RHS Senile Delinquents

Q: What do you get when you suck the last vestige of joy out of gardening (for me there would not be much joy to suck out of it) and replace it with crass commercialism and a host of minor celebrities?

A: The RHS Hampton Court Flower Show!

Today my wife and I went to this dreadful event on the back of it being just about bearable last year. This year it turned to cak within 30mins when I decided to get us something insanely overpriced to drink. I went up to the bar and waited for the girl to finish serving before ordering, like most normal people do and noticed another man (an OAP) come to the bar after me.

The girl asked who was next and I replied with the usual response, only to get embroiled in the following:

OAP: I was here first!

Me: No, sorry you arrived after me, I'm first. I'll have a pint of cider and a coke.

OAP: I'm first.

Me:

I'll have a pint of cider and a coke, please.

OAP: I was here first.

Me: No you weren't, deal with it.

OAP: You're day is about to become a whole lot worse.

Me: Are you threatening me?

OAP: It's going to get a lot worse.

Me: Well you have a nice day anyway.

OAP: It is going to get worse.

Me: Hang on, why all this unpleasantness? Are you one of those people who get some sort of thrill threatening people whilst your care worker isn't looking.

OAP: F*** off!

Me: What did you just say?

OAP: F*** off!

Me: You kiss your missus and grand-kids with that mouth?

By now this idiot is nose to nose with me.

OAP: No I kiss my boyfriend!

Me: Yeah, you look the type and I thought I could smell something unpleasant on your breath! Now run along and get him to kiss it better!

With that I walked away. I'll be honest that was a miracle as I was as close as I have ever been in some time to smacking him to the floor and I know full well once he was on the deck I would not have stopped hitting him until he was not moving!

What an objectionable c**t, I hope he gets diagnose with inoperable bowel cancer! 

Why Did I Bother?

Like many of you I went out to vote today as the Police & Crime Commissioner for Wiltshire needs to see what £70k p.a. will buy him over the next few years.

Thus far the barrage of information has been underwhelming, apparently according to my parents there was a time when candidates knocked on your door to speak to you personally. Now it only seems they do this for TV cameras and mainly because the uncertainty of knocking on a door that is then answered by somebody like my wife is something they would want to avoid. Not that she is violent or abusive, far from it, she just uses her super-power which she honed over years culminating in her winning the National Young Farmers Debating Competition. I have been privileged to see her in action and it is the verbal equivalent of seeing a lioness taking out a herd of wildebeest - they never stood a chance. That also is why we never have rows and I also have a shed to hide in.

Getting back to the lack of info on the candidates - yes it was all on line, but does this help 80yr old Mr Nugent Dirt who doesn't go anywhere near a computer? Does it buggery!!! All we had delivered was a rather ropey pamphlet with the retired, corpulent, pin-stripe ridden Tory candidates (and current PCC) toad like visage on the cover - the same face that shut quite a lot of police stations I might add and left Salisbury with something that is nothing more than a manned policebox hidden up a back-street (Mon-Fri, office hours only - please don't commit any crime outside these hours). Add to this the nearest custody suite is 90mins and 46miles away in Malmesbury. What a work of genius, he is obviously holding out for a title from Dave for all the good work.

Having looked at the four candidates online I was dismayed as they were the same old bag of nobodies:

1. Conservative: Angus Stuart 'Hang The Poor' Macpherson - judging by the name obviously a local!
2. Labour: Kevin 'Anything But' Small - judging by the size of him he's never walked around knocking on doors.
3. UKIP: John Fairlamb 'I'm F**king Potty' Short - Please don't get me started about this bunch of nutters.
4. LibDems: Brian 'They Made Me Stand' Mathew - Only there because he lost the arm-wrestle with the other LibDem.

All statements were the usual lot of party approved bullshit and with this in mind I made the long lonely trudge to the polling station with the following thoughts going through my head:

1. Before 1918 ordinary people like me were not allowed to vote, not to mention women.
2. So WWI did achieve something? That is at least 750,000 reason to vote for a start.
3. My Gran (born 1904) always voted for the aforementioned reasons above.
4. Do any politicians REALLY realise this and if not why not?
5. Isn't this lark just a way of politicising the police, who frankly were moribund before this came in.

On getting to the polling station (ironically in the Memorial Hall - memorial to the war dead I might add). I looked at the card and there were sadly no additional candidates to at least give me some hope that partaking in the democratic process is not just reserved for the political equivalent of processed cheese. No such luck, so being very British about it I decided not to spoil the paper and put a cross in a box as instructed.

I only voted for the last lot of reason above and not for a political party.

What a Bunch Of Chancers.

You dear reader like me are already bored to death with the ‘In/Out’ debacle and have now already incorporated into any training regime the ‘Scramble for the TV Remote’ on hearing the words ‘And now a party political broadcast by……………’ In fact it could be for ‘The Big Loving’s From Little Doggies Party.’ But let’s we really cannot take that chance as it would be akin to taking up somebodies offer to pump raw sewage into your living room.

