caldrail

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...

Thanks Guy, but to answer the above point, I don't smoke Think about what was happening. A phalanx is useless unless it advances to contact with the enemy. Both sides therefore begin an advance. If they don't, they gain no momentum. Unusually the cavalry was lined in front of the line - why? - One side or the other made that decision and the opposing force did likewise to face them off. Gaining superiority in cavalry is essential. It really is. If the enemy has cavalry flowing around your line, you're in deep, deep trouble, regardless of how good your phalanxes may be. In the majority of ancient battles the cavalry face off and fight first. So did the Spartans opt for a frontal cavalry charge out of ignorance? Or did the Thebans craftily do that to set up the Spartan horsemen for a fall? We don't know. At any rate, the two sides horses begin their melee across the battlefield. Cavalry fights are always more fluid than infantry, and note that they had a limited time before their phalanxes arrived remorselessly. In other words, they would have to gain whatever advantage and get out before they were trapped between rows of pikes. Since the Thebans advanced in right flank refused (which does not protect the trailing units in any way, please note, it merely delays the time of contact, and phalanxes have extremely limited adaptability and once formed, are difficult to manoever) their cavalry had a wider door to withdraw through. So the Theban cavalry fights not necessarily to win a melee, but to block the exit from that side. As the Theban phalaxes arrive the cavalry backs off, leaving the Spartan horsemen trapped in the worse case scenario. That's all well and good, but consider what happens on the Spartan side. The advancing phalanxes can see their own cavalry in front of them, milling around helplessly. I would imagine a certain amount of hesitation at skewering your men. Whatever the truth of the relative strengths of each sides infantry, one thing must be abundantly clear - that the Spartans would have suffered a certain level of morale drop and confusion. That was advantage the Theban phalanxes needed, and the entire reason for advancing in right flank refused. To trap the enemy cavalry and disrupt the Spartan advance. Game over.

That assumes the phalanxes were all important. Whilst they formed the body of the battle, there was no significant advantage to either side there. The refusement of the right flank without considering the cavalry action in between the lines makes no sense as a winning strategy. Far from it, it's rather pointless and in one respect might actually prevent a Theban victory. It was the cavalry action that swung it, as so often happens in battles of this period.

As many of you might know, this last weekend was the time of year when we put the clocks forward one year, a ritual designed for no apparent reason other than statistics. Getting out of bed an hour earlier wasn't too difficult considering my downstairs neighbours had left their central heating on and whilst that wasn't apparent at first, by the early hours I was gasping for breath in that humid heat. Time to go to work. The weather has turned rainy and I'm informed that snow might hit parts of Britain later in the week, which is almost bound to be elsewhere so I won't worry about that... 7:25 AM J opened the doors and allowed me in with the usual exchange of pleasantries and jokes. "What? No KS?" he observed. Doesn't look like it. 8:00 AM Big discussion about KS. Is he late? Has he forgotten to put his alarm clock an hour forward? The consensus is that we weren't going to tell him he was late. It might hurt his feelings with all of us rolling around the floor clutching ribs. 8:35 AM No KS. What the..? Has he put his clock the wrong way? Will he arrive two hours late? The general consensus was that an hour late was funny, but two hours late demanded no mercy. 09:10 AM Miss L loudly demands that J leave her alone because she 'doesn't want any more fingerprints on her donkey' 9:35 AM Still no KS. Oh dear... If he turns up now, he will be lambasted to the point of tantrum. 13:00 PM It's official, he phoned in sick. That's one more day than his placement allowance so he is also offically in trouble. Did we laugh? Mrs T called him a 'lazy piece of turf'. 14:05 PM "Hiyah" Said a woman passing me on the high street. Who on earth is she? She merely shrugged and carried on her way shaking her head. For the life of me I haven't a clue who she was. Former girlfriend? Not with that woolly hat. Former fan of my musical past? No, she didn't ask for an autograph. Well, for now this chance meeting will remain a mystery. Perhaps the shoe that occaisionally gets left outside my home will fit her? heck - I hope not. 14:10 PM It's official, I've been declared well and truly ill. A fever is taking hold and I'm writing this piece bleary eyed and breathless, coughing every so often to confirm I still live... Too ill to type any more.... Brain functions at 33% and falling... Core temperature rising... Imminent meltdown expected.... Cough.

