caldrail

I disagree with Medusa on a minor point since the hammer blow from the Charon character was designed for people who weren't apparently dead already. If a gladiator was laying prone, seemingly lifeless, then indeed he would be carried off and dealt a cut to the throat behind the scenes in order to verify death. But a severely wounded man? Unable to continue and condemned by the editor to die in the arena? He's not going to get carried off. Now under normal circumstances the opposing gladiator deals a mortal strike and the game is over. Consider this though. What if the editor wants more entertainment from a highly publicised fight? Instead of a quick clean kill as you'd expect in republican times, imagine the crowd watching that dark figure emerge from the gate, walking slowly across the sand to claim the dying man - it's far more dramatic. In any case, it's just as likely there were variations from time to time, and in different regions, about how they handle dying gladiators. After all, the documentary did point at the beheading of gladiators which was a brutal and uncharacteristic methopd of dispatching fallen opponents - it took six or seven strokes to seperate these mens heads and they were breathing when the process began.

There comes a time in every mans life when he realises that his socks are no longer socially acceptable. The woollen rags I usually depend on have reached such a state of disintegration that they can no longer be formally identified as footwear. Excuse me a minute. I may need to spend some money and that requires me to psyche up for a terrifying ordeal. Opening my wallet is not for the faint-hearted. Return To Your Homes. Nothing To See Here Okay, you can all relax. My wallet is open and I survived the trauma with only several bruises and a strange twitch of my facial muscles. A Not So Funny Thing Happened On The Way... With a fine day to enjoy I set out for the shop of choice where I knew unfashionable socks that express my desire for breaking social convention could be found. Approaching the big twin roundabout that straddles the the Great Western main line, I could see long lines of slow moving traffic. That's odd. Surely the planners haven't messed up that badly? Traffic normally flows smoother than that. I guess there must be some sort of hold-up. And there was. With hordes of police on the scene, an overturned refuse lorry was blocking the larger roundabout the other side of the line. A mobile crane was setting the crashed vehicle to rights while traffic was diverted around it in all sorts of directions. Passing the scene I asked an onlooker what was going on. Apparently a car had cut across in front of the lorry whose driver took avoiding action, and with the roundabout built on sloping ground to begin with, the thing had turned over. Luckily no-one was seriously hurt but I suspect the car driver isn't feeling too comfortable right now. Sock Update Okay, you can all relax again. Replacement socks were purchased without any needless embarrasement. I even managed to walk past the police at the accident scene without being arrested for carrying them in public. Job Vacancy Of The Week There's a jobsite on the internet that I subscribed to some time ago. Almost every day they send me lists of vacancies that are supposed to fit my chosen criteria. The majority are never that close to home. There comes a point where walking to work becomes a serious expedition across the Wiltshire rainforest, so I generally don't worry about those. A couple of days ago the list included more vacancies than usual. A bunch of army jobs dealing with logistics in various places beyond the horizon. They even apologised and politely reminded the reader that they may require the applicant to travel abroad. Oh? Really? Are we finally invading Spain after decades of reconnaisance missions? Actually they do a good deal with plenty of opportunities to achieve qualifications up to and including a degree in logistics. Not bad for a few years of getting shouted at. For me though that would mean losing my home and in all likelihood everything I own. In that light, the deal sort of goes sour. So I didn't bother looking any further. I got an email yesterday. The army wants me. Personally. Shucks, guys, I'm honoured, but do you know I'm over forty years of age? Oh let's be honest. I'm nearer fifty. If the drill sergeant tells me to give him twenty push-ups, I'll probably die of old age. Worst still, I'd have to make sure my socks were clean. I think I've suffered enough trauma for now.

Apparently the Parthians persuaded Pan Ch'ao not to meet Trajan, whose army was only two days march away.

Tempting aren't they? Lovely texture... And so useful for so many domestic needs....

