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What's happened at the Job Centre? Usually I stride through the door and waft past the security guards holding up my identitu documents in that sort of "Get out of my way minion" sort of manner. Not any more. Now the guards stop me and ask where I'm going. What? Again? Fine. Well, I'm walking over there toward the door the other side of the lift, into the hallway where I use the door on the right to enter the staiwell, where I climb the steps all the way to the second floor, where I turn right and go through the door at the end, follow the passage and go through the last door on the right, where I turn right and sit patiently until my claims advisor thanks me for turining up and doing some jobsearch, whereupon I retrace my steps until I exit the building. "Thank you Sir. That's all I need to know". Oh good. Homo Swindonus Question - How do you recognise a bloke from Swindon? Answer - He's the one who thinks he's a man because he thinks you're not. Yep. That's how stupid Swindon Man is. They're also paranoid about objects being inserted into their backsides, which of course never happens, but they don't know that because it hasn't actually happened to anyone yet so they think it's possible, even though it's very illegal and subject to certain physical risks like outraged Swindon blokes. I mean, what sort of hard as nail tough as old boots junkyard dog is worried about the sanctity of his arse? For example, there's a guy I often see at the library. Nothing unusual, just another typical Swindon bloke, except perhaps this one talks to himself a lot, which is why I notice his presence among the throng of dull eyed Facebook addicts and thus why he thinks I'm gay. Unfortunately he forgot that talking to himself is audible to those around and so I could plainly hear his opinions concerning my sexuality and manliness. As if he knew what he was talking about. He's a Swindon bloke. All mouth and no brain cell. Funny how the loudest butchest blokes always seem to deserve having something rammed up... No. Let's not go there. He Who Shouts Loudest Knows Least. Shouting Loudly Talking about shouting, I've received a phone call from the Department of Work and Pensions asking for more information concerning my leter, a demand for Mandatory Reconsideration concerning the bill they sent me for overpaid benefits. Actually it was me me who shouted, not him. I was a little irate you see. However, please note that I did not accuse him of being gay despite the loss of his testicles. Men At War The move toward 'realistic' war films has certainly made some interesting strides in recent years. Veterans tell us that if we want to know what the landings at Omaha Beach were like in 1944, we need do no more than watch Saving Private Ryan. Due credit to the film makers then. In the same vein I happened to catch Steel Tempest. It tells the story of the Ardennes Offensive from a German perspective, with a constant theme of propaganda versus reality. I liked the way period war footage was woven in. I also approved of the slavish attention to period detail, the use of equipment that really did look like Wehrmacht vehicles and weaponry. It had a sort of Band of Brothers feel, with some of the same actors, albeit with somewhat less convincing acting. It was disappointing to see the lacklustre movement of troops, who even to me failed to convince as veteran SS troops fighting with meagre resources against the allies. Ideally you need to sympathise with the war weary SS officer, the tragic letters from home, and the occaisional moments of comradeship from soldiers. Ideally you should feel disgusted at the nasty and predatory behaviour of soldiers at war, or the deceit of senior command to enable the Fuhrers plans to succeed. Ideally you ought to sense the frustration of men ordered to blitzkrieg the enemy with barely enough to shoot back and no support from anyone. The problem is, you don't.