caldrail

I think the problem with Roman mathematics is that we're accustomed to a different system. They lived with theirs, so it was more intuitive to them, abacus or not. Also I suspect they didn't bother with clever stuff like division or multiplication (you might want to buy an educated slave to handle that onerous problem for you) in the way we do. Our numeric system makes that easy. We apply that system to everything so it guides our manner of doing business. They would have done the same with Roman numerals, and not suprisingly, I scratch my head along with everyone else. As an interesting aside, it turns out that the rules of arithmetic in our modern day are not necessarily perfect or even correct. Apparently some mathematicians have discovered there may be flaws in the system. Like what? It all seems to work as far as I can see. Perhaps that's how the Romans viewed their own system too. What's wrong with it?

Oh hello, what's this? A new television channel? That heralds another quest to reprogram my litle black box and reveal the latest source of boredom dellivered in high definition digital bliss. We often say how odd it is that with hundreds of new channels to watch, there's hundreds less to be interested in. As to what channel is now included in my daily browsing session, I can't say, because I haven't found it yet. I did stumble on that dating channel again. Shall I? Shan't I? Oh go on then. Have a peruse. Let's see... Women seeking men... Aha. Here we go. Cardiff.... Cardiff.... Cardiff... Maybe it's just me, but there seems to be a pattern here. For some reason Cardiff appears to be the loneliest place in southwest Britain. I wonder why? Was that new television channel an interactive Lonely Sheep Channel? Come to think of it, why hasn't some current-affairs program cottoned on to the emotional desert that is South Wales? By now some guy in a suit should be standing in front of a camera with a microphone, giving us the shock headline on evening news. Perhaps the problem is that we're all getting used to bad news. Take council cuts. Only eighteen people in Swindon responded to an initiative aimed at obtaining feedback and public opinion about forthcoming cuts in services, a figure so low it made the headlines of the local paper. What did they expect? Ever since the government were voted in they've been telling us that cuts are necessary and how tough it's going to be for all of us. The problem is this is Wiltshire, not Wales, so all we can expect is an interactive Lonely Cow Channel. My Very Own Big Brother Romance is in the air. Not for me of course, I'm the old fogey upstairs, but outside in the back yard the worlds love affairs are being presented as nightly plays. Shakespeare said that all the world's a stage, and we're all actors upon it. He wasn't wrong. One of my neighbours is a somewhat highly strung young lady. Almost every other day, she rages at her impressively resilient boyfriend. Doors are slammed, ears are bent, bottoms are savaged, and it goes on for hours. That's not an exaggeration. It isn't just the drama of domestic politics. A few nights ago someone blew a kiss loudly enough for me to hear in my semi-comatosed state. I have no idea who the receipient was. If it was me, you'd think the young lady concerned would think of ringing my doorbell. Or would that cause an argument? But nice of her anyway. Again, the next night, the ever-turbulent course of love made itself known. "I hate you... I hate you... I hate you..." said some female android outside in the yard, programmed by nature to ensure her message was received despite any neanderthal tendencies in her preferred boyfriends. Why on earth I'd want to sit through endless hours of Big Brother when I can get the same entertainment on my own doorstep I'll never know. Mating Call Rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-eee-eee-eee-rrr-rrr-rrr-eee-eee-eee Ah yes. The roar and squeals of the Wiltshire Rainforest after dark. The mating call of the Lesser Spotted Joyrider. Round and round he went last night, gyrating in circles in the yard behind my home, displaying his captured prey in an effort to secure mating rights among the pack, and who knows, impress the disappointed girl I heard the other night? Rrr-rrrr-rrrr-eee-eee-eee-crunch..... Oh dear. No sex for you then. Urges According to my stars, my life is about to go through changes. What? Again? I thought I'd finished with that sort of stuff when I was a teenager. This time the prediction is that I will rediscover love. I might even fall in love with the idea of love, they tell me. To be honest, I'd actually like to rediscover sex instead, but beggars can't be choosers. That said, so far I haven't felt any urge whatsoever to buy flowers for the nearest pretty girl. There's a more powerful urge that gets in the way before that and makes me walk with some discomfort. In my experience young women are often embarrasingly observant at times like these and sure enough the two attractive young ladies passed me by in hysterics. Nope. Still no urge to buy flowers...

Once again I trudge despondently into my local Job Centre. The security guard spotted me crossing the foyer and asked "You know your way, Sir?" Funnily enough, I do. The office catacombs upstairs are well explored by veteran jobseekers like me. I nodded, and he went back to sleep. Once there I was prevented from going to sleep myself by a crafty claims advisor, whose machiavellian tactic was to wear a flourescent yellow jumper. I don't know if such apparel is legal in Job Centres, but at least he won't be run over by reversing trucks. As part of my daily routine, the claims advisor does a search of his vacancy database and points out the various opportunities for me. With various redevelopment projects waiting in the wings I wasn't suprised to see a lot of building vacancies. Come to think of it, the old college site is due for demolition later this year. I had noticed a ladder being lifted against the abandoned building today. Quite why they need to clean the windows is beyond me. Most of the glass is already well ventilated by now. But I digress. There's a yellow jumper destroying my eyesight, and I must focus attention on the multicoloured screen displaying lots and lots of jobs I'm not qualified for. Like a Spanish Translator for instance. I was drawn to this vacancy because the pay was given as

