caldrail

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.

Whilst I cannot dismiss what the Irish did in the early dark ages, I should point out they lost the battle for religious domination to Rome. The Irish presencve in Europe was never strong or widespread enough, and with the conversion of the Saxon tribes in the 6th century the settlement allowed 'english' christianity to succeed. Incidentially Augustine turned a blind eye to their own take on the christian rituals, and indeed, the dates they were to be observed, which is interesting considering he was supposed to be there to bring the islands populations back within the fold.

Swindon is renowned for it's dreary wet weather and today our unusual run of sunny mornings turned into a damp squib of a day. It's hard to describe how the mood in our rainy old borough changes when it gets wet because basically it doesn't. People are the same, apart from being possibly a little less drunk. So let me take you by the hand and lead you through the aisles upstairs, and I'll tell you something that will finally make up your mind... Highlights of the Day 1 - Caldrail singing "My Cardboard Is Waiting" just to get the morning off to a start. It just about killed the mood entirely but hey, who needs Simon Cowell when you have the Stockroom Factor? 2 - KS has gotten his wicked way with miss bleached blonde bombshell and deleted her from his facebook page now that he's on the run from her outraged boyfriend. He's also on the run from RS, a malignant skeletal pixie who was communicating her desire to ravish his body with her pen. And I thought I was metamorphosing into Benny Hill... I don't know what he's worried about, the girl has the memory of a goldfish. 3 - Miss L called KS a 'whore'. She also called him a 'retard'. She also fired off a lot of rubber bands. I guess she was in that kind of mood. 4 - Miss G finally recognised my existence and even laughed at one of my lengthy and very interesting anecdotes about life, the universe, and everything. Such a polite girl. She even had the good manners to wander away very discreetly, and despite nodding at my every witticism, managed to covertly send a text to one of her friends. 5 - Miss A finally took the plunge and invited me to her party this weekend. We're going to play Connect 4 and Twister and eat sausages on a stick. Can't wait. 6 - The assistant manager passed me on the stairs. I hardly ever bump into her, but she smiles and says hello, followed by hysterics when she notices I have BORIS written on my high-vis vest. I'm starting to realise they keep me around for the comedy value alone. And In Conclusion After it's all said and done, I feel it's worth leaving the last word to J, who looked up from his hastily assembled lunch in the rest area and said "You lot have destroyed my life. I hate you all.... And now... Back to the sandwich".

Back to school again. Every week I have to attend a session at the programme centre and sit through the lessons intended for people who don't have any education whatsoever. Our groups subject was Child Adoptions By Same Sex Couples. The discussion of course immediately turned to football with me sat in the middle of opinions and observations about a game for which I have nothing but disinterest in with every fibre of my being. Each group had to nominate someone to stand up and deliver a talk to the class about our findings and answer any questions. My presentation revolved around saying NO to same sex couples adopting children. At least that was my particular view. I did note that the Catholic Adoption Society have just won a high court case arguing against laws that force them to consider same-sex couples. Ye gods

Life in the stockroom continued at its usual pace, a sort of disinterested shuffle urged on by the increasing frustration of managerial staff for whom laclk of enthusiasm is an alien concept. Then, without warning, the main lights in the stockroom went out. Only the individual aisle lights remained, casting an orange mood upon the darkness of our haunted store. It was like being inside one of the computer games where you wander around mazes shooting things before they rip you asunder. Or for that matter, a stage set for a play... Ode To A Cardboard Box (From A Midsummers Night Stacking by William Shakespeare) Act I, Scene VI - Stackio wanders the specially marked walkways of the darkened stockroom Stackio - Lo! What is this before me, obstructing a path of yellow chevrons? It is a box, forlorn and trampled, emptied of content and left to decompose in such thoughtless fashion that my heart is driven to despair at the arrogance of a busy stockroom. Managera - Stackio! Stackio! Wherefore art thou, Stackio? Stackio - Upon the indicated walkway shall you find me, beautiful Managera. Shall I compare thee to a brand new carton? You, whose fashion and cleanliness is worthy of the scratching of backs? Or shall I reflect upon the mortality of our stockroom, where beige conformity one day gives surrender to inevitable decay like a plucked rose? (To Box) Oh what wondrous tales of travel you could relate if you had but a voice with which to speak it. You, who have once taken your place in an iron container bound for distant shores, filled with the bounty from shops of sweat, now ripped and torn, forgotten and despised, your printed numbers bereft of meaning, no longer read by servants of this modest stockroom in a faraway land. Managera - Fair Stackio, thy sorrow for the passing of this box is well meant, and my admiration for your gentle soul knows no comparison, but if thy doesn't shift thy idle seat in immediate haste, such wrath shall I wreak upon you that this very box will know how lucky it was to be discarded thus. Stackio - I shall at once remove this trodden carcass and to the baler take it, where the naughty Jackal resides and compacts our fallen cartons in such temper foul, that as knowing as Managera may be, his language would sour the sweetest cup of tea at his struggles with dark machinery. But know that this box was dear to my heart in its short existence, its numbers checked and contents counted with loving care and accuracy. So saddened is my heart. Alas, poor box, I knew it well. Oh Yeah... Today Is... Sigh. Oh all right then, it happens to be that day when everyone likes wearing green while pretending to enjoy a certain brand of beer. Well I'm sorry, but you can waste time with your leprechauns when your chores are done...