Get the latest version! Upgrade now! Full of new features! I hear those messages all the time now. My email account slowly fills with spam adverts designed to make me think that parting with money, time, and no small amount of sweat is a good idea. So does the library, who have upgraded their system yet again. As always, this means no-one can log on. The librarians mill around, shocked that public access computers aren't as accessible as before. One or two shrug helplessly. Those with some idea of what to do rush away upstairs to kick their IT slaves in the dungeon. Eventually normality is restored and we computer addicts get our daily fix. Probably just as well. One chap I see regularly in the library is currently spinning himself round on the seat, just for something to do. He's unemployed too, a stumpy little guy who rarely says anything but giggles a lot. As if he wasn't dizzy enough already, his antics on the seat are only going to go horribly wrong sooner or later. I suspect that's one reason why seats at the Job Centre are pretty much nailed down. Yesterday I saw one claimant, barely twenty years of age who was fidgeting and searching his seat like a two year old. He just couldn't keep still and eventually draped himself over the seat in a ridiculous manner out of boredom. Ten minutes is a long time to wait for dole claimants. The advisors don't seem too concerned. I guess they see this all the time. That said, most of the claimants are more patient. There was a group sat in the seating area, safely herded into one spot where our claimherders could keep a watchful eye on our jolly japes, and I suddenly realised I'd been wrong. There was I, moaning that the Job Centre didn't support cultural diversity, but of course they do. Here were claimants of all shapes and sizes, colours and creeds, all sat together in a sort of depressive communal gripe against their keepers. That stumpy guy who liked revolving chairs? He looked at me quizzically and asked "Do you get paid more for that?" Huh? More for what? Then the penny dropped. As a regular library-goer, he'd already spotted my title on the screen before I'd logged on to my previously reserved PC. More dole money for being a noble? Is he joking? It also makes a mockery of the Job Centre's worries about volatile behaviour over mixing different social classes. Relax. Everybody knows about it. But they still won't call me 'Lord' regardless of any requirement to be polite, and no, I don't get paid any more than anyone else. Smart Move? Bovine Betty was watching me this morning. The staff meeting was over and she had no claimants to shout at, and in any case, I was sat opposite from her desk. She wants me to sign on dressed in a shirt and tie. I know that because she shouted across the office the other day. Dress smartly to sign on? Good grief - anyone would think I was wealthy. And that, above all else, will make my daily visits more volatile.

India was an area with some very aggressive states in this period. They closed the Silk Road sometime in the 2nd century because the Chinese weren't able to keep such a long trade route secure. I think trading colonies are something that are often exaggerated. Any Roman goods and immediately people talk about a Roman presence in the area, which isn't necessarily true. Romans after all were not great explorers. They weren't great sailors either. They had an inwardly focused culture that regarded the outside world as inherently barbarian. Okay, I agree Romans had a rapacious mercantile sphere, but again, that was inwardly focused, and the extension of trade into little known lands was primarily driven by the need to obtain luxuries for the wealthy - and before I get ripped to shreds, that doesn't mean rich imperial titbits. Let's remember that the trade in animals for the arena demanded ever more exotic beasts from regions ever further away to their reduction in numbers. Silk was always going to be an import in demand. Spices were highly desirable if you could afford them. What the Romans knew of the outside world was largely the result of information brought in via traders. Visitors telling tales of places far far away. Don't discount this, because whilst the Romans and Chinese never actually met politically or militarily, they certainly knew about each other, and perhaps more illuminating is the realisation that we have records of chinese explorers reaching the eastern limits of Roman influence, but not the reverse. We also know that it was greek ships that travelled further afield rather than Roman. To say that a Roman colony existed because objects from their culture have come to light in one place is something of an assumption. Without Roman burials or evidence of Roman life, the existence of goods merely suggests trade and that does not require the Romans to be involved.