You would never know it was August. It's as dull and chilly as late Autumn. Not only that, with our recent strong winds, some trees are convinced that Summer is over and are shedding brown leaves everywhere. You feel like shouting "No! Stop it!" but you just know the trees aren't going to listen to some gesticulating and noisy ape descendant. 'C' That? Remember the Sinclair C5? Those of you who can't, it was a sort of sports model mobility buggy. available in any colour as long as it's white. Except they were never entirely mobile. Not really a success for a vehicle intended to redefine urban transportation. When these came out years and years ago, I only saw one man brave enough to drive it on the public road. On my way to work there was a traffic jam, and the vehicle causing it was a man who was without doubt the advance guard of the eco-car movement. If only he could have advanced faster. Within a few days he'd given up, his morale crushed by lines of amused and irate motorists, not to mention his first encounter with rainfall. That really was the last time I ever saw one in action. Not any more. Last night some youngster was pedalling one around the area. A new generation has discovered the joys of green... I mean, white, motoring. Despite all the criticism our education system has received over the last twenty years, this young man has realised that obstructing the free flow of irritable motorists is a dumb idea, and prefers to send pedestrians flying in all directions as if he was riding an aerodynamic three wheeled skateboard. We used to blame Clive Sinclair. Now we could blame Bart Simpson. On the other hand, we might just as well blame the ecological movement for making people think the C5 was a good idea after all. Then again, the young driver might quickly discover he hasn't addressed the second major flaw in the C5 design. Riding On The Pavement Maybe it was high spirits. Maybe he was just showing off to his friends. Maybe he was jealous of my new

My trainers are damp. There's a sort of cold wet feel to them. Yes, you're right, I got soaked. Yesterday I ventured out to find a certain seminar venue and with the weather looking like drizzly showers, I decided it might be wise to take a baseball cap with me. Oh, yes, and a rain resistance jacket. You never know. These survival items really should be made compulsory for everyone risking their lives in exploring the rainforests of Darkest Wiltshire. It started drizzling not long after I set out. Nothing unexpected, so I carried on. Not to be outdone, the weather decided it was time for an all out effort. The heavens opened, as they say. It really did pour down. Gradually I got more and more uncomfortable. My jacket was indeed rain resistant but not rainproof. Water was seeping through and I found myself with a soaking wet tee shirt under my weather protection. Raindrops collected off the brim of my sodden cap, my nose, and bizarrely, my right ear. Cold water was dripping past my genitals. You cannot even begin to understand how uncomfortable that can be. It was like being two months old all over again. My clothes are still almost as soaked as they were yesterday afternoon. And my trainers are still damp. But this time, my mobile phone survived intact. At least the jacket kept something dry. Space Or Bust Stephen Hawking is in the news again. This time he's telling the world that we need to get off this planet and into space if we want to survive as a species, and that the next two hundred years will be crucial. Erm.... Really? Firstly human beings aren't adapted for life in space. Our bodies are sensitive to the enviroment in such a way that we physically atrophy out there. I suppose he means we should seek out new M class worlds to dump our rubbish on, but that sort of Star Trek fantasy doesn't really work does it? The variety of planets even in our own system doesn't encourage the thought that we'll find another planet remotely suitable to stop and have sex. There's only a narrow range of enviroments we can realistically survive in. His answer I suspect would be the old science fiction school of colonisation. The imagination runs riot with pictures of some happy family content in their stylish colony base, sat somewhere on a planet that would otherwise popison us in ten seconds flat. Some might argue we could change the enviroment. Terraform the world, and make more like home. So far, our attempts at changing the enviroment here on earth has resulted in the Toyota Prius. Not really a success is it? Be honest, is the Toyota Prius amphibious? Someone really didn't think it through, did they? Which brings me back to Professor Hawkings optimistic Dan Dare future. To say that our future is guaranteed if we travel in space or last the next two hundred years is a little naive. Human beings are not guaranteed survival. We are a species adapted to a range of conditions present here on earth. It wouldn't take much to render mankind extinct, and we nearly ended up that way around one hundred thousand years ago. Some researchers believe the last few humans were eking out a living in South Africa back then. What Professor Hawkings fails to address is that specialisation in biological terms can make survival easier, provided the correct conditions exist. If the enviroment changes, the specialised creatures are the first to volunteer for the fossil record. Modern technological civilisation is very comfy. Survival is usually without much effort. But as our global civilisation becomes increasingly complex and co-dependent, we increasngly risk a sudden disaster we can't cope with. What if our planet suffers a change we can't handle? It's happened before. Somehow, I doubt the Toyota Prius will save western civilisation, nor get us into space, nor save us from space aliens hell bent on destroying Mankind. But hey, my father bought a second one. The earth feels safer already. Who needs spaceships going where no-one has gone before? Well... Me. It fills a vacant spot in my dreary afternoon television schedule.

