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The quality of Roman legions had declined considerably in the 4th century according to sources. however, to place the fall of the empire purely in the hands of a failure in defence policy isn't so much stating the obvious, but rather seeing the collapse as something attributed to a convenient cause. The policy of appeasement toward the goths was something of a necessity. Whilst it might have had disadvantages, the prospect of gothic hordes rampaging around the countryside was not appealing to Theodosius - and the Romans had already experienced what that might be like. It also meant he could call upon the barbarians for reinforcements. There seems to be more of a problem with money. The West was much reduced in financial strength since Constantines reign, and the period was known for their leaders to expend cash purely to look the part. You could argue that was always the case, but whereas emperors of former times had bribed the public to improve their popularity, the later emperors spent money to prove their credibility. Also, the increasing bureaucracy of Roman society was siphoning off money remorselessly, not to mention stifling it with increased sinecures and petty officials throwing their weight around. I'm not saying that politics and defence had no part in the decline ('Fall' is too catastrophic a word, and really belongs to christian criticism of the Romans as fundamentally decadent and immoral madmen who desrved their fate), but rather that the decline resulted from a series of factors. The empire was bloated, inefficient, leaking money, vulnerable, and as always, prone to internal strife.

Some of you might have forgotten something. Can you remember what that was? No? Not to worry, I forgot too. Yes, it was Bad Memory Day. Now that the point is made, I can confirm I made two significant contributions to that important event in our calendar. The first memory lapse occured while I was at the library, quietly typing the previous blog entry and trawling through the various job websites for something to apply for. About an hour late, I suddenly realised I was supposed to have presented myself to the bank for a review of my finances. Something tells me the bank manager isn't going to be impressed. In fairness, the bank forgot which branch I bank at and got that wrong, so they also took part in Bad Memory Day by making it impossible for me to turn up at the right place on time. The second memory lapse was concerning the inspection of my home by the letting agent. I had thought it was the day before, so totally unaware the lady and her clipboard was approaching the front door, I was entirely esconsed in a guitar playing session, wrapped in black cables and headphones, utterly focused on my clumsy fingering and imginative attempts to create the perfect guitar solo. The doorbell? Who's that? Now as any experienced musician will tell you, a hasty withdrawal from a recording studio is an impossible task without falling flat on your face or dragging expensive instruments in your wake. However, that sort of calamity is for lesser mortals. As a musician with decades of experience, I was able to perform the houdini-esque task of escaping the clutches of those malignant cables without harm. There was of course an embarrasing confusion as the letting agent expected to be expected, and I was totally unexpecting. She pulled a copy of the letter and pointed at it. "There you are, it said so in the letter." She told me, rapidly coming to the conclusion I was trying some dodge to prevent access. Of course I wasn't. I let her in and despite the musical chaos upstairs, she seemed happy enough. Apparently letting agents aren't concerned with how tidy tenants are, but that we aren't demolishing the premises in the process of being untidy. Phew. Cold Memories At the moment the BBC news is entirely given over to Ministers of Parliament baiting each other as more budget cuts are announced and explained. It's all very well watching Ed Milliband make such a clumsy attempt to embarrass the prime Minister, but the real emphasis was on George Osborne explaining whp gets their money stopped, but then we all knew that already. Instead, lets pop over to Russia Today, and get some world news. Even they discuss Wayne Rooney's desire to escapoe the clutches of Manchester United. Is that really an item of world interest? It seems so. Time and again I come across people from all over the world following our football teams. I was hoping for something better though. Something more real than the fantasy world premiere league players inhabit. Ahh, now what's this? An interview? I found it fascinating watching a Russian politician whose name I can neither remember nor pronounce properly. He was discussing the relations with Europe, and he made the point that Russia is a new country with new policies, and he found it frustrating that they couldn't shake off the Cold War legacy. That is the problem, isn't it? And it isn't just the suspicious West continuing as it alsways has. Public attitudes persist regardless of policy statements by politicians. In fariness, the Russians have been pushing for a new European defence policy. That does make sense. If we accept the Cold War is over, then the NATO Vs Warsaw Pact mindset really doesn't belong there. But has the Cold War ended? Yes, sure, the Berlin Wall has come down. The ideological brush wars have wound down, though I do note that islamic fundamentalism has risen to fill that void, something that Russia herself has suffered from and which might help east and west come to terms after fifty years of sabre-rattling.. Nonetheless, Russia is still a powerful nation. It is still capable of striking out, as inhabitants of Chechnya and Georgia will tell you. As someone who lived through the Cold War, thankfully untouched by it, it pleases me no end that Russia wants a new start. The problem is, I know the old Russia. The country at the wrong end of countless spy thrillers in television, film, and pulp fiction. Also, there's a part of me that remains wary of accepting the Russian initiatives at face value. I still remember the Cold War.