When I was a very young child, I saw that old comedy film where two steam engines collide head on. Without special effects, film makers in the twenties had no choice but to either show a lot of steam or do it for real, and that once, they did. I don't remember, but apparently I burst into tears. I suspect Hollywood wanted a different reaction but then again we british have always had a love affair with the steam locomotive. The news of a collison between trains in India doesn't reduce me to tears in quite the same way as it might have forty five years ago, but all the same, I extend my condolences for what was a terrible incident. There's been a number of documentaries about trains in India just of late. Whereas in Britain we found them unprofitable in the sixties and ripped up track all over the place in preference to roads, in India the railways are proving fundamental to their economic success, which is gathering pace. There's a wonderful old fashioned air to the way they operate their trains, carrying on exactly where the empire left off, and yet, despite any cultural limits and glass ceilings, they have a very open attitude to it all, as for instance women being trained as drivers. And the organisation of this huge and expanding system is still done on paper, just as it always was. The atmosphere of Indian railways is inescapable though I confess I've never witnessed it personally. It does have, regrettably, a reputation for a high accident rate. The frenetic pace of the Indian railway network is one thing, but compare that to the Tanzania & Zambia Railway. With a budget that vanishes into thin air, they struggle on with almost no maintenance. Track workers wander off to go fishing. Trains take days to cover a distance that should take hours. Locomotives stand rusting because no-one has any parts to repair them. An entire railway slowly falling to bits. But accidents will happen. Even in Britain and the US, where standards are higher, from time to time you will hear of a terrible disaster. Safety is a hugely important factor but no matter how clever you are, sometimes it just goes horribly wrong. If that sounded flippant, I apologise, that wasn't my intention. Because at the end of the day, it isn't a question of faking it on camera. The accidents are real, and people get hurt. It's often said we learn from our accidents. I hope so. Rainy Days The nearby RIAT airshow at Fairford is over, and once again the skies are quiet. As far as I know, there were no accidents, and given how unforgiving the ground can be and the proximity of aeroplanes to it when displaying to a crowd, that's something to be thankful for, never mind underlining the skill of the aircrew involved. All weekend I could hear rumbles and jet noises. Now there's a thing. With the current moves toward making military vehicles less polluting, could these same bureaucrats not make them quieter? It's good for the enviroment. Saves me getting distracted from searching the internet for jobs too. Last night I opened the back window for a breath of fresh air. The pallid clouds hung listlessly in soft focus layers of blue-grey, broken near the horizon by vivid tears of lemon yellow in the early evening. Sometimes you sense a mood. It's funny how sensitive we are to changes in the weather without realising. Sure enough, as Swindon became quiet and still, it began to rain. Not heavily, just a random splatter of large drops, but that sound of falling rain is oddly relaxing. Funny how rainy days make you sort of introspective for no apparent reason. The sound of a car somewhere around the corner was unmistakeable. That sound - tires locked and the car ploughing on due to momentum on a greasy asphalt surface. Any moment there's going to be a dull crunching sound.... Not this time. The skid ended in a loud and harsh blast of the horn. A working class and youthful male voice responded with "**** off!". Yep, accidents will happen.

Think you missed the point there Doc! My domestic situation is very cunning....

I don't know. Their morals and ethics were different to ours, and whilst their society certainly had no constitutional right to bear arms, they certainly tolerated violence far more than we do, especially so when you bear in mind that military virtue was ingrained into Roman society right from their earliest days of tribal raiding. I've had a quick browse of the internet but so far nothing conclusive.

You see, that wouldn't work here. It isn't that we british are scared of litigation, it's just that unless you're the victim of an accident you most certainly will be the victim of a rather large bill. And even if that obstacle were removed and we adopt yet another amercian custom, that being the one of suing anyone for profit, then sooner or later a greedy politician is only going to tax our winnings even more. In any case, we don't need to sue our leaders. All we have to do is march around shouting a lot. They soon get the message, or a notice to quit within a few years courtesy of the general publics vote. It's a brave politician that ignores dissent in Britain. Unless you're John Prescott, in which case you simply punch joe public in the face. Don't laugh, it worked for him, he's now Baron of Hull.

This is ridiculous. Now that I have to sign on the dole every single working day, my usual routine is upset. I don't know if you've noticed but my blog has mutated into a television critic webpage, and I'm gaining weight because I'm just not active any more. Seriously, I have this notion of turning up to my signing slot tomorrow with my pack and hiking gear. I can just imagine a caustic "Going somewhere Caldrail?" Oh hi Mr Claims Advisor, yeah, I'm off hiking when we're done here, why not come along if you're not signing anybody else today? Fresh air, grassy hills, heavy showers... Can't beat it.... Jobsearch?... Oh... Yeah.... Of course I can't leave the reservation because they'll get annoyed and stop my money. And this "Mister Lord" business? I just cannot tell you how stupid that situation is. It's like having dual status, or at least it would do if the first part didn't devalue the second. You see they had this sort of business sussed back in the Middle Ages. You were either a peasant or very important, and any attempt to be anything else was usually punishable by something painful. Or then again, I imagine myself in a regency country house, set in verdant and manicured parkland. Ahhh, Jeeves, be a good fellow and pass the turnips will you? Oh, and do have the ox cart at the front of the house, Lady Rail and I are going farming this afternoon... Hmmm? What was that Dearest?... Jobsearch?... Oh... Yeah.... Today is my weekly pow-wow with the big chief claims advisor. Does this white man speak with forked tongue? We'll see. Okay, time to head down to the Job Centre. Gird your loins, Caldrail, this might get ugly. Later That Day Loins girded, I waited for my name to be called. To be honest, I'd reached a state of vacant meditiation when some chap in a shirt and tie asked "Is Mister Caldrail here?" Gaaah! Not again! He ushered me to a seat and immediately I took the initiative. Pointing out the correct title on the signing booklet, I added politely but firmly that if that was too much for him to swallow, as it was for most people in this office, he was welcome to use my first name. He remained calm, said what he needed to, and printed off an entire wad of job decriptions for me to apply for. I'm not sure who was the winner of that negotiation.