Miss L isn't speaking to me today. The enormity of the situation is soul-crushing. How can I go through life without Miss L's insightful commentary? I have become a lesser human being, relegated to the bottom league of social undesirables on slave wages. Plus I get attacked occcaisionally by rubber bands and rubbish thrown over the racks. Battered and bruised. In order to restore my happiness, and indeed, my general sanity, the department store issued me with a high-vis jacket. For health and safety naturally. So far I haven't observed any particular threat to my well being other than Miss L's missiles (ho ho ho) and considering that the company uniform as worn by permanent staff renders them totally invisible in the darkened enviroment of the top floor, I find that a little odd. Personally, I have a suspicion that the managers want to see where I am at any givern moment. KS swears his high-vis glows in the dark. It does. It really does. A Man Called Boris As often happens with manual labouring I felt the urge to display my individuality today. It's our way of beating shop floor communism. So on the back of my high-vis I wrote in big black marker pen letters BORIS. That way everyboidy knows it's me and not someone else. Don't know why, they just will. There's one thing that worries me. All my workmates have been hysterically embarrased by my new nickname. Why? What's embarrasing about being a BORIS? They bet me I wouldn't walk through the shopping centre at lunch. They refused to believe I consider walking down the local high street proudly bearing my name on the back of my high-vis. But I did. And you know what? There was nothing to fear. In fact, the only reaction seemed to come from a group of lads of eastern european extraction who were audibly amused by the slogan. You see? You don't need to be the Son of God to spread happiness in this world. Let me explain... Forgiveness Of The Week Miss L has forgiven me. I can now go home with such deep inner joy that the poor lady who attempted to hand me one of those Jesus pamphlets was pushed aside. Who needs divine forgiveness when Miss L can do that for real? "We've got a lovely message" She called after me. Yeah? Like what? Jesus loves me? I mean I've been with some boring girlfriends in my time but necrophilia isn't my style thank you very much, and whilst we're on the subject, there is such a thing as being a bit too far out on the feminine side. Come to think of it, Christians always try to make people miserable. That way they can claim that life will be so much better when you sign up. Except it isn't, because all you do is surrender individuality again. Well, I'm too happy to worry about Jesus and his droids today, so I'll ignore the well meaning but hopelessly blinkered church communist like everyone else is. After all, I'm a BORIS.

There's no evidence that a triple line was attempted at Adrianople. But I agree, whatever deployment was arranged, the Roman column was drawn out and the late arrival of cavalty added to the confusion that set the battle off. However, the compression of the Roman troops into a disordered mass was the result of the Gothic attack and an inability to hold an effective line against a flank attack by Gothic horsemen and the subsequent containment of the legions.

Spanish speakers? I thought Sir Francis Drake banned them from English soil? Oh well Actually no, I doubt there's much market for teaching Spanish in Swindon. Most Swindoners that travel to Spain find that shouting very loudly usually makes them understood to the locals, and if you're drunk, who cares about communicating?