Yesterday began with a bright sunny day. Don' t you just feel a lift when that happens? A bright new day, just waiting to be enjoyed. I set out that morning in a good mod. Especially useful since the Job Centre had sent me on one of those "How to find a job" courses. Strolling into town the familiar sound of an RAF Hercules transport droned overhead. I've watched those aeroplanes flying over Swindon on their way into Lyneham airbase for forty years or so. It felt a bit poignant, because soon Lyneham will close and the Hercules will fly elsewhere. Into the history books if what I hear about military spending cuts is correct. Finally, the Cold War era is coming to an end, and with it, the last vestige of twentieth century power. It genuinely feels saddening that Britain will fade as a world power. My own battle to find a job continues, so after I sat in the pleasant sunshine for a while watching the big screen television on the side of a multistory car park at Wharf Green, wondering at the incredibly dull testimony of Mia Farrow in some strange court trial, I reported for duty at the programme centre. Back On The Farm These courses are always fairly similar. It feels like a return to infant school, and by her own admission, the tutor wants to be a primary school teacher. We were the usual collection of flotsam and jetsam of the unemployed population, although sensibly the youngsters were next door, and to our suprise no waifs and strays turned up late. Mr S was a plump afro-carribean guy, a man for whom haste and stress were alien concepts. Incredibly chilled out does not even begin to describe his personality. He spent the entire six hour session draped over a chair oblivious to the world around him. Even when we were asked as an exercise to review the worst CV ever written, he thought our rejection was harsh. "Give the guy a break, he wants to work." He said. You're all heart S. But we like your cool. FR turned up. We're old friends and even played alongside each other on stage in the past. Inevitably we got talking about music, and commended Mr S to discard Rap and Hip-Hop for the predictable delights of classic rock. It was unnerving to discover he knew more about it than I did. Backing Away By the time we got to our first break, I was desperate for a widdle. The toilets were shared with the other room where the youngsters laughed and threw paper darts as a means of improving their employment chances. I'll assume you all know the ritual involved in relieving your bladder. Ask an adult if you don't know how. I noticed some giggles from behind a closed cubicle door. I guessed that someone was enjoying some reading matter. Given how young he sounded, and how funny he thought the prose was, you have to wonder if he wasn't looking at the pictures instead. Finally he burst out the cubicle grinning. And then I realised another kiddie was in there with him. I see. Well I hope you two had a good time. Ahem. Wrong Kind Of Thief On The Rails Silly goings on in toilets are typical of the British. We love toilet humour. Cubicles have long been temples of working class wisdom. We also have a long tradition of assuming things are ours if they ain't nailed down. I saw a news report when I was sat in the sun at Wharf Green that morning said that some skallywags had disrupted railway services in Wiltshire by nicking metal from the lines. These days, it seems, nailing it down isn't enough. Bang As sunsets go, that was nice. Orange and grey clouds, a dark band on the horizon fringed in bright yellow, almost as if the clouds were on fire. Sigh. Oh well, time to watch the evening news and catch up with the daily report of how everyone is blowing the other side up. Later there's film about the battle for Stalingrad. Lots of explosions there too. Mind you, talking about bangs, Enemy At The Gates has what I believe to be one of the best love scenes ever filmed. Seriously. In most films that bother the hero and his girl romp around on a bed from various angles and it all looks exactly what it is - fake sex. As if people actually do it like that. In the Stalingrad film, the hero and his girl covertly have it away lying amongst rows of exhausted soldiers and trying not to get caught. Brilliant. Well acted and believable.

I sat down at the computer yesterday with good intentions. I had this to do, I had that to get on with. Sadly my headache had other ideas. As much as I wanted to be productive, that nasty litle pain in my head wouldn't let me concentrate. I almost wrote that headaches are a pain in the butt. Maybe I won't do that. This was of course the library, which means there's always other people there, and these days the public have no idea what a library is. The plump lady on my right was moaning about something she was doing and thankfully gave up and left. At last. Silence. It was not to be. A large gentleman of african extraction thumped down on my left. He proceeded to search a plastic bag for something.... No, still hasn't found it... Still searching... At this point I was about ready to shout at him. He put the bag down and the library returned to the steady chatter of computer keyboards and mobile phone ring-tones. Then I discovered what that chap was looking for. He opened a bag of sweets designed in the Cold War to poison most of mainland Russia. The smell was extraordinary. Can you guess what happened next? Squelch... Squelch... Chomp... Squelch.... Take a deep breath Calfrail. He had in fact spotted my irritation and sensibly stopped squelching. So he plugged his headphones in and called up his favourite rapper mp3's, which were audible at twelve miles in a sort of tinny and completely unmusical way. I glanced across and to my relief he turned the volume down. Always a sensible move with rap music. Completely off is better. Ahhhhh... At last. Okay, let's get back to the job in hand. Concentrate... Freed from the distraction of other life forms my headache returned as the primary reason I was sitting there staring mindlessly at the screen. Oh no.... He's reaching into his bag of sweets. Squelch... Squelch... Chomp... Squelch.... I could stand no more. Without further ado I logged off and went over to the booking screen to find another vacant computer. There's one, downstairs. Ten seconds later I was logged on downstairs and ... Another chap plonked himself down in the next booth and began searching a plastic bag for something... Wobblies Sometimes my neighbours argue. To be honest, I haven't a clue what it's about, all I hear is some highly strung and clearly irate young woman yelling and screaming intermittently. So angry was she this time that when she slammed the door, the entire house wobbled. Really. I kid you not. Now I know why slang for a tantrum is "Throwing a wobbly". That one registered three point five on the richter scale. I guess one way or another the earth moves for her on demand.

What a lovely morning this is. Was, I should say. Earlier today I strolled through Swindon and the weather was sunny, just a hazy wall of cloud on the horizon, or mybe a few small globular clouds trying to creep across England without being noticed. The high altitude cloud is now changing the blue sky to a dull white, and grey ragged clouds are advancing on my position. Another rainy day to come? Like yesterday? Yesterday was one of those 'love it or loathe it but you can't beat it' kind of days. In other words, typical weather for Rainy Old Swindon. One minute it was a grey sweaty day, the next a chilly spray of water from darker clouds that just seem to appear out of nowhere. Strictly speaking I got wet again, but since this was heavy drizzle rather than heavy rain, it wasn't too bad. That said, I had to stop under the cover of an awning at the supermarket while a raincloud dumped its load of water on the town. Finally I made the decision to trudge home, regardless of what drizzle was still remaining. An old lady sheltering nearby said "Decided to brave it, have you?" Ha ha ha. Yes I have. See you. We've Been Warned Floods in China. Then floods in Pakistan. Then floods in Europe. I wonder where all this rain is going next? No... Surely not....

