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Okeedokee

It had to happen. As I crossed the main road to Swindons shiney new library the first signs of urban decay have been left upon it in the form of a dark blue squiggle. Nigel woz ere. Well thanks, Nigel, but perhaps if you learned to read and get of bed in the mornings you could drop in and enjoy the ambience instead of wasting your money on spray paint. In fact, there's a section on art, and if you peruse the books contained therein (is my english too advanced for you?) you might discover how completely talentless you are as an artist. Right. Got that off my chest. Now to pop upstairs and log on. The cubicles are busy so I dive on the first available PC... Tap in my password.... Wait for it to boot up.... Huh? Oh not again, the keyboard settings are wrong. Must be set to US - it usually is... Nope. Apparently I need a serbo-croat keyboard. Luckily the very attractive blonde lady two cubicles down is bored and giving her boyfriend grief, so he's going elsewhere.... Excuse me lady? Is this yours? I hand her the book on Mental Illness she left behind. Right, now I can log on. The guy to my right is suffering from terminal flu, and sniffs loudly every twenty seconds, coughing every minute. His mobile phone goes off every five minutes but luckily his answer is merely to tell the caller he's in Swindon Library. Must be an important guy. You can tell by the military surplus trousers. There's a businesswoman busy trying to organise transport the other side. She is merciless, sparing the poor receptionist on the other end no compliments, nor being fobbed off with some petty excuse that first class coaches don't go to Mongolia. Apparently, so I gather, she's organising one of those corporate team building exercises. Perhaps she could try delegating and building a team that way, giving them vital experience in organisation and bureaucratic obstacles that lifting plastic barrels over an assault course doesn't provide. Unless she works for Plasto-Barrel Direc, proudly delivering plastic barrels where no-one has delivered before. Oh dear, someone's fallen down the stairs... Amazing what mobile phones do to peoples sense of balance. And finally, to cap it all, AM turns up and begins a loud conversation with somebody else about the fashion merit of my military surplus trousers. Oh no. Its a fashion disaster.... Maybe I should reinvent my image? Or maybe tell AM what I think of his geriatric chic? Withdrawal of the Week The Irish have withdrawn pork products. Its big news of course, and as usual, everyones frightened of buying pork for fear they're going to blow up if they eat it. Always the same. I remember a big scare about beef some years back and that burgers were being considered for issue to British spies in case of capture. What was the point of not eating burgers? If I was going to drop dead from some horrible disease spread by infected beef products, I'd already got it. So now pork is cheap, I'm off down the supermarket for a game of russian roulette. Boy, do I live dangerously...

No, don't worry, I haven't discovered Jesus just in time for Christmas, and quite honestly, spending christmas day in a stable full of smelly farm animals with a screaming baby doesn't sound like heaven to me. No, I have a different nightmare.... Heavy snow has hit Britain again and the usual wintery chaos has begun. Homes without electricity, roads slippery, the whole country grinding to a halt. Except Swindon, which once again is blissfully free of the stuff. That means cars can travel freely, so in Swindon, they build loads of bus-only lanes to impede the car driver all year round. There's a green bus rumbling around of Swindon bus routes. Its painted in a lurid dayglo green colour - you just can't miss it - and there wasn't enough advertising space to display the message that buses are going green, so they painted over the windows. Can you imagine travelling on that? "Where to mate?" Oh right. High street please. "Correct change only mate." Err... Hang on... Got some pennies here... Ah, here we go. Love the badge, goes with the uniform... Ok, I'll just go and sit down... The bus driver starts off on his journey. The interior of the green bus is dark and gloomy, filled with people whimpering and rocking forwards in their seats. I chat to girl sat next to me, a pleasant german lady who's off to see her granny in the woods. The driver hunches over the wheel and steers the bus wildly through the traffic blaring their horns, swerving left and right in a manic attempt to keep the schedules. Excuse me?.. Driver?... I can't see out the window. Could you let me know when we get to the High Street? "Next stop, pie factory... Mwuhahahahaaaaaaaa". Sanity of the Week Now you've all recovered from my tale of horror, let me assure you that I woke up in a cold sweat. The heating hadn't come on, and it's still perishing cold out there. So cold in fact, that Honda have decided to stop their involvement in Formula One. Where on earth is Swindon going to find bus drivers now?

