caldrail

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.

Previously I've mentioned our resident dragon. His party trick of issuing dark smoke from his lungs has got us all curious and earned him the nickname Mistymouth. Today I spotted him on the search for precious stones and knights in armour amongst our boxes, and I decided to confront the creature and demand to know how he breathed fire. I now have the answer, but let's make a quiz of it. How did Mistymouth breath smoke? a - A quick, furtive, illegal, and highly dangerous lit cigarette? b - By living close to the edge of spontaneous combustion? c - His previous life was as a volcano? d - A severe case of halitosis? e - Escape and evasion training when he was with the SAS? Answer at the bottom of this blog entry. All In The Name Miss A has discovered my blog. Well, okay, almost discovered it. She knows of its existence. However, she's none too impressed about being called Miss A. I guess it sounds too prim and proper for her. So tomorrow she will be renamed in a grand blog ceremony and has been given 24 hours to come up with something she likes or find herself given another moniker by default. That, believe you me, is a tough decision for a young lady whose decision making process involves increasing her phone bill by 200% Part of the deal for giving her 24 hours to render herself bankrupt was that she revealed the secret nickname the girls call me down on the shop floor. Sorry, but that name remains a secret known only to department store personnel on the grounds that no-one would believe it anyway. Tough In The Stockroom Some people are never grateful. In particular bosses seem to be psychologically unable to comprehend that people are not robots, nor as well paid or swimming in perks as they are. KS, bless his cotton socks, cleared up the old dungeon at the back of the stockroom today as requested. That was no mean task. Several employees went missing in there some time ago and KS did mention finding some fossils. The thing that gets me though is where did he put all the dust? I mean, if all you do is sweep it to one side with a broom it merely moves from one point on the floor to another. What did he do, suck it all up like a human vacuum cleaner? His life-or-death struggle with dust mites went on unnoticed. Poor lad was moaning about all the dirt encrusted on his hands afterward. Erm... Just a little helpful hint for anyone that finds themselves with a similar problem... Use some soap and water to wash it off afterward. Most workplaces have facilities that can cope with this demanding task. I on the other hand rolled up my sleeve and restacked the piles of carboard boxes again. What is it with people there? Is this some sort of party game where you have to turn boxes around so you can't read the reference number? Or is the idea to try and stack boxes in such a way as to defy gravity? Or are they awarded points for stacking in the most sanity-busting original way? Sadly soap and water didn't cure my problem and instead I had to resort to upper body strength to make the beige wasteland safe for human habitation once more. You would think our heroic efforts would be appreciated, but no, the boss spotted us standing idle and chatting. Clearly that was all we'd been doing all day and the recriminations began. A special thanks to J for congratulating us on our efforts today and for shielding us from the end of level boss. Tomorrow we progress to the next level of difficulty. The Quiz Answer So what answer did you choose? If you answered a you have a logical and very suspicious mind. Clearly management potential. If you answered b you have no idea about reality at all. Clearly management potential. If you answered c then you obviously hadn't paid any attention to geography at school and must have been more interested in sports which looks very impressive in the hobbies and interests section on your CV. Clearly management potential. If you answered d you don't know what halitosis is. That must mean that bad breath is a foreign concept to you, and since you clearly belong to life's beautiful people, you are therefore management potential. If you answered e you have no idea at all about special forces training, or even military studies, and since you must therefore be ignorant of team building skills you're clearly management potential. If you answered f then pat yourself on the back. Yes, it was just a nicotine-substitute thingy that allows you to smoke safely and healthily without anyone noticing, and since you must be sharp witted, knowledgeable, and aware of current facilities to assist sufferers of cigarette addiction, you clearly have no management potential at all. So go and restack some more boxes. Oh, and make sure you can eat your dinner off that stockroom floor.

