caldrail

All I did was go for a walk. In the two or three hours it took me to wander around the Mouldon Hill area, I very nearly achieved a dose of sunburn. My reflection in the mirror is an almost embarrassing shade of red. I'm actually glad todays weather is grey and slightly damp. It's spitting with rain right now. What a difference a day makes. On the way there I followed the railway path. As a child I used to walk along the tracks. Back then the line was no longer used for regular services and instead had become something of a redundant siding. These days i's a cycle path which passes an old landfill site near Moredon. It's been a long time since I've seen any activity there, but yesterday yellow eartmovers were trundling back and forth creating a fresh dirt hill on top of the weed infested old one. Somethings going on... Something was. The grassy meadows between Sparcells and Moredon have become a building site for new housing. Perhaps that was inevitable. Nonetheless I can't help feeling saddened that this little pocket of rural bliss is being dug up. I suspect that at some point the residents who will live there might regret it. The area is a flood plain and at least once I've seen the rivers that wind through there burst their banks. On the plus side there's a new community forest the other side of Mouldon Hill. Breddan Wood is one of two hundred such projects in England and Wales. It might not have the look and feel of mature woodland but it already has that secluded atmosphere that I enjoy. So did the Sparcells meadows at one time. Bird Life Walking along the river bank I disturbed a large bird. Most british birds are modest little creatures but this thing was much larger. I couldn't see what species it was, but it was largely grey with black wing tips. A crane maybe? At any rate it lazily flew away to find another secluded spot where human beings weren't going to disturb it further. I was making something of a nuisance of myself with birds it seems. A group of small birds were gathered together on a woodland path and weren't happy to see me blunder into sight. Like all humans I took no notice of their outraged caws and cries. With no option left to them, they all scattered. A solitary small egg lay on the ground with a ragged hole broken into the side, the contents gone. Feeding Time For Caldrail It's no good, I need a burger. I have just enough loose change to afford one. As soon as I entered the kebab shop across the road the turk smiled and said "Quarter pounder, onions, chilli sauce, and no cheese. Am I right?" Erm.. Yes. All the local food outlets seem to be doing that of late. I must be getting a bit predictable in my old age. As I waited for my burger to reach the point of convincing me it was edible, I noticed a young woman passing on the street. She noticed me too. Not the 'eyes across a crowded fast food outlet' sort of feeling, but instead an uncomfortable recognition between strangers. She gave a snort of disdain and carried on by. Thanks for the compliment dear. As my attention turned once again to my impending meal, the turkish guy behind the counter was looking at me quizzically. Don't look at me mate, I've no idea who she was. He merely smiled knowingly. Shouldn't you be watching that burger? I have paid for that you know.

Apart from one major failing in Roman eyes - he was unpopular with the public. Also, given that he spent something like two-thirds of his reign at his holiday villa in Capri, one might be forgiven for thinking that he loathed the role and had 'better' ways to spend his time. He certainly had no love for the Roman public. Of course this was also his duty and privilege.

A clear blue sky. Utterly devoid of any cloud whatsoever. that's a rareity in Darkest Wiltshire, but I notice the natives are taking full advantage of the summer sunshine. Draped over a stone wall is one youngster, probably sleeping off last nights attempt to pull a girl, in a state of comatosed oblivion. A few people stand back a little, not sure whether he's dead or requires an ambulance. My guess is he'll need some cream for sunburn later on. Funny thing is I woke this morning at some early hour with light intruding on my normally darkened bedroom. Shall I get up? Erm.. No. So I pulled the duvet back over me and continued this procedure at regular intervals until mid-morning. Sleeping in? That's not like me. But as they say, only mad dogs and englishmen go out in the midday sun. In my case that's only because they can't be bothered to get out of bed this morning. Today I think I shall take a wander somewhere. It's too good a day to be stuck indoors, even with an afternoon of Star Trek episodes playing on cable television. Notice Of Works It seems the redevelopment of the old college site is to go ahead. I received the official notice card in the post, which not only says the site is to be demolished, but also mentions the erection of a shopping mall and cinema. We used to have cinemas in the town centre. One across the road from where I'm typing this now, later a bingo hall and currently disused, though I notice someone has taken posession of the property. The other is just around the corner, now split between a pub downstairs and some strange christian cult upstairs. I'd better not say too much - one of the library staff is a worshipper there. She even tried to recruit me a little way back. Ahem. There was even a cinema in Rodbourne, an area of Swindon next to the railway that I used to live in once. A modest building, now a commercial premises. In recent decades all we had were those multiplex places situated in big car parks situated where no-one wants to go. In a year or two I'll be able to pop next door to take in a feature film or two, instead of making an arduous journey to some frontier of the outside world on the outskirts of Swindon. That's almost worth putting up with the noise, aggrevation, and derisive comments from the builders. Plus they intend cleaning up the alleyway behind the yard. Have they met our local fly-tippers? Good luck. Builders Cleavage I notice there's a fashion for wearing trousers so that they cling to your hips instead of being securely fastenend around the waist. When I was working at that department store I trained up a youth who wore his otherwise smart trousers in that way, and it looked daft. I think the idea is to look cool. Streetwise. To me it looks like you don't know your own waist size, but there you go. I mention this because a tall gangly youth has just climbed the library stairs in a typical swaying gait. Somewhat less typical is his trousers. So cool and streetwise is this young man that his trousers are on the point of falling off him. Worse still, his builders cleavage was clearly visible and betrayed his lack of underwear. Dear Minister of Parliament... Please be aware that youths of our country are not being taught to wear clothes properly, and there are signs of increasing inability to don trousers in public. Please bring back proper school education and give miscreants six of the best. That'll teach them to cover up. Disaster Of The Week My bathroom light isn't working. Neither the kitchen or the toilet cast any appreciable radiance into the little cubbyhole where my bath resides, so not only do I look like a caveman these days, but experience life in a cave as well. If it was a simple matter matter of changing a light bulb, I could handle that. What I can't handle is this futuristic and inert assembly screwed to the ceiling. Sooner or later I'll have to succumb to the inevitable and contact the letting agent. Then again, in two weeks time, when they've forgotten I contacted them in the first place. Eventually I'll get a visit from a handyman who'll fix the thing in seconds, literally because he gets paid for the number of jobs he does in a day. Also, I suspect, he has an innate fear of cavemen. I don't know what he's worried about. My trousers are securely fastened in place.