Or the Romans were boasting. They did that often enough, and history is written by the victors after all. Shame we don't have much from the Carthaginians on this subject, but then, the Romans made sure of it.

Jobsearching is getting a bit frustrating. I've just been to the Job Centre to page through their vacancy database and found two new vacancies in the last seven days, for a town the size of Swindon. Both are self employed vacancies requiring own transport, so that rules me out. With politicians breathing down our necks, the need for paperwork to prove we're all good little jobseekers is getting a bit much. I've been given another pair of forms asking for details of weeks of activity. The boss of the Job Centre tells me there's no intention of trying to catch people out. Who's he trying to kid? That's exactly what the form is designed for and I've harangued him about that once already. Bureaucracies do love red tape though. They thrive on it. So I guess I'll just have to write out another list of activity like I did last time. No dishonesty of course. Wouldn't want to get caught out, now would I? Inspection Day Every so often the letting agent asks to inspect the property just to make sure it's all being looked after. There's no big deal to it. Some person turns up with a clipboard, makes a few ticks in the boxes provided, and leaves as soon as they can drag themselves away from my rivetting conversation about Roman history. Yesterday was inspection day. By coincidence I'd spoken to the letting agent on another matter and I knew they were due to turn up any time after lunch. Except they didn't. Which meant I sat there twiddling my thumbs wasting an afternoon I could have spent on more productive activity. Looking for a job maybe? On The Bright Side The sun is shining. Blue skies with barely a cloud to spoil them. The temptation to enjoy this good weather is enormous. After all, it gets me out and about, meeting people, fresh air and exercise. Who knows? Maybe I'll find a job today.

I woke bleary eyed after the Star Trek marathon on television this weekend. No, before you ask, I didn't have anything better to do. I've been pretty critical of the films by and large, so you have to wonder why I bothered. Put simply, there were one or two I've never seen and it's been a while since I saw the others. The major thing that struck me was the obvious. The early films try to create a sense of magic which just doesn't work. It's as if just having the old team from USS Enterprise up there on the big screen was going to be enough. Perhaps back then it was. Nonetheless I can't help feeling the film was intended to wow us with special effects rather than provide a plot. I've always said the first film was nothing more than a light show, and it was intriguing to learn that the special effects were cobbled together at the last moment when production when horribly wrong. What interested me more than anything was the last film, Nemesis, which I'd not seen before. The only film that never made any profit and yet the only film that felt like it was more than an advertisement for the series. The only one that I enjoyed as a film in its own right as opposed to another chance to see the old crew. Why was it a failure? A Certain Breed "They were bred in india." Said the owner. Dalmatians? Surely they come from Dalmatia? I've just looked up the breed on the web and sure enough the Balkans are listed as the region of origin. True to form, the dog was constantly trotting back and forth in a quest to find something to sniff. The description is right, they are energetic dogs. But then, I have personal experience of them. Our family owned one for a while before we got tireed of tearing our hair out and sold the animal on to a new unsuspecting owner. It was a horror. It ripped and tore anything made of paper, it refused utterly to get down from a sofa or a bed, and really just did its own thing regardless of how many times a red-faced owner shouted "Sit!" That was the only dog we owned that none of us cared to remember fondly. No, I haven't a clue what happened to it after. Coughs and Ring Tones There's a guy sat at the computer across the other side of a pillar from me. Every ten seconds he makes a sort of regular grunt/humming noise. No, I mean it, he really is that annoying. "(Cough) Hmm hmm hmm hmm hmm hmm hmm hmm hmm hmm..." Not an especially interesting rythmn if I were honest, and the lack of melody is even more pronounced than chart hits. "(Cough) Hmm hmm hmm hmm hmm hmm hmm hmm hmm hmm..." Aaargh! This is getting really distracting! "(Cough) Hmm hmm hmm hmm hmm hmm hmm hmm hmm hmm..." Luckily for him someone elses mobile phone went off. In the silence of the library, the chart hit was played by the tinny little speaker loud enough to be heard by everyone, including Dragon Lady, who's on the help desk this morning. I saw her eyes rise from her work and narrow menacingly. "(Cough) Hmm hmm hmm hmm hmm hmm hmm hmm hmm hmm..."