I've been requested by J to make a full and complete report on the events of Mellow Monday. Okeedokee. Here goes... First Things First Woke up. Still dark. Dozed off again. Woken at the last minute by the noise of my neighbour slamming the door, proof that noisy neighbours can be useful. Got washed, dressed, fed (in no particular order) and stumbled down the stairs to start my short amble to work. Lovely morning, bright sunny sky, but heck it was cold. Dramatic Developments In Stockroom Street It's over... It's all over... The magic that was KS and Miss A is at an end. A sensational split took place over the weekend. I know, it's a huge shock to hear of such a tragic end to a blossoming relationship, but hey, that's life in the stockroom. It was cold outside, and now it's all gone cold inside. As it happens, all parties behaved in a mature responsible fashion and no-one threw tantrums or burst into tears except J, who already knew about the split and was waiting for emotional outbursts to fill in the boring bits of his day (which is most of it). Sorry J. Maybe next time. Feeling Old A bunch of us were chatting and in the course of conversation we got around to J's favourite hobby. No, not the martial arts violence, I mean his addiction to parkour. With lively little Miss L bouncing and skipping around the stockroom I suggested J teach her the tricks of his gymnastic and devil-may-care pastime. "Parkour?" She answered with a sneer, "That's easy." Erm... Easy? Have you seen what they do? "I used to be a gymnast." She shrugged. But now you're getting a bit old for that? My humour is so biting sometimes. "You're how old, exactly?" She answered with a cold stare. Meeeow. Good answer Miss L. I admit defeat and point out that I'm 48 and proud of it. So there. Arriving On A Breath Of Wind Miss L is a little slip of a girl, but when I spotted her hanging off the end of a clothes rail, I pointed out the whole thing could fall over. We all laughed on the basis that L was so light there was no chance of her falling over. She doesn't walk to walk, she opens her jacket and arrives on a breath of wind. She's sometimes late when the wind changes direction. We have our own gothic Mary Poppins. Later That Night Went home. I grabbed a bit of television while I grabbed what was left of yesterdays chinese meal from the fridge (I am an expert with a microwave oven and yes, I do glow in the dark) and came across Animal Park, a sort of fly-on-the-wall documentary series about Longleats Safari Park. I think it was the declaration of a dramatised tiger attack that got my attention. Sorry Kate. But apart from man-eating tigers keying the zebra-stripe paint job on a landrover, I was suprised to learn that giraffes are not as boring as you might imagine. During daytime, they just wander around, chewing this, chewing that, looking splendid but otherwise pointless. During the night, they party. They are literally party animals. The infra-red camera revealed all. So my tip for an interesting late night party is invite a giraffe and turn off the lights. Lets see... Grab my telephone directory... Giraffe Hire....

What a day! Glorious blue skies and sunshine. I'm in a good mood, the young lady leaning out of her upstairs window smoking wasn't in the mood to criticise me when I walkd past, the ginger cat rubbing against the brick wall didn't run away, and this has to have been the quietest saturday night for a long time. Apart from the usual renditions of the 'F' word up until three o'clock, but hey, kids like to play don't they? All those tiny little dramas were played out on the street again last night. Cinderella left her shoe on the pavement, but given her screeching disapproval of her boyfriends chivalry and a barbed appraisal of his manliness, I doubt Prince Charming is going looking for her. Incidentially, there's a fashion around here to pronounce the 'F' word by using O instead of U. It sounds more streetwise apparently, and the use of this pronounciation turns you instantly into a hard-as-nails bad boy. And remember to use the word in every sentence twice. As loud as you can. Use in very quiet areas and late at night for maximum effect, Forlorn and Unloved Came across this site elsewhere. Absolutely fascinating. It seems appropriate on this gloriously sunny day to see pics of another, far away, in a place of sleeping warriors... http://www.dhc-2.com/Monthan_Memories.html

It is noticeable that Roman deities are imported - even Minerva was Etruscan in origin. It's as these divine beings have been imposed upon or adopted by the Romans as symbols more relevant to their mode of thinking, even to the extent that by the late republic powerful individuals were claiming divine ancestory. Our modern neo-paganism movements do suggest a similar phenomenon in ancient times, a sort of competition between established and traditional beliefs compared with newer, more fashionable cults (or even those that had previously died out and were restored as part of a select social group in later times - the current neo-paganism is nothing new in human culture), and even in the days of the Imperial Cult there were Romans who adopted foreign beliefs such as those emerging from Syria, a hotbed of religious invention at the time. An interesting question then is what came before the adopted pantheons? I do note