The british rebellion would have happened anyway since the causes were local, and since the judaeans were always a people whose uncomfortable relationship with the Romans caused friction, and since the Romans had little regard for their sensibilities, then rebellions weren't entirely unexpected there either. In both regions a better emperor probably wouldn't have stopped the trouble from occuring. The seeds of those conflicts had already been sown earlier, and a better emperor would not have prevented Roman bad behaviour until after it had happened and he'd been made aware of it.

I saw a news report that whilst digging the new foundations at Ground Zero in New York, a 17th or 18th century scrapyard has been found. The remains of a scrapped sailing vessel was lying under the World Trade Centre all that time. What a wonderful twist to the tragedy of 9/11. Still, it does call into question the wisdom of all those rubbish recyclement policies we Brits are wrestling with right now. Our historical record is being reduced along with landfill sites. Combine that with the transitory nature of the internet as a container of information, it means that at some future time, archaeologists will dig down and find the early twenty first century is missing from the record. We're living in a new Dark Age. So everyone, throw your rubbish on the tip where archaeologists will find it in three hundred years time. And not next door to me, please. Lions And Tigers Big cats are fascinating animals. We admire them for all sorts of reasons, not least their very real danger. I recall that video footage of a tiger attacking the riders of an elephant, or the policeman suspended outside a New York apartment block trying to tranquilise an angry tiger , or the close but harmless encounter I had with a bored lionness at Windsor Safari Park one time, or even as a child, transfixed by the latent aggression in a female black panther staring back at me as she tended to her cubs. All those anecdotes I've covered already. I was watching a program about a wildlife park in New Zealand, dealing primarily with big xats. The measure of control they have over them is suprising. I can't honestly claim the cats are docile - nature will out - but the keepers certainly do have some skill at keeping them in order. But the funniest moment was when they took some of tese cats for an exercise session down on the beach. They looked suspiciously at the surf flowing up the sand and backed off in alarm at something they didn't understand. Cute. It seems odd at first that a big cat would be fearful. You have to wonder what little they have to be fightened of. Then again, for all their power and ferocity, big cats aren't usually the biggest animals in the park. I have been told that lions in the know will always run off when a Masai warrior whistles - because that's the call they make for help. I recall Steve Irwin creeping through the tall grass toward a lionness resting under the shade of a tree. She realised something was stalking her, becoming nervous, hesitating as to whether she should stand her ground or run - and run away she did, bolting into the grass behind her to keep a safe distance from some australian nutcase intent on filming a close encounter. You have to admire the late Mr Irwin. Getting close to a lion you don't know is going to be friendly is, as I can attest to personally, a somewhat unnerving experience. Title of the Week What is the point of having a policy of supporting cultural diversity and respect for customers if the employees don't have any intention of observing it? My long running struggle with the Job Centre to have them recognise my lordshipness reached what I thought was a breakthrough this last week. The claims advisor politely and without bother filled in a change of circumstance form and had me sign it. Sigh of relief. At last! Except it didn't quite work out the way I hoped. The Job Centre aren't the most intellectually blessed people in Britain - they still haven't cottoned on that as a social minority of one, any employer who dismisses my applications because of my title is running the risk of charges of discrimination in the workplace - but do you know what my title is now listed as by Swindon Job Centre? Mister Lord Caldrail.