The key to the strategy is cavalry. Both sides untypically deployed horsemen along the line ahead of the phalanxes. With greek battles, as indeed was common throughout the ancient period, establishing cavalry superiority was essential to control your flanks and rear. The Theban cavalry was better in any case - the Spartans were known to be indifferent horsemen. When the battle begins, the lines of cavalry set to against each other for dominance, with phalanxes trudging on behind. With a right flank refused diagonal, this allowed a progressive escape route for the Theban cavalry and with each withdrawal another Spartan cavalry block was trapped between both sides - the Spartan phalanxes did not halt. They simply couldn't get out because the Thebans were jamming them in. Later in the battle this gave the Thebans a cavalry ascendancy in which they were pretty much unchallenged, now able to attack the Spartan flanks and rear without hindrance.

Walking along the alleyway beside the yard at theback of my home, I spotted the first 'horsetail' sprouting out of the sandy gravel and grass beside the white (and decorated) plywood fence. Without the fronds it'll grow later, it resembles a sort of greeny-white phallus, though the colours blend in perfectly with the surroundings and so it's already grown several inches without my seeing before. In a sense this harbinger of spring is an event, something to bring a smile to to your face, to make joy blossom like... (*sound of needle drawn across a vinyl record*) That's quite enough of that. Yes, the horsetail is there, but the romance of wayside weeds isn't going to enliven this blog at all. Last night I watched The Odessa File, a 60's feature film about secret Nazi skulduggery. As films go, it's quite good. It has a tight plot, decent acting, some understated action sequences, and a suprise ending. It's also showing its age. As good as it is, it doesn't have a modern edge to it. Now I don't mean those silly films like Kick-Ass or Sahara which are just so ridiculous as make you weep, but I found last nights film to be something of a disappointment. Ahh... Not enough explosions. Now as a child I was brought up on a diet of Gerry Anderson puppet shows. Anything could happen in the next half hour as Marineville inevitably dropped into it's bunker in every episode. The grand opening of some fabulous engineering project was always a disaster, with the somewhat strange lads from a secret Pacific island rescuing everyone before everything exploded. Alien creatures on Mars trying to overthrow Earth by the stupidest means possible. Oh yeah.. And some nine year old geek who's transformed into James Bond by a government sponsored gizmo and who gets to drive around in a wheeled jet engine without the police noticing. You'd think the lessons would have rubbed off on me, but no, they didn't... Fashion Dummy of the Week Some of the guys at the store were discussing their imminent trip to the Donnington Festival, where AC/DC are putting on their last gig on English soil and so forth. It's one of those big mega-events that resembles a communal mud-bath with a long-haired stereo in the background. Miss L was moaning because flares were banned. Banned? Oh come on, L, what is the world coming to? Off course you go in with flares. "No" Said J in an authorative tone, "They're classed as offensive weapons". I should explain that J goes glassy eyed at the word 'offensive' and to him, as a keen martial art dude, anything remotely weaponish is a source of stimulating fantasy. Hang on a minute J. Since when were trousers classed as offensive weapons? I mean I know fashion is taken a little seriously but that's ridiculous. Take risks, express yourself, turn up in whatever togs you want. "Errr... No," J looked askance at Miss L, "We mean flares. You know? Shooty ones? Big red and green rockets?" Excellent. Get wet, muddy, deafened, and rescued by an RAF helicopter all in one weekend. But nonetheless I've proven that I've been working with natural and man-made fabrics for too long. I think I need a dose of explosions. Time to break out a computer game and lose myself in pixellated pandemonium. Ahhh... Explosions....

That assumes the intention is to go home again, and that they intend to weigh themselves down in the process.