The modern image of the wizard is well established. An older man, long white beard, a flowing robe, and of course, a pointy hat. What wizard would be seen without one? Beyond the delights of escapist fantasy we don't tend to think of the wizard as a historical character. Is there some basis for this tradition? The modern wizard descends to us through Arthurian tradition, a genre of literature that has progressed from tales around the fireside in the Dark Ages, magnified by the medieval world into an epic of chivalry, and by strange irony recast in Dark Age tones by the success of authors like JRR Tolkien. In fact, the word "wizard" does actually mean something. It's a medieval phrase, meaning "Wise'ard", or person whose opinions are considered worth listening to. On the face of it, you might assume that the phrase could apply to anyone with a decent thing or two to say, but this description is based on an earlier trend in history. In the Arthurian mythos, Merlin is depicted as a typical spellcaster more often than not, the standard by which wizards are described, and in a sense, partly a prototype of Gandalf, JRR Tolkiens ubiqitous magician in Lord of the Rings. however, if you read earlier versions of Arthurian tales, Merlin is specifically described as a Druid. This tallies with the 'wise man' ideal, as Druids were judges over the tribal societies of the Dark Ages on the principle that 'Knowledge is Power'. Further, the richness of the Arthurian myths also reflects the adoption of much earlier storytelling traditions that were recast with Arthur and his associates as the contemporary heroes. Such stories emerged in the Iron Ages, the time when Druidism, so the Romans tell us, evolved in Britain after the spread of Halstatt Gauls across Europe and into Asia Minor. The emergence of the wizard in fiction is therefore a cultural legacy of the Druids, whose power over celtic tribes was enough to bother the Romans such that they ordered their citizens not to worship their gods, and later, banned them completely and destroyed their refuge on Mona (The Island of Anglesey) in ad60. One wonders if their antipathy toward the celtic judges wasn't just one of political necessity in a time of conquest, but also because they influenced the Gauls during the sack of Rome in 387BC. The story is not complete however. Whereas the 'hedge wizard', a rural hermit and well meaning mentor and supporter of the hero's cause, is something suggesting a co-operative relationship with society, there is also a tradition of the evil magician, a tyrant, an man subduing civilisation to his corrupt manner. Whereas the druids oversaw the sacrifices made by gaulish tribes and interpreted the death throes of their victims as a means of divination, this was a civic and religious ceremony rather than an evil act, at least in their eyes. However, since the wizard is changed from druid to generic spellcaster in the middle ages, we sense the influnce of christianity who saw the use of such divination and magic as unholy. Combine that with the advanced moslem literature, art, medicine, and science encountered in the Holy Lands during the crusades, the possibility that wizards might not be benign judges but instead people who consorted with demons to learn their craft, takes on the same patina as witchcraft in their eyes. Something to be rooted out as evil and undesirable in society. Not for nothing was Gandalf's main adversary another wizard, the malicious and conniving Saruman. The modern wizard is therefore a polyglot of cultural influence. He represents power or wisdom to suit the storyteller, for both aspects can be found in his past. In one sense, we can merely enjoy the tales and laugh at their antics. But doesn't that rather miss the point?