In fact, part of the reason Nero is derided isn't due to rational evaluation of his reign - which is history thus an unpopular subject to learn about for the average person - but more to with popular imagination and christian thinking. Nero has after all been described as an 'anti-christ' from time to time and that's largely down to his brutal treatment of christians following the Great Fire of Rome in 64. Also it must be pointed out that Nero represented a level of decadence (by way of rumour at the time even though we have good sources about his reign these days) that christianity decries. So in a way, as much as Nero wanted the christians made a scapegoat of, so the christians make a scapegoat of Nero. It's interesting that you list 'Didn't expand the empire' as a reason for his failure to be regarded as a success. In whose societies eyes is this description a good or bad thing? Imperial control can be viewed as success but that has more to do with individual psychology. We are after all social animals and thus inevitably some us like the idea of being dominant, and it shouldn't therefore suprise us that Romans thought well of themselvs, because they had pride in the expansion of their culture by whatever means. There is always a feel-good factor in being the top dog. Nature has made us that way with good reason. You're quite right to point out that in modern terms a dodgy private life would quickly colour public opinion, but despite Nero's popularity with the masses, his private life did impact on opinion. A rebel dragged in front of him and asked to explain why he had committed treason made a vitriolic condemnation of Nero's character based on the actions he'd made in private. The soldier had little to gain from hiding his feelings because his fate was pretty well certain anyway. And let's not forget, when news of Agrippina's death reached the public, a number of families laid their babies at the gates to the palace for exposure in an astonishing act of protest against his behaviour. The state remained intact after his death but it wasn't in pristine condition, for reasons you listed yourself amongst others. In any case, the main problem was political instability with no clear successor, and the Year of Four Emperors that followed was not a period of total war. Civil war certainly, but with clear objectives and a single focus of military activity. For the rest of the empire, they had only to sit back and wait to find out who was in charge.

The Romans certainly got about in small numbers... http://www.unrv.com/forum/index.php?showtopic=5635 But our experience with Ireland is an example of seeing more than there actually was. The apparent Roman sites found there might be no more than places where refugees ended up, or merchants called, thus evidence of Roman goods exist without any actual Romans. India is however part of the world that Strabo describes. We know that explorers reaching India from western Europe from the Rennaisance onward found christian colonies there which were quickly demonised by the Roman Catholics (the colonies still exist today in a muted form) That said, I wouldn't expect more than a handful of Romans to have ever been there, let alone settled, given that trade goods were usually passed from trader to trader like a relay race rather than individual shiops bravely going the entire marathon. The goods found in India are almost certainly the result of trade. But hey, prove me wrong, I'm all ears.