I would add that 'charging' in phalanx, whilst laughably impracticle, is also unnecessary. The weight of numbers advancing remorselessly behind multiple ranks of pike heads was more than effective enough to compensate for any loss of aggression. Now, as to whether a phalanx is defensive, that can only be the case when facing them from the front. Arguably it was possible for the formation to reverse direction relatively easily, possibly even left or right, but they can only present pikes in one direction. In each over aspect they are vulnerable. This is of course why armies using phalanxes advanced in line, so that each phalanx was 'protected' by the one next to it, and also a good reason for winning the cavalry confrontation on the wings.

Never quite cloudy... Never quite rainy... It's been a day of woeful indecision from Mother Nature. We of the Stockroom Breed however have been much more determined. After all, we've been there ten weeks now. We're already discussing the need to be awarded campaign medals. Mr R died of old age. W left after his criminal record was exposed. Mistymouth left after exposing his.. well.. oddness. There was apparently another new starter who left the next day with a sprained wrist. We are the survivors. A Lesson In Baling Miss L sometimes helps with the baling of waste cardboard and plastic. As I ambled past on my way to find some banter I spotted her attempting to fill the last few cubic inches of space available in the big yellow machine. The obstinate plastic bag refused to comply with her curses. So, with all the powers of L at her command, she grabbed her broom and rammed the poor plastic in there quite violently. After which everything already stuffed inside fell out. She looked at me balefully as I guffawed. You have to laugh. A Lesson In Physics KS was hauling a clothes rail from the lift with his usual downtrodden slave persona. Such an opportunity was too good to miss. Miss L leapt onto to the back of the rail and saved herself a walk down the racks. Unfortunately she had forgotten that the walkway has a right bend in it, and when KS pulled the strangely heavier rail round the perpendicular course it immediately oversteered, swinging such that Miss L was propelled into the rack along the wall. She made such a helpless squeak in alarm at her predicament that I couldn't help falling over laughing. A Lesson In Gymnastics In one of the racks I have responsibility for is a metal ladder, a sizeable and unwieldy contraption with wheels, brakes, probably even cup holders too. To Miss L, it represents a climbing frame, and in her youthful innocence made an attempt to reach the top from the other side to the steps... Like you do. Once again she made a squeak of alarm as the whole thing began to overbalance. Trust me, Lara Croft is a better gymnast. Ouch. Short Leash Miss L wandered past in a state of complete amusement and said "She's got him on such a short leash" She meant the hold Mrs T has over KS, who answered her every call and whim, and woe betide him if he wandered off for some banter. Miss L suggested Mrs T use a small bell to summon his services and that was the running joke of the day. Mrs T was not amused. Ahhh... Sorry about that... Invitation To A Lunchtime After ten weeks working at the store the guys finally invited me along to their social gathering at the local sandwich bar. I opted for a steak and cheese sub with olives and peppers in herb bread, but at a whopping

A phalanx is a phalanx. The whole point is to push long spears into the face of the enemy by weight of numbers, or in the case you mention, keep them busy whilst cavalry took advantage of an opportunity. Not defensive at all. Exercise value apart, running at the charge into an enemy is not about keeping formation, it's about aggression. Wedge formations are however something of a grey area. They're almost always described as offensive in nature yet make far more sense as a defense against frontal cavalry attacks, persuading horses to flow either side rather neatly. There really isn't any advantage in setting your phalanx as a wedge or a column when advancing on the enemy, and arguably the column attacks across a broader front from the off thus is less easily defended against.

