trains its members there. But on a telegraph pole planted at the end of one of those long and untended gardens was a sign. FREE. A collection of kiddies bicycles were gathered underneath, and a child of seven or eight was preparing for a busy days trading. I can see he's going to go far. Holier Than Thou A Roman Catholic priest has used his Easter sermon to 'recognise their guilt' over the child sex scandals. Archbishop Nichols said: "Talk of sin is not always popular - unless we are talking about other people's sins". Astonishing. A Roman Catholic priest admitting their church is guilty? Whatever next? Actually I can't accept this sermon was completely honest after the Popes Preacher announced that all the criticism of Catholicism following the child sex scandals was shameful and equivalent to the suffering of Jews. It just isn't. I don't see any evidence of railway wagons transporting millions of Catholics to camps in Eastern Europe where they'll be gassed wholesale. What a stupid man. As for the individuals who committed these acts against children, priests or otherwise, I sincerely hope they receive the full force of justice. As for the Cathloic Church, clean your own house before you start spouting moral messsages at us. In fact, don't bother spouting moral messages at all. You're clearly no good at it.

I had intended to go on a hike yesterday but the unsettled weather put me off. Today however was due to be sunshine and showers, and after looking at the weather map on tv I decided to risk a venture into the countryside. So this morning I was up early and all packed. My intention was to climb to the top of Liddington Hill, the highest spot in Wiltshire and not too far away, although the route I planned to go by meant following the road south then doubling back up the escarpment, a fair distance to walk with a weight on your back. Trudging through the mud is a very tiring experience. So I decided not to go the long way, and instead followed the country road east from Chiseldon and clambering up the grassy hillsides. It's been a long time since I've been up there, and since I hadn't arrived via the Ridgeway as I usually would, I discovered to my suprise and delight that their were ditches and ramparts guarding the slightly less torturous inclines of the plateau behind the hillfort. As for the weather I encountered no showers at all. Cloudy, some sunny spells, and a chill breeze. That all changed when I got to the top of Liddington Hill. Up there the wind was fiercely cold and unrelenting. Ye gods you'd need to be tough to live up there during winter. No wonder the hillfort was abandoned more than once. The view of course is brilliant. You can see over the plain to the north, and into both valleys tracing southward either side. A light aeroplane flew past me, climbing through cloud and revealing just how low the cloud was above my head. It was nice to get up there again - but a whole lot nicer back down again! How Not To Pat Dogs The lady had been trying to call her dog for a while. Trouble is, a dog's nose is so much more an effective sensory device than our own it's hard to realise what vistas of information they uncover as they sniff the urine left by the previous canine visitor. Eventually the dog obeyed. This bulky muscular dog then spotted me returning to Swindon on the footpath and decided to investigate. Hello Dog. How are you? Let me just pet you.. Woah!... For a moment I thought the animal was going to bite. The dog thought I was going to slap him. So we sort of both backed off. "He's quite harmless" The woman said. Yeah, I know, they always are at home when everythings normal. Still, the dog showed some initiative and began a game of Can I Get Close Without Him Stopping Me?. Uhhh... Lady?... I'm getting bored of this game. Could you call your dog?... Youngsters The Neighbours have rediscovered the delights of loud music. I think young people should be banned. Just ban them. All of them. The world would be a better place.

Two armies face each other across a grassy plain waiting for the orders to begin their advance upon the other. Try to put yourself there, lined up with the others, taking your place in the line. It's been a long march to this place. You've suffered ferociously hot days, cold nights, wind and rain. You're far from home. Instead of enjoying life with friends and families, you're here, amongst thugs, cheats, warriors, and yes, one or two potential cowards by your side. And there they are. After weeks of weary marching, dragging tired legs up hills and placing blistered feet on rough gravel, not to mention the aching shoulders from hauling your belongings with you, there's the enemy. At this distance you see little more than lines of men, shields, helmets, standards, long lines of spear points at ease. Shouts can be heard. Those spears fall level at the ready. You hear a reaction from your own commanders. Battle is to be joined. They're marching toward you. An older man, a veteran, sees your nervousness and whispers to you to stay calm. He makes it seem easy. Those enemy soldiers are advancing remorselessly, grim faced, seemingly immune to the pangs of fear that are clutching your heart. Oh yes, you made brave boasts the night before, how you would fight and how the foe would flee from your courage. Perhaps your courage feels little more than empty words as a loud voice behind calls for you to march into the face of the oncoming wall of shields, swords, and spear points. Of course you obey. Almost automatically you begin to place one foot in front of the other, marching with your comrades, going through the motions, doing what they taught you in those first few days, but now? You're beginning to lose awareness of your surroundings. As you approach the enemy, you realise which of them you are facing. You can see them, swarthy skinned men of a different realm, staring back at you in cold emnity. A shout! A great yell arises from them, and they begin to charge toward you... Okay, that description is of course nothing more than fiction. The important question is however - Who will win? There is a tendency, which you can clearly see in these forums as much as anywhere else, that in considering the possible outcome of a battle to think in purely mechanistic terms, to play "Top Trumps". Who has the best weapon? The longest range? The most endurance? The best protection? The best reputation? Now I can't dismiss these factors entirely, and they do make a difference, but is that all combat is about? I remember discussing combat with a friend who used to be a member of a dark age re-enactment society. In one display, a situation arose between a Saxon Thane and four Norman spearmen. The Thane was of course better armoured, and armed with an axe. For safety reasons he wasn't allowed to use this axe in the vertical plane, to bring it down on enemy heads with full force - fairly obviously. Against four spearmen? All they had to do was surround him - there were no obstructions to doing that - and move in. Strictly speaking, it was only a matter of time before the Thane fell from spear thrusts in his back. Instead, he yelled. he screamed. He threw his axe from hand to hand and taunted the opponents to take him on. His aggression suprised and terrified the spearmen, who instinctively stood together nervously as they inched forward. Think about it. Who will win?