I like science fiction. Except the sort you get in modern cars that is. I enjoy the exploration of worlds and ideas that make the genre function. Some people criticise sci-fi as lacking the insights and qualities of the fiction they prefer. In fact I've done so sometimes as well. My criticisms of the new Doctior Who for instance, which has turned a quirky and cheap sci-fi show into a childrens fairy tale. Talking of science fiction fairy tales, I see George Lucas has abandoned plans for a television Star Wars series. Apparently they have the scripts, they have the actors, but not the cash. Maybe it's just me, but has George Lucas really missed the point of the small screen? Just show lots of flashing lights, small explosions, and get everyone running around breathlessly to a non-stop music score. How can you lose? You'll be selling millions of little ewok dolls in days. Here's An Idea Maybe the americans should take a leaf out of the British book and charge more tax? No seriously, I see they've just started charging ten pounds or so for travellers to enter the country. Why not introduce, say, a five dollar Star Wars tax on everyone? Mr Lucas will be drowning in money, he'll make lots of wonderful tales of teddy bears fighting evil armour clad minions of the state, and the american toy indistry will begin a new era in action figure dolls. On The Other Hand I see from the news that Afghanistan has found a new way of exacting taxes on foreigners entering the country. They shoot them. It's terrible that people going on holiday might find themselves on the receiving end of violence, but you have to ask yourself what the heck tourists were doing in Afghanistan in the first place. Visit war torn Afghanistan! See live action gunfights! Oh, and remember your travel insurance. And pack a teddy bear, just in case. Driving Tests I see that the AA are issuing helpful tips on how to pass your driving test here in Blighty. That doesn't affect me of course, I've already had the dubious honour of failing a test the first time for sending pedestrians in all directions. I got mauled, I really did. But hey, I passed the second time, and pedestrians have been happily avoiding me ever since. The trouble is those tips are all so unhelpful. At the end of the day, you do have to handle the car with some confidence and skill or you fail. So here is the How To Pass Your Test (Star Wars Style) How To Pass Your Test (Star Wars Style) 1 - Listen to Yoda. He might be small, speak in wierd grammar, but boy does he know a thing or two. And you don't need to bring any seat cushions for him to see over the dasboard either. 2 - Feel The Force, Driver. this has actually been part of driving in Britain since the car was invented. Put on the helmet. Never mind if you can't see with the blast shield down. Stretch out with your feelings. Oh, and make sure you have a strange old hermit in the passenger seat. 3 - A Bad Feeling About This - Does that car ahead look like he's going to do something dumb? Is that child about to run across the road in front of you? Is that warning light flashing on your dashboard? Has your fuel gauge stopped working? because when it's all gone wrong, telling the examiner that you knew it was going to happen wiill only earn you a cross. Tell him you have a bad feeling before it does. He'll tick that box. 4 - The Trench - The most difficult part of the test is when you have to manoever along the trench dodging enemy fire. Just press that accel;erator pedal and hang on. You can sort of tell what danger you're in by the music playing in the background. Other drivers will add hints by screaming when they crash and burn. 5 - Avoid the Trees - Can't stress highly enough that driving through huge forests is potentially hazardous and a real test of reactions. Always a good tip to make friends with the local teddy bears before you set out. 6 - Don't Get Caught - If the authorities stop you for any reason, you might want to cancel your appointments for the next couple of years. The standard punishment for being caught learning to drive is to be encased in carbonite, and it might take your friends some time to find you and fight for your release. Well that about sums it up. Remember, the driver must have the most serious mind, the deepest commitment, and a couple of robot sidekicks.

There was a time I used to see things pretty much as you do. Nonetheless, your argument is painting the Roman legion in modern colours. This is a common viewpoint and one that's been prevalent for two or three huindred years now. Historians of previous generations, right back to the rennaisance, coloured the Romans with ideas more suitable to their period. As for the phrase 'military machine', I hate it. I really do. The Romans must have seemed that way to many of their enemies but that was a matter of relative impression, not an absolute one. They were better organised than their contemporaries but that doesn't necessarily equate to performance or quality in the field. It doesn't in the modern era, where we see a lot of myth and urban legend about certain regiments, troop types, or weaponry. The Romans were not robots in any way whatsoever. In fact, the harsh discipline was very necessary to keep them in place to begin with, as the sources clearly deascribe how readily they misbehaved or mutineed if control was not maintained. We also know how corrupt the centurionate usually was. We also know how amateurish and often inept the senior commanders were. We know how lacking the Romans were in any tactical nous on the battlefield. They believed, not without reason, that might was right. Their behaviour as an army reflected that. To describe the Romans as highly trained expert soldiers of the highest calibre, a military machine relentlessly crushing all resistance in perfect order, moving on the battlefield in close co-operation with other units, is a gross distortion of history in my view. The sources are very revealing if you actually read them and put aside all the romantic myths about Conquering Heroes of Rome. It was mentioned in the accounts of Cannae and notice the behaviour of legions in mutiny. They didn't change to a cohort system - it already existed. What they did in the marian reforms was simplify the formation to better match their enemies. That wasn't a matter of flexibilty at all, especially since the Romans weren't actually concerned with being flexible. Far from it, you could argue it made command easier for the less than capable leaders. Also, the idea was to improve the rapidity of recruitment and reduce the required the level of training. But in any event, the reforms formalised changes that had already happened in legions of the time and made them standard.