I think you're very, very wrong. Let me explain why I believe this to be the case. A wall is, in purely military terms, a linear defense. Hdrians Wall was not primarily military nor intended as a defense in that sense, but rather a security line in what amounts to a very modern concept. The problem with assuming that troops were rushed from one section of the line to another is that it leaves another section of wall undefended. In other words, all the Picts had to do was create a feint, get the Romans to react, and then attack the vacated sections. The Picts may have been barbarians in the classic sense but they certainly weren't stupid, and don't forget that arms smuggling was one of the reasons that the wall existed in the first place. The Romans were actually quite sophisticated about military matters compared to their contemporaries (not quite as sophisticated as some people believe even if they were well organised - remember that the legions were deliberately brutish and larceny from civilians tolerated) and they would have spotted the strategic flaw in linear reinforcement - that was the entire reason for troop bases north and south of the line - to reinforce gaps in the event of attack. Look at it from another perspective. The presence of the 500/1000 man garrisons was a deterrent, not a preventative measure, and formed the base from which patrols marched along the security line. Suppose the Picts attack (allegedly) and break through. They then spread southward causing havoc. By the time the adjacent formations have reacted and arrived at the point of penetration the enemy has moved on. The only feasible way to prevent their advance is to block it in the direction of travel or as near as possible. Otherwise your troops will be forced to chase after them and that takes longer, plus opens the rear of their column to encircling attacks from barbarian groups following after. You may or may not agree, but I've learned not to make assumptions about military dispositions. There is always a reason, and it may not be the one that seems obvious.

Erm... No. Caligula ruled from 37 to 41, followed by Claudius, then Nero took the throne. He was born in December 37, and ruled from 54.

Thursday is jobsearch day again, and that's official. You would expect that we get access to facilities and resources to assist us in the quest for gainful employment and up to a point you'd be right, but what might suprise you is the extent to which the advisors go to obstruct and prevent us from actually making any attempt to apply for a job. As usual TB began her class in... erm... whatever it was, I've forgotten already... Oh yes, I remember now, it was a group thing about a hypothetical product or service and present a sales presentation on it. One table actually attempted this, discussing a baby-alert thingy, We have a television show in Blighty called Dragons Den in which a panel of business success stories offer investment and executive input if the hopeful guests impress them

KS plays football three nights a week. He sports a 'hard boy' shaven head. He spends ten miniutes every morning covering every inch and fold with 'man-spray'. He's dated almost every young lady employed at this department store. Whilst he hasn't advertised the fact, he also took a short video of himself in the Dungeon sparring with a cardboard box. Quite the young man isn't he? I had to laugh. Today he was given to Mrs T as her personal assistant. She's a mature lady who clearly wasn't going to let him catch his breath once during the day. You could hear the whip cracking at every opportunity, and like every youth working with an older woman, he was utterly obedient. At the close of our shift today I did tease him about being under the thumb. "I'm a broken man" He answered. Poor lad. He's exhausted. Spacial Ignorance Earlier today a manageress brought up a display table to be stored away in the Dungeon. It's quite a sizeable multi-shelved affair and how she got it into the goods lift to begin with is very impressive. The problem is that the sheer bulk of the display makes it impossible to manhandle along the aisles between haphazard ranks of cardboard and disused trolleys. To make it clear how difficult this objective was, I would describe it as Officially Impossible. But since when did that stop a manageress from demanding we lesser males do her bidding? So we all had to rearrange the entire stockroom to squeeze it past. Surely she must have realised it was too large? I know many woman struggle with spatial awareness (check out how many suitcases they pack for holiday or their inability to understand a map) but a part of me is suspicious that she didn't care. It was of course far more important that we lesser males stayed busy, sweating our poor little hearts out, and totally subservient to her every whim. Hmmm... Not sure... But I think I might have stumbled on a male weakness... Mistymouth Update Our investigative reporters here at Rushey Platt Daily can report that Mistymouth was escorted off the premises thanks to his odd behaviour, groundless accusations, and lack of popularity among female members of staff. Hello, Who's This? Woah... A classy brunette has just climbed the stairs here in the library. Sorry, just thought I'd mention it in cse o spllin miitztak s oh no she smiled at me. Help. I'm melting....

The British experience suggests that it will. And of course that means the political need to maintain levels of care will become something of a bugbear. One of the biggest problems with our current health provisions is the 'lottery' aspect of it. Where you live dictates which services and treatments are available.