The warning had gone out last night that clear skies meant colder temperatures. No frost yet, but the drop was significant and it felt distinctly chilly as I strolled down the hill for my daily dose of thrills and spills at the library. No, really, I had a ringside seat as the librarian ejected a bunch of youngsters from their chosen computers and told them to log on downstairs in the munchkin area. I tell you, it was a tense dramatic moment the likes of which we haven't seen since Maggie Thatcher upset the miners. Someone's mobile phone has just started ringing. I don't fancy his survival chances much. Mind you, the clear blue skies have gone. I've been here an hour and already the clouds have built up a grey and white blanket across the sky. The only splash of colour as I look out over the busy road junction outside is that new resteraunt over the chinese takeaway. Purple walls. Purple?. What were they thinking? Todays Tarot Never done this online before, but just for a laugh, I'll select my tarot cards and have the website give me the low down on what might happen today! Today, you

And, I suspect, the reason tabloids - even in Roman times - were popular was because people love all this wierd and wonderful gossip. It's more of the 'Here be Dragons' syndrome. They knew a landmass was there and filled it with fantasy to sound knowledgeable. Whereas the medieval mind thought of Dragons and Dog-heads, the Roman thought of barbarians beyond his wildest imaginings and the more revolting and unrestrained the rumour, the better. Strabo was onto a good there. Who was going to prove him wrong?

Nothing to worry about. Just sign up as a christian. The End-Timers reckon all worshippers are going to teleport to heaven any day now. That should save you a few bills. Can't take it with you, you know

DING! If I'm not mistaken, that was the doorbell. There I was, snoozing happily under my nice warm duvet, and someone has to go and spoil it by ringing the doorbell. It might be important, you never know, though a part of was wondering whether someone had broken my car again. I've reached the point where I don't care too much. Okay, let's find out what's going on. It dawned on me that doing so meant getting out of bed. This had better be good. Switch the hallway light on so the visitor knows I'm about to emerge from the grim darkness that is my home. Put some trousers on. Right, I'm prepared, let's see what they want. As it turned out a bouncy council employee with a remarkable resemblance to Bill Oddie wanted to let me know that they were cleaning up the area. Washing the walls, getting rid of grafitti, repainting the wooden fence along the Old College site, and so forth. Sorry for the inconvenience mate. It was nice of him to tell me that, but why did he bother? They don't usually... Aha. Here it comes, a sort of preganant silence as he thought how to phrase it properly. This has got to be about my car. "Is that your car back there?" He asked. The white one? Yes it is. "You... Wouldn't be thinking of seling it would you?" Ho ho ho. The man has no idea of the grief he's going to get if he does purchase my shabby automotive companion. Apparently his wife wants a nice little sports car and the man called on the off chance I might be willing to part with it. He and one of the mechanics had been chatting about it, and I thought I heard the door closing earlier. Well I managed to convince him he was buying a white elephant, and a costly one at that. That's the trouble with nice little sports cars. They really are substitute girlfriends in every respect except they don't bulge for several months then drop brand new chassis out the boot. Mine is old, disabled, unloved and uncared for, getting a little rusty around the edges, and no longer as sexy as she was. But you can't help feeling an attachment for the old girl. No Longer As It Was I was walking back from a visit to the Job Centre this morning and as usual, the Wyvern Theatre loomed up on the nearby skyline. It isn't what you'd call a striking building, being constructed of the same muddy brown brick as the commercial outlets on the left, and the multi-story car park on the right. You might call it a bit dowdy. Councillors must have thought so too. Recently they gave the building a makeover. A wrap-around turquoise panel mounting rows of neon lights for instance. I thought how utterly cheap and nasty it looks now. The blue panel is stained like an old tee-shirt, and those vertical lights are just horrendous. The Americans are often criticised for their neon glitz in urban centres, but if the Wyvern Theatre is anything to go by, Las Vegas is positively well turned out.