I’ll be honest I was very much in the Out camp (by that I mean out of Europe as now using the words Out and Camp together these days are more a declaration of a sexual preference than a political opinion). I have my reasons for this choice mainly along the lines of ‘I don’t like the way this EU lark is going.’ Yes there have been somethings like workers rights that have improved as a result, but it is too mixed a bag.

However we then get to those fronting the respective campaigns. Oh, my f***ing gawd! Would you seriously buy a car of any of these people, frankly if I shook them by the hand I’d be checking after to see if I still had the same number of fingers and thumbs! For me not one of them irrespective of side does not smack of the words ‘Opportunist’ ‘Chancer’ or ‘I Drown Kittens.’

As to either side putting any credible argument for their campaign one lot uses scare tactics whilst the other blusters some form of incoherent rebuttal – and that’s not just BoJo! It is nothing more than a name calling contest paid for by us poor sods.

Sadly in the end the decision most of the electorate make will be based thus:

‘Which Bunch Of Chancers and Opportunists Are Lying the Most? If You Think You Know Vote For The Other Bunch Of Chancers and Opportunists.’

In fact that should be the question on the ballot paper.

End of the Line - Through the Medium of Interpretive Dance

There are days when the wonderful travelling public make you wonder how in God's name the human race has survived this long. Frankly on the performances I see so often I think we have until the end of the decade until the cats take over - this might be shorter if Trump ends up as president.

However the three separate instances of stupidity I am about to relate took place on just one trip from Salisbury to Waterloo and back to Salisbury.

The first one started as I pulled in to Andover when I saw two Asian (am I allowed to say that?) men staggering around the platform. Knowing full well that alcohol, humans and railways don't make a good combo I slowed down when one of them walked right to the edge of the platform to crane his neck out to look at the train. I blew the horn uttered some swear words from the Train Drivers Handbook and thanked every deity real or imagined that at least one part of his brain had not been pickled with booze and he got the hell out of the way.

These were not the first piss artist we'd let on the train as one had got on at the station before with a dog. My guard pointed this out to me as said person got out and my comment was 'I really hope no harm comes to the dog.'

We got to Waterloo without any further incident. I got out of the cab and walked to the other end of the train only to find my guard now trying to rouse these two drunks. I decided to help as my guard was a young woman and I didn't want to see any harm come to her. I walked into the coach and asked her whether she wanted me to help, she did - I shook the first one with a genial 'Excuse me sir we've reached the end of the line, you need to get off.' He stirred grunted a few words, shook his fellow sot and prepared to get up. Job done or so I thought and I went down the other end.

After sorting the cab out the other end I decided to spend a penny (yes I am not afraid to use the toilets on a train - it's either that or go in bottle or cup). I walked back only to find this pair of ambassadors for the effects of Tiger Beer sparko again. So I wake the first one again, he comes to again. I think he wants to know where he is - as it transpires that he does not speak a word of English, my knowledge of dialects of the Sub-Continent are limited to the contents of a Balti House menu and I think that shouting Gobi Aloo repeatedly is going to do much for the Commonwealth! We both are at a loss, then he mutters 'End of line?' He must understand English to some degree - he must have ordered at least one round of drinks to get him like this?

OK I'll go for that old tried and tested method of communicating with foreigners that we the British have made famous the world over - SHOUT!!! 'YES! END OF LINE - YOU (pointing) OFF!!!!!!  It worked, he grabs his hoppo and they stumble the hell off my train out to cause more mayhem on the concourse at Waterloo (like it needs any more help in that area.)

So now we trot off back to Salisbury where the train terminates. I do the decent think and walk through the train to help the platform staff. I walk into the carriage to find a pair of legs draped across the aisle. Here we go again - there he is slumped across the seat dead to the world. I go through the usual routine only to get the blank stare of a junkie - 'You need to get off mate' He shuts his eyes. 'Oi!!! Thicky McThickface! Get off this train!' Not a glimmer! 'Oh sod, you!' I go an tell our platform attendant about this (a true gentle giant if ever there was one). He was then persuading another sot that he needed to get off.

In the end these pillocks were got off the train and pointed to the taxi-rank as they had missed their stations, namely Basingstoke and Woking - oh how I laughed as this was the last train!!!!!

Southwest Trains BIG Weekend For The Stupid.

It all began on the morning of Friday 19th at Earlsfield when a member of the public got down onto the track to retrieve her phone. She was then hit by a train. Earlsfield is between Wimbledon and Clapham Junction, as you can imagine being here and at peak time it was busier than it would be at 3am.

Thankfully for her the train was slowing down for the station and she was not rent asunder and now has the rest of her life to be thankful that she got her phone back whilst she sits/lays paralysed, now being fed by a straw and having tubes up her unmentionables to deal with the other end of the operation. Sadly her condition now stops her from taking selfies from her hospital bed, but at least she might get somebody to show her all those friends on Facebook who have posted sad emoji's on her wall.

Also she was denied the misery that hundreds of thousands of other passengers had to undergo that day for the ten hours that trains were disrupted whilst the police investigated the incident and made a pile of overtime on the side - every cloud and all that!!!! She could have read about it all on Twitter on her phone, now she is #EarlsfieldTrainVegetable.