Money is the issue these days. Certainly for me, because I don't have any, but also for other people. It looks like a record number of mortgage repossessions this year. If that wasn't bad enough, fines for transgressing the law are rising steadily. Up to

Only the getting rich bit if what I read in the papers is true. I think he must have french ancestory...

Rather you than me

Most of cooking is very quicky and easy. Fifteen minutes and I'm done. Sometimes though when I've got a spare bit of cash I like to prove Jamie Oliver knows absolutely nothing about cooking by reinventing the entire genre in the prvacy of my own home. So it was yesterday, when I happened upon some quality products at tjhe supermarket on sale at bargain prices. I once remember reading a bit of wisdom that said "Love and cooking such be approached with complete abandon". I've always though sports cars should be added to that list, but for the moment, lets see what I've got in the cupboards to complete my mega-fest of culinary inspiration...... I can see this is goiung to be a challenge. So having decided on a curious Italian Curry (or is that Indian Chillie?) I resist the temptation to plan it out like a military operation. Pasta in the pot, tins opened, contents washed, and into the pan. Cooker on... You know, I can't believe Gordon Ramsay earns a fortune from doing this.... Then, in a brainwave, I decide that some mint sauce would a great variation on a theme. Where's the bottle.... Can't beleieve I bought this rubbish.... Ahh, there it is. I 've not opened it before, and as so often happens in this situation, the bottle top is stuck fast. Ok, try again, tight grip and twwwwwwiiiiiiiiist.... Emulation of the Week The bottle tops resistance finally gave way, and it came off so suddenly it lifted clear. Unfortunately, I had the bottle sideways at the time, and.... Oh F.... My attempt to emulate Gordon Ramsay has ended in success.

Human beings are what they've always been. Civilisation is created with every new generation and if we fail then we return to the animal nature designed us to be, but then, human beings are a success because we act that way, not because we make philosophical decisions, and our 'moral' superiority is based on tribal culture. Plenty of cultures have regarded fighting as paramount. The ancient 'scythians' asked each other when they met an old friend "How many men have you killed?", with an answer of none being considered undesirable. So its also tribal status that leads us to adopt these attitudes sometimes, as we see on the streets on various inner cities, again, a primeval instinct so the trick is not philosophy, morals, or such, but an identifiable and competetive status structuere that eschews such violence. I should add though that the solution should be dynamic. Human beings also have a high degree of behavioural diversification, a survival strategy thats assisted humanity from the start. Within a complex society, different individuals adopt the role of herbivore, scavenger, carnivore, etc. For that reason, you will always find individuals who want to thrive by exploiting or eliminating others.

Just saving you from disappointment, onion breath and all

More developments under way in Swindon. There's something peculiar going on. Our old hospital was pulled down a couple of years ago and a new one built two or thee miles out in the country. The old police station was pulled down more or less at the same time and that too has been replaced by a station miles out in the country. Doesn't anyone want to work in Swindon any more? Or is this some fiendish plot to get people to use buses? An article in our local paper unveiled plans for the redevelopment of the police station site. It was pretty much what you'd expect, glass towers and wide paved boulevards so beloved of planners. I had to laugh though. The article also proudly boasted that "Swindon could be the Sheffield of the South!" Yeah. Ok. Surely though a town wth vision and plans for the future really ought to be calling itself the "Swindon of the South"? In any case, Swindon has been reinventing itself since the 1970's and is still only known for an odd roundabout in the town centre. My guess is that in twenty years it'll be known as "Eyesore of the South". Reminds me of a Simpsons episode... Hang on... Didn't they once try to get Swindon a monorail? Who's that guy in the blazer and hat running for the railway station with a suitcase stuffed with money? Job Offer of the Week I've been sent an email by some company about a job offer. They want me to be a part time regional representative, working from home, earning