Funny how things are never quite what they seem. A couple of nights ago I was watching a documentary about that big Live Aid gig of all things. You know the one? Bob Geldof leading the worlds response to the plight of starving Ethopians in 1985 by staging huge charity gigs in stadiums both in Britain and the US? The most interesting thing I learned was how ramshackle the organisation was. The whole event nearly collapsed under its own weight, never mind the attitude of some eclectic individuals involved. Considering how chaotic life often became for Red Jasper I have to say our gigs usually passed off with much less drama. Perhaps that's one reason why we failed. There simply wasn't enough theatre about our performances. Having played large open air festivals in my time I remember how it felt going on stage in front of such a large anonymous crowd. Playing to a large number of people invites a strange sense of importance to the whole thing, even if the event isn't in the glare of media attention. Part of you is invigorated with enthusiasm, adrenaline, and the knowledge that you have an opportunity to impress. The other part of you is concious of the enormity of what you're about to attempt, never mind the potential for embarrasing failure. I guess though that if it worries you too much, you really shouldn't be up there. I went on stage wanting to perform. That was all my mind was focused on. Sometimes though things happen when you least expect. We played a bikers rally on the Isle of Wight one year, and as part of the deal, as was usual with Red Jasper, we also provided the PA for the event with the mixing desk perched in the back of our van and the singers partner handling the faders. The whole event was running well behind schedule. We had our ferry ticket booked and needed to be away for a gig in London the following night. I don't know where the other band members went. I ended up sat in the van beside Jean watching the headline act and getting increasingly impatient as the clock ticked by. The 'Blues Brothers' tribute band played their last number and despite lingering cheers from the crowd, they wandered away to the sides of the stage looking for all the world as if they'd lost interest. Is anything happening? No? A number of roadies began lazily collecting bits and pieces on the stage. At that point I thought it was all over. Pull the cables, Jean! We're outta here. With some haste I began dismantling the equipment. To my horror, the event compere went on stage and tried to announce an encore with a dead microphone. Disaster! We've unplugged half the desk and it's pitch black in this darn vehicle. We'll be here all night. He dropped off the stage and headed for us. I was out the van and awaited his approach. Meanwhile the crowd realised we weren't playing ball. Shouts of "Turn the van over!" could be heard as the mood got ugly. With the crowd closing in and looking on in sullen silence the compere demanded five songs as an encore. No. You can have one. "No way, five!" He insisted. Okay, we'll compromise. You can have two. But after that we pack up and go home. The compere agreed and to my relief, never mind that of our thoroughly frightened sound engineer sat behind me, a subdued cheer emerged from the crowd as they forgot the confrontation and waited for their favourite band to play. Never had we connected a sound desk so quickly. No drama? No theatre? Perhaps there was, occaisionally, for all the wrong reasons.That said, my experience is nonetheless lacking in one major respect. One film clip of Wembley Arena that day looked out into the audience with the late Freddy Mercury of Queen launching into Radio Ga Ga. A whole stadium full of people clapping in unison, utterly bewitched by his presence. Even on the television screen, without the feel of actually being there, it was an extraordinary sight to witness. Nothing I did on stage ever came anywhere close to that. On The Other Hand... I see the A-Team movie is soon to hit our screens with guns and wisecracks blazing. Having watched the trailer I can only marvel at the skill of film makers. How could anyone take the worst television action series ever and make it even more dreadful? And still make money from it? Come on guys, make a film about me...

The government have released a map describing the effects of a four centigrade degree rise in average temperature across the world. It's quite a horrific possibility when you grasp the details - but that's exactly why it was released. Carrying straight on where our previous government left off, the climate change propaganda machine marches on. I've said this before and I'll say it again. We're not necessarily to blame. The Ice Ages officially ended something more than ten thousand years ago but what isn't generally realised is those ice expansions and plummetting temperatures were not constant. There were a number of such expansions, and in between , it got warm again. Those periods are called interglatials. Strictly speaking, we're in one now, and experts believe that the next ice expansion will occur in fifty thousand years time. In the meantime, yes, it will get warmer. It's happened before. We know that the British Isles had a climate similar to modern Africa at least once during the Ice Ages. There were no cars, no industries, no high carbon economies. It simply got hot naturally. And the process is currently repeating itself. I wish governments weren't so irresponsible in these scare tactics. It's purely designed to get us to accept costly policies we don't need. Because at the end of the day, it makes no difference whatsoever whether we adopt low carbon economies, pay more for production goods, or simply walk everywhere. At the end of the day, the strength of sunlight is variable, and the Earths orbit is not precisely the same every rotation. That's what drives the major changes. There are no economic policies that will stop those changes. At least King Canute knew it was pointless to order back the tide, and if I remember right, he didn't use it as an excuse to extort money from his subjects. Stirring Stuff I was watching a documentary last night about the Battle of Britain. How could I resist? No blue-blooded englishman can resist a retelling of that epic saga. This one focused on the discovery of reconnaisance photographs made by the Luftwaffe that provided some interesting insights into what was actually going on. In mid September 1940, one Lufwaffe intelligence report believed the RAF were down to their last fifty fighters. It is true Churchill was told at that time that there were no more reserves, but instead of four squadrons, we were actually fielding fifteen. Was it any good? Not bad. Most of these documentaries use more veteran talking heads with their personal anecdotes and in fact I found that their relative absence detracted from the program, for no other reason than it meant listening to the script for an hour. For me, the worst mistake this program made was in its use of period footage. Battle of Britain? I spotted the Western Desert, the Eastern Front of 1942/43, and either Sicily or Italy. Whoops. Stirring Syrup The Job Centre have passed me on to a job placement team. It isn't that I mind, but my claims advisor is seriously starting to annoy me. He keeps on hinting that he doesn't believe I'm as concientious about my job search as I claim. Anyway, the people at the placement team office are pleasant enough and gave me a website to follow up on possible job vacancies. Okay, lets log on... Seach... Hey, there are jobs going in Swindon. I 'll try this one. All I need to do is fill in an online application form. How hard can that be? As it turns out, the form was exactly what I was afraid it might be. It is a horrendous web document that expands to fill all avaliable space. I lost interest when they demanded the name of my cat and asked how long I'd been a feline owner, and could I explain in less than 500 words why cat ownership is good for Britain. Mandatory information too. I only get two hours a day for internet use. There just isn't enough time to wade through all this petty bureaucracy, and I seriously don't believe the company involved has any real use for the informatiion they ask for. No, I give up. I'm looking for a job somewhere else. I'll bet you can figure out why.