Industrial estates are odd places. You see them everywhere in british towns and cities, a road along which factories and warehouses are lined up in bold advertisement and yet give off a feeling of almost monastic solitude. You don't see any activity. There's no sense of urgency or productivity. I'm sure that's not actually the case or all these companies would go out of business. It's just that the square and architecturally cold brick frontages do not reveal their inner workings to the casual passer by. Well, here's the factory unit where I'm supposed to learn how to drive a forklift. As with almost all of them, the offices face the street, the production areas kept out of sight to the rear. The lady at the reception desk sighed when I produced the letter confiorming my course placement and thumbed in the direction of the side entrance. Tradesmen at the rear? It seems so. No matter, her opinions aren't important. So I wandered around the side of the factory, through an open iron gate, and looked along the weed infested pathway. Just before the verdant english jungle completely overtook the discarded piles of wood, corrugated iron, and worn tires, there was a door propped open. Here we go then. The light and airy factory floor was almost empty. At the other end I observed the forklifts wheezing and whirring. Along the right hand side was a garden. Seriously. Flower beds, gravel, wooden sheds, birdtables - this was truly bizarre. The two ladies dealing with the paperwork didn't acknowledge my presence for a while and I was there for two hours waiting to sign on to the course, which I now know will start in a couple of months time. Oh, but I did do something useful while I was there. A literacy test. Seventy two questions designed to test my spelling and grammar. Obviously an essential requirement for driving forklifts. I'm pleased to announce I scored 100%, and thus qualify as an englishman. More Bizarre Stuff What is it with the Germans these days? They always seem to come up with strange stunts. There was Matthias Rust who landed a Cessna in Red Square, Moscow, for no obvious reason. Now I read that a some idiot in Bavaria threw a puppy at some Hells Angels and escaped on a stolen bulldozer. Like you do.

That's not what I meant. Statistics gathered from archaeological sources vary a little but the best figures I have suggest that a gladiator had around a one third chance of dying in his first match. Only if he survived did his increasing skill and experience lower that risk to around 1 in 9 or 1 in 10. The average life expectancy appears to have been something like four years. It took a capable individual to survive for any length of time. Some did of course. In that recent Channel 4 documentary discussing the remains found at York, one fighter, a retiarius, was showing signs of intensive training at a very early age - earlier than most gladiators - and he died of his injuries around the age of forty, which makes him something of a survival expert in the arena. You say the training was aimed at producing a good fighter. I agree completely. However, not everyone makes a good fighter and only a small section of society have the necessary physical and mental capabilities to become a top class fighter. Talent is everything. Not everyone has that. For a man who demonstrates this talent I would have expected he received the full attention of his Lanista. For most, they rreceived enough training to put on a good show. Whether they knew how slim their chances were or not I can't say, but I'm sure their trainer wasn't under any illusions, and was he really going to give everyone in his ownership the same care and attention as a top class fighter? You say the money was important - again I agree - but I see it as a matter of investment. What's the point of training to the nth degree a man who couldn't fight off his mother-in-law? In any case, they didn't breed cannon-fodder. It was more of a case of okay, lets try this new recruit... Oh dear... He isn't very good is he? No matter. Cassius the Castrator is appearing in the games announced by our local magistrate next week. We'll use him for that. But in order to satisfy the Roman audience that this was a 'fair' fight, he needs to look like he can fight. That can be done without a huge investment. newbies weren't given chances to build a career as a gladiator. They had to prove they were worthy. That meant winning. Don't forget, not all lanistas operated from fixed sites. Many could not afford the large ludii. If I remember right, there are mentions of itinerant troupes of gladiators with no fixed abode, just a group of fighters wandering from town to town putting on shows for a living. You might argue it was in their interest not to suffer a casualty - I can see that point - yet this was a contact sport. A very dangerous contact sport. It was accepted that an entrant to the arena ran the risk of death or disability.

The program claimed that these skeletons were the first complete remains identified as gladiators. This is not true. A comprehensive set of remains has been uncovered in Ephesus, Turkey. What was underlined by Channel 4's documentary was the physical distress of a gladiators lifestyle, especially that of those final moments. It worth stressing that. There's a part of the human psyche that identifies with violence. We sometimes see gladiatorial combat as something approaching a noble profession, and certainly, the mystique it generates reflects the very same attitudes the Romans themselves attached to it, though in fairness to them they were a society that tolerated a higher level of violence than we do. Nonetheless whilst the arena provided an exciting competition between fighters much the same as we view modern boxing, there was also the 'horror' element of seeing a man cut down, and I notice the modern popularity of blood and gore in films designed to frighten their audience. We enjoy a sort of virtual killing field enveloped in a dark mythology of its own. The Romans played it out for real to demonstrate martial virtue, cultural dominance, and their assumed mastery over nature.