Today I thought I would stretch my legs south of the motorway, something I haven't done in ages, and having realised how short of breath I was getting striding up the hill where I live, I could do with the exercise. It's been a dull, claggy morning, just on the point of starting to rain but not quite getting there. It's also that uncomfortable temperature. Too cold for lightweight clothes, to sweaty for something warm. I hate that. Luckily my sweatshirt was the perfect compromise. To my horror I discovered that a concrete bridge over the motorway, intended as a farm crossing although little used now that the area north has been redeveloped, has been declared a weak bridge. Oh joy. Does that mean I'm going to fall thirty feet to a horrible death? Not sure. It's been a while since I weighed myself but I think I might be less than twenty six tons mean gross weight just yet, so I'll risk it. Nothing like working up a sweat, eh? I wish I could show dozens of photographs marking my progress around the Wiltshire countryside. Trouble is, I tend to take photo's that aren't that interesting to begin with, and on a day like this, there's little to see anyway. Pop Goes The Shotgun I followed a bridleway I've never been down before. For those who don't know, a bridleway is a sort of track or minor road open for public access, but not considered part of the road network, so mostly used by horses, 4x4's, or nutters with rucksacks like me. As it happened, it went past a local shooting school. We don't have too many of those any more. Shooting as a sport went into decline in recent decades after a series of random shooting sprees. It survives here though, and I heard some customers blasting clay discs out of the air. No, that's not quite right - I heard some some customers blasting hopelessly at thin air while the clay discs spun into a hedge safe and sound. Keeps them happy for a few hours I guess. The sound was odd though. After years of hearing Hollywood gunfights, where was that expected cannon-like blast? All I could hear was sort feeble firework bang and an odd popping sound. Is that all you get? Sympathy of the Week On my way back into town I must of looked like a right shabby individual. Tired, sweaty, grubby military surplus, hair all damp and straggly. That said, there was no excuise for that young man sat in the passenger seat of a passing van to scream very loudly as they passed by. If you're reading this, young man, yes, you certainly made me jump right out of my skin. Ha ha ha. But, erm... Why did you make such a high pitched scream? Have your testicles not dropped yet? Awww man, real sorry to hear that. Never mind, I'll keep that a secret.

Oh brilliant. I feel like a customer of Douglas Adams Resteraunt At The End of The Universe who's been given a wrong booking. Looks like 2012 could be a damp squib. Not to worry, my solo album should be finished by then so at least you'll all still be here to buy it

Lefties were taught to fight right handed like evryone else and had better get used to it, because the legions weren't going to make allowances for common soldiers to disrupt tight formations with such demands as left handed sword play. As for ambidexterity, that's hugely exaggerated as a human skill and one that blossomed in the public imagination via RPG's and computer games. The vast majority of human beings favour one hand or the other by nature although as the posts above suggest, it's perfectly feasible to train someone to use their off-hand, though I do note the misery of left handed schoolchildren in past ages who didn't find writing altogether easy.

Back when I was an aspiring musician, our band manager had a thing about porsches. He just couldn't see past the badge. To him, the Porsche represented everything about motoring that was ever likely to be desirable. Suggest an alternative? He would poo-poo the idea and suggest you do no more than buy a Porsche. He even had some strange idea that owning one was a guarantee of success. I drove his Porsche once. After our Red Jasper days were done, he tried to get me to work for him. As if I was likely to make that mistake again! But I took his beloved car around the leafy lanes of Wiltshire one night and to be honest, I wasn't that impressed. The gear change was clunky, the car felt heavy, and although it did gather speed remorselessly, it never felt fast, nor for that matter did I get out thinking it was brilliant. It just wasn't.

