caldrail

"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.

Look, he still puts my mail in the correct slot for me. I'm not going to upset him

There's been a trend in recent years toward 're-enactment' documentaries. It isn't enough to simply tell us what went on, and show us maps, film clips, music, sounds, and the odd talking head, but now you have to get people doing these things to see what it's like. My own feeling is that you're going to fail, because the only people who know what it's like are the ones who went through the experience for the cameras, and then we only see the edited highlights. There was one where a bunch of pilots were trained to fly a spitfire. The chief flying instructor at the club where I used to fly once met a spitfire owner when he dropped in to refuel. "Why not take her up?" He was told. Some people have all the luck. That said, modern regulations would prohibit me from flying an old warbird until I'd been suitably trained. Flying is none too cheap in Britain and these sixty or seventy year old warbirds are very expensive toys, never mind the purchase costs. You might expect to fork out two to three thousand pounds an hour. That's around twenty times what it cost me to fly. I must admit to a certain envy there, but