In my foolish innocence I quaffed one of those high energy drinks last night. No sleep for me then. I did manage to get a couple of hours rest in a semi-comatosed state when the drinks effects began to wear off. There goes the alarm clock. I seriously, seriously did not want to get out of bed. It was only the start of Miserable Monday... Getting To Work For me the journey to work is a matter of several hundred yards, so no problem there. This morning though I was accosted by a confused old lady who asked me about bus tickets. She's asking me? I know enough about bus journeys to leave a large area unfilled on a postage stamp. I don't know, sorry. Oh no. She's getting all upset. Look, I'm sorry, but I genuinely don't know anything about bus tickets... Luckily for me there was some bloke getting into his car outside a newsagent, and he took the brunt of her desperate enquiry into the details of transdimensional local transport networks. I was lucky. Poor old KS walked down his street only to see the bus driving past way off down the end. So he had to walk all the way home again and pay for a taxi. You see, having used up his absence allowance he cannot take any time off from our placement or lose his benefits. Even if he dies in a horrible road-sweeper attack he still has to crawl into work bloodied and broken. Well, he wasn't smashed (at least not this morning - last night was another matter) but he was suffering from flu. So I sympathise, because I was too. Talking of getting smashed, J was partying over the weekend and being young and foolish, didn't bother with minor details of human health like sleep. So he too crawled into work, in his case the misery caused by a 'broken rib' which he swears he doesn't remember happening. As it turned out, we were all a bit down with colds and flu.I had so many lemsips, lozenges, and gerbil pills that the universe sort of happened around me... The boss wants me to do something... Yep, I can do that... No really, that's fine... No Problem... What did she say? Stuff About Universes In one of our banter sessions (one of the ones I didn't get told off for) Miss L and I discussed the existence of God. My contention was that if God was real, he would be constrained by the reality of our universe and suffer the same limitations. Miss L replied there was more to it than that in one of those 'don't argue with me, lesser mortal' tones. There you have it. Miss L has proof of the existence of God and probably lists him as one of her friends on Facebook. It would explain a few things. Friends of Lesser Mortals "I was on Radio One last night" Miss A announced with some smugness. Radio One? How come? How did you get a slot on Radio One? "I know the DJ" She replied with contnued smugness. Oh? Which one? "Brendan" She replied, her smugness begining to show signs of damage from my insistent interrogation. How come you know Brendan? Is he a friend of a friend or are you in the throes of a mad passionate fling with a national celebrity? Aha! Now she was looking worried. "I've got him on Facebook" She sniffed, upset at my forcing the truth out of her, "He played a song request last night." The truth will out. Still, she did get a mention on national radio so for today I can reasonably claim to have been working alongside a famous person. Make the most of it, Miss A, fame is very fleeting, as I know to my cost. Tomorrow I'll probably have forgotten you. Such is the heady pace of Stockroom Street. Magic Fingers I have magic fingers. I need only mention them and Miss L descends into uncontrollable giggles. What a strange power I have over women...

On my way to the library this afternoon I happened to pass along an old footpath in Okus. It dates from before the town of Swindon grew across this particular stretch of farmland in the 60's. In fact, I used to walk that way going to school. There was always that two tone blue sports car parked in someones drive that I used to fantasise over. Back then, I hadn't any idea what it was, but in the passing of years I've come to know it was a TVR Tasmin, and why it was always parked in the drive. Incidentially if anyone thinks my love of sports cars comes direct from Jeremy Clarkson and the Top Gear team, think again. My childhood fantasies were often concerned with very fast cars, along with trains and planes. Come to think of it, one way or another, I've indulged myself in all my childhood fantasies over the years. Who needs a second childhood when you still have the old one? And of course we return to that old footpath. How it has changed since those heady years when I used to walk our dog down to the horse meadow, where I could reflect on life and the universe, sat on a sarsen stone overlooking the valley, watching the sun go down, while the dog merrily went to the toilet on just about everything stationary. Somewhere under that ugly housing development that now fills the site with middle class monstrosities his old rubber ball is buried. A permanent memorial hidden away. Now the old hospital at the top of the hill is gone too, it's flaking concrete condemning Princess Margarets Hospital to the pages of history whilst it's replacement out in the country on the other side of town fills the pages of newspapers in condemnation of its standards and parking prices. Even worse for my nostalgic temperament is that the footpath is now diverted, connected, relegated to the second league of local byways by those asphalt curves that will now let all those teenage hoodies into peoples back doors in an area that was once so secluded. Worse still is the knowledge that the valley, Swindons Front Garden, is now becoming a building site for more expanses of expensive homes. Oh poo, I'm getting miserable... Back in the old days if I felt this way I would fire up the old jalopy and blast down roads to my hearts content, returning a little windblown but deliriously happy. I know this is an insane idea... I know I'll regret it for the rest of my life... But... Anyone got a two-tone blue TVR they want to sell? Language Skills Preferred Just when you thought job searching in England couldn't get any harder comes the news that one supermarket chain is turning applicants away if they can't speak polish. Employers in Swindon ask for people who speak japanese. Or dutch. Or french. Or german. I seem to remember my teacher telling me that an O Level in English Language would stand me in good stead. Teachers... Pfah! What did they know?