that the Romans tended to adopt deities after their worshippers had been conquered and hauled away in chains. Was an animist faith, using natural characters and phenomena? It's hard to believe that the first Romans were entirely basing their religious beliefs on theor own legend and myth. What I'm getting at is that Roman religious beliefs readily adopted foreign divinities because they hadn't developed their own. Although a superstitious peoples (or indeed because of that quality) they undoubtedly had simple spiritual concepts and the tribal element of the earliest Romans suggests something much more typical of primitive warrior societies. Is this why they deified their own legendary forebears in later times? And why the Imperial cult emerged? Certainly the power of the emperors was evident to observers, yet it never prevented the Romans from removing these living gods from power if it suited disaffected or ambitious individuals. There is in later times then the superstition implicit in Roman culture combined with an overriding urge to compete for control over it. Since even in opur modern day religions exist more for control over their worshippers (and their cash more often than not) than their spiritual welfare, it isn't hard to imagine the same motives existed in Roman times, and tey do note that early christian bishops were not above becoming very wealthy. Was the adoption of foreign gods merely an acceptance of 'superior' or more focused and sophisticated belief systems by a superstitious people without any such cultural foundation of their own, or was it the influence of important (or self-important) individuals who sought to add to their own status and wealth by inviting others to worship something new and fresh?

Human endeavour is a curious thing. A lot of what we do is little more than instinct. Watch any wildlife program and you see exactly the same behaviour patterns that human beings have always displayed. It's just that we like to kid ourselves that we're somehow superior when in private we like being as animal as possible... What? The same goes for war. It's just an extension of one herd against another in competition for something. Most animal species have learned to ritualise such behaviour to minimise casualties and indeed so have we. It's called sport. So a little hint to moslem fundamentalists - practice your soccer skills guys - it's just as effective in making your point as blowing up the enemy team. But is there more than simple instinctual responses? Is there something deeper? As a spiritualist I have to say yes, though I do point out that latent quality is present in all living things, and that usually our four legged friends have better things to do. Like eating, sleeping, and making baby animals (after headbutting each other for a couple of hours). The reason I ask this is a conversation I had back at the programme centre. We were sat around chatting, constructively of course, and in the midst of the chatter the subject of my musical career came up. It turned out that one of the guys at the centre was also a drummer in his glory days, but that like me, for various reasons he didn't play anymore. He added that he'd recently felt an urge to get back behind the kit and do something. I understand exactly what he means. Despite all commonsense, experience of failure, and general lack of talent, the urge to bash the heck out of a drum kit is insidious. That chap described it precisely as a 'little acorn' that grows and festers away until your revitalised hobby causes a divorce - as indeed he suffered not too long ago. The real point is where this urge to play music comes from. You could argue it's simply part of what we are biologically. I might argue it's our spiritual side impinging on our decision making process. What? You want an argument over it? Okay buddy, put 'em up.... The Need To Practice Now that I'm working on my new album (the first in twenty years - you can sort of tell the royalties have run out) I've rediscovered how pigging difficult playing a musical instrument well can be. Of course I can still play. it's like riding a bike - you never really forget, just fall over a few times until you remember how to balance yourself on it). For me the worst thing is actually finding the time to do anything, and that's despite my absence from the workplace in recent times. When you're young, idealistic, and full of enthusiasm it all sort of takes over your life and playing music is pretty much all you do, and the urgings of the older generation to get your hair cut and find a job go unheard. Now of course I'm older. Which means growing my hair is a sign of anti-social nostalgia for my lost youth and that playing an instrument no longer makes you immediately popular with your mates. That little acorn is still there, nonetheless. Egging me on, making me look over my shoulder whistfully at that dusty Marshall stack and wondering if the neighbours deserved a rendition of a heavy metal guitar riff I last played a quarter of a century ago. That is of course a blind alley, one just as insidious as the need to play in the first place, as simply repeating the same old riffs over and over is not entirely a creative process, and isn't the creation of something new and unique the entire basis of art? Looks like I'm going to have to practise....