Then along came Saturday, all was quiet across the SWT network, Salisbury was it's usual charming self up until about 6:30pm when an escaped psychiatric patient climbed onto the roof of at train at the east end of the station and refused to come down, the police were called. Now I have been told that in a situation like this the people you should not ask to deal with this are the police - I was told this by a policeman, the reason for this was to become all too apparent. They would have been better advised to call Sooty & Sweep, the police were beyond inept, the got the Network Rail people who brought some ladders and we all waited for somebody to climb up and speak to the man on the roof. Nope! These ladders were for display purposes only and were left against the wall, we were not even treated to the clueless comedy cops doing the old 'Turn round with the ladder over your shoulder whilst everyone ducks routine.' All we got was some modern performance art that involved a lot of hi-viz clothing and pointing at things until we became part of the act and were moved back down the platform.

To add a bit of further drama a train was allowed into the station (as all trains were stopped) with all six coaches full of drunk Portsmouth football supporters with a grand total of one diminutive female officer to deal with this lot - the phrase 'Pissing in the wind' sprang to mind. Thankfully they sent her reinforcements in the form of an officer who was just hanging on for his pension, so presumably the plan was for her to hold the drunken horde off whilst he trundled off on his police mobility scooter (complete with flashing light and siren) for help. As three of this six coaches came out of service I was the lucky driver who had to uncouple it and take it away. I have never seen a train in such a foul mess, drink and goodness knows what everywhere and it ponged like a urinal in summer. Now am a biased as I hate football and everything to do with it, but after walking through that train I reached previously undiscovered dimensions of hatred that would make the Third Reich look a bit lame and liberal.

Needless to say this part of the train did not move as I had to take my break (as enshrined in law BTW following the Clapham crash) and duly got the hell away from this.

Within half an hour the man had been talked down off the roof of the train. This is now where truth is stranger than fantasy and highlights for me that the police are nothing more than security guards in fancy dress. He was talked down by one of our drivers, who brought him a coffee and with a few well chosen words diffused the situation. I have no idea what those words were - they could have been anything from 'Have you ever seen a grown man naked' to 'You think you've got problems, you should see the meds I'm on and they still let me drive a train!!!' The laughable part is that the police mistook him for a member of Network Rail staff and just waved him through to do it. Thankfully it worked, I shudder to think what would have happened if it hadn't.

So the trains got running again, albeit delayed. However three hours later people from the psychiatric unit he had escaped from came to the station asking if we had seen him - where in Salisbury is this institution? Adjacent to the railway station!

Well, the weekend is not yet over so we have yet to see what unalloyed pile of shite today is going to drop on us!

Things Not To Put On Toilet Paper.

For some of us of a certain vintage there were only two type of toilet paper when we were growing up, firstly there was the stuff we had at home which came in various colours depending on the colour of your bathroom and was soft to the touch. Then there was the stuff that was the favourite of institutions such as schools (they probably had it in internment camps, prisons and the like) - yes it was IZAL - a substance so hideous that we called it 'Slip & Rip' because that seems to be its main function, the primary purpose of toilet paper seemed to have passed its inventors by (heaven knows what they used, if indeed they used the bog at all). Believe it or not this stuff actually contained bitumen, which is fine for covering a flat-roof but pretty damaging when wiping your arse!

Needless to say that there are some of you who indeed recall a time when sheets of newspaper were hung on a nail in a whitewashed outside karzi that ponged of Jeyes Fluid, but I am going on my life-experiences.

I digress. Yes we all know that toilet paper has its primary function (IZAL could also be used as tracing paper if you recall). Now like a whole load of other things the product has been developed to something with the texture of a soft quilt, which is for me the zenith of bog roll and it should end there and we should be content with that. No, the human race just cannot leave things alone can it? So what do we have now - toilet paper with artwork printed on it. It all started as a bit of a novelty when some wag put a cross-word puzzle on a few sheets and now it has got out of hand and this time of year is the worst.

Allow me to explain. When we go to the IL's for the annual ordeal of festive moaning with a chance of a Yuletide hospital visit from FIL and MIL making mountains of seasonal leftovers, we have in the smallest room the 'special' Christmas toilet paper. I have to admit that the artwork is quite nice with frolicking snowmen and teddy-bears wrapped up in scarves etc. For me it just feels so wrong that I have to do with it what we all do with toilet paper. I mean somebody, somewhere has put time and creative energy into drawing what is on the paper, yes you might think it is twee, but I really get hung-up about it. I know it is not the original artwork you are using - the times I have been asked to leave the Tate Modern for doing just that has now resulted in an ASBO.

Look here is a suggestion if anyone wants to print anything on toilet paper, at least make it something that we aren't going to mind using - might I suggest Donald Trump's face or the ISIS flag for a start?

Memory Lane The Diversionary Route

As most of you might know Sunday is the favoured day on the railway for doing maintenance, just as on road Bank Holidays are the favourite time for spreading millions of cones along every patch of available road, dumping a few token items of heavy plant and the buggering off for a six week foreign holiday!