The previous doctor looked more like a gangland thug didn't he? Okay Dalek, Urf says you're outta order. Me an' the boys is gonna sort you out.... I do feel sorry for Daleks. They can't get any beach therapy at all... Let me explain... Boss Dalek - All daaleks will occupy the beach imme-diat-ely Dalek - We obey Boss Dalek - Beach invasion is not pro-ceed-ing to plan! Report! Dalek - We cannot grip beach ball. Cannot balance on skate-board. Unable to de-feat hu-mans at play Boss Dalek - Unleash our secret weapon! Destroy the beach! Ex-ter-minate! Police Dude - Okay boys, ah'm gonna have to stop this here party. Sign over there says no exterminations on a Sunday. Is that a raygun you got there? You got a license for that?

Line of light? To be honest, that's like Thor Heyedahl and his papyrus boats crossing the ocean. As far as it goes it's great but proves nothing. After all, what was the point of legionaries signalling along the wall? All the troops along the wall were gate guards. The reserves of military strength were miles back behind the wall in large forts, so signalling of this kind was a matter of north-south communication to and from the wall, not east-west along it.

There's a tv program called Argumental we get over here, a sort of comedy panel show where people score points for humourous debates. The subject got around to Dr Who, that quaintly British take on science fiction and police telephone boxes. Apparently that particular programme, so the debator told us, is so awful that it could be set in Swindon and no-one would notice. I live in Swindon. Grey, dreary, ignorant, a true pimple of tribal warfare and lost civilisation. Trust me Doc, you're living in a paradise of exotica in the land of milk and honey. I envy you. On the other hand, I daren't travel to Austin and experience for myself the delights of your fast food eden for fear I'll lower the tone of the neighbourhood!

I have no idea who rang the doorbell this morning but thank you anyway. There I was, snoozing away,, lost in a land of sheep and... Well, dreams... When I heard the frantic attempts to attract someones (anyones) attention out in the street. Ohmigosh! It's daylight outside! I've slept in! By the time I'd wearily fallen out of bed I remembered this was indeed saturday and I wasn't late for work. I hate to say it, but I'm almost rehabilitated. Heck, I'm turning into a mature responsible adult. It's a nice day. It really is. The sun is shining, the recent rain has gone away, the air has a fresh coolness, birds are singing, library goers are chatting in unrestrained joy at being alive. Quiet please. This is a library you know. Except the new librarian on duty, a freckle faced youngster, sits reading a paper in slack jawed innocence of the need to keep everyone silent. What is the world coming to? Saturday Morning Quiz I don't know if my gerbil pills are doing strange things to my brain, or if something dubious is wafting around the air conditioning system in the stockroom, but there's a perceptual dimension to being up there all day that does strange things to your senses. It could just be Mistymouth's exhaled smoke of course as his description of the strange potion he's using to create that smoke hasn't convinced anyone. Since I've rushed into the library this morning without a chance to experience life and report on a days activity, here's a saturday morning quiz to fill in the blank and keep you blog addicts mentally fit and stable. Question 1 - Why did Mistymouth announce I was in charge in the stockroom? a - I threatened to beat him up if he didn't b - A senior executive of Department Stores Ltd told him I was c - I looked like Gandalf d - I resemble Rod Stewart Question 2 - Who wrote 'Banksy' in large letters on a cardboard box? a - Rampant Rabbit b - Happy Robot c - Alice The Ghost d - The Weekend Workers Committee Question 3 - Who switched off the lights? a - The Rack Fairy b - Me c - KS d - Miss T did it in a wanton display of malicious tomfoolery Question 4 - Who is KS dating at the moment? a - No-one. Poor lad is on his own and experiencing his first bout of loneliness since puberty b - Miss A, who still refuses to accept it's all over c - Miss L2, who capitulated in a soft focus blast of violins d - Miss G, who just can't keep her hands off him despite KS using a whip and wooden stool Answers at the bottom of the thread. Something of the Week Usually at the end of a blog entry I write a bit announcing that item of world importance that attracted my attention in the last few days. Apart from Miss A, who is demanding the bag of chips I promised her, Miss R, who refuses to accept that a little chaos in your life is good for you, and Miss G, who still refuses to acknowledge my presence on the grounds that my existence contravenes all known laws of quantum mechanics, there is absolutely nothing that has made itself important enough to warrant a mention at the bottom of my blog. On the other hand, Miss S has finally bought a kitten to replace her dead one. This one has racing stripes, so she tells me. Quiz Answers Dunno. It's a smoke-filled testosterone pumping fun thrills and spills roller coaster ride and it's all flashed past so fast I'm totally unable to discern reality from illusion anymore. Choose your own answers and be happy! 100% score for everyone! At least you can't say I'm not generous. I even gave away my cookies to my stockroom friends in a moment of madness. They were so thrilled.