Yeah, they have a huge sales tax on party balloons

The temperature has dropped alarmingly. It's actually cold getting out of bed, if that wasn't difficult enough on a Saturday morning. I glance out the window and see nothing but dreary english fog. It turns out to be so cold even the internet is frozen. I've been searching all morning for a place to log on, with internet cafe staff frantically trying to stop their customers wandering away. I think thee's a telephone company employee who's going to need stress counselling. Then again, the cold weather is down to the time of year. Its already the Commercial Season, with ads everywhere telling us that if we buy their goods, we too will have a happy smiley Christmas. How? How can you enjoy Christmas with all the Christmas songs played endlessly on the radio? In America, I imagine you're suffering "Walking in a Winter Wonderland". Here in Blighty, its "Merry Christmas" by Slade. It was cute in 1978, but we've heard it, ok? Thens there's good old Bing, brought out of the golden oldie cupboard and dusted off to remind us that placing a bet snow will fall on Christmas Day is not a good idea. Paul McCartney tells us that "We're.. all.. having... a wonderful Christmas time". I'll bet you are. You can afford the prices. Cliff Richard of course gets all his his songs direct from God, which must leave Somin Cowell a little perplexed. What we need are gritty, rough tough no-nonsense Christmas songs. I want to hear Ozzy Osbourne singing "Suicide Sausage Rolls" or "Mr Crosby". How about Judas Priest performing "Living After New Year" or "Breaking The Wind"? Oh yeah. Songs from the heart. Survey of the Week Customer surveys are such a waste of time. Did we really need to them to do all that research to discover that the French use the largest condoms on average? Mind you, I was relieved to discover that Greece use the smallest. Must be why they import so many british holidaymakers every year.

In the course of my search for gainful employment, I've gotten to know the vagaries of various employers. Most, thankfully, are straightforward to deal with, especially those offering enslavement at the National Minimum Wage. Our local council regularly offers vacancies and thats almost become a weekly hobby, printing off their application forms, handing the envelopes in at the Customer Service Desk, and awaiting the rejection letter. They're very polite and supportive - you get such a warm feeling when you read how they're not shortlisting you but please please please don't get upset or throw yourself off the bridge... We like your applications. We do, really.... I used to think our Council were something of a bunch of jobsworths. Now I know different. I've discovered another employer in our area, a government sponsored agency, who have the most rigid and terrifying bureaucracy known to man. They advertise a job in the local paper, so I take a note of the website and attempt to download their application form. Site not recognised. Oh, I see, part of the Intelligence community no doubt? I will not be beaten. I find their associated group website, and download it from there. Its a form in two parts and once filled in, I send it back to the address listed. Then I get an email saying "You haven't filled it in correctly. Please try again." What is this? A game? Have I not progressed beyond the second level? I scour through the file and discover there's no warning about the little box at the bottom that should say DO NOT RETURN THIS FORM UNLESS YOU FILL THIS TINY INSIGNIFICANT BOX WITH AN EQUALLY UNIMPORTANT ANSWER. Deep Breath. I complete the form, and send it back. Then they send a polite email saying "You've sent the wrong forms. Find the right ones attached." The search for my El Dorado goes on then. Hiker of the Week Recently the forecasted 'cold snap' has hit our green and pleasant land. We even had a brief snowfall one morning last week. As I stroll through the town I see old women shuffling the weight of thirty layers of clothes. This morning though I did notice an man in his fifties, backpack, shorts, staring at a map and looking for all the world like someone out for a summer stroll. Congratualtions mate. You finally found the Legendary Lost Town of Swindon.

I knew it was a bad omen. As I came into the library this morning there was a horde of children all sat cross-legged in a crescent, completely blocking the stairs... excuse me... just passing through... Ooops, sorry kid.... Ok. Up the stairs.... Woah! Didn't expect the hidden trapdoor opening onto a bottomless pit... But its ok, an old lady offers me a whip to grab on to. I wander along the long forgotten aisles of dusty books.... Walking in front of a beam of sunlight, spears extend from the reference section, with the skeleton of an ignorant teenager still hanging from the rusty barbed points.... At last! Cubicle thirty three. I tell me minions to wait , and I sit to sit down and do my internet stuff. Well, I was... Oh no.... A twenty stone library member is bearing down on me.... "Sorry mate (belch) I've booked this PC." He says. I make my escape as the hordes have gone back to their treasure trail. A crowd of keen treasure hunters run past my cubicle reciting numbers. At least I had the sense not to sit in cubicle thirty five. So, if you still haven't found the treasure yet, don't give up, because given the state of british education its looking unlikely the kids will find it first. New Order of the Week A little while ago Gordon Brown was telling the world he wanted to see a New Order. Thats just political rhetoric, right? Wrong. He wants to order us around and make us pay for it. Of course you already know that, but it seems now the government were planning to raise taxes where no taxes have risen before. I said somewhere else a few years ago that New Labour were slowly turning Great Britain into Britslovakia. Well whaddaya know? I was right. Now if you've excuse me, I need to find a polish phrase book in this library.