Welcome back to Caldrail FM, and for those just tuning in, it's a special hello to J, my stockroom supervisor, who's just discovered this blog and is probably sneaking into the office to read it as I write. Hi Mr J. Love the nunchucks. Meeting People leaving work just now I bumped into Sophie again. She's a lovely blonde lady who does all this charity work, where she lulls you into a false sense of security then gets you to sign away all your money for gay eco-deaf children or whatever. By now I'm used to this sort of thing so instead I chatted her up for a few minutes. Her friend is from New Zealand. We both watched him scare passers-by and fail totally to raise conversation, never mind money. "Do you want to hear my spiel now?" She asked nicely. Nope. Nice Seeing ya, Soph... Next week okay? Meeting The Stockroom Boss We don't get much managerial attention up on the haunted top floor, but today, our manager turned up in civilian clothes, looking like a scarecrow in a football shirt. It turns out that he's a bigger and louder looney than anyone else on the premises (including me) and I seriously had my work cut out making a fool of myself with that sort of competition. Nedless to say, Caldrail FM swung it. My constant radio chatter in the aisles attracted much comment. Any publicity is good news. That's showbizz. Meeting The Lift The lift to the loading bay has a serious attitude. It's already tried to kill me once before, crushing me against the boxes by closing it's doors without warning. Today was no different. With an afternoon emergency to cope with our team of selected expert unloaders were assigned the dangerous and heroic task of clearing the bay of everything left untouched during the week. With no other course of action available to us, we had to fill the lift with boxes to take upstairs, and not suprisingly, the lift tried to kill me again. It sulked over it's failure too, refusing to operate. usually I would have said that I'd broken the lift. This time? I got threatened by a psychopathic access facility. Well that just about wraps up todays program... So it's goodbye from me, Caldrail, your host on Caldrail FM. I'll leave you with Deep Purple's hit, Strange Kind Of Cardboard... Strange Kind Of Cardboard I once found some cardboard A strange kind of cardboard The kind that gets written down in history It looked kinda brown Left there on the ground What's inside is just another mystery I want it, I need it I gotta see in it I want my box on the nearest stack I want it, I need it Recycle, and crush it Maybe if I just open it a tiny crack (guitar solo) Newsflash We interrupt this song for an important newsflash. Today was the dullest ever. KS was so bored he was driven to hide my red pen. He is such a child. We ask the public not to panic as the Pen Police have found the missing writing implement and it's been returned to the grateful owner.

The prospect of Work Experience Day is something I've come to dread. Every week we file into the classroom and spend the day wallowing in retro-infant school nostalgia. Needless to say, I was expecting another lesson better suited to four year olds. To my pleasant suprise our advisor, TB, brought out a pile of Mecanno sets and tried to give us a lesson about following instructions. As if I listened. I was too busy enjoying the delights of pseudo-car manufacture from kit parts. The only other person interested in doing so was the guy who does maths for a hobby. Maybe he has the right idea considering he spends the whole day oblivious to our teacher, deeply engrossed in bipolarnomial fractions or whatever it is he does. The funny thing is that his girlfriends father is a maths teacher. One suspects his continued dating of that particular young lady is subject to sufficient homework. Learning can be fun after all. Anyhow I successfuly built the chassis, he finished of the bodywork. Teamwork! Our incredibly sporty looking car (sort of like an Alfa Romeo with holes in the bodywork - for downforce, of course) was a success. And the other two teams failed to complete their project. Maths and Second Childhood in perfect harmony. Not In Perfect Harmony The saga of Miss M continues. After her extraordinary and explicit behaviour the other week I had no idea what to expect. Apparently her paramour, despite seeing her all week, has not yet consummated his relationship. Allegedly. Strange thing is though that however much he denies they're together, they always are. And he has claw marks on his back. Letter of the Week Rather incautiously Miss M wrote a love letter to her reluctant partner. "I love you loads XXXXXX" it said. I know this because boys will be boys and the message was intercepted by our agents operating undercover. Many dole-seekers died to bring us that information... Unfortunately boys will be naughty boys, so the message was delivered to Miss S instead. She was genuinely pleased with the news she had an admirer. Was it me? Nope. KS? Nope. Him? Nope. What about that one? Nope? Then who..... The penny dropped. Of course we all chuckled raucously but they both seem happy with the situation. Errr.... Right.... That's a happy ending then....