How many times have you heard it said? Go somewhere - you never know who you might meet? Yesterday was my modest journey to the sports hall, and as chance would have it, my route home took me through a shopping centre nearby. I don't usually expend my cash there - I used to, when I had a car with less ventilation and bits missing, but that was a few years ago. I spotted a woman at some distance. Not sure why. Maybe her red coat caught my eye. Or perhaps her blonde hair. Whatever attracted my attention, I immediately thought of someone I used to know. I wonder... Could that be her? My legs are somewhat longer and as she entered the building I wasn't far behind. I was right. This was CA, a lady I used to work with. It must be nearly eight years since I saw her last. Poor woman. I used to give her all the horrible small orders and kept the profitable big and easy ones for myself. To this day I don't know if she ever cottoned on, but true to her nature, she never complained and got more praise than I did. Hey, just life in the big warehouse. We had quite a chat. After I'd been sacked by that company, things had changed. A move to seasonal hours, a cut in wages by a third, and finally redundancy of all the old hands. It had gotten so bad she was glad to get out. I remember writing a parody called "Walking With Warehouses", making fun of the company by comparing it to the BBC dinosaur program. Sadly that piece has gone and I don't have a copy of it, but that's the way of things. As if to confirm the temporary nature of our changing universe, CA asked me if I'd heard about GB. A forklift instructor, health and safety guy, and all round internet junkie. It seems the Grim Reaper got him. A stomach cancer. Very sudden. Here today, gone tomorrow. You find me in a very reflective mood right now. Through Adversity To The Scrapheap It seems the Royal Air Force is fighting another last ditch battle for survival. Not against the Germans this time, but it's own masters. The problem of course is that huge debt the previous government ran up. Now the coalition want to make savings, and the axe is due to fall on the air force. It is true that modern combat aircraft are hugely expensive. It is also true that we purchase aircraft capable of taking on cold war Russia. The Government say that's a ridiculous policy, the Air Force say they can't guarantee security without the assets to achieve it. Who's right? That's more difficult. On the one hand the immediate problem is mounting debts on a colossal scale and a very different political scene than the late twentieth century. The long term problem is that politics can change rapidly, and bring with it security risks that weren't apparent before. If that happens, then we won't be prepared. Unlike World War Two, when it was possible to build a twin engined bomber in 24 hours, a modern sophisticated aeroplane is going to take a long time to arrive off the peg. In other words, the government is gambling that peace will remain in our time. Maybe they're right, but you can't help wondering where we've heard that before.

The turbo isn't electronic at all. It's a little round thing whizzing around inside an exhaust pipe. Okay, yes, sometimes they do fail, and car electronics these days are designed to be completely impossible to operate when you're old enough to drive. But coming second to a 911? There is no excuse for that, ever

Television isn't entirely new. It was after all around before I was born, but the technology has improved over the years and in a way I've grown up with it. I remember the day we got our first ever colour television. We take that for granted now, but back then it was a revelation in entertainment. Things were never simple though. Poor reception was a fact of life and usually cured by sending someone out to fiddle with the aerial. These days we have cable television and digital broadcasts, so you'd think poor reception was a thing of the past. Apparently not. Just of late my evening viewing struggles with interference from something else. I can't tell you how annoying that is. You would think that I'd just shrug it off like I might of done years ago. Nope. Because these days you can't send someone out to fiddle with an aerial and restore normal service. Fixing the Alleyway The alleyway along the side of the houses where I live has been given a bit of attention. The bushes on side trimmed back, fresh gravel laid (again), and the rubbish removed. Even that annoying pothole at the end of the gravel track which has grown in size steadily over the years has been filled in with asphalt. It's now possible to drive a car into the yard without requiring world rally championship experience. That would of course require a car. Mine is currently forming a mini-ecosphere all of its own, and anyone getting in is risking being eaten alive by rabid spiders. Who needs car alarms? Fixing the Mouse Today I thought I would stretch my legs and wander out to the sports centre library. A change of scene, new faces, a change is as good as a rest. Nope. Mr Fidget is there as well, sat beside me using another computer, struggling to make his mouse operate at all. Can I not escape this man? He makes all sorts of grunts and sniffles, he can't keep still for more than five seconds at a time, and now he's smacking the mouse to get a response from a piece of computer hardware that feels the same way I do.