I wonder what would happen if the worlds population was decimated by a sudden deadly plague? Its not a pleasant thought. Without the restrictions of an ordered society, opportunism and lawlessness would rapidly take hold. A guy I knew at work once told me that since he knew all about nature and the wilderness and stuff, come the revolution he would survive. You know what? I doubt it. He might have an advantage - assuming he really does know something, and assuming he's actually had some practice at exploiting that knowledge - but even that doesn't guarantee survival. I told him that. As I write this I'm watching the opening episode of Survivors. Its a glossy remake of a budget 70's series that explored just this scenario. To be honest, I struggled to stay interested. The characters were so two dimensional that I now truly believe the world is flat. To compensate for the lack of depth, the actors played their roles in a painfully dramatic fashion, with an overbearing music score that seemed very familiar. It was opera, like so many recent BBC productions. Plenty of style and movement but remember to switch your brain off. I still prefer the original series. It may be stilted and a little wooden to our modern sensibilities, but at least it went beyond the comic book level of sophistication. Actually, this new series has all the same production values as the frankenstein monster that is the new Dr Who. Or just about every tv drama the BBC have trailers for. Someone ought to tell Auntie Beeb that some of us are getting bored with the same old formula. Offer of the Week Now I don't have any personal transport, walking from place to place is pretty well essential. The government will probably shake their heads and point out that public transport exists. Yes it does, but public it isn't. Its commercial transport, and for that I have to pay. Correct change only please. Since I generally go where bus routes are mythological, I have to take care of my survival and dress appropriately. British weather being what it is. Well whadaya know... I'm living out my very own Survivors. Perhaps the BBC ought to save money and film me. It'll be just as dull and they can always add a strong music score to liven the mood. At least then I'll be able to afford bus fares and make a living on game shows. Hey, just a thought. Mull it over.

There's a house I used to pass on a regular basis going back some thirty years now. As a dwelling, it wasn't anything special, but the combination of grubby stonework and detailed windows gave it a subtle hint of individuality. What really made a difference was the garden, a forlorn and neglected patch of withered trees and abandoned fishponds. It had that 'secret garden' feel to it, a real patina, almost a sense of camouflaged seclusion. Sadly the house has been bought by new owners. The garden is gone, paved over with red brick to park the junior management car, and the house plastered and painted bright cream. When the new brick wall was built, the occupant had a part demolished so he could park in a certain direction. Its become a sort of advertisement for the owners lifestyle. Nonetheless, the house, for all its renovated freshness, looks awful. The man just has to be an advertising executive. I hope he has a good burglar alarm. Map of the Week I stumbled across a map of Swindon dated 1890-something in our new library. Fascinating to see how much my home town has changed ovr the years. Most of it din't exist then, and the aborted Swindon, Marlborough, and Andover Railway tunnel site is clearly marked (its now Queens park, a local beauty spot - or at least until they paint it bright cream in the near future). It set me on a quest amongst the old photographs in the reference section. Lots of gothic shops and bemused workmen standing in the street. But it had atmosphere and plenty of it. Once again I've seen how unable Swindon is to live with its past.

There are some people who seem blind to it Actually, even though I hate to admit it, our less popular lead guitarist eventually got voted Best Guitarist In The World... in Lithuania. Boy are they starved of music....

This morning I happened to drop by the library, expecting some light entertainment. It was sheer murder. Teams of children were engaged in a treasure hunt, following clues read out by their adult overseers, running here and there, chanting loudly in that tuneless way that kids do. In particular, one clue revolved around the number of cubicles where I'm sitting, so there's a continual stream of children counting. "Whats special about cubicle thirty five, children?" Asked the teacher. You mean apart from me? I turned around indignantly and the children looked nervously with open mouths as what appears to them a shabby monster of a man rouses from his slumber. The temptation to yell BOO! was almost too much, but the expression on their adult companions face was one of don't you dare. I won't keep you in suspense any more. The speciality of cubilcle thirty five (apart from the US Keyboard setting which is making typing a little more interesting than usual) is that it has a spotlight over it. Now you can all go forward to the next clue. Better hurry. Two hundred children are ahead of you. Weather Warning of the Week Last nights forecast was an absolute corker. "We are expecting a cold snap by the end of the week..." He said with baleful tones. No kidding. I don't suppose the forecaster has realised that its almost winter? Which treasure chest of climatology did you find this guy? Ok, bring back the dolly birds. They might be clueless too but at least you've got something more than a pastel-coloured cartoon in the background to look at.