But of course the phalanx isn't a defensive formation I'm suprised no-one pulled me for that bloomer. Please pay attention people

As Tuesdays go, this was not a good one. Let's see... What happened today? Erm... Not much... Oh hang on - I did burst into song first thing this morning! My Italian Tenor Moment Just one more carton Give it to me Fantastic fashions From Italy I want - to look my best So give me that carton And bu-u-u-u-rn the rest Proof of God Yes - in the desolate wastes of the stockroom, isolated from human contact and with nothing but navel gazing to keep us from devolving into fish, we discovered God. It all happened in the sock section. A revelation of earth-shaking proportions, almost biblical in significance. I held up a pack of socks and realised they formed the letter 'J', thus forming a physical manifestation of J's divine presence. Bow down to J sinful mortals and check your socks. Demonstrate your J-ness by the colour of your knitwear. We did have a false alarm as Miss L decided that socks were a manifestation of her divine presence, until we realised she was in Russian mode and was reading 'L' the wrong way round. Never mind. Instead we made her an official princess today as J the Giant Killer once again fills the baler in happy safety now that the Dragon Mistymouth has been defeated. Yep. Defeated. STOP PRESS! Late breaking news in the stockroom is that Mistymouth has been escorted off the premises by security. We're still waiting for details on this story and we'll be bringing you updates as we learn more. Conclusion As you can see we were all a little bored. If I were honest I'd have to confess we were all bored a lot. Probably because Miss A is on holiday.

I must admit I've failed to understand why the americans are so hot under the collar over this issue. After all, we've had a national health system since WW2 (even if it is creaking with top heavy bureaucracy and an ever-increasing commercial element) and we do okay. From what you're writing, it seems that any sort of socialist mindset or decision-making is a foreign concept - quite literally. Fascinating. To me it seems then that America is the Land of the Free (especially if you can pay for it) Dare I say it - Is american politics evolving beyond it's founding pronciples? We've had a hearing-impaired democracy for some time now and although the modern 'can't hear you, sorry' attitude is contemporary, the old boys networks have always had a large part to play in British politics, often with decisions taken behind closed doors. Britain operates on a system of 'We're talking about doing X and Y when we get into power, so vote for us'. Until this health issue arose, it seems as if the Americans operated on a system 'We're going to do X and Y so don't vote for anyone else'. In a sense I have to laugh. For decades the British have moaned about US influence on our society, now it appears we're influencing the USA and they haven't noticed!

In phalanx, nope. A deliberate paced advance only, because otherwise the formation would break up and in any case, running with such long pikes would be ridiculous. Using spears or swords, of course they would charge if it was considered advantageous by their leader. In that case, keeping formation is irrelevant, because you're effectively trading formation (essentially defensive in nature) for 'punch' and aggression. Would they charge? Not if cavalry were anywhere around. That requires defensive thinking, and thus a foirmation is necessary for mutual protection.