Autumn is definitely here. The mornings are colder, obscured by mist and fog, and even when the sun breaks through like it has today, there's an oddly feeble quality to it. Oh, and I've noticed a few leaves lying around. Nothing gets past me. Are We There Yet? It's already getting into mid-October and the Old College is still standing. Now they did promise us that demolition would be taking place - I even got the official notification through my letterbox in case I was going to get upset about it. After all the hullaballoo and posh presentations, is anything going to happen? New shopping centres don't spring into being in a flash of smoke. The original plan for a tall 17-storey tower was dropped due to critisim of it's domination of the local landscape, and the latest plan for a more modest development has been criticised for not dominating the landscape whatsoever. Apparently, according to the archives of our local paper, the site will be demolished. No, really, they mean it. But not until the end of the year, with work starting on our new shopping mall beginning early next year. That is, of course, unless it gets criticised. Bellow Of Frustration Okay, I know I don't take any interest in modern pop music (can you blame me?), but even I stumbled across a band called Bellowhead just lately. They seem to making quite a stir. The idea is to take old english folk tunes and update them in a modern context. I've no doubt some will claim that's an original idea, but I'm afraid it isn't. Red Jasper/i] were doing that twenty years ago, and at least we had the verve to inject our olde worlde influence into a rock music context. I remember one review called us 'Jethro Tull on speed', and another that mentioned we were balancing the relatively polite english folk with rock music, as opposed to the the more lively irish heritage which was more popular then, and we were congratulated for our efforts. Actually, the rise of ethnic influence in popular music of the eighties ignored Red Jasper almost completely. So did most of the audiences. No, I'm sorry, it's no use complaining, you had every opportunity to turn us into rock mega-gods and you didn't. Now you'll have to make do with Bellowhead. Monday Mornings "I hate Monday mornings" Said the young lady who sat down at the next computer to me. As ice breakers go, that wasn't bad, much better than the guy opposite whose clumsy attempts to break everything backfired, but starting conversations in a library was always going to end in tears. The bank was no different. The lady behind the counter asked if I'd had an account review lately. Erm.. No... Please, not another review. How many times does my bank need to be told that I don't want to pay X amount of cash to them every month for the privilege of storing my money, and after the financial piracy in British pension schemes revealed on a watchdog program last night, I'm in no mood to let them grab my cash. It didn't matter, As always happens on Monday mornings, their system was down. That's been happening for thirty years. You'd think someone would notice. But the teller is going to send me a letter asking me to come in for an interview. Definitely.

Turbo button? Is that for real? How pathetic is that? Gimme power! Now! I want instamnt throttle response, not a five minute search of the dashboard before discovering I'm off the boost and the button does nothing.

By some fluke of economy I was left with ten pounds the other night. A crumpled tenner in my hand is a gateway to pleasure on a scale unimaginable to ordinary dole seekers like me. So immediately I rushed out into the street with a maniacal grin on my face, braving evening traffic and revellers in a mad dash for the kebab shop across the road. I made it! Safe and sound on the other side of the road, I entered the bright interior of turkish takeaway cuisine. I think I had some vague intention of buying a kebab for consumption at home. Eating kebabs in the street is an art one can only acquire by practice, and even then, you litter the pavement in scraps of vegetables. But no, as I surveyed the illuminated menu with entires in some plastic font or crudely scrawled on in red marker pen, I saw the glossy colour advert tacked onto one end. Turkish pizza? Erm... You sell those? "Yes Boss." He replied with a genuine turkish smile. Such jolly fellows, especially when you're about to order a meal. Then I'll have one. No, just one. Yes, a bag is okay. No, no sauce. No nothing else. No, really, that's all I want. And all for less than three pounds! What a bargain. So I ran back across the street with a maniacal grin to consume my fortuitous purchase. Unlike an Italian offering, with a deep pan crust and cheesy tomato tang, the turkish pizza is a wafer thin pitta bread with a savoury topping. More subtle perhaps, but very pleasing nonetheless. Yum. What Is That Noise? For once I can't blame my neighbours for the annoying noise, but of late there's been music audible outside the back of my home. It sounds as if the source is very loud and thankfully not too close. Nor for that matter do I recognise the songs or artists, but considering I gave up listening to the charts in 1979 that's hardly suprising. Fast Car There's a car dealer not far from where I live. The entire forecourt is packed with little buggies in all shades of grey. It's hilarious, it really is. Why on earth would I be even remotely interested in walking into that showroom? What could the salesman persuade me to believe? That the latest model has go-faster cup holders? Or that the styling is state of the art? Have you seen the Nissan Juke? Nissan Joke more like, it looks like a kit car that's been polished up. Now regular readers will know that I like my sports cars. Who cares how fuel efficient a vehicle is, or how many safety stars it has, or how practical it is, if it can't go faster than anyone else? I wish manufacturers would show some common sense and revitalise the market with cars that people might actually drool over. Well, okay, enjoyable cars are somewhat out of my price range for now, but I notice a go-faster car is coming to Swindon next weekend. Apparently Mr Noble is trying to raise the land speed record again. According to the local paper... The 12.8m-long, 6.4-tonne Bloodhound SSC will travel faster than a bullet fired from a rifle and will accelerate from 0-1,050mph in just 40 seconds. And at its maximum velocity, the pressure of air bearing down on its carbon fibre and titanium bodywork will exceed 12 tonnes per square metre. Brilliant. It really is. Now that Swindon is the first borough in Britain to junk the speed camera, it's also the first place in inland Britain to host a world land speed record attempt, in a what is basically a wingless jet fighter the size of an articulated truck. No, I do exaggerate, the car is only on display, as an inspiration for young aspiring engineers to design cars that people actually want to buy. I'm waiting...