Years ago the music business seemed like some magical lottery. I suppose in a way it was, though in fairness it's also a ruthless business as any other and even after decades of popular music, we still see the same headlines in the tabloids about the disillusionment and disaster of becoming famous. As if that ever put anyone off. I made my own stab at at it, and Red Jasper's guitar player is still out there twenty years on, trying to become the next guitar hero. That's free publicity there, Robin, so don't sneer. Back then the cassette tape was the key to fame and fortune. There must have been countless bands recording and sending these things through the post hoping a record company would discover their talent. As if. Most A&R men simply through the cassette onto the pile of others over their shoulder. The grim reality was that they never got listened to. The key, which in our starry-eyed innocence was beyond our understanding, was to connect with these people on a business footing. It's all abouit money. In a way I'm right back in the same sort of situation, sending off applications and CV's in the hope that doors will open. That's why the internet is such a useful too, both for music and employment. Your work is right there, on the screen or in their headphones in a matter of seconds. Except for one particular recruitment agency. I come across their vacancies sometimes on jobsites, click on apply, fill in the details, and click on submit. Another application away, and another entry in my job search record. Usually you get either a rejection email in response, or perhaps just gather dust and cobwebs waiting for one. This particular recruitment agency sends me an email saying they can't open the CV file. Pardon? It's tried and tested. It opens in a variety of Microsoft and Microsoft compatible programs. It's available for download on a number of sites. Employers have accessed the file. I know it works. But I'll send it again. Then I get an email telling me the file is corrupt. No, I don't accept that. My anglo-saxon blood is beginning to boil. I know, I'll visit their office in Swindon and hand them a printed copy. That way I know they have the information. When I got there, the office was bare. An empty premises, devoid of carpets, desks, computers, and blonde ladies. I went next door to an estate agent who kindly pointed me to where they'd moved to. When I got there, a premises filled with all the expected contents a recruitment agency should have. Unfortunately, none of the blonde ladies were impressed enough with my appearance (nor my fuming demeanour I suspect) so I got some fuzzy haired bloke in a shirt and tie, who apologised with a wicked smile, but informed me I'd come to the wrong place. They couldn't help. Oh all right. I admit. I threatened to throw a tantrum. The office clerk realised he was in imminent danger of being mauled and provided me with the correct address. So I left, he breathed again, and my CV got sent by post so that this morning a a disgruntled recruitment agent now has to transfer all the information manually. Sometimes sending cassette tapes worked. You just had to make them listen. Sand Between The Toes What is going on? There's fine sand all over the pavement down the bottom of the hill. Is this some council scheme to improve the area? Or is this the first sign of a beach forming in our new ice cap deficient world? We've had seagulls for decades. Now the seaside really is coming to Swindon. The poster said it all. I just didn't listen. Darn... I've got nowhere to build a wooden aircraft carrier to the amusement of all those disbelievers in my area...

We seem to have gone through a cultural fantasy in which home ownership was possible for everyone. Renting has re-emerged in a big way over the last ten years after those heady years when Thatcherism expanded our horizons, at least in the relatively prosperous south. That includes me too. Except I couldn't afford to buy in the first place, but unlike people who were taking on mortgages costing more than seven times their income and lasting fifty years, I kind of figured all that out for myself.

What, you think people can afford mortgages in Swindon?

The romanized celts made up a proportion of the people in that area, not the entire population. That said, being in the southeast meant a great many of them were indeed adopting Roman lifestyles. Canterbury had been the tribal centre for the Cantiaci I believe, so it was an important site politically at least. Druidic influence had reached a position of domination four hundred years earlier and I would have expected some to be present up until the Romans arrived. Although the druids were broken by the Romans, they persisted into the dark ages as rare individuals and never regained their former power, but the druids had largely displaced earlier religious belief systems in Britain. Again, given the area, it's unlikely that any druidic influence persisted into the Roman period but you never know. Certainly the Romans would have adopted local gods into their own system, which they did as a matter of policy, so as Canterbury was an important site then yes, it is likely that some religious site was there or nearby. As to how important it was, the emphasis has to be local. I doubt the adoption of christianity had any meaningful effect on Cantebury's success as a community. This was more likely to be a an effect of changing commercial infrastructure, spreading disease, or security issues with the threat of saxon raids. I don't know if Theodosius had a wall built at Canterbury. If not, he had written the town off and the decline was already well in place.