Last Sunday I was working and had two trips to Waterloo. The first being the very first train from Salisbury to Waterloo. I got into work and read my work schedule where I saw the word 'Piloted' alongside Woking where I was to pick up the said Pilotman. The reason for this being that we Salisbury drivers do not take services (also known as 'signing a route') to Clapham via Egham, Staines, Isleworth etc.

I got to Woking and picked up the driver who was to pilot me and we went along the ling to Byfleet and New Haw where we were route off and along the Byfleet Curve to Addlestone. This is where Memory Lane began, my first job after graduating was in Addlestone where I worked for Runnymede Borough Council, my first project was to oversee the building of new toilets in Victory Park, which the line runs along on one side. Then we went onto Chertsey, I designed a wall for a school and a surface water culvert under the railway line. Now we crossed the M25 bridge and to Virginia Water, where I had lived for a time and had even done some spotting at the station. Next to Egham, yet another public toilet I designed, a car parking survey and some survey works for a few drainage projects in the grounds of Royal Holloway College.

To think that all this was over 20yrs ago. We now left the borough and came to Staines (yes it is still a dump!) where I had taken my young nephew to see Jurassic Park, then Ashford where he and my aunt and uncle had lived. Next Feltham, still rough as a badgers arse and very glad that we were not stopping until Clapham - I had also done a survey in 1997 at Feltham of some offices owned by ICL. That was more or less the end of the reminiscences.

We got to Waterloo and on departure were sent by our normal route and didn't need a pilotman again. However we were crossed from the down fast line to the down slow line from Surbiton to Woking. Passing through Weybridge I was reminded of the very last architects office I worked in three years ago. To think that since 1991 I started in Addlestone (a few miles from Weybridge) worked in Swansea, London, Kingston on Thames, Guildford, Aldershot, Bristol and Cardiff - and even lived in Woking. I am now doing what I always wanted to do, what I did in the interim was just a diversion route until I got on the right line - Never thought of it like that really.

Wiltshire Council's Farcical Recycling Methods

Today we put out all the shredded paper (which I hasten to add they have collected on previous occasions). It was not collected, instead we get the dustman spending the time he could have put the paper in the paper recycling sticking an officious missive informing us that as 'I am just obeying orders' they do not collect paper that is shredded - this is despite the fact it is paper, the same stuff that is made from trees like the stuff we have not shredded because they were mainly takeaway leaflets and did not have out personal information on them.
This leads me to the following conclusions:

1. The person who drew up Wiltshire Council's recycling policy is a complete moron who spends the time he is either not sitting in his only bodily waste or trying to feed himself wondering just why his bank account details have been hacked for the umpteenth time every year.

2. Somebody at the paper recyclers obviously wants all your sensitive data in an easy to read format - not shredded!

3. Dustman are of the same mind-set as the sort of people who turn up at war-crimes trials and believe that the defence 'I was only obeying orders' will excuse them from anything.

As a result the shredded paper has now gone in the bin - in fact why don't we just put every damn thing in the same bin and then dump the whole lot on the front of Wiltshire's newly refurbished offices in Trowbridge and they can sort it out just the way they like it - peasants!

On Behalf of Bald Men

Today I went to have my occasional trip to the barbers - I say barbers because that is what I have always called them, hairdressers are for women. Words like stylist, gel and mousse are not something I use ever, neither is a comb to be honest - not since my wedding day nearly sixteen years ago. Grooming products are something I will never use either, soap and a flannel - if I am really dirty its swarfega or a pumice-stone. To be frank I cannot understand why any bloke would spend more than the time it takes to shave five days growth off in front of a mirror.

Back to the trip to the barbers. Needless to say cutting my hair does not take long and I usually have to preplan any conversation to deal with this type of brevity. The usual exchange of 'Grade two all round. Yes do the eyebrows and that looks fine to me' all have to be taken into the conversation equation, so the meaning of life is right out along with the old favourite of 'What the hell is wrong with the world.' Also I have no football related chat to speak of.

I went in and there was already one person in the chair and nobody else. Now it looked as if he was coming to the end of the his time - this is by my standards so I was very wide of the mark on that score. Then it dawned on me why don't barbers offer the same sort of service as you get in the supermarkets? No, not carry to the car - it would be a five items or less type of arrangement for bald men, no chat, a quick once-over with the clippers, wave the mirror around, something for the weekend? Then pay and home and it could be done cheaper because you would get through more people in the same time as you would when dealing with somebody who looked like Cousin It from the Addams Family.

The Misery Vampire.

One of the first things I made a point of doing when I joined the railway was to join the union ASLEF. Having been a student I had been automatically a member of the NUS and to be frank up to then I had never met such a bigger bunch of tossers - mainly rich kids playing lefty politics to annoy their parents. However having worked for nearly three decades where unions were a no, no and management did just what the hell they liked I saw why unions came about thanks to the Tolpuddle Martyrs in the first place. However I have realised that there seems to be no middle ground with unions and working against management, government and anyone else in authority seems to be a given instead of working together, as lets face it compromise is the best way of all parties getting their own way. Sadly in work the prevailing attitude of the union is 'Two legs bad' as far as management in concerned and if moaning were an Olympic sport then train drivers would be able to put a world beating team together just by pulling names out of a hat. 