I'm not confused in the slightest. Anyone entering the arena as a gladiator was by definition a performer, whether he was there by way of sale, judgement, or sef volition. As such, they were infama. Young men of higher birth volunteered as much as anyone else, and Augustus was forced to place restrictions on the numbers of the patrician class who were volunteering. Noxii weren't allowed the privlege of fighting as gladiators. They were there to be slaughtered by way of an 'entertaining' execution. Typically two were in the arena and one had a weapon with which to kill the other. The winner would then be forced to hand the blade to the next noxius to enter the arena. And so forth. That said, there were still gladiators who were effectively 'cannon fodder', though they still had some chance at least seeiong as they were armed. Experienced gladiators were valuable commodities. If he should die, his owner must receive monetary compensation for his loss, and thus these men were often paired off with newbie fighters who weren't such a risk. These newbies weren't expected to survive, though some did. Further, many men were taken on to fill the ranks of a spectacular. These were not professional fighters either, and may have been recruited from all sources available, criminal or otherwise. The games organisers simply needed X amount of men and found them from where-ever they could. Incidentially, Channel 4 shhowed a program last night about the forensic findings of these burials. It seems most died in their early twenties. Unusually, a fair number were decapitated, which would appear to be a local behavioural anomaly caused by their east european tribal customs (that was the apparent geographic origin of ther remains). One chap, who is believed to have been a retiarius, died around the age of forty. He had a longer right arm - a sign of intense physical training from puberty. Make no mistake, this documentary made it brutally clear the violence and pain these men suffered. The forensic expert was almost gleeful in pointing out details of long term growth patterns and damage indications on the bones. One fascinating point which was played by actors but not stressed in the commentary, was the evidence that when one fighter fell, his opponent brought down the edge of his shield to break the fallen mans sword arm, thus preventing him from fighting on. There's no doubt that gladiators were serious fighters. As with the greeks, winning was everything.

In the past I've always encountered a certain level of apathy from my various employers. Sometimes it's because they don't believe my initiatives will work, or perhaps prefer to give the credit to someone else. Sometimes it's because I've been pigeon-holed, pure and simple. Finally, after quarter of a century, I've pushed through one of the major obstacles to my progress in the workplace. They're going to train me to drive forklifts. I have my claims advisor to thank for that. He certainly exceeded most of my expectations but I was correct. So far he too has refused to recognise my title. At least he was a good deal more polite about that than Bovine Betty. She promised to change it on their system as well. We'll see if he means what he says. Nonetheless I now have some work training to attend. The factory where I'm going to receive this education is on an industrial estate less than half an hours walk from where I live. It also happens to be a nice day. One of those days where great dramatic clumps of white and grey cumulus attempt to drown out the blue sky, reminiscent of those old railway jigsaws I used to assemble when I was a child (we didn't have Playstations in those days). It's a nice day. I have a good feeling about this. Civic Improvement The route to the factory is along the main shopping concourse. The contractors who were ripping up the pavement for whatever reason are still at it. Swathes of the pedestrianised street are fenced off from muddy trenches. The department store whose wall nearly collapsed on top of passers-by is still under construction, merely a framework of light grey girders, upon which a line of builders sit watching the world go by. But they have finished the water feature. It's a pair of concrete slabs with a corrugated wavy surface down which water is allowed to run. As far as I can see, all it does is cause a damp patch on the pavement. Should fit right into the local landscape then. Birthday Prezzie Of The Week There are people in this town who believe I have always lived a life of relative wealth and privilege. They believe this despite the fact that some of them earned more than I did by way of overtime and promotions. Truth is I've always worked at just the same jobs as them. In any case, as an unemployed person I'm not that wealthy, title or not. I had to laugh at the furore about a certain celebrity, whose sixteen year old son has just received a

Todays the day when I face a new claims advisor. His name is on the confirmation letter but we've not had dealings before, so I haven't a clue what sort of person he is. Could he be worse than Bovine Betty? Well, actually, yes, he could be. We shall see. The problem with handovers like this this is that my jobsearch agreement gets changed. The 'agreement' is an informal contract. It sets out what I have to do as a minimum each week to earn my benefits. I always try to exceed those requirements by a comfortable margin and even then occaisionally they get very dismissive of my efforts. That's because they don't believe I make any. That's the problem with being a jobseeker - you get painted as a professional lazy-ass scrounger and you have to prove and confirm you're actually doing what you claim to be. So I've just spent the morning putting all my paperwork together. A loose leaf folder, bursting with rejection letters and impossible to close properly any more. Those hideous little jobsearch record booklets in which I have to write in all the various minutae of my efforts to find employment. Printouts of emails and CV's. I now have a rucksack full of paper. He'd better be impressed or I'm definitely going to throw a tantrum. Now the question is, apart from whether he'll treat me as a bona fide jobseeker or dole cheat, is whether he'll use my title as his employers diversity statement says he should. My guess is that he won't. His immediate reaction will be that I'm trying some scam, or worse, simply taking the pee. If I were a professor, doctor, prist, or a politician I might well hear him use that title without a hitch, but as a jobseeker? This is part of the problem. Granted many unemployed people have no intention of a days work - I've seen plenty of them over the last year - but there's an attitude that being out of work makes you a lesser person. For all the claims that department employees should show respect to their customers, the majority pay lip service to that requirement. They really do see you as an unwanted impediment to society. In a way I am, because I currently do no useful work for my pittance, but what an illustration of how society stratifies itself according to wealth, or more importantly, the visual impression of it. Somehow I doubt my olive green military surplus trousers are going to impress him. Nor will all these bundles of letters and documents. Nor will proof of my entitlement to use the title 'Lord'. What would impress him? Get a job, Caldrail. I am trying you know. Peace And Calm It's all quiet in Swindon right now. Our failure to demolish America in the World Cup in South Africa has not resulted in hordes of outraged fans going on the rampage in our town centre. Swindon isn't the only town to place bans on public display of large screen television showing our progress through this soccer competition, and won't be the last, but at least I'm spared chorus lines of drunken football fans outside my home. Even my neighbours have turned down the volume somewhat lately, without any official complaining from me. Maybe it's the weather. There's a sort of heaviness to the air. Warm but no sunny. Cloudy but not wet. Always threatening to rain but waiting for that moment you venture out without suitable clothing. Then again, maybe our late night revellers have been attacked and eaten by urban foxes? I did hope so. In the event one reason is that a pub up the hill amongst the grotty terraced housing has reopened after a year or two of abandonment. I saw the rebuilding work on the premises and I did actually think it was being rebuilt as accomodation. Everything else is right now. In fact, so quiet has it gotten that twice I've heard police cars making a quick WOOOO! with their siren as they drive past. What's that in aid of? Warning drunks to stay on the pavement? Bye For Now Right, time to pack my sack and wander down to the Job Centre and be utterly crushed as a human being once more. Another day, another signature.