13 - "Hey, you that Moses bloke? Look mate, the engineer says we can't part the Red Sea, but we can channel it anywhere you want" 14 - "You need someone to feed the lions? Does it pay well?" 15 - "No mate, not him, I'm Spartacus." 16 - "Hey... Aren't you Kirk Douglas?... Aw come on, gimme your autograph"

With hundreds of thousands of years experience to fall back on, you would think that human beings would have learned by now. If you live near a river, you risk a flood. The problem of course is that river valleys and flood plains are usually the productive land going, so we take the risk, and in the years we don't get a problem, we soon forget about the risk. Nonetheless, the recent floods in China and Pakistan must be tough to deal with. I can count myself as lucky in that respect. Floods in Swindon are never more than a minor problem these days, and since I live on a hill, I don't have that problem at all personally. As if to underline the point, at lunchtime yesterday the approach of dark grey clouds cast such a shadow that you just knew it was going to rain. And it did. By british standards, it absolutely pelted down for ten or fifteen minutes, and to underline the severity of the weather, crackles and rumbles of thunder provided drama to the soundtrack. The footage on television news shows bridges swept away by floodwater. It seems hardly credible that so much force is exerted, but I was watching out the back yard as the rain pummelled my area of Swindon yesterday. The water literally flowed across the yard. Not only that, it gouged long winding furrows in the gravel alleyway. Not a spectacular demonstration of natures power perhaps, but it made the point. Hi There You know what? I'd wondered if someone had made a discrete tip-off against me. Just lately I've been spotting individuals stood waiting at certain places, and the moment I appear, they start using a mobile phone. Actually there is something else that identifies them, but I'll keep quiet about that because I too want dole cheats taken out of circulation. What am I thinking of? I apologise for my manners. I'll give you a cheery wave the next time I pass you by. Oh and by the way - If you search my flat again, please remember to put things back the way they were. I like it that way. And I'll save you some effort since I'm in such a public spirited mood. I don't do drugs or illegal earnings. But hey, you can prove that if you really want to.

Yet Roman sources often describe legions as being poor quality. It's a mistake to believe the Romans were all highly trained elite soldiers. Very few legions made that grade. I don't discount their training at all, just that it needs to be put in perspective. In any event, the Romans often lost battles, especially at the start of a campaign. What usually won a battle before it began was a commander whose strategy was better leading up to the fight. Who faces the sun? Is the enemy enfiladed? Do they enemy know you'll be there? Does the enemy have forces with a weakness? Is the enemy commander a complete chump? Is he short of resources? And so on. I'm sure you can think of others. In fact, Roman commanders were not career officers and many come across as very unimaginative. Yes that's true, but that was also a period when units were completely defeated before they'd reached 30% casualties. It's all very well suggesting that, but remember people did that during the period because they had to, because everyone else did the same, and no-one had any better idea of how to conduct a battle. Whilst the Romans evolved certain drills, for the most part they were unnecessary, or intended for specific circumstances, and the Roman legions were not always as well honed as you might believe. Legions advanced in block for the most part. The idea was to present a steadfast body of men in close order (for the post-marian era anyway) which would charge to contact if the situation was favourable. Clever drills and tactics don't actually improve the performance of men in the front rank. Also, remember the limits of command. The centurion, the primary leader of a century, was most often leading his men from the front and thus unavailable to issue commands. Senior officers usually ranged up and down behind the line to provide moral support. There's little indication, if any, in our sources that the Romans indulged in complex drills on the battlefield. You are right in one sense. Drills do improve performance. But that was a secondary effect. By drilling regularly the men got used to fighting as a unit. That does not mean they used complex drills in battle. Thats a modern interpretation. The Romans never used drums, and flags were employed for fixed positions, not in the battle line, where there was too much room for confusion. Centurions were supposed to use their own initiative and not rely on commands issued from a commander. That was where the flexibility came from, not the actual composition of the troops. Nor for that matter were junior commanders necessarily available for command. The ROmans did not use a pyramid system of command, although to the uninitiated it might seem that way, because they didn't need one. There was no call for squad level tactics in battle. As regarding difficulty, bear in mind the troops are experiencing the noise and confusion of battle. There were cases throughout Roman history where their legions floundered about or drew together in a disorganised mass because what command structure existed had collapsed entirely. Also bear in mind the 'tribal' nature of the legions - Soldiers were likely to refuse orders from a centurion who wasn't their commander.

Melee sometimes continued for some time. That doesn't mean both sides were going at hammer and tongs permanently. In any case, fighting wasn't a sword duel. There would be a lot of pushing, shoving, throwing any object that came to hand. There is a description of two Roman units engaged in combat in a civil war. The Roman writer tells us that every so often they broke off, regained their breath, and went at it again without any thought of giving up. It would only last a short while if one side broke for some reason. Think of rioters vs police. It's a good modern analogy. Those confrontations can go on for a long time (though I accept the idea isn't to stab the other side to death)

barca, you might well be right. Drills in practice are one thing. Movement on rough ground stepping over bodies dead or dying is another matter. Some people overstate the battlefield discipline in my view. It's part of the image of the military machine that we have in our own minds. It is true such things happened in later eras though. The real question was whether the Romans actually needed such techniques on the battlefield. I don't believe they did. Necessity is the mother of invention after all, and the opponents of Rome weren't that siophisicated more often than not. Why make things complicated? The Romans may have been great organisers, but they weren't actually a sophisticated people as a whole.