The car roars across the desert. Fast paced action and immediate editing. A robot-like individual steps off his Harley Grav-bike and asks a tussle-haired young man standing fresh faced and breathless before him... "Who are you?" (Always a good intoduction I think. Find out you the tussle haired kid is before he mugs you and sprays tags over your grav-bike) "James Tiberius Kirk!" The young man responds with film actor defiance. No. Surely not. Star Trek has evolved toward the lowest possible level of entertainment and instead of the original almost cerebral and character driven plots, we get Star Wars 7 (Return of the Captain). Now the hero of Enterprise NCC-1701 is depicted as a Luke Skywalker clone. I can just see it know.... Kirk hangs from railing above bottomless power core. Klingon boss readies his bat'leth for the killing blow. "Surrender, Kirk! Join with us and beat your chest like a real warrior." Kirk grunts and moves further away... "Kirk! I can save you you.... Look, would it help if I claimed to be your father?" You know what? I've just realised that Hollywood has plagiarised The Mighty Boosh. The young tussle haired shaman (An erotic adventurer of the worst kind. Its true) is called Kirk. Wow. Such a small universe. Car Theft of the Week Another strange event is that my car has been broken into again. This time they cut a larger hole inthe soft top on the drivers side. Cheers guys, but if you happen to be reading this, what on earth are you bothering for? The car is dead. Its been dead since last christmas. There's nothing in it, its got no steering wheel, no power, no handling qualities whatsoever. Its a pile of metal slowly going rusty. Didn't you notice that the last time you got inside it?

Recently I made a scathing attack on Gordon Brown, our somewhat self-inflated prime minister. A man whose brilliance at dropping his problems into his successors 'to-do' list is. I predict, what he will eventually be remembered for. But all is not lost. Oh no. I have found the solution. Yesterday I strolled down to the Job Centre to sign on the dole for another fortnight. The heavy clouds and damp drizzle made me wonder if I would have to sprint down to the Job Centre, but thankfully the rain held off. The security guards there are wonderful, second only to our policemen. Ever helpful (and I do sometimes send them on errands) yet after nearly a year of signing on, totally unable to recognise me as a member of that protected species, Homo Unemployedus. Good grief, I go to all this trouble to look scruffy and they still stop me at the door. "Excuse me Sir...." They ask, walking up to me with puffed out chests and hard stares. As usual I present my job search documents, and satisfied that I'm not a suicide bomber intent on destroying civilisation as we know it, they allow me to pass by. The atmosphere in the current Job Centre is by far the best I've ever encountered. Gone are the primeval queues awaiting a rubber stamp at the desk, gone are the ticket machines which inevitably tell you that thirty seven other claimants are in the queue in front of you, gone is the soft music, and thankfully so is that toe-rag who stopped my money the last time I was claiming benefits. Now there was a young gentleman who had the makings of a true dictator, if only he had the intelligence to realise that running an office is not an impressive political career. Anyway, I sat down on the suprisingly comfortable seat and awaited my call. They now politely call you by name. Such a human touch. My claims advisor is a pleasant lady who seems bored of the hurly-burly of spotty kids and single mums. We exchange pleasantries, and I eventually sign her form that allows me to receive a fortnights money. "Is there anything else I could do for you?" She asked me as I was about to bid her goodbye. A thought occured to me that maybe her boredom was becoming too much - sadly I much prefer the brunette two desks down - but perhaps I'm just getting too old and sex starved to see an innocent request. In any case, I felt secure in the knowledge that security guards were not too far away. I thought for a second or two, then replied "Well... you might do something about the economical downturn in this country..." "I'll give it my best shot." She promised me. There you have it Mr Brown. Forget your political posturing and fiscal philandering, the answer to Britains problems is sat in an office in Swindon. You heard it here first. Heist of the Week A giant oil tanker gets taken by somali pirates off the coast of kenya. Clearly they can't afford petrol either, which suggests to me that someone in Mogadishu has just bought a V8. All they need to do now is steal an oil refinery. Far more likely though is the possibility of arms purchase. By coincidence there was a tv program last night about Victor Boutt, a russian arms dealer who inspired the Nicholas Cage film Lord of War, which by even stranger coincidence I saw on DVD yesterday afternoon. What am I bid two million barrels of crude oil? Its a bit worrying, because they've already got plenty of AK47's.