Hitler was not universally admired at the time. Whilst some pointed at his re-invigorated country, bear in mind he was also regarded as a dangerous looney by the more intuitive observers in the 1930's. Further, Hitler did not declare war. He was annexing european territory on some very shabby exuses, sent troops to Spain against the League of Nations rulings against foreign involvement, and Britain declared war on him in 1939 to honour their promise to guarantee Polands frontiers. The only declaration of war I know Hitler actually made was in 1942, when he formalised hostilities against the United States. (Okay, I see he declared war on the Allies in 1941, and also Russia). As for Caesar, lets not forget that he had no intention of opening up the senate for others. All he wanted was political - and financial - success for himself. Remember that he burst into tears on seeing a statue of Alexander the Great. "Why are you crying, Caesar?" Asked his aides. "Because at my age he had conquered the world, and I have done nothing" Replied Caesar.

Swords are bound to vary somewhat. Differing quality and length are the most obvious, depending on who ordered the sword and who made it. It's an interesting point that highlights Roman standardiation. In general, we assume that equipment was pretty much identical in all cases and that is, I suspect, a result of our our modern mass-production mindset. Individual items were hand crafted in those days and so standardisation was harder to achieve - though I notice that despite the institution of fabricae (equipment factories) in the late empire they still didn't produce standard items. In the light of nascent standardisation in Roman culture (building regulations post-Nero, or bronze and lead plumbing fitments in set sizes) it seems odd that swords were so variable. Then again, perhaps we assume a Roman need for that. If one man is taller than another, surely a longer sword is appropriate? In any case, since swords were often made to a customers order, the length would be his choice as much as the makers, and not something the officers could do much about.

What might shock you is the weight and balance. Romans used heavier wooden dummy weapons to practice and build their strength. A gladius is in fact easier to use as a thrusting weapon than swinging it about, as indeed it was employed in history. Nonetheless, the spatha was longer, and more tiring on the forearm and wrist, but bear in mind that originally it was supposed to be used from horseback thus angled downward much of the time. The reason it was taken up as an infantry sword in later years was due to length. Despite the extra weight of the blade, the average legionary o the late empire had nothing like the training of his predecessors and the nerve to stay fighting almost eyeball to eyeball with very short swords was no longer developed in Roman soldiers.

Spartacus is often portrayed variously as a great general, a heroic freedom fighter, or a Roman-era progenitor of the class struggle'. None of these is really true of course. The reality as far as we can discern from our sources is that he was an army deserter and a bandit. He wasn't a great general because he had no long term strategy and either succumbed to temptation to resume banditry or failed utterly to convince his followers not to do so, and spent the latter part of his rebellion in flight having lost the intiative to the Roman adversaries. He wasn't a freedom fighter because he didn't care about freedom in the way we do these days, though I daresay he was happy enough to receive the numbers of disaffected slaves and citizens that flocked to his banner. He wasn't a class warrior because he had no intention of changing the status quo, and even though (unlike the Kirk Douglas film) he had captured Roman patrons fighting for their entertainment, he made no attempt to establish a different socio-political regime (or evn distribute little red scrolls ) However, the idea of Spartacus as a hero is a very persistent one. Even Theodor Mommsen suggested he was a 'scion of his country' because in his victorian era mindset such an apparently able leader must have had 'princely' blood in his veins. The theme of a man throwing off misfortune and fightin for freedom and justice is a common one. The tales of Robin Hood are effectively the same, and just as distorting of the truth behind them. When Ronald Reagan referred to Spartacus as his hero, he was of course talking aboutthe heroic image, not the reality of the man nor for that matter any particular media depiction, since Kirk Douglas was merely reinforcing popular images of Spartacus as a fairly standard mythic hero.