That's the background. Over the past few months there have been niggles in the way of the union allowing our overtime rate to be negotiated down from time and a half to a flat rate and they allowed our roster to be fiddled with to a point where we all work six weekends on the trot, despite them telling us we would be getting more weekends off. The last stitch up prompted a response whereby unofficial action of not working freedays was insisted upon. When one of the union bully-boys tried to get me to fall in line I asked whether this had been officially sanctioned by ASLEF and if so why hadn't I been balloted - that went down well. So I wrapped up this more than a bit flawed argument by saying 'So this is unofficial action to get ASLEF out of the hole they've dropped us in?' It went a bit quiet followed by leftie bluster. So I decided that there was no way I was going to cut my nose off to spite my face and work my freedays, along with others and - wait for it several members of the local ASLEF committee.

So to the person I refer to as the Misery Vampire (MV). He is one of the institutionalised drivers who have never done a days work outside the railway (consequently if you can imagine a very ugly version of Keith Richards that is what this whining oaf looks like). Anyway some weeks ago MV was spouting in the messroom that all the drivers that work their freedays are nothing more than back-stabbing bastards blah, blah, blah. I decided not to enter into it as getting into a blazing row and then taking a train full of passengers was not something we are encouraged to do as it is not safe, so I kept silent.
Fast forward a few weeks and I make a passing comment that to somebody that 'I am one of those back-stabbing bastards that work their freedays.' The very next day MV comes into the messroom at 4am and the following discussion takes place:

MV: Can you explain to me the comment you made the other day as I have taken exception to it.
Me: What comment was that then?
MV: The one about being a back stabbing bastard.
Me: Well you made it first a few weeks ago in front of me.
MV: Why didn't you say something to me then?
Me: What, and potentially start an argument that could potentially lead to somebody having a incident on track by making a bad situation worse.
MV: Well things are bad here as it is.
Me: So you are advocating making a bad situation worse - that's not very bright is it? Now let me explain a few things. One, I am not a bastard as per the dictionary definition and if you want to see my birth certificate as proof I am more than happy to do so. Two I have never wilfully stabbed anyone in the back, however I have been recipient of such treatment on more than one occasion. Finally with regard to ASLEF and it's diktats official or otherwise I would like to know why seeing that they have allowed us to be stitched up in my time in the job on our overtime rate and our rosters and no doubt will allow us to be stitched up on our paydeal. Bearing this in mind why should they have the temerity to demand that I cut my nose off to spite my face to get them out of the hole they, yes they, have dropped us in especially seeing as this is my sole form of income (knowing full well he has other sidelines) and I unlike a lot of others enjoy my job. I refuse flatly to do so as they are behaving no better than the bankers in asking innocent bystanders to sort out their problems to make them feel better! In addition to this I can not tolerate the hypocrisy of being told by ASLEF not to work my freedays when representatives of this branch are not leading by example by not working theirs.

MV then started waffling leftie gibberish that was the most feeble attempt to justify the unjustifiable I have ever heard. By now I had had more than enough and walked over to him proffered my hand and said 'Lets just leave it at that shall we, we both have opposing views and any further discussion will do neither of us any good.' We shook hands and I left - never argue with an idiot, they drag you down to their level and beat you by experience.
Unfortunately that was not the end of it, since then there have been more than a few snide comments from MV and on the day I went back to work I had to listen to him spouting even more drivel in my direction as he derided new drivers. I'll be honest when he isn't creating misery he is scuttling around the depot feeding off other people's irrespective of whether the poor individual concerned has had an incident or big-toe ache. Frankly he should know better as he a few years ago he was suspended after allegedly pushing a female driver (who he is know to hate) down the stairs, now both are not entirely blameless and the truth of what happened is inconclusive, but the more I have to work with him the more I think that it is highly likely that he did it despite his cronies putting it about that it was all the other drivers fault.

As you can imagine being exposed to that bombardment of negativity, blatant hypocrisy and dystopian leftie dogma when you go into work has been somewhat wearing and in addition to the other two problems was the last straw. Consequently I have now left ASLEF as I no longer wish to be associated with such leftie bullshit, I have however joined the RMT (Regularly Making Trouble) I know they are even more looney left than ASLEF, but I see union membership as nothing more than a work based insurance policy, but hopefully as they are predominantly a union for other rail workers I won't be expected to support their activities.

For this I shall bear no malice

Yesterday I did some nosing around on the internet regarding my Mum's cousin. He was a rear gunner in a Halifax that was shot down in May 1943 over Holland. When I was growing up my mother occasionally spoke of him as she remembered meeting him during the war (he grew up in west London & mother in south Wales) when he was in uniform she was eleven when he was killed aged twenty-two.

As I ferreted around I followed leads from the website of 51 Squadron that was based at Snaith near York. I found out the number of the aircraft he was in DT645 and searched for that and I came across this:

http://www.aircrewremembered.com/smith-watson-david.html

My mothers cousin is Sgt WJ Merrigan and from what I recall he was the tail-gunner on this Halifax. Bearing that in mind it dawned on me as I read that there was the very real possibility that as the plane was shot from the rear he was the first to die and was spared the horror of being in a plane out of control and heading for the ground at a rate of knots.