There's a chap who works on the shop floor who sometimes comes up to grab stock from us. The sort of guy who's completely grey. He just doesn't intrude on the senses at all, In fact, I wouldn't mention him at all if it wasn't for his party trick of exhaling smoke. No, seriously he does, without a cigarette, dark grey smoke billowing out of his lungs. It looks utterly bizarre. KS spotted it today and we had a banter about this strange phenomenon. Not only do we have a ghost on the premises, but a dragon as well. I wonder if the store sells floppy hats? Either that or the air conditioning seriously does need investigating. Silliest Books of the Year? I spotted a run-down of this years nominated books for the annual silly book awards. Okay... Take a deep breath as Caldrail dons the mantle of literary critic (Which is perfectly legal despite opinions to the contrary - the Geneva Convention doesn't cover this aspect of hostilities). Lets see what people are writing these days... Afterthoughts of a Worm Hunter (DWT Crompton) Most people give up putting worms in their pockets by age nine. The rest write books like this when they retire. Collectible Spoons of the Third Reich (James Yannes) This is not a joke. You really can collect them. Read this handy guide and rush down to your nearest Nazi memoribilia store now! Crocheting Adventures In The Hyperbolic Plane (Daina Taimina) I had no idea that Crochet was such a scientific subject. It's like Star Trek in wool, but without the comedy and relationship stuff. Or any kind of plot whatsoever. Governing Lethal Behaviour In Autonomous Robots (Ronald Arkin) Get this. This guy believes that self-governing robots will be nice to us. Okay, Mister Arkin, we know you're a cyber-agent sent here to prepare the way for your logical masters from another planet. And we all laughed at those fifties space invasion movies. Erm... Whatever happened to the guys who made those films? 100 Girls On Cheap Paper (Tina Berning) Hand made *or* for those who prefer art. How You Are Like Shampoo: For Job Seekers (Brenda bence) You want that job? Forget CV's, interviews, and letters, just send the employer a thirty second video with you smiling at your lack of grey hair. I Stopped Sucking My Thumb... Why Can't You Stop Drinking? (Elaine Bergmann) A story about someones mum. Nope. I've just put it back on the shelf and forgotten it exists. Peek-A-Poo: Who's In Your Diaper? (Guido Van Genechten) An existential tale of a curious mouse in four hundred sizzling chapters with lots of hot gypsies and soiled underwear. It's like a potty-training manual in code. Venus Does Apollo While Apollo Shags A Tree (Tim Desmondes) This is about the sex secrets of the Roman Empire. As if they bothered to keep it secret. Good heavens, they're all at it you know... Sorry, but the existence of Frankie Howerd proves that the Romans knew very little compared to our very own Neo-Orgiastic period. But I digress.... A Tortilla Is Like Life (Carol Counihan) Collected biographies of Hispanic American women concerned with food. Wouldn't a recipe book have been a better idea? Advances In Potato Chemistry And Technology (Lovedeep Kaur/Jaspreet Singh) Wow... Potatoes are taking over the world. Next years computers will be fitted with potato chips for the first time. Bondage For Beginners (Lisa Sweet) Yes... I'm afraid she has written it. Knots and all. Plough Music (David Medcalf) Everything you ever wanted to know about ploughing is in another book. This title has everything else. Schoolgirl Milky Crisis (Jonathon Clements) Everything the aspiring Roman wanted to know about Japanese comics and cartoons without having to invade. You only need to look at the pictures.