I used to see urban foxes from my back window on a regular basis. More often than that, I would hear their yelps and screeches in the dead of night. It's been a while since that noise has pierced the stillness of Old Town's quiet hour. Had pest controllers reduced their numbers? It seemed as if the only interruption to my slumber was going to be inept car thieves from now on. Last night a vivid sunset appeared through my back window. I went off to get the camera, opened the window, and took yet another picture of the colourful embers at the end of the day. For a while I stood looking out, enjoying the scene. Swindon was peaceful, without the traffic noise or drunken shouts you normally hear in the early evening. The movement in the alleyway caught my attention. At first I thought it was a cat, striding confidently down the cinder path between the stands of tall grass and brambles either side. As the animal emerged into the yard, it was clearly not feline at all. It was a fox. A young one, almost emaciated and strangely suggestive of a small deer with a ridiculously bushy tail. Where did this one come from? Most likely it found a home in the overgrown back gardens along the way. Can I get a photo of it? Obligingly it sat in the yard doing foxy things. With some haste I began to set the camera for an optimistic long shot. My camera is not well suited to accurate zoom photographs but nothing ventured, nothing gained. I think the fox spotted me in the window. With the cunning you expect of the species, it calmly headed for the brambles along the fence and vanished into the old college site. Well good luck to you, youngster. You'll need it. Help Required I've received a letter from the council. More specifically, from some bloke who got that job in development & planning I applied for some time ago. And now he's asking me for ideas on how to improve the area I live in? Cheek of the working class. Maybe he ought to take a wander around and see for himself. Feral Instinct A couple of days ago I trudged up the hill to the corner shop that stays open all night. It's rather like an american 7-11 store except you don't see any guns pointed at shopkeepers, and the women behind the counter never acknowledge your existence, never mind wish you a nice day. Now my favourite tipple is cider and having not indulged that particular passion for a while now, I felt the urge to do so. Let no-one doubt my british ancestory. Whatever next? Stumbling up and down the hill shouting loudly at night? Depositing curry and kebabs on the pavement in various states of digestion? Making colourful scribbles with a spray can on every available vertical surface? Smashing car windows? Workshy I bumped into Miss T yesterday, or more accurately, she nearly ran me down on her bicycle. Was it something I said? She asked me if I'd heard from KS, my workshy colleague from when I was on a placement at the department store earlier this year. No, I hadn't, and she told me that he's broken a limb. Not sure whether it's an arm or a leg that was broken. Not that it matters. By all accounts he still plays football so he's happy. I know the lad's keen on kicking footballs around, but with limbs in plaster? At least it gets him off work. And off the streets too. My first thought was to advise parents that it was finally safe, while KS recovers from his accident, to unlock their daughters and let them roam free. You just know it isn't. I can only imagine the lengths KS will go to to get laid now he has a plaster cast for the girls to feel sympathy for. Perhaps that's unfair. The poor lad is genuinely injured. Unlike the claimant a couple of days ago who phoned his boss to tell him he was still at the Job Centre and was going to be late. He didn't even apologise.

As a rule ladders have never caused me a great deal of hassle. Traditionally I have much more of a problem with doors, which always seem to open in some other way than appears intuitively obvious. As I mentioned in yesterdays entry, there was one time when the ladder fought back. Back in the days when I first turned professional as a drummer, I needed to supplement my non-existent income from record royalties, and running light shows for my a friend of mine, the quiet and ever-optimistic FR who gladly forked out a few quid to avoid the onerous task of spending an afternoon setting up a light show, was as good a means as any. The theatre at Swindons Link Centre, a sports and community complex in the west of the town, is at first sight not much to look at. Sort of a big breeze block cube. It spends the day as a gymnasium in normal circumstances. Gigs were infrequent there but usually well attended. I guess entertainment is hard to come by in West Swindon if you don't like painting grafitti or stealing cars. The first job of the day was sorting out the lights. That's a little tip from an experienced light rigger. They were hanging from metal bars on a walkway up in the roof, something like an extra thirty feet above sea level, and besides needing to be pointed in the desired direction, also needed gels of the right colour inserted, and most importantly of all, the little safety chains fixed to prevent any of these heavy objects falling onto the audience. These walkways had no direct access. Instead, you had to take a wooden ladder onto the upstairs balcony and climb up on one side or the other. I was part of the way onto a walkway when the ladder slipped sideways. Woooah! Try as hard as I might, I could not get the ladder to balance back on its feet again. It fell sideways onto the seating leaving me dangling from the walkway in the dark, thankfully over the balcony, and not the theatre floor. I remember making an involuntary cry for help. Below me, a curious member of the public soaking up the atmosphere of a gig in preparation, stared up at me and did nothing, transfixed by the contempt for danger we light riggers had.. Oh brilliant. He wants to watch me die in a horrible accident. Thanks for the assistance mate. Actually the risk was slight. I managed to unhook myself from sharp metal edges and lower myself to the balcony, suffering only a ripped sweatshirt and soiled underpants. Take a deep breath. Put the ladder back. Start again. Revenge of the Week As it turned out, the gig that night was a band I'd encountered while playing with Red Jasper. That was the gig we went all the way to north England only to discover we were getting shafted and pushed into the twilight of the event after the headline act had finished. I'll always remember the smirk on the face of this bands lead singer as we retreated to the van and began our long trek home. And there he was, below me on the performance area, having long forgotten his arrogant amusement. I was sat in a small room from where I controlled the lights. Control them I did. Fades, flashes, and all sorts of funky combinations, putting on the most epileptic fit inducing performance I could think of when what they actually wanted was mood lighting in front of a seated audience. Sorry about that... Well, maybe you should have told me what you wanted in the first place.... Nah, that wasn't me.... Revenge is a dish best served bright.