I then read about the pilot who shot his plane down - well he was certainly no amateur as this was his 25th kill and he had survived the Battle of Britain. Then I read on and found that he himself was dead the very next day! The next bit certainly surprised me - instead of thinking 'Serves him right the  $#%£&*@ for killing a member of my family.' My thought was simply he was doing a job in the same way that my mothers cousin who was twenty-two was doing a job, he was thirty-three - no age really for either of them, I just felt sad that these people died as a result of one small group of lunatics who wanted to rule the world and they were nothing more than bystanders caught up in it.

Childhood Horse-Shit Trauma.

Way back in the 1970's when stuff used to work when the country wasn't on strike or in the dark and things had colour schemes were based on pools of sick - I was a child growing up in Swansea. Swansea in itself is a shit-hole, it always has been and always will be, in fact when the Luftwaffe started bombing it from 19th Feb 1941, they stopped after three nights when they realised they could not manage to make the place any worse and decided to drop their bombs on somewhere more deserving.

Back to my childhood - well I say childhood, I was legally a child and my dufflecoat had a hood that was permanently up as it was Wales and it rained a lot. It was more of a forced apprenticeship for small people who had no choice as far as my parents were concerned. One of the many things I was forced to do apart from mixing cement from the age of three, was every year (usually around Feb/March time) we would have a trip to the Gower to collect sack-loads of horse-shit for the garden. Rarely would we go to the Gower in the summer as it was full of tourists and my family didn't want to part with any money to park the car at Oxwich, Langland or Caswell - or anywhere else for that matter. In any case why waste valuable concrete mixing time when the weather was so good as making the house and garden look like Soviet Russia would never happen whilst we were playing on the sand or paddling!

Back to the sack-loads of horse-shit. Every year as soon as one Saturday would offer the chance of light drizzle or even no rain we would all be loaded into the car (a Ford Corsair V6 which regularly conked out) along with a various plastic sacks and Mam would bring a picnic which was ideal for eating in the freezing cold and wet with the ever present pong of horse-shit everywhere! It was only made worse by the horrors that always will be the taste of tepid tea out of a flask, there are few things more vile! We would be there for hours, sometimes until it started to get dark, filling sacks with horse-shit and struggling with them to the car - if only the NSPCC had known! The boot would be so full that the back end of the car was distinctly lower than the rest of it and on every occasion it was so full that my sister and I would have a few sacks of the stuff between us to stop us squabbling. Frankly even now I still prefer spending time with a sack of horse-shit than my sister. However a row always broke out when my Dad tried to get Mam to carry a sack-load on her lap. Then when we got home we'd have to barrow the vile stuff to the non-concreted part of the garden, aka the veg plot (which would have fed most of the street every year).

Once this ordeal was over all clothes would be removed and instead of being burnt as they deserved were washed and we were put in the bath. It is hardly surprising that at school I found it difficult as I was probably ponging like a heaven knows what! I still break out in a cold sweat whenever I walk past the mounted horse-guards on Whitehall as when we went there one particularly hot summer in the 70's all I remember seeing was a massive pile of horse-shit the associated cloud of flies and the look in my Dad's eye that said 'If only I had a few plastic sacks and a shovel.'

Rusty's Rubbish Railway. Part 3.

The other trains that Rusty owns are class 143's, 150's and 158's or as everyone else calls them 'Nodding Donkeys' or 'Burger Vans.' These are just the polite names.

Sometimes Rusty has to bribe people to let him borrow their trains due to some of his being condemned as unfit for human use. This makes other peoples trains very frightened as they don't want to end up broken and smelling like an old tramps vest. Sometimes they get so frightened they hide at the back of the shed and refuse to come out. If they do come out they have been known to have oil-leaks because the sight of one of Rusty's drivers coming towards them has frightened them that much.

Rusty's Rubbish Railway. Part 2.

One of Rusty's best friends is Sleepy the Signalman. Rusty gives Sleepy lots and lots and lots of money to ensure his trains run no matter how late or decrepit they are.

Day after day all the other trains get held up to let Rusty's trains past. This makes the drivers and the passengers very angry and you can hear them calling Rusty's trains rude names as they amble through places like Bristol, Exeter, Salisbury and Portsmouth.

Sleepy doesn't care as Rusty bought him a nice big comfy chair to sleep in.

Rusty's Rubbish Railway. Part 1.

This is a story about Rusty who owned a railway company. His grubby dark blue trains ran (occasionally) to London, Wales, Bristol Cornwall and all the way to the south coast of England.

To make sure that he made as much money as possible from his trains Rusty only made sure that the posh shiny HST's ever got any maintenance. All his other trains were held together with string, duck-tape and occasionally self-tapping screws found on the track. From time to time passengers had to link arms from carriage to carriage to stop the detaching whilst in service.

As well as this he always made sure that passengers never received any more than £2.50 in compensation for any delay or disruption caused by his trains.

Feels like the naughty step to me.