See those racks there? I looked at the endless ranks of women clothes stuffed tightly into every possible space. Not even an anorexic see-through nightie could find a spot to hang out. Well, my job was to move all the tee-shirts and clothes with multi-coloured labels from there... over to... there. No particular reason, it's just that managers like to see us working so invent tasks for us to complete. heck, this is like working in the army. So KS and I began our task with our usual banter. In fact, my workmate is getting ideas in his head. today he even attempted to give me orders. He might have a hard-as-nails shaven head, but trust me, leadership material he isn't. Now that I mention it, the topic of conversation (What? Work silently? Pfah!) revolved around how dangerous certain parts of Swindon are. You could get mugged, beaten, even raped, in just about every part of our fair borough according to KS. Erm... I walk through those areas without any problem... Both KS and J looked astonished. They could not believe that I'd not witnessed or been a victim of malignant youths hoping to grab a jail sentence. Looks like I'll have to make do with my noisy neighbours and that idiot who gets off on ringing my door bell in the small hours. KS was busy hanging clothes as I went off to collect some more. I heard the bar fall out of the slot and the soul-crushing thwump of gravity stricken clothing. "Awwww...." Said KS, clearly not impressed, "You did that! You didn't put that bar in right... Look at it... All messed up... It's all tangled up, Look... I gotta sort out each one... Awww this is gonna take forever..." Moan moan whinge whinge. He just didn't stop. I kind of chortled and left him to select a box to sit on while he sorted out the terrible mess. I heard a cry of alarm and another thwump as the box collapsed under him. Never have I laughed so much in a stockroom. We're all agreed that Alice, our resident ghost, has been her usual malicious self. Stock Search Party By this afternoon we'd all gotten a tad bored. The work had dragged on, the banter had died, so when J returned and KS's girlfriend turned up after being dumped earlier in the day, we decided it was time for a stock search party. Without music of course, we're not insured to enjoy such delights up there. The first party game was Who Do You Look Like?. According to Miss A (who appears to be KS's girlfriend again despite beating him at a playstation racing game and making his Male look decidedly less than Alpha) I look like Rod Stewart. I think Miss A looks like a girl who desperately needs a visit to Specsavers. The second party game was How Old Are You?, which was almost amusing because Miss A was the only participant who didn't know my age and was hopelessly inaccurate. She thought I was 60. What a charming girl. She was suprised to discover that I was younger than her mum. Official Announcement Please do not panic. I wasn't stuck in the aisle earlier today, and despite a major pen failure, two trolleys of reduced price stock were completed. Just in case you were worried about the quiet bit just after lunch. Driving Mister Brown A shock horror discovery is that becoming a chauffeur for government officals in Britain makes you three times more likely to have a car accident. Whilst that looks bad (and Bully Brown apparently gets quite impatient with his drivers) it has been pointed out that it isn't always the chauffeur who's guilty of causing the damage. Which kind of means our government ministers are victims of the public trying to save Britain from government policy by bravely risking their lives in suicidal collisions. No wonder the government want us taxed off the road. Ahh! Now I get it! The reason taxes are so high is pay off car insurance for big fuel hungry limousines that are driven by careless and bruised idiots. Either that or they're worried the British public will discover the delights of car bombs. I should also mention the furore about Lord Ashcroft, who doesn't pay tax on his earnings despite being resident in the UK. Now I'm assuming he arranges his financial affairs legally, but it does look bad, especially since he bankrolls the Conservative Party in elections. No wonder the Labour Party are gnashing their teeth gleefully. Now they have someone other than Joe Public to blame after all those collisions on the way to work.

Today was a little dull at work. It always is when you know the weather outside is bright and sunny (mostly because the managers are away enjoying it thus they're not directing your efforts). So I spent much of the day restacking piles of cardboard boxes. Another thrilling day in my life. However, I noticed some of the odd architectural features of the stockroom. The long dark alcove behind the air conditioning ducts. The empty room beside the fire escape that the stairs don't quite reach. It gives our working enviroment a quirky feel. I've already explored those areas already, but KS got curious and attempted to investigate the alcove on his own. His attempt to climb through the railings in a very restricted space rather than climb over them as I did was hilarious. Never have I seen a guy as tall as he is wedged in like that. He was beginning to think he was trapped, at least until he listened to my jibes and realised I was right after all and climbed over the railings between the boxes and ducts. "Err... That was spooky..." He said. He meant of course that darkened space left unused. Of course he's right. It is spooky. There's a sense of timelessness back there, like a tomb uncovered. Anyone would think the stockroom was haunted. What was that?... As if on cue a pile of boxes fell over. Definitely the work of an annoyed spook. A lady from downstairs came up to collect some stock and I made a quip about the stockroom being haunted. "Yes. It is." She said. Huh? "Oh yes." Replied her companion, "The ghost of Alice". Wow. Our stockroom is genuinely haunted. That explains a great deal about the strange movement of stock that goes on when we're not around. No wonder no-one likes working in there. And I thought it was just me! The usual Soap Opera Story KS is back with his girlfriend, even after she broke his bed again. I know exactly what you're thinking... However his former girlfriend, Miss G, passed us both this afternoon and wouldn't talk to me. Erm... Was it something I said? Talking about soap opera stories in real life, have you ever read those letters to agony aunts that the public send in to newspapers? They are hilarious. There was one recent one where a woman slept with two men the same day and now agonises over who the baby's father is. She confesses she was desperate for a child and was only trying to maximise her chances. Congratulations, young lady, a stunning success. Hope you and the father are happy ever after, assuming you eventually manage to pay for the DNA test to settle the issue. Isn't child-rearing expensive these days?