Present pikes in all directions? Strictly speaking that's no longer a phalanx and should be considered a square. A different formation, one that remains stationary and attempts to fend off any cavalry in the area. The Romans were of course correct. What they needed was plenty of missile troops to whittle down the defenders - and I see they did exactly that. The phalanx is not a unit type. It's a specific formation for using long pikes in a particular way.

Today is big news for me. I have published my first book, available from all good booksellers, entitled Introspective and Non-Triumphant Behaviour Among Adolescent Roman Males (by Caldrail). Took me ages to research the subject. Finally finished and out on the shelves. Woo Hooo! You are all going to buy a copy, aren't you? This was of course a complete April Fools joke and the said book does not exist. It also happens to be a subtle if somewhat abstract poke at some of my dole-seeking friends at the Work Experience Programme Centre and my early exit on Thursday. Oh come on... Who'd buy a book with 'Caldrail' on the cover? Proof of Pyshic Powers I was right. I am psychic. TB did indeed attempt to call me. Unfortunately I set the wrong year on my mobile phone so the message never got through. Whoops. Must remember not to make mistakes like that again. Proof of Jobsearch Todays activity at our weekly Jobsearch Day was to make a milk smoothie. I have absolutely no idea why flavoured dairy drinks have any meaningful benefit to our unemployed status, but there you go. One lady was perusing the various recipes on the net, usually involving lots of expensive strawberries, but I made a few helpful suggestions, such as... Vindaloo Smoothie. Lots of fiery chilli, potato, and a meat of your choice, plus the knowledge that you will find a use for all that excess toilet paper you bought in the last weekends sale. Brussel Sprout and Vinegar Smoothie. Let it not be said th at I don't cater for vegetarians. Full of sprouting goodness. As usual our chimps tea party took no notice of the what was going on and resported to loud debate concerning football results, Miss M's ever eventful love life, the Malignant Pixie's sex aid, the latest gossip from Facebook, and for those who could bear it, rap music from the PC's. It seems I was the only one who heard TB say that if we applied for enough jobs we could go home earlier. I was a little delayed due to a snail having been reincarnated as a computer, but fifteen minutes later I was triumphantly waving a wad of print-outs and away I went. See ya, KS. Enjoy your day at the Programme Centre. Note The Date Some of you might have spotted the date. I take no responsibility for trips to the bookstore and long-winded enquiries to members of staff. In fact, all in all, I've had a very irresponsible day!

In the last ten minutes, I was attacked by hailstones. Luckily we Brits only get the feeble variety, little frozen pellets that bounce off the top of your head with a slight stinging sensation. Just thought I'd mention it. It's probably the most exciting thing that happened today. I was going to write about S, our new fellow placementee who joined us today for our daily round of fun, frolics, and cardboard monotony, but it turns out he's a quiet chap who's about as interesting to talk to as charting the hourly migration of goldfish in a bowl. However it's also true that I was put in charge of training him, so I refused an command from one of the shop floor managers and maintained I needed to train him. One needs to learn when to use initiative in the stockroom enviroment. A Phone Call Away KS tells me that TB, our Programme Advisor, phoned him yesterday afternoon. She wanted to meet up for a review of his progress and asked whether he could travel back into town. At three in the afternoon? KS 'ummed and ahhed' and said no. I on the other hand have been suffering the usual problems with mobile phones such as flat batteries, forgetting to switch it on, forgetting to carry it with me, and basically forgetting where I put it. Maybe it's just my natural paranoia, but my psychic powers are telling me I might have a message waiting for me. Hey... An after hours meet with TB? Good grief, I'm dangerously close to having a social life. It Worked Before Well whaddaya know? Gordon Brown has wheeled out Tony Blair as his campaign 'centre forward'. I'm not suprised in any way whatsoever. Tony Blair gave his stablemate his current job on a plate as it is, now he's persuading us to keep him in office. Someone please please shoot the pair of them before Britain goes down the plughole. As for the Liberal Democrats.. Well all they do is criticise everyone else. What exactly are their policies? Anyone know?... Nope, thought not. As for the Conservative Party... we can only hope they're slightly less crooked in managing Britains finances. Why do I get this sinking feeling that they mean well but haven't the slightest clue what they're doing? The alternatives? There's the Nun Of The Above Party, the various Monster Raving Looney Parties, or maybe just J's All Weekend Party instead. Choices... Choices... P.S. Oh yes. Before I forget. Hello Miss G! Didn't want you to think I was being unsociable and ignorant. Politeness matters.