They still want me to reaffirm my devotion to Jesus. This is ridiculous. How can you reaffirm something you never affirmed in the first place? Not once have I ever voluntarily entered a church for a public service in my entire life. It's as if they're saying "Be miserable heathen. Or be happy as a christian". That's like becoming a slave and being happy about it because at last you have someone to boss you around. Look guys, Jesus wasn't the son of any God whatsoever and you know what? I just can't can't get all reverent about a dusty remnant of someones bones who's been dead and gone for two thousand years. How many times do I need to say this? You might argue that religion has a useful role. I agree. In a week where at least two people were stabbed to death in our fair borough not far from where I live, the absence of morality has serious implications for residents hereabouts. It's all very well locking these criminals up for a couple of years before they get out on good behaviour, or merely putting locked gates on alleyways where most of this happens, but this doesn't actually solve the problem. All it does is push the problem somewhere else. I say teach these miscreants about Jesus. Let them suffer Christianity. Hopefully it will do them good and turn them into model citizens that will become pillars of the community and demand gates across their alleyways at nights to stop people being deadly little heathens at night. Why am I supporting the spread of a religion I despise? Because rules are there for the guidance of wise men and the obedience of fools. I on the other hand am a sensible spiritualist. Sort of a pagan who stays in at night. What's the problem with that? Too Much To Chew You might argue that my rarified social life results in few friends. Well... Yes, it does, but luckily modern technology comes to our rescue with modern media and communications. I've been learning from my young working companion KS how the younger generation socialises via the interweb and those little boxes they keep on tapping with their thumbs. It seems the youngsters of today have a new and different way of dating. I've been observing KS and his methods. In my day, you plucked up the courage to ask, got ripped to shreds publicly, and wandered away completely destroyed as a human being. These days they send a text on a mobile phone. Instead of 'hunting' like we used to do, it's more like fishing. Sadly KS has failed to land Miss L2 using these methods. He shrugs and tells us he's not interested. Obviously he only wants the tiddlers and in a very responsible fashion always throws them back in the water afterward. Why worry? Another girlfriend is only a text message away. Or in the case of one young lady in the stockroom, a cute handwritten message in biro left on the workstation desk. Awwww.... Now if only that were for me.... What My Boss Does For Fun "Hallo" is the warning sound of my boss wandering around the stockroom looking for something I need to clear up. She's no dragon thankfully, so her tasks are only slightly onerous and with some effort and a team of overseers driving a couple of thousand egyptian slaves, can be easily achieved within a lifetime. Today I discovered what she does for fun. She's a pole dancer in her off hours. I'm not making this up. Shock of the Week It turns out that Miss L knows, or at least travelled on the same bus as, our resident sex change person. It's a small world. It really is. Hi There It's come to my attention that Miss L has discovered my blog. She's already test-flown her umbrella earlier today and will at some point waft in on a breeze to check out the text. So I'd better say hello while she's here. Hi Miss L. Welcome to my villa. Keep off the grass please.