Since Black Monday's little episode I have had a day off and then I went into work on Wednesday, not that I actually did anything as when I got there I felt decidedly unwell and stressed, so much so after I got my road learners pass I walked over to the platform where the train I wanted went from, sat there, watched the first train come in and then go. I knew something wasn't right as I became to get the warning signs for a migraine - I thought (as I usually do) that it was my imagination, then the second train came in and the warning signs go more noticeable. There was no way I was going to be able to do a 3hr plus journey to London and back and not be in severe pain by the end of it. I decided to cut my loses and head for home.

So yesterday I headed off for my shift at midday. Booked on, but didn't see anything of my instructor so I just headed down to the train. He was already on board and I let myself into the cab. He was in the driving seat with a look of surprise on his face. In point of fact I was supposed to be route learning until the manager sorted out another instructor for me next week - apparently he told me that on Black Monday - However after what happened Black Monday he could have told me that I could retire on full pay immediately and it would not have registered, mind you, past experience of 'communication' at SWT makes me think he never said it to me in the first place, I also have to wait for a call from said manager to confirm arrangement for my new instructor - somehow I can't see that coming unless I develop mind-reading abilities in the near future.

Once this initial surprise was over my (former) instructor said I could come along with him down to Exeter and back. Exeter is not one of my favourite routes as it is in First Great Western territory and as anyone who has had the misfortune of travelling with them will know, delays are their business, including delaying trains that aren't even theirs!! In for a penny etc I thought, so off we went.

How can I describe this, but the journey to Exeter was mainly composed of a somewhat embarrassed silence, with us both trying to make polite conversation that seemed to end as quickly as it started. I did however manage to get one point that was raised on Black Monday straightened out and it seems that everyone breaks coming into stations completely differently and rendered what I was told fairly nonsensical as I would end up stopping with the back of the train hanging off the platform. It's a bloody nightmare believe me! Anyway the drive back was a bit better, the ice having been broken when I saw a bloke walking past Exeter St Davids in a leopard skin frock - very strange.

Now we come to today. As I knew I would not be driving and I could not be doing with another cab trip, I went into work and just revised my drivers rules. Had a chat with another instructor, mentioned braking and got told a whole other way of doing it - this really does not make any sense to me now, I might as well just ask the passengers to take a vote on it and see what I can manage!

However if this is my imagination, it is just paranoia backed up by my history!

I want to curl up and die!

Up until Monday I felt that things with my training were really beginning to improve and that I was getting somewhere. Sadly I was completely and utterly deluded!

I have to admit that yesterdays two trip weren't as good as my previous ones. This all died on its arse when a manager got in the cab at Basingstoke - this was the first time anyone other than myself and my instructor had been in the can. It stressed me out completely - I would have much preferred a maniac with an axe as at least I would not now have to live under the cloud of what followed. 

Just before my penultimate station he asks me how many hours I had done, followed by asking me whether I would be comfortable to stop at the station without any input from my instructor - which frankly was loaded questions go is up there with 'When did you stop beating your wife?' Now first of all I must explain that when you stop you first shut off the power at a certain point and then brake at another predetermined point. As I mentioned before I was stressed just by him being there and completely missed the shut off point, a lot of shouting ensued and all but my parentage seemed to be called into question. This left me feeling physically sick, shaking and was taken out of the driving seat to be berated further. Coincidentally I did manage to stop at the station, although rather hurriedly.

Just to make things worse I was then taken into a meeting with said manager and my instructor and told that the cab ride was deliberate as questions had been asked by some other managerial parasite why I had gone over the 225hrs and still hadn't been put in for my test. Consequently I will now be put with another instructor for 40hrs to see if a fresh pair of eyes can sort my stopping out. They did say that it is not their intention to allow me to fail and that the error I made was to be expected as I am still in training - frankly I don't believe a flaming word they are saying, but was too stunned to make any coherent points about the fact I have been faffed about from day one and my training has been somewhat fitful to say the least. All they got out of me was the question 'What happens if I am just a hopeless case?' Not much of a response beyond them reiterating that they did not want me to fail.

Add to this the fact that I am now being told by this manager that the way I have been taught to stop is wrong, makes me wonder whether these halfwits know what they are doing full-stop! Also they asked me to explain the comment on my weekly report regarding the BR dinosaur I had the displeasure of being out with for two days, which I stated had damaged my confidence.

Needless to say when I got home I cried for 2hrs non-stop - this is something I have never done since I was a child. During that time I honestly contemplated taking an over-dose feeling that I had let everyone down especially Penny for dragging her yet again miles to set up home in an area neither of us know that well. Obviously I didn't, but if I am honest I think I would rather be dead than fail this and have to go back to the misery of architecture.

Tomorrow I have to go back to work for three days then I am off for three and really I would rather do anything other than go back in there for the time being and certainly don't want to sit at the controls of a train irrespective of who is instructing me.

New NRM Exhibit - The British Rail Dinosaur.

At present my usual instructor is unavailable, so I have been told to go out with another instructor by a manager. First problem, said manager did not tell the instructor, so I turned up on Tuesday, told the instructor I was going out with him – he (like Manuel in Fawlty Towers) ‘Knew nothing.’ However he agreed for me to come out with him – I wish he hadn’t!