What is it with economy cars? Why do the people responsible for these automotive blasphemies believe that we, the buying public, want some god-awful buggy that resembles a childs toy? I write this because Riversimple are unveiling a hydrogen powered car in Britain. Like the all-electirc Gee-Whiz, it's an exremely compact two seater rather like a distorted Smart Car. Back in America, or California at least, they have hydrogen powered cars on sale already. Theirs are similar to everyday petrol cars and although not quite a vehicle to raise the pulse rate, it does at least avoid embarrasing its owner. But no. Britain must have tiny town cars designed for the responsible urban commuter that are disastrously ugly and impracticle. You know, I used to drive a five door Nissan Cherry. No, don't laugh, I bought it secondhand at a considerable discount. For all its faults, the little car was reliable, practical, and actually a sharper car to drive than the dull smoothed out contemporary vehicles we're expected to believe are fun cars to drive. And, I should point out, faster than the modern alternative. I notice that the man behind Riversimples new vehicle is a former racing driver. Times have certainly changed. I've always thought it's a bit ironic that planners have moaned that increasing car ownership was reducing the average speed of travel to walking pace, because we now have cars designed to do exactly that anyway. The Tragedy Of Competition I was watching a documentary recently about the disastrous accident during the 1955 Le Man 24 hour race. For those who can bear to see it, here's a link to footage of the event.... http://www.britishpathe.com/record.php?id=39422 The race had turned into grudge match between Jaguar and Mercedes teams. Mike hawthorn, a Jaguar driver, is deliberately baiting the superior Mercedes cars and both teams are racing right on ragged edge. Approaching the slight curve before the audience enclosures, Hawthorn decides to 'pit' his car. In these days the circuit had no seperate pit lane. Cars were serviced by the side of the track, and there were no run-off's. Lance Macklin, who was just overtaken by Hawthorn, cuts the inside of the corner to avoid a collison, bringing up dirt. His car is unsettled at high speed, and to avoid crashing into the side of the track or indeed into Hawthorns Jaguar which was braking ahead of him, swerves left back across the tarmac. Levegh, a fifty year old driver of a Mercedes, is traveling much faster and coming past the Austin Healey on the outside. As Macklin swerves across, Levegh clips the back of his car. The Mercedes flips into the air, crashes against the side of the road, explodes, and sends wreckage hurtling into the crowd, including the engine block. Between 80 to 120 were killed, another 100 spectators injured. The program fixed the blame on Macklin for swerving, and pointed out that Levegh was older than the average driver and must have had slower reflexes. I've thought about this. When Macklin avoids a collision with Mike hawthorns Jaguar, his attention is fixed on keeping his car under control and avoiding a crash. At a hundred miles an hour or more, in a 1950's car without aerodynamic aids, or even seatbelts, I can imagine he was fully occupied. Why then, would he take the time to glance at his mirror? He wouldn't have had the time. This wasn't a sunday drive to the local supermarket. Macklin was trying to keep a car on the ragged edge from becoming an accident. Then again, Levegh was travelling much faster on the outside of the curve. At a hundred and fifty miles an hour, any avoiding action would have sent him wider, and thus an accident would have occurred anyway. Without doubt, his reaction time was slower than the situation demanded. I think though that given how quickly the situation developed, a tragedy was bound to happen. The speed they were all going at precluded any heroic avoidance. Human beings have an innate desire to attach blame. We want someone to be responsible, to accept the punishment for their transgressions. The documentary was entirely devoted to who was to blame for the tragedy. Was it Hawthorn, braking hard in front of a car he'd just overtaken? Was it Macklin, trying to avoid a collision with Hawthorn and retain control of speeding Austin Healey? Or was it Levegh himself, driving beyond his ability in what was for its time an extremely fast car? By now I suspect most you have already decided. In our modern view, speed was responsible. Perhaps, in the final analysis, the uncomfortable truth was that the accident was due to single minded determination to win by all concerned. Success involves risk, either by pushing the laws of physics in a race, or by commercial ventures such as the Riversimple hydrogen car. That's the price you pay for competition, or indeed conflict. After all, isn't sport ritualised confrontation?

"I don't want her!" Insisted the young man to his paranoid girlfriend last night. To be honest, the sordid details of peoples love lives don't interest me overly. I'll leave that sort of thing to the people who watch soap operas. That said, it was impossible to ignore. He was a typical specimen of british youth. Thin, gangly, shaven haired, spitting out his words in a descending tone. She was was quieter, insecure, prodding him for a reaction and definitely achieving her objective. Had this conversation not been pursued at the top of his voice in frustration of his girlfriends interrogation, I probably would never have known the difficulties they were encountering. Not that it matters to me at all. People do make stange choices of partner sometimes. I'm not immune to that. In my younger days, with hormones raging, I made the same ridiculous moves every other young man makes. I'm reminded of a series of partnerships I've witnessed over the years. One was a guitar player who had been part of the first line-up of Bardiche, an 80's local rock band that I ran for a couple of years. GG was an effervescent chap, full of optimism, and although a little embarrasing to watch performing on stage due to his odd antics, a generally okay guy. He paired off with some woman or other. I don't remember her name, but her nickname was 'The Baby Seal', due in no small part to her thick coat of blubber. GG was at a club watching another local rock band, Fair Warning, in the days when they actually looked the part. Baby Seal wasn't so interested. "Can we go home now, G?" She asked repeatedly. He brushed that aside casually, intent on seeing the bands performance to the end. "I want to go home NOW, G!" She yelled. I don't know what the band thought - they must have heard her even over the wall of Marshall cabs behind them - but she got her wish. Needless to say, she made frequent use of tantrums and tears, and soon after they moved into a grotty terraced house together, the whole thing descended into disaster. The second sorry tale is TB, a musician who played with the original line-up of Red Jasper. Again, a nice guy as such, although not someone you'd invite to a party. He met a nice young girl, T, and everything seemed hunky dory. Quickly though they were becoming a little too inseperable. She was always travelling to gigs with him, and after a while it was clear they were stifling each other. I do honestly believe TB bore a large part of the blame. He always had a tendency to use others which got in him into trouble when he started his own band and used Red Jasper's name to book practice halls without turning up. The crunch came at one particular gig when he turned up with a woman we'd never seen before. He didn't introduce her. She sat there, watching us go about the business of gigging, with a smirk on her face, clearly enjoying the notoriety of being 'the other woman'. It shouldn't have suprised me. I'd spotted him once in an embrace with a woman other than T, and I guess that having discovered girls he was making full use of that discovery. Sadly it meant that he and T split up. He was dropped by the band. So as the two youngsters made their faltering progress up the side street, I shake my head, knowing full well they'll cause each other no end of grief in the coming weeks. Of course I'm older. More experienced. More worldly wise in affairs of the.... Hey... Who's that who's justcome up the stairs in the library? Heck... She's a babe. Is she with anyone? "SSHHHHH!" Ambition and Adversity A sixteen year old californian girl has been found alive and well after her attempt to sail solo around the world ended in storms in the Indian Ocean. Fair play to her for making the attempt. I'm all in favour of people pursuing ambition and achievement if they want it, but as the authorities stress, she timed her voyage badly. The Indian ocean is dangerous for other reasons than weather these days too, and whilst every sixteen year old teenager in the world thinks they can look after themselves, one does wonder if she was being a little foolish. Perhaps her parents ought to have let her discover boys after all? Is that a sexist attitude? It wasn't intended as such. For all I know, the young lady was mature and well prepared enough to undertake her voyage. I hope she succeeeds in her ambitions. At least her parents are supportive of her efforts. There are plenty who aren't. And there's nothing worse than having ambition stifled by over-protective and over-controlling mothers and fathers. There used to be a band from Swindon called XTC. One member, a chap called Nigel, was persuaded by his parents to give up the rock 'n roll life and get a normal job. So the band went on to chart success and careers in the music industry while he stayed as an average unexceptional company droid. Nigel has my sympathy, because I know exactly how he felt. How was guilty of the greater folly? Nigel, wanting to pursue his dreams, or mummy and daddy, forcing him to pursue theirs?