I've had a quick check but I can't find anything heavier than pounds and ounces. If the Romans had no term for such weights, it's because they had no way to measure them, and thus anything of this magnitude might have been described as 'very heavy'. Not a very scientific conclusion I know, and if anyone knows better, please correct me by all means.

I wondrered if you'd mention Cricket. There's nothing more English, is there? Except it might not be, because I notice that recent evidence suggets it's an import from the Flanders, which is kind of interesting, because Britain had migrations of foreigners from that region in days of yore (including Swindon - we got loads of Belgians) I doubt most English people really understand the game to any real degree either. I don't, and I played the game in my schooldays. Since those days however the game has become a little more commercial and so the 'whiteness' of it all isn't important any more. Personally, I think the Americans ought to realise that they're not playing baseball properly, acccording to rules established in England hundreds of years ago. Sorry, but an armed revolution is no excuse. Rules are rules. We cannot allow this sort of colonial chaos in sport. It's just not cricket!

They're back. Having reconnoitered the library the other day, an even greater horde of little barbarians have stormed the premises in a quest to occupy their equally little minds with positive activity. The teachers hiss and hush to no avail as they spot something that interests them and erupt into frantic efforts to point at something first. "I'm only good at the world stuff." Said one child as a statement of his intellectual achievement. Well good for you son. They walked past me on the way out with one claiming "I won!". Glad to see kids are learning to be competitive again after decades of socialist 'Thou Shalt Not Win Nor Lose'. It warms the cockles of my heart that Swindon will be supplying Alan Sugar with contestants for The Apprentice for decades to come. Oh Sweet Lord Talking about Alan Sugar, I see he is no longer Sir Alan, but instead demands his hapless apprentices refer to him as Lord Sugar. They of course stress the title in some hope of impressing the crusty businessman and thus not getting fired. Don't know what they're worried about anyhow. No-one can claim to be a high flyig executive unless they've been sacked by Lord Sugar at least once. How anyone can say 'Lord Sugar' with a straight face is beyond me, but well done to the chap for getting made a peer of the realm. Of course he's just jealous of me. As soon as he heard I was Lord Caldrail he couldn't resist it. I have to admit, he's gone one better, since he's now part of the establishment and I'm not. But watch this space... Rumbles And Grumbles Talking about unwanted noise, last night I became aware of a sort of background rumble. That was quite an achievement, as by that time of night I had reached a state of complemplative meditiation about the television screen, a sort of vacuous nullness that only true couch potatoes can hope to aspire to. What on earth is making that noise? No, it wasn't the neighbours. They've been very quiet the last few days, though I suspect my complaint had something to do with that. Serves the idiot right for refusing my good mannered request in the small hours and closing the door in my face. We have laws in England you know. No, this was happening outside. parked almost on the pedestrian crossing were a pair of tanker lorries doing something very important with a drain. It was raining last night, just a light drizzle, and no obvious sign of flooding. No obvious sign of anything other than high vis clothing milling around, but I'm sure it was very very important. Carry on chaps.

Traditionally we Brits get a little baffled and jaundiced about Baseball. To us it's a game of Rounders, something girls play at school and we don't understand the razzamatazz surrounding Baseball whatsoever. It's all rather like Homer Simpson dancing to the Baby Elephant Walk. Think I'll take a back seat and let you guys enjoy your national sport

And probably involved in more conflicts than that. I'm not concerned with the morality of it. Most powerful nations indulge in military or paramilitary activity on some scale or other because that's how such nations safeguard their interests - though it does sometimes backfire, and the nature of the global ideological struggle of the last century demanded responses in secondary fronts, and also since the religiously motivated ideological struggle of this century has resulted in deaths home and abroad, the desire to suppress aggression at source is identifiably strong.