The Theban advance in echelon might support on side of the lead phalanx, but it's circumstantial whether there's any benefit to that. In the case of Leuctra, no, there wasn't, because all the cavalry was facing off in the centre of the action, and the infantry action was deliberately intended as a simple push-on-push of pikes. As for how the Romans might react, it's more of a case of how a particular commander would react. Some Roman generals were very gifted, many simply followed the guidelines without any talent or forethought, . Okay, let's suppose I arrive at the battlefield and there's the Thebans lined up with cavalry at the front. What is he playing at? Surely the wings are more important? No matter. I'm not confronting his cavalry at all. Mine are securing the wings and will attempt to prevent the enemy horsemen from escaping the killing zone between our phalanxes. I sense a victory in the offing. Warfare has often been compared to a game of chess but in relaity it's more down to trickery and guile as to who gets the upper edge before you begin. Imagine it instead as a game of poker. You know what you have in your hand. You might be able to guess how strong his hand is. Can you outplay him?

I was in a grim state last night. My temperature was rising, my visits to the toilet increasingly frantic and frequent, and I felt dreadful. Why is it that medicine never tastes nice? Grin and bear it, Caldrail, you'll feel better in the morning. And so I was. The cold damp morning didn't put me off at all. After the heavy showers of yesterday, the big screen television bolted to the side of the multi-story car park insisted today was going to bring drizzle. I think they might have a different definition of drizzle than we do in Swindon - it was raining very robustly this afternoon. KS also arrived for work fit and healthy. It turns out that he did indeed set his clock so out of sync with the rest of the universe that his mother had to rescue him from his time/space anomaly by shouting up the stairs to enquire whether he was going to work that day. So he phoned in sick. And, as we now know, he even got away with that. But I digress. He later complained of being knackered from his football last night. Football? You were off sick and still played football? Well there you have it. Forget expensive medicines and other conventional treatments - go out and play football with your mates. A tried and tested cure for all ills. Do This.. No... Do That It was going on all day. My boss has been to Egypt for a holiday (no doubt to learn how slaves should be treated and efficiently employed to stack cartons) and whilst the brochures and television ads make tempting visions of sun and sand, the reality of Egypt is that it's a very unfriendly place for us westerners. So I guess she learned a great deal from her police overseers whilst she was there. Every so often she would pull me to one side and get me to set about a task designed to bring patient men to the very edge of of explosive temper. And when I set about my task, usually around ten minutes later whilst I'm still getting organised, she gets overrulled by her boss and another task, much harder and exacting, is presented to me. It was a bit like playing a computer game where you advance to the next level before you've done anything. Just a helpless spiral of human endurance and mental capacity. She was watching our every move. Matters of Boris It seems being called Boris really does things for your popularity. Walking along the high street a couple of pretty girls remarked "Oooh look, there's Boris" Hey, I've still got it. But the other Boris in the news is our Mayor of London, who has proclaimed that our capital city is to made the 'Centre of fun for the whole universe'. Zaphod Beeblebrox please take note. Good for you Boris. Maybe the 2012 Olympics will be fun after all. So at least we'll be able to laugh and remember the good times when the bills roll in. Poetry Corner Look, I know I once wrote a poem on this blog but please don't think I do this sort of thing ordinarily. You see, KS has requested, nay, begged me to include his poem written to Mrs T. This is all his own work, I take no responsibility for injuries caused by mirth, anger, or indeed any psychological trauma resulting from this poem. Here goes... Roses are red Violets are blue Show me some boxes I'll do them for you Stacking's okay Prepping's alright But when I'm with you My day shines bright Ugh. Ghastly. And completely dishonest. KS has voiced his opinion that assisting Mrs T is like being married. What's that on your head? No, there... Look... A thumbprint on top of your head...