A visit from the Health & Safety Executive set the tone of todays activity in the stockrrom. Everything had to be stacked safely. Which meant I had to restack everything. So once again unto the boxes dear friends, and those who were not stacking shall hold their manhood cheap, as Shakespeare himself might have put it. KS popped into view during my tedious reassembly of random piles of distorted cartons and said "I've been told to give you a hand. Do the same as you." Okeedokee. If you'd like to take care of the next aisle.... "Nah. I'm my own boss" He said and vanished. Oh suit yourself then. Later that day he popped up again whilst J was was there discussing vital work issues such as how dull Monday was. KS repeated his statement that he had been told to help me out. Okay... Then maybe you could sort out that aisle over there? "Nah. I'm my own boss" He said and vanished. Oh for crying out loud! Well, if he wants to be a bolshy teenager then he can visit a taxidermist. As it happens, it was me who ended up restacking almost all the chaotic boxes while he sat in a quiet corner listening to his personal stereo. "You're a bit upset today, aren't you?" He observed jovially a little later. Upset? He has no idea how close I was to getting violent. Still, he wants to be his boss, so every attempt he made to ask me for guidance or opinion was met with complete indifference. He can have it all his own way. If he wants to be a team player, all well and good. If he wants to dismiss all the onerous or physical tasks, then he can be his own boss and the buck stops with him. I'm beginning to understand how he gets off with women. He is insidious. Every chance he saw he was attempting to charm his way into my good books. Good grief, was I born yesterday? This is a guy who sprays himself with perfume every morning before he starts work. You have to witness it to believe it. The smell is indescribable. Sorry KS, but your attempt to win respect was a failure. You used the wrong methods. Getting bolshy and defiant might impress your mates, but to me you're advertising what an irresponsible layabout you are. So please excuse me while I advertise it to the rest of the world. You may invite me to visit the taxidermist at your leisure. I'm not listening to teenage weight throwing contests. My Stephen King Moment This is my tenth week or so on placement at the department store. All of a sudden they've decided to create a register for us to sign in and out. So today for the first time I signed in. All to do with health & safety I guess, but then... Evil Lift nearly crushed me in it's powered doors once before, and today? One of our managers went missing. She entered the lift and was never seen again. Tomorrow I have to take the lift down to the loading bay. It's plotting to kill me... I just know it... Contract of the Week ...went to General Dynamics, who are no doubt popping champagne corks at the news they won the contract for developing a new light tank for the British Army. BAE, who were also in the running, are now to close two sites with the loss of five hundred jobs. Such is the price of failure in our cut throat modern globally economic and competitive era. On the one hand, we curse our politicians and shake our fists. Surely they could have safeguarded british jobs? Well.. Yes, they could have... But if their new light tank had turned out to be less brilliant than expected, who gets the blame for all the extra funeral corteges creeping through Wootton Bassett in Wiltshire? Of course everyone will want to take the credit if these new tanks work out. But who will lose the game of political chairs if these tanks turn out to be lemons? By then it will be too late, and soldiers will be returning in pieces. So I hope the Ministry of Defence made a good choice in awarding this contract because you can bet no-one will accept responsibility.

Puritans? That's where you're going wrong. The various christian sects of late Roman times are quite diverse and bear in mind it wasn't until the Council of Nicaea that any real agreement was reached on what actually comprised christian belief, and that was the point that anything else was considered a heresy, and although the religious purges were yet to occur, the church of Rome was keen to keep things in line and frequently sent out missionaries to preach and convert to their accepted version. Some cults, like Pelagianism, were considered too heretical and in this case Bishop Germanus of Auxerre arrived in 429 to sort them out (it's also said he returned in 440 but that might be a corrupt description of the same visit) - Pelagius disappeared, and I note he went on record as saying that if someone wanted to call themselves chritian then they should be christians, whereas the Roman system imported by Augustine in the 6th century was much more ambivalent - some might say tolerant . The problem was that while the irish christians expanded and influenced developments in the British Isles, the Roman church was not going to let this 'alternative' religion run things, and in England at least the conversion of the Saxons to Roman christianity was very much the cause of irish christianity becoming outshadowed. Ireland too had missionaries sent there, and as their own version of christianity lost influence so the Roman priests grew to fill the void. Pagan beliefs and Irish christianity didn't actually die out as such since many of those cults continued on the fringes of acceptability, but the Roman church grew to such overwhelming control of European hearts and minds that Pope Urban II attempted to create a pan-european religious dictatorship at the end of the eleventh century. It was perhaps a little ironic that it was Constantinople that upset the apple cart. A letter from Emperor Alexius to the Pope asked for military assistance against the heathen Turks and bingo - the Crusades were born, which helped dilute the christian zeal over the course of the next two hundred years, but by then the Roman church was dominant anyway. The paradox as you see it is only an apparent one, and is easily explainable as shifts in power balance between sects over long periods of time.