Well, since I fail to attain the standard of literary and scholarly political correctness that Ascepid... Asclap... whatever your name is, I'll not bother posting.

I bow before my audience What is it you actually teach? At the moment, it sounds like Poetic Spanish Cookery 101"

In fact, what defines any army's quality is its performance; whatever example you may imagine to try to sustain such argumentation (maybe Napoleon before the Alps?) it would imply that for whichever mechanism you may imagine such men have become high quality soldiers; period. Not at all. Spartacus for instance. His army was composed of rabble with a handful of gladiators. He fought off professional roman soldiery for two years before being out-manoevered and overwhelmed by weight of numbers. Or Adrianople. The goths did not have any real superiority in tactics, numbers, composition, and were not a formal army at all having gathered together immediately before the battle was fought. On paper, the romans should have romped home to an easy victory. Or the rebellion of Tacfarinas, whose army of numidians was not as capable as the romans should have been despite any training they may have received. Or the upsrising of Arminius, composed of rival tribes who were barely on speaking terms with each other, yet managed to ambush and destroy three roman legions over a considerable distance. or any other rebel, resistance, partisan, or guerilla group that has taken on professional troops and won in the early days before they gathered enough experience to justify your comment. Or perhaps you could just switch on the tv and watch the evening news.

Come on, I can`t believe you're seriously saying that. Impressive deeds require BOTH capable commanders and high standard soldiers. Period. Not true. men of poor quality have been motivated to significant victory throughout military history.

Many years ago, I met up for a game session with a bunch of guys, some of whom I knew well, others I didn't. One chap who was a friend of someone else and not known to me at all, interrupted the proceedings and said "Your mascara is running". I was pretty mystified by that comment, but his leering expression made itself felt. I wasn't happy with that slur, and just to make the point, my friends seemed as mystified by his attitude as I was. The week after, as I was leaving, I noticed a book open beside him and enquired bluntly as to its purpose. "Ahh... Poetry. I'm a poet..." He looked a little flustered as I grinned with relish at this symbol of unmanliness. "Its not all serious... I do some funny stuff... I... errr...." Revenge is soooo sweet. He never came back. Serves him right. However, I wonder if there's a poet in each of us struggling to get out. Perhaps not in Swindon, since most of the local performers prefer yelling insults in the small hours, and poetic it isn't. A mate of mine in the music business, a local singer/songwriter (We'll call him TB), once told me how his poetic spirit once took hold. He was walking through a well-to-do area, looking musically shabby of course, and heard the sound of the wind swishing through the tall trees along the side of the road. He was captivated by it, and stood there engrossed in its subtlety. A passing police car thought otherwise, and since policemen are not known for poetic leanings, TB was promptly called upon to explain why he was staring at the bedroom of an expensive house. "No, officer, I'm not, I'm... err.... listening to the trees.... ummm.... The sound... Its.. you know..." "Don't do it again Sir" The policemen rebuked him, "Now move along." Some people just don't appreciate poetry. Actually I don't either. Still, people who claim to be artistes tend to survive better on the dole, and since I'm too old to claim rock superstardom at grass roots level (I don't live in a country mansion after all), I'm left with no recourse to claim that as a local poet, I'm a vital cultural resource. Unfortunately, that means I now have to prove I'm a poet. So here goes.... Poem of the Week I wandered lonely as a local poet of cultural significance That floats o'er hill and theatre A woman smiles and offers me a chance Of activities peculiar Yobboes jeer and call me 'nance' And ask why I won't bonk her In serene contempt I retain my stance And remind them of their failure Ok. I 'll move along Officer...