This guy joined the railway in 1967, which makes him around 64 and has worked nowhere else. In addition to this he won’t retire as he has nothing else to do with his time - I think that I could find something to do with my time after 46yrs worth of pension contributions! However here is one of the problems – he is old school BR – you remember the sort, always on strike for reasons ranging from taking oxtail soup out of the vending machine to being expected to turn up for work when asked to! The way he (and some others) see it is that drivers should do an apprenticeship for at least four years, be a second man after that until another driver dies and has no time for this new-fangled way of turning out what he would refer to as ‘Boil in the bag drivers.’ However he is happy to be an instructor in this system as he gets additional payments irrespective of whether he has a trainee or not!

Consequently all boil in the bag drivers are viewed with extreme suspicion/contempt and women, well that’s another story altogether. Add to this the fact that he is not very communicative, as I try to make small talk and get nothing in return – I did get one or two grunts come to think of it. However one of the worst parts of it has been when I have said when I am going to either shut off power or brake (at places I have been taught to do this) I got no response – so I thought ‘Arsehole’s to you! I’m doing it here and if we crawl into the station or sail through it, you said nothing to stop me doing it!’ Mercifully only some of the former and not the latter happened! Needless to say I got it in the neck every time I stopped and it wasn’t to his satisfaction – which seemed to be more often than not – just be glad I am stopping the whole train on the platform! If this wasn’t enough I have had some of the things I have been taught by my usual instructor contradicted completely one of which was different to the laid down method of coupling-up – like hell am I going to adopt that procedure!

Mercifully I have been able to worm my way out of spending this Friday in the cab with him – as I don’t think I could have put up with all the carping criticism and with a bit of good fortune I won’t have to go through this again as I mentioned it to a manager when the opportunity arose today. If something like this happens again I might just be desperate to go back to architecture!

Beastly Eastleigh

I went to Eastleigh today to look at trains, its a busy junction and always gets a good mixture of trains going through there, both passenger and freight. Put it this way, it was a unique experience I would rather not go through again.

For the reasons I mentioned before it also attracts a regular hardcore of spotters - a category I don't think I fall into. Frankly it looked like an outing from an institution as a lot of them clearly had something amiss with them and I didn't feel that safe with them around.

After about 45mins I thought I would avail myself of the local hostelry, it was a Wetherspoons and the clientèle were a collection of people propping up the bar in 'my first court appearance' suits either on their way to the magistrates or celebrating getting off with a caution. I ordered a drink and managed to find somewhere to sit that had the least number of suspicious stains on them - I finished my drink and got out of there in search of something to eat as I didn't fancy taking any chances with Wetherspoons microwaves finest!

I wondered up the street and there was precious little on offer and any hope of finding an M&S at the very least were fading fast and the rain made this dismal place seem a whole lot worse (if that were possible). I got to a Sainsbury's and went in there - it really wasn't worth bothering as the prospect of getting mown down by Demolition Derby & Joan with their shopping trolleys. I just left there empty handed and headed back to the station wondering how could one place be so awful.

Based on my experience I would like to throw down what I would call the Eastleigh Challenge, whereby each contestant has to leave the station, have a drink at Wetherspoons and see if they can make it as far as Sainsbury's without becoming suicidal.

To think Chris Hunhe used to be the MP for Eastleigh, is it little wonder he had that permanent scowl, I imagine that prison seemed like a holiday compared with that place and given the look of his ex-wife she would have had no problem winning a beauty contest in the town!

Thank God I don't live there!

WANTED: Blind, Arrogant, Self-serving, Bell-end.

Just how crap do you have to be in order to become a recruitment consultant? 

When I was working in architecture (if that wasn't bad enough) I would get emails about technologist's jobs in Bristol, they usually fitted the bill, so I'd reply with my cv. I would then got a call from some smarmy over-gelled acne-ridden tosspot, pretending that by just having read my name on a bit of paper give him the right to speak to me as though he has known me since primary school. That was always the first thing that got up my nose, well the second really, after the obvious fact that I have to share the same planet as such pieces of animated smegma. 

Anyway he starts his load of guff about the job and then say something along the lines of 'The client uses Micro-station' (this is a drawing package that barely anyone uses these days, and not many used it when it was new!). 

My reply was 'Micro-station, there was noting about micro-station in the advert and I wouldn't have bothered responding if it had said that from the outset.'

Stating this fact had about as much effect as trying to disable a Challenger tank by throwing a space-hopper at it. He waffled on, adding that he's been having difficulty finding anyone who uses micro-station - well if you put it in the advert you might not have to go through this nonsense every-time? Also it might help if the said practice joined the rest of the world by using something that is more or less standard in the industry, like Revit or Autocad - both of which I can use.

Do these recruitment out-fits recruit exclusively from either people who are too dim to work in Comet or just can't make the grade as an estate agent? 

Now even I have been in a proper job (in other words not working in architecture) for nearly eighteen months and having told every single one of these cretins that I have left the industry I still get calls and emails off the twats telling me about jobs I do not want to do.

If I had my way I would start hunting them down with dogs - or just gunning them down in the street.