I think they did differentiate between wheat and barley. Barley was after all considered an animal food, used as a punishment meal by the legions and given to gladiators as a staple of their diet (though I admit it had desirable side effects)

Yesterday I was slightly greener than the day before. Nothing to do with imminent nausea, or envy at the Maserati that drives down the hill every morning, but compliance with the detailed instructions our eco-friendly ex-government foisted on us. Now that I can't simply leave unwanted bottles for the dustmen to collect, I must dispose of them responsibly myself. My old kitbag was bulging with unwanted glass, making dull chinking noises as I walked down the hill toward the car park where I knew the recycling bins had been stationed. When I got there, the bins were absent. Brilliant. Well I can't just leave the bottles there by the side of the car park however tempted I might be. This is an act of responsibility for crying out loud. Eventually I found a line of large bins for waste disposal by a small car park in Old Town. I was delayed in my task by TB, my former employment trainer, who was on her cigarette break, so I wandered over to say hello. Her colleagues ran away as I approached. What? Did I forget to remove the bolts from my neck? Luckily TB is made of sterner stuff and we had a pleasant chinwag for ten minutes, halted only by her desperate need to retain her job. Thing is though, although the weather was supposed to be boiling hot this weekend, it never really got there, and yesterday was a typical damp Swindon day. It was however very humid, so as I stood chatting to TB I was forever wiping sweat away. Now they're telling us the jetstream is about to deliver prolongued low pressure across Britain, and that can only mean more damp weather. It's drizzling heavily as I speak. Worse still, they're forecasting thunderstorms later this week. With energy bills soaring I'm tempted to rig a lightning conductor and get free electricity for a couple of seconds. Why waste thousands of volts? I'm not sure that's going to turn me green as such, and remember kids, don't do that at home. God Of Thunder We British are pleased to announce the latest word in remote control military aerial drones, the Taranis (named after a celtic god of thunder). Apparently this aeroplane is capable of crossing continents without detection by radar. It is virtually invisible. All for a low low price of

Turkey was the main distribution point of mankinds expansion out of Africa around 80,000 to 40,000 BC. Whatever civilisation existed then (and there are archaeological indications of an organised culture and spiritual life) was strongly based there.

According to Jpsephus, most of the survivng jewish rebels (or those accused of as such) were either sent to Egypt for hard labour or distributed to provincial arenas.