No. The gladius wasn't actually a superior sword at all (it was abandioned by Roman soldiers wholesale in the 4th century) but rather it suited the tactical requirements of a legion, and it must be said, with a long sharp point used to thrust into peoples faces or limbs, it wasn't ineffective. Imagine standing shoulder to shoulder with your brothers in arms, bearing a large oblong shield. The only gap you have to attack is directly ahead, betweem shields, and that's what Roman soldiers were taught to do, though I accept in imperial times there was an increasing tendency to slash and cut in open order, a development brought about by the end of the formal large scale battle period - a reflection of Roman dominance. Pattern welding is known to have to have been used by celtic swordsmiths, and since the modern legends of the 'magic sword' date from their real life religious connations of sword ownership, the importance of owning a good one was paramount. However, whilst Roman legionaries were expected to pay for their own weapons and therefore seek out the best value for money available, the finance available to common soldiers wasn't much. This was why they paid a portion of their wages to pay for weaponry provided by the legion. Swords in quantity are bound to be cheaper and there's little evidence that their swords were produced with anything like the skill or attention demanded by pattern welding, apart from individual blades ordered by wealthier officers perhaps. The shape of the earliest Roman swords suggests slashing and cutting attacks, which is pretty much what you'd expect from unsophisticated raiders. However, the thick, stout, long pointed blade of the republican era is a different matter. Since the manner in which these swords were used minimised bending due to combat stress, we can see the design was intended to maximise on that aspect (besides the tactical necessities of close order troops with large oblong shields) The bending of swords in combat is nothing new. Bronze weapons were prone to this. Since the design of the earliest iron swords were essentially the same, we can assume that similar problems were encountered albeit lessened by the superior material. The Romans were lucky enough to be in the mediterranean area and thus picked up the art of making steel relatively early. From there they developed the gladius after encountering spanish swords.

Over the last few days the rain has been intruding on our daily lives here in Darkest Wiltshire. Not a deluge, and no reason to expect flooding, just a series of heavy showers as the days wear on. The weather seems to have afflicted my old keyboard. The antiquated electronics are behaving in a strange manner, making the sound I get out of it something of a lottery. Then there's the matter of the gas bill. If ever there was a lottery that is it. They seem to set the payments at random these days. My recent complaint to the supplier has borne fruit. The bill has been reduced to its former level. Phew. Now I can afford a curry this week. My favourite curry house is something of a lottery too. Now they know me quite well. They should. I've been buying takeaways from that establishment for many years, and they smile and wave across the street at me these days. Should I approach them of an evening for a meal, they no longer ask what I want. "Lamb vindaloo, Sir?" Ahhhh... No. Not today. "Lamb biryani, vindaloo hot?" Yes. That's what I want. The thing is though, although the meal is excellent and generally of the curry style, you never actually know what you're going to end up with. Of course it is a biryani, but the last one had mushrooms in it. Not that I mind, it's just I can't help feeling they're making do with whatever bowl of curry is standing idle. A bit of a lottery then? Oh yes. Lottery tickets. I still pay for those,

A 'combination of iron and steel'? Since steel is simply iron with added impurities like carbon, that's an odd thing to say, and really only describing steel with less impurities in it. In any event, our sources say the opposite. In particular, spanish steel is much admired and a good sword is described as being able to be bent over the head to reach the shoulders and still snap back into the correct flat shape - which in other words, describes 'spring steel'. It is true that some swordmakers realised that a softer internal blade surrounded by a hard sheath to form a keen and persistent cutting edge was desirable. Film makers discovered the same problem. In recent years false swords made of harder material shattered easily, and required a softer core to absorb impact. The problem here of course is that sword manufacture in Roman times wasn't at the level of modern material science, nor for that matter, the extraordinary craftmanship of oriental masters. That was why they thought swords made from spring steel were better than their own cruder weapons which although superior to the bronze swords of their tribal past, were not capable holding a sharp edge for long, and being slightly pliant in order to prevent fractures in use, remained vulnerable to battle damage. These considerations, plus the adoption of close order infantry tactics, brought the Romans to the decision that the short stabbing weapon was the best way to go. The length of the sword is also interesting. There seems to have been a cultural trend during imperial times toward shorter blades, evidenced both in the legions and the arena. Noticeably, the use of exotic gladiatorial blades almost coincides with the abandonment of the gladius as the primary infantry weapon.