Way back in the days before musicians were obselete and I was optimistically expecting to be a famous rock drummer any minute later, I must have played hundreds and hundreds of gigs back-to-back all over England. Funny thing though is only once do I remember being offered drugs. In that particular case I was guarding the mixing desk before a gig at the infamous London Road Hall in Bath, a fetid amber-shaded place whose clientelle seemed to compose mostly of rival drug dealers and their woolly-hatted Rasta customers. There had been one gig there where I'd popped out for a burger down the road and returned to discover that threats at knife-point had been going on. At another, a gang of Rastas ambled onto the stage and demanded a reggae set. Of course they didn't get get it. We insisted on performing our own brand of progressive death metal for morris dancers. Now whilst I don't think they understood our music in any sense whatsoever, neither did anyone else, so as usual we survived the gig and people wandered away confused. But I digress. The drug dealer leaned over the desk and politely asked if I was interested in cannabis. I said no (Come on, keeping time in Red Jasper was hard enough without getting completely zonked out of your head) and he offered a veritable mobile pharmacy as an alternative. Pills for every occaision. Given Robin and Tony's continued moans about musical direction, I remember wondering if he had any headache pills, but perhaps it was better not to enquire. It's been a long time since I've been offered such things. A few days ago one certain young man made a cursory attempt to discover whether I was interested in Methedrone. I have to be honest, I'd not heard of it and only since then have I come across descriptions in the media of this not-yet-illegal drug, also known as Meow-Meow for some strange reason. That said, it all sounded very drug-rehab and I ignored his overtures. His attempt to sell the substance was for him just a source of pocket money, as if I had any to spend, yet given this youngsters apparent need to adopt certain mannerisms in his quest for manhood, I can't help wondering if he's trying to be 'gangsta'? Erm... No. Neither is Mr G, one of my fellow jobsearchers at the programme centre, who sits slack jawed and dull-eyed throughout the proceedings, occaisionally swigging from his bottle of booze wrapped in a blue plastic bag in the folds of his down-and-out coat, and who wanders off to smoke something that will reduce his perceptions to the point that the mindless tedium of the programme will not even register. For him, drug use is an escape, even a social ritual, and I doubt he's coherent enough to realise he could make money from selling strange substances to others instead of sharing the experience with his mates. Others go abroad to seek relief from the daily grind, either on a drink-fest in which it never really matters what happens as long as you can't remember it, or a more sophisticated excursion to foreign lands dependent on a network of travel agents, airways, and hotels who seem to exist for the sole reason of making your life more stressful than the experience you want to get away from. Me? I'll stick to wandering the countryside when I need to get away from it all. All I have to worry about are the vagaries of British weather, acres of mud through which a public right of way is supposed to exist, blood thirsty mutant insects, overly inquisitive and nervous cows, loud dogs, and irate farmers. No stress there then. Sort It Out? Our community newsletter dropped through the door and boldly displayed on the front page was an article suggesting that graffiti was the biggest problem and that something must be done about it. I suspect the urgency of this crusade comes from a questionaire pushed our letterboxes some months ago. A few quick squiggles in black or silver appear first followed by huge logo's in the preffered style. How these youngsters get their work displayed on some of the most precipitous and inaccessable surfaces possible is beyond me, but for the most part, the haphazard letters in garish car paint seem to blossom on any expanse of vertical surface. This problem is nothing new. Ancient peoples daubed red ochre on the walls of caves or rocks. We say they were displaying a cultural representation of their lives and religioius beliefs, but isn't that exactly what these disaffected youths are doing today in a more surreal (and drug induced) way? Okay, graffiti isn't conducive to a pleasant enviroment, but since it represents the same instinct as dogs weeing up lamposts or cats rubbing scent on anything the dogs haven't wee'd on, surely the answer is to tackle the morons who paint this rubbish? There's been initiatives in the past to try and give graffiti some sort of credibility and niche in modern art, probably on the grounds that people ere going to do this sort of thing anyway so lets channel this activity into something mainstream where it can be organised and controlled (and of course subject to review by the ever-present need for art critics). That initiative failed because the nocturnal vandals who paint these lurid tags aren't exactly interested. For them, it's all about territory and social hierarchy rather than sunday supplements and televised commentary on deep meanings and social relevance of angles and overlaid letters. It's all about youths with no grounding in civilised behavioiur, respect for society or property, and enough money in their pockets to keep paint suppliers trading through the recession. It's the entire culture you need to address, and the lacklustre parenting that feeds it. These kids do this basically for their own self-worth, because unsuprisingly everyone else regards them as worthless. Is that a possible solution? Or is giving these kids a sense of self-esteem going to elevate their hobby to the glossy pages of magazines and the echoing of art galleries? Sort it out? Well, our present government will no doubt create more laws to tackle the problem and carry on life as before, at least until they get kicked out of office and new initiatives are presented in the media to demonstrate our leaders desire to make the world a better place, even if his motives are probably more to do with his own back yard. I guess that's why the newsletter went out. It's our back yard that's getting daubed in jagged rainbows, not some expensive and exclusive part of London.