For some time now the weather has been dry but cloudy. Sometimes the breeze has been a refreshing change, on other days a dull humidity has made the day uncomfortable to some small degree. So far we haven't had any sign of the blazing summer our global warmers have predicted. The library has been unbearably stale, air conditioning or not. After a quick visit yesterday lunchtime, I'd had enough of it, and went home via the alleyway behind the Old College site. I'll miss the unkempt foliage when it all gets redeveloped. What I won't miss are the piles of detritus that humans habitually discard when they can't be bothered to take it anywhere else. I certainly won't miss the glowering teenagers hanging about in the seclusion of garage entrances. Finally I walked into the yard behind the house. From there, on a sunday, there was only a couple of cars parked and one was my own Eunos cabriolet, looking a little sorry for itself and if I were honest, a little more sorry than usual. It wasn't that the hood was looking tatty as the black tape I used to repair the holes ripped into it by thieves is waving in the wind. It wasn't the bird pooh, nor the verdigris of abandonment. It was the doors. Well that explains the noise a few nights ago in the wee small hours. Another thief has poked around and discovered the car isn't going anywhere. Thieves seem to visit the same place repeatedly, trying out the next car another night, until they run out of vehicles to enter and move their attention to the next likely spot. Since one of my neighbours got their car broken into, I received a letter from the police telling me how to avoid car crime. Are they kidding? As much as the registration number has fond memories for me, even I begin to see the folly of keeping that chassis there, especially since I'm no longer eligible under current regulations to retain the numberplate any more. It's going to feel like parting company with an old friend. Funny how we become so attached to material things for no logical reason. People I Know There's a guy I sometimes see here and there. He's unemployed like me, and strangely enough, usually at the library the same time too. Always in the exactly the same white baseball cap and blue windcheater. Come rain and shine he's always dressed the same. There he is again. Chatting amongst the moaning claimants awaiting their turn to sign on. And there he is again, at the library afterward. Today however I bumped into FR. I used to know him from my days in local bands, playing on stage with him, or helping him with PA hire and light shows. Thanks to his good graces, I used to earn a few quid doing light shows in the theatre at a sports centre in West Swindon. That was pretty dull to be honest, but going up on the catwalks to assemble the lights was fun for someone as nervous of heights as I am, and on one occaision the ladder fell away with me on it, though I didn't come to any harm. Anyhow, he's getting into film music now. No contracts yet, but some encouraging interest from production companies. I hope that works out out for him.

Huns?? You mean Goths and Vandals? The Huns had threatened the eastern Roman empire in the 4th century, mostly by reputation. One general Trajan (not the emperor) had a wall built to keep them out. That said, the arrival of huns toward the end of that century precipitated a certain river crossing by goths to escape them, and as we know, the Romans suffered a spectacular defeat soon after. As regards Hannibal marching on Rome, the Romans themselves believed that disaster was a few days march away. It may well have bbeen. Now whilst Hannibal was an intelligent man, he would as a military commander be dependent on reports from spies, deserters, and civilians, in order to make decisions on strategy. It is therefore likely that he wasn't aware how exposed Rome was. If he did know, and refused to make the final blow, then it was because he wanted to bring the Romans to their knees by attrition on their home ground, not by tying himself down to a costly siege, which would have ultimately made him vulnerable had the affair not been finsihed quickly. In other words, he chose not to take the risk.

You see them here and there. Gaps in the tarmac containing shallow gravel bottomed puddles. Potholes like that are everywhere in Britain as a result of reduced spending on maintenance and some harsh weather. Here in Swindon though we have another type of road cavity. I saw another one opening in the exit road from the old college car park. A round hole, about three inches across, and you can see a hollowed out cavity underneath. I have this mental image of the new shopping arcade disappearing down a big dark pit in a few years time. You sort of know that's inevitable one way or another. Then again, Swindon has always had a love affair with subterranean tunnels. When they redeveloped land once part of the Great Western Railway Works, the builders uncovered old cellars left forgotten since World War Two. Tons of archives had been stored there for safe-keeping when the war began and work continues on cataloguing all the stuff they found. There's that tunnel under Old Town started by the Swindon & Andover Railway, one end of which now forming Queens Park. All the tools are still there, buried where the unpaid navvies left them. Then there's the smugglers tunnels under Old Town streets, linking various properties so liquor could be moved around literally under the noses of the 18th century customs & excise men. Local folklore still persists about a long tunnel remaining undisturbed since that period in the Rodbourne area, which at that time was largely rural land. Swindon is a known haunt of rats. I've nearly stepped on the things in broad daylight once or twice, but never in my area, which is odd because apparently Old Town is said to be full of them. Don't laugh. My letting agent asked me to report any subsidence, and guess what who's the cause of that? I've heard it said that in urban Britain you're never more than six feet away from a rat. So if you want to visit Britain, please enjoy our quaint and medieval culture. Only two groats for adults. Special offer. Get A Life, Phil I don't watch Eastenders. As television soap operas go, it manages to be the most consistently depressing of them all. At least Crossroads used to be unintentionally funny. That said, I can't escape the hype. The news item is telling me that Phil Mitchell, one of the two hard boy brothers whose escapades help form the backbone of the program, is suffering from life subsidence. It's all falling to bits. Erm... I know that. It was falling to bits from episode one. It's called drama. More Classics I'm starting to wonder if I've dropped through some sort of hole in time. I know this is summer and so you'd expect the presence of treasured old-timer vehicles, but classic cars, lorries, coaches, and buses keep on travelling through Swindon. It is peculiar. I've heard it said, and repeated on this blog often enough, that Swindon is a town that knows how to live with the future, but not with the past. So much of our victorian gothic heritage has been bulldozed. Besides the characterless flats squeezed into every nook and cranny, the developers have been laying those incredibly naff neon strips in the shopping mall pavement that they warned us about. Nonetheless, it seems the pace of modernisation isn't fast enough. We're being colonised by classic cars. I've even seen a rag-and-bone man driving his horse and cart up the hill where I live. What is going on?