Roman equipment is usually thopught of as being a standard pattern. That wasn't entirely true, since the arms and equipment were for much of the empire manufactured and supplied locally, often to the extent of being ordered by individual soldiers. The question of how similar Roman swords were is a difficult one because there's only a limited sample in the archaeological record, though in fairness there is indeed a broad continuity, although the shape did generally change over time, with the point becoming shorter, the blade straighter edged, and a gradual shortening followed by an almost abandonment in favour of either barbarian style swords or the cavalry spatha (Like a gladius, but longer, so better suited to fighting from horseback). Iron weapons had been out of circulation in Roman hands for perhaps a thousand years before Chalons. Steel, which is iron with added carbon and a superior material for making swords, would vary in quality. To some extent, the quality depended on how much the owner was prepared to pay for it, but there must have been regional variations or swordsmiths with better reputations. As Kosmo states, pattern welding is a matter for the wealthy. Such swords take a long time to make. instead of simply hammering out a long strip of steel to shape, this process involves that then folding it over and starting again. The idea is similar to rope or a piece of wood. The individual fibres aren't so strong, but entwined tightly, the whole thing is much stronger. The pattern results from the way the metal is folded and indicates a high level of expertise in mannufacture. As to the description of swords making a resounding clang, that 's only true if the blade impacts another resilient metal surface. Since most barbarian shields were wooden and had no metal reinforcement around the edge, it's more likely a hollow thud is appropriate. There are descriptions of post-Roman british shields in welsh poetry of this period which mention the loud cracking noises made by poor quality shields breaking under impact of weapon thrusts.

Building works usually, and so was the case in this instance. Incidentially, I was under the impression that gladiators might also have their throat cut after 'death' in case they were faking it. Just a formality, you understand? And regarding burials, whilst it's true that gladiators were interred, that was a mark of respect by those closest to him (or her). A popular succesful gladiator might be given such a burial, but what about the average criminal or volunteer? Such people were two-a-sestercii and of no great account, having become slaves by their own actions. If such a person was killed quickly, before establishing a reputation as a fighter or indeed forging close relationships, what chance did he have of a decent burial? Funerals and memorials cost money. Now I'm not suggesting the gladiators body was butchered for food and distributed to the poor as happened with beasts, but at least one study in gladiatorial casualty rates has concluded that in Rome burial pits would quickly become overcrowded and raised the possibility that many dead gladiators were simply dragged away and thrown into the Tiber.

Over the last few months I haven't been getting out too much. That's not because I'm getting agoraphobic (or at least I hope not) but rather getting into a routine that precludes it. In fact, the irony is that my need to maintain a job search is requiring a daily browse on the internet and other such things which deters me from taking a day out and getting some fresh air and exercise. That said, hot days are not the most comfortable to walk long distances in the countryside, and rainy weather is a miserable experience far from home without shelter. That doesn't leave me with many average days. British weather is like that. Yesterday I felt the need for a stroll. I took a route round the bottom of West Swindon and back along the old railway path. Nothing extreme, nothing too remote, just some footpaths through open spaces. As it happens, british weather was threatening to get its own way. By the time I got home it was raining. Not heavily, just a very light drizzle, a sort of preparation for the sort of weather one ought to witness from indoors. Of course it came as no suprise. The television weather map had shown a thick band of blue due to cross the country that evening. During the course of my outing I realised that this was now the summer. Walking along the canal path through town I was struck by how overgrown it was. Everything seemed buried in thick green foliage. Okay, it wasn't a manicured parkland, but all those recently constructed blocks of flats in what had been former back gardens now looked like they belonged there. In the space of a couple of years, nature has smoothed the joins. The Nature Of Swindon Passing a newsagent on the way home I spotted the billboard. There are now plans to turn the former Locarno nightclub, a burned out shell of a grey stone victorian edifice, into a hotel. More plans? I can't think of any other town that makes so many plans for the future. A television documentary about swindon aired in the seventies once suggested that Swindon was a town comfortable with its future, but not its past. These days it can't decide what its future is. Or do anything about it even if the planners all agree. When Nature Is Less Than Smooth To hear the news that two infants were attacked by an urban fox in their upstairs room is a shocking development. We all know that foxes are pests in towns and I can confirm their insidious habit of tearing open bin bags and squealing loudly in the wee small hours. By and large they remain shy and retiring from human attention. Maybe not always any more, it must be said, as I remember watching a stunned security guard walking past a mother fox and her playful cubs lounging in the sun on a grass verge of a company car park perhaps ten years ago. I hope the kids recover from their ordeal But to stalk upstairs in the search of food? Thats unusual for a fox. I can believe they might sneak through an open window or whatever to make off with a morsel or two. There's a part of me that remains intensely suspicious about that. What I find incomprehensible is that a fox would try to eat human infants in this manner. Well, if the fox was guilty, it may well have paid the price already, as one was trapped at the premises afterward and destroyed. All too often I've seen foxes both at large in the towns and countryside. Cubs playing in the sun, or following their mothers on their first hunting trips, learning how to be adult foxes. There's a continuity to it which is appealing. Besides which, they have such cute faces. Sometimes it's hard to imagine the havoc they can cause in chicken sheds. Then again, animals vary in character. In the same way that a person might be anything between angel or devil, so too are all our mammalian neighbours. Plus, opportunity and hunger are great motivators, and what mammal prefers to do things the hard way all the time? Whether human or furry carnivore, the desire to sneak and snatch away is unfortunately a natural instinct. After all, bears in America have pretty much lost their fear of Man and now treat his settlements as foraging bins. They are of course big enough to frighten off human beings and they know it. Yet they still prefer not to confront and compete for their treats. If it isn't nailed down, it's theirs. It seems our own urban foxes are learning the same lessons. Who am I trying to kid? They learned that lesson long ago. It seems now they've learned something else, and it is, I'm afraid, a very old lesson in nature. There was a time in Britain when the howling of wolves meant to guard your homes. Somewhere in Wales is a memorial to a dog, laid to rest there in the dark ages, maybe fifteen hundred years ago. A man returned home to hear his dog in a savage mood, his children crying and screaming in fear. Understandably he was horrified. Drawing his sword he rushed inside and cut down his dog which until then had always been a trusted guardian. His dog had remained so, for the man then learned from his children that his faithful canine had fought a wolf that had crept inside their home looking for infants to carry off. The dead wolf was hidden from view behind the bed. And this sort of thing is still going on, in Britain, in the twenty first century. Relax for a moment and nature is right back at work.