Life can be so cruel

My jobsearch is officially two years old. To mark this momentous anniversary, the Job Centre have asked me to sign on every day. Every day? Yes. Every day. Each day I must climb the stairs, await the call, and present the evidence that I'm actually looking for work. Can anyone understand the logic of this? I've been applying for jobs regularly for two years. Why do I need to go under the microscope like this? The answer seems obvious. Someone is making complaints and so I must be investigated. I wonder who? Revenge of the Letting Agent? A disgruntled neighbour? An overzealous police officer? Or just some spiteful idiot fired up by bigotry and misinformation? Nothing so insignificant. My new claims advisor has read the riot act to me and explained that since I'm such a useless jobseeker, the government has decided in their ultimate wisdom that retards need extra help. He tried to convey the inevitability of it all. As if I hadn't figured that out for myself. I already know what the rules are. I did mention though that having to come in every day was a bit... well... What's the word?.... "Threatening?" He suggested. No. Not threatening (even though he clearly wanted to impress upon me the awful reality of not telling the truth). It's... A little bit disempowering. He agreed. Tough. All part of lifes rich tapestry. Party Animals No, I've had enough. I need some fresh air and exercise. Time then for a walk aound Lawns and just get a breather from all this bureaucratic nonsense. I set out across the meadow on the hillside. The wild grass is a mix of pale and almost purple stalks stretching away to the trees that mark the boundary, split by mown pathways for people to walk along in various directions of convenience. I chose mine, and headed for the far side of the wood. To my left an old man wandered slowly, his black retriever enjoying his walkies with extraordinary exuberance for a dog of his size. It saw me and bounded straight over, intent on playing a sort of chase game as it would with another dog, but since I'm not qualified as a canine, I had no choice but to maintain normal human behaviour and pet the dog to keep it happy. Luckily the dog got the message despite its excitement at meeting a new friend. The owner was concerned that I was going to be angry at being accosted by his faithful companion, but no, how could I resent the dog's playful spirit? I simply chuckled and gave in to the dogs demand for attention. By strange coincidence a second black retriever was on its way, dragging its equally elderly owner in its wake. It too caught the happy mood and finding myself, quite literally, in a pack of party animals. That was a little daunting. The second owner was also concerned that I wasn't getting a little worried by these big dogs running and jumping about. "All right?" He asked me. Don't worry, I replied, I think I've gotten away with it. By even stranger coincidence a third black retriever was encountered in the woodland path leading back to the entrance of Lawns. The impatient female owner groaned at her dogs interest in another tree trunk and with some exasperation said "Do you have to sniff at every single tree?" Trust me lady, I know how you feel.

I suspect Roman emperors were not viewed as successful so much regarding conquests and monuments, but rather how their reign impacted on the personal lives of his subjects. How much tax did you pay last year? How many days of games were organised? Is the emperor a showman or a strange recluse? Has the water supply to your home been improved? Has the supply of corn been uninterrupted? Are slaves cheap and plentiful? Is the world ordered and peaceful in your back yard? Is justice fair? Has optimism returned to you and people you meet?

Another day, another takeaway vindaloo. Having ordered my meal I sat down and watched the world go by outside. Regents Circus is a busy little road junction and all sorts of people stroll by. Sometimes you see odd things. Now I'm no expert on ethnic dress, but the young moslem lad in a beige dress did look odd to my decadent and preconceptive western eyes. Even stranger was when he calmly walked across the road and drove off in a Bentley Continental GT. How much is this curry costing me? That White Car Again If I've mentioned this before then I apologise because I don't remember doing so. It's just that a few times lately I've spotted a white sports car driving down the hill. At first I wondered what it was. A sort of squarish style but not entirely displeasing. I couldn't see any makers badges and it was beginning to annoy me that I couldn't recognise this car at all. What on earth is it? Eventually I walked by when the vehicle was stationary at the traffic lights at the bottom of the hill. Embossed on the rear was the word "Pontiac". Pontiac? That's not a Trans-Am, the usual stateside offering we sometimes see over here. Then a moment of realisation hit me. This was a Fiero. Pontiac Fieros are mostly known in Britain as the donor vehicle for kit cars, thus we rarely see the vehicle in its pristine 'as Pontiac intended' form. Who knows, perhaps a kit car is due to hit the roads hereabouts in the near future? Prancing Horse Or Plodding Donkey? On my way to the curry house I pass a more upmarket resteraunt across the road. Parked outside the establishment so the owner could keep a wary eye on his vehicle was a gleaming red sports car with Ferrari badges. A pair of youths sat on the low college wall debating what it must be like to drive it. I should have spoken up. I really should. Because I know exactly what it's like. Not just driving the real thing which I've done on track days, but the Toyota MR2, the chassis on which this lookalike kitcar was based. Except it didn't really look right. Not one of the better ones. But at least the owner had the two youths completely fooled. One Last Word And before I sign off, a quick word to the Top Gear team. Just in case you really did think everyone was watching the football, let me assure you I wasn't. I did in fact suffer psychological trauma from discovering that Porsche are going horribly wrong, seeing an american muscle car that almost handled well, and finding out that the Stig is not the fastest cyborg on the planet. Under normal circumstances I would claim Incapacity Benefit whilst I recover my sanity but the current coalition government have banned claimants from ill health. Some might say I shouldn't have risked this trauma by watching Top Gear. Maybe, but I thought that was preferable to letting my brain atrophy watching overpaid haircuts play football. I hate to say it... But after being trounced by a certain Brazilian gentleman... Is the Stig old technology? Is he becoming obselete? The pressure is on.