Today our jobseekers rehabilitation programme covered bullying. We discussed aggression, perception, and expression. Or at least, some of us did. In truth most of us are so bored of this programme by now we've all lost the will to live. Our ever cheerful resident sex change person tells us she(?) listened to the radio this morning. Surely life cannot get better than that? In fairness to our advisors they decided to give us a treat today. We were going on an outing, a field trip, a visit to a job fair. For those who don't know what a job fair is, it's a gathering of employers representatives to meet and discuss career opportunities with members of the public. Which includes us jobseekers, funnily enough. So we were herded toward a succession of taxis and our merry comvoy wound it's way across Swindon to our local swanky hotel, where the small-scale exercise in optimism was taking place in one of their subterranean function rooms. As we all pretty much expected, the number and variety of employer was less than encouraging. What's the point of applying to be a carer when you just don't care any more? We'd visited all the stalls in the first ten minutes (and I gathered a really nice collection of business cards - My advisor, Miss R, was clearly impressed) and with the prospect of spending another two hours there, we all wandered off to do our own thing. KS and the lads went across to the local bowling alley and managed to find a pool table that was broken and delivered the balls for free (what a happy coincidence) whilst I stayed with a couple of the others accepting cups of tea on charity from the very kind hotel employees, one of whom very kindly made us feel more at home by turning on the lights. We had weighty discussions... Government policy, economy, local history, and Global Warming, followed by the traditional gnashing and grinding of the teeth and to wrap things up in time honoured fashion, a much needed heated argument. Miss R organised everything. She instructed the taxis where to send these incoherent idle maniacs, and instructed the incoherent idle maniacs which taxis to enter. After our two hours were up, she even managed to round us all up again and we were delivered back to the programme centre where we spent another hour organising a mass escape amongst ourselves. Ahhh... What a fun day we had. She's A Babe KS is not finding it quite so easy to lure Miss L2 into his web of seduction. I've met her, a pleasant and cheery girl who always has a flower in her hair, always smiling, and apparently calls me Mafiaman for some strange reason. Despite that apparent innocence I discovered another side to her when KS showed me some pictures of her on Facebook. To my genuine suprise it turns out that L2 is a teenage model. That's L2? Really? Heck. Has KS bitten off more than he could chew? Song Of The Week If you go off to the fair today You're sure of a big surprise. If you visit the town job fair You'd better go in disguise. For every job that ever there was Will gather there for certain, because Today's the day employers have their picnic. Hmmmm... Fanks for the chocolate.... Yummy.... What? Application form? Sorry, busy... Too many complimentary sweeties...

The universe is going down the plughole. It really is. I used to think the epicentre of this phenomenon was Swindon, but apparently there's a place far far away that's sucking in galaxies at a huge rate. I learned that from a science program on television last night. Science is fun. Now before you all click on a link to another part of the world wide interesting net, bear with me. You see, I had this sort of conversation with J a couple of days ago. I made an observation that the science program was something interesting and that for the sake of his braincells he ought to watch it. Life is a learning process after all. I then carelessly made the assertion that science was better than sex. "I don't think so, Caldrail" He chortled, "It isn't like you need periodic tables and test tubes." Oh? I sort of got the impression that you did need them these days. Where It All Went Wrong Today was the visit of the big bosses from someplace else. Head office tyrants have a notorious reputation in this particular department store, so we spent the day tidying up the place with explicit instructions to ignore any requests made by the store managers. It really was that important to our survival as stock assistants. I got caught wearing a silly baseball cap. "Take that hat off please!" Ordered the store manager. I thought I was supposed to ignore her? Ummm... Maybe I'd better obey. As the pressure became more intense when the big bosses arrived we ended up in a sort of chase scene in our very own virtual thriller movie, that cliched action sequence when the heroes go up and down in the lift avoiding anyone important. At the very last moment J caught me unawares and requested I tidy the cushions piled behind the liftshaft. You have to be joking. Death by soft furnishings. I wanted to be an astronaut when I grew up. What went wrong? And Her Name Is... Oh yeah. I was supposed to rename Miss A this afternoon wasn't I? Well... I was too busy to come up with one and to be honest, she was too stressed out to bother either. So I guess we'll sort of leave it as it is.

This has been a subject of debate and no-one has a definitive answer. The problem is that legionaries ate what was available in their area and there wasn't any standard ration, since supply was taken care of on a local basis rather than from a central source. Meat apparently wasn't a large part of their diet but they certainly did eat animals when they were available (or could be requisitioned from unlucky civilians). Legionaries were given a supply of 'corn' (the nearest they got to a ration) and from that they made coarse bread, porridge, or even a sort of pasta.