I got up late this morning. That headline grabbing piece of news might not be suprising for those who believe that the unemployed are a bunch of lazy dole cheats who couldn't do a days work if you put a gun to their heads, and in most cases, you'd be right. After attending that back-to-work scheme earlier this year even I was stunned by the general apathy and resistance to earning a living. In my case however, it was a late night and a neighbour who decided to play his radio in the small hours. I'm yawning as I write this. Now, talking about yawning, I notice from the news pages that Simon Cowell is planning a world-wide talent show. That's original. Never been doen before, surely? He wants to turn it it into a 'premier league' for performers. Personally I think it's a rubbish idea. Firstly, it's just an excuse for Simon Cowell to get richer, secondly, by its very nature the program will introduce an unhealthy censorship of performing arts. Why do I think that? Back in the days of my youth I set out to be a rock star. No, don't laugh, I was fed up following my father into the same warehouse, I certainly didn't want to follow him into the army after failing to get in the RAF twice, so I suppose it was an attemnpt to be a success on my own terms. Plus I rather liked the idea of being rich and famous. Ahhh... The folly of youth... The point is that as I climbed the first rungs of showbusiness (and believe me, they don't reach very high at all) I came across a local agent. Now it is true that he got Bardiche, a fairly typical 80's rock band that I was a founder member of, into gigs I couldn't arrange myself, but at the same time he also tended to over control things. He was after profit. He wanted his slice of the pie, and as much of it as he could get. I know, that was his vocation, and you shouldn't expect anything else, but a part of me still thinks he was a relatively small time operator who kept a tight leash on acts under his influence such that it tended to stifle their careers. You might argue I stood little chance of a career in music. Okay, I have to accept the odds were against it. But then, Red Jasper went beyond his level simplyh because we refused to let him earn profit from us. Unfortunately, our band manager turned out to be just as bad, and that closed the door on me. Last night I was practising keyboards. Make no mistake, I have no illusions about my ability, but music is something tio be heard and enjoyed isn't it? Seeing as this was well past midnight and my window was open top relieve the stuffy warm atmosphere of electrical gizmo's in an emclosed space, I could hardly pump up the volume despite my neighbours love of loud music. With headphones on, the only person that could hear what I was doing was me. Nonetheless, I was playing, not watching, and you know what? I derived pleasure fromm playing keyboards last night and it didn't earn Simon Cowell one cent. Besieged "He's still got his window open" Said a disembodied voice somewhere out on the street last night. Yes. I have. It's called ventilation. He continued "One of these days he's going to get a visit." Thanks for the tip. I'll invest in a metal cauldron in which to pour oil on the heads of those battering my door down. I wonder if my letting agent will let me fit a portcullis behind the door? Or perhaps dig a moat across the tiny front yard? An englishmans home is his castle after all. Not Again! Almost every day a spider builds a thread of silk between the iron railings that mark the entrance to my home. Every day. It's annoying because I can't see it and invariably I feel it brush against my face as I leave the house in the morning. Full marks for persistence, Mr Spider, but what stupid place to build a flytrap.

It depends on your viewpoint. Since he was the first emperor to target christians (He blamed them for the Great Fire of Rome ad64, rightly or wrongly, and had them used as torches to light the streets), he's sometimes described as an antichrist. Personally I think that's a little operatic, but clearly he was spiteful, insecure, ambitious, very unrestrained, and a desperate attention seeker.

Living where I do one has to expect a certain amount of late night noise. It is after all a main route for people going from Old Town pubs on the hill to the town centre and the myriad theme bars that compete for business, never mind the nightclubs at the extremities of both areas. Last night was, however, exceptional. A veritable parade of late night revellers strolled, ambled, and fell over outside my home, in a series of favourite sing-alongs and comedy routines. I'm sure our civic authorities would prefer that festivities were more culturally based and officially sponsored, but last night the Swindon Midnight Carnival was in full swing. Business As Usual One of my neighbours has taken to playing their stereo at some volume just lately. The problem is that for some reason the sound travels directly into my bedroom and it isn't a welcome feature of living here. Yesterday I kind of lost my temper over it. I dragged a speaker cab into the hallway, plugged in a rythmn machine, and pressed play. A suitably loud (and distorted) soundtrack echoed away to my hearts content. it worked too. The neighbour went quiet after fifteen minutes of mind-numbing 4/4 beat. That is, of course, until they'd realised I'd stopped. Business as usual. Our Turn Next The problem with our special relationship with America is that eventually everything gets imported to us. Coca-Cola, burger bars, hurricanes, guns, sex, drugs, and rock 'n roll. Sadly it now appears that the oil slick from Louisiana is also coming our way. With petrol being the price it is, and the usual south-western prediliction for scavenging off beaches and ship wrecks, one wonders if the more opportunistic members of the british public won't be down on the beach with jerry cans. Okay, it's crude oil, not nice perfect petrol, but since when did a small problem like that stop the british scrounger? They might even help the clean up too.

That's hardly the case. A late empire writer moans that there are no more wild beasts to be had for the arena. "No more lions in Thessalay" for instance. He admires them, he's fascinated by them, but the empires psychological need to demonstrate mastery over nature means that their only real value is slaughter for public entertainment. In fact, the decline of arena combat can be partially linked to the ever increasing costs of putting on spectaculars. With smaller displays (and the gladiator fights had long ceased to be displays of skill) the public were losing interest. The demand for animals had been a huge enterprise in the centuries leading up to this shortage and somelegions even boasted professional hunters who earned income on the side by trapping beasts. One legion in Germania was especially proud of its 'ursarii, or bear hunters. Marginal areas recovered to some degree because animals spread into the depopulated areas afterward, but in most places, the levels of animal population had suffered.