Without doubt this is a miserable day. A fine mist of dampness hangs over Swindon, enveloping our grey town with... Well... Even more greyness. Only wetter. The feeling has reached my neighbour, who slammed the doors this morning in another sulk at having his dreams of all day and night parties crushed by the need to live alongside other people. Must be nine o'clock then. As I strode determinedly through the rain to reach the library at the bottom of the hill, I reminisced about how this was so different from a few days ago. On that particular evening I girded my loins and braved the early evening youth culture to grab a loaf of bread at a supermarket near me. Gangs of pink chimpanzees dressed in oversized rags tend to congregate around this time, often in the park just past the corner from where I live, where they meet to discuss pimply things and educate passers-by on fashion sense and self-esteem. But no, that particular was mellow, calm, the flocks of water fowl sat in family groups around the lake having set aside their daily struggle for breadcrumbs, the local apes reduced to less competitive social activities like picking fleas out of each other, as soft guitar chords wafted across the lake. Now that's how it should be. On the other hand, now it's the weekend again, and that means the guitar wizard who cast that mystical spell upon the park and its inhabitants won't be there. So I guess it's the usual round of chest beating from our pimply anthropoids instead. I suppose it keeps them off the streets... Sweet Deal It came as a great suprise, nay, shock, to Friendly Ferret (one of our stockroom co-workers) to discover that we placementees only receive two thirds of the National Minimum Wage (and no Tax Credits) for our labour. I guess that really does make us slaves. But then, TB at the programme centre very generously offered a chocolate easter egg at her own expense for the first person to land a proper job. As incentives go, it's worth considering. I'll remember to mention that to the next employer when I get interviewed. The original plan mooted by the government was to hand out jobs to dole-seekers who'd been claiming for more than six months and if you don't like cleaning sewage pipes for a (modest) living, tough. As Mr F, our ever friendly and chatty programme assistant pointed out, that was tyranny. There is a sense of desperation in politics right now. The government are desperately clinging on to credibility against rising disapproval and strike action, the usual symptom of extended Labour rule. The opposition are desperately seeking credibility to persuade us they could do a better job, when deep in your heart you just know it's going to get tougher. So I suppose I could do something useful and answer the letter from our local college asking if I'm interested in part-time courses to expand my conciousness (and indeed, marketability in the employment stakes) by signing up for a course in sewage pipe cleaning. Come to think of it, there's a sense of desperation in Swindon. Perhaps that was always the case, but right now it feels like the Fall of Pompeii, as everyone runs around in ever decreasing spirals in a hedonistic rush to do something pleasurable before the money finally runs out. If I were honest, I'm just as guilty. Rampant Rabbit Says Hi "Boris!" He said as he went about his business in the stockroom. Good grief. Recognition. And all it took was a silly name on my back. Happy Robot Says... (*beep* *whirr*) Thank you Happy Robot for that wonderful and illuminating message. My life is enriched by that wisdom. I hope yours is too. Alternatively learn to play guitar and enjoy those balmy evenings in semi-comatosed ecstasy.