We've had the warmest January ever apparently, despite the persistent siberian snow falls. Is it just me me, or is this global warming thing a complete fabrication? The religious mania surrounding ecological issues these days is getting a bit tiresome. Do people actually believe they can 'save the planet' by obeying the worlds governments and not doing anything? 'Save the Government finances' more like. The increasing number of citizens and their use of energy is forcing countries to build expensive power generating stations. I can see a coincidence here, as Britain, one of the keen members of the eco-lobby, is trying to avoid paying billions to replace old power stations by telling us not to use them. We can't really afford them after paying for all our politicians to spout hot air. But surely CO2 is a greenhouse gas? Yes. It is. A minor one compared to some others and a gas that has formed part of the natural cycle of this planet since... Well... Ages ago. And I notice that the amount of CO2 in previous ages was way way way higher than anything we've produced. Surely all that CO2 pumped into the atmosphere is causing all manner of woes? Like what? It's still snowing in Britain, people! That terrible earthquake in Chile a day or two ago probably released more CO2 than the worlds supply of Dodge Vipers combined. Surely we're to blame? No, not entirely. Any species damages its enviroment to some degree. Remember the 'Rabbit and Fox' graphs you used to study at school? Take for instance the starving populations of northeast Africa. The humane thing is to feed them, to save them from all that suffering, and to some extent I cannot deny them that assistance. The reality is of course that if they're fed, they have sex and produce more mouths to feed. So all you've done is create a bigger problem for the next generation by being kind. I've said this many times before, but the worlds climate changes all the time, usually in small increments but as we see from the geological history of our planet, it does get a bit extreme sometimes. Evidence suggests that twice our planet virtually froze over. Not a few paltry ice ages like the ones we've had over the past million years, but full on global freeze overs, The resulting thaw from these two 'Snowball Earths' produced the perfect enviroment for life to emerge - Warm, shallow seas - and it did, twice, something I note the bible doesn't mention - I guess God didn't put everything in that Tree of Knowledge of his, or was Adam supposed to eat the lot? Hang on... What's the point of forbidding people to eat a knowledge enhancing apple if you plant an orchard of the blessed things in your garden? And God got upset? No good blaming us, mate, you made us what we are. The whole point is that we forget that we're just another species on this planet. We use what we find and when things are bountiful, create more of us to enjoy it. The problem with modern society isn't gas guzzling V8's, endless cups of tea, or turning up the central heating in winter, it's how many of us there are. Because all of us want to use resources like foxes chomping through rabbits. So the rabbits are running out? Oh dear... Have we eaten too many? Quick... Blame knives and forks and tell people to use them less... Debating Government Change With a possible (and indeed, constitutionally required) election looming in Britain, the Conservative Party are using a slogan that it's time for change. Gordon Brown has issued a rebuttal, saying it's more important to focus on 'what matters' and that the Tories would short-change families. What? And he hasn't? What matters to Gordon Brown is staying in power and avoiding an election. What matters to me is how much tax I have to pay to keep him there. Conspiracy of the Week I've just learned that the Ministry of Defence is destroying all new reports of UFO's. Their stated reason is to avoid releasing such data via the Freedom of Information Act. Wow! What a conspiracy! Britains defenses are run by the Men In Black! Hey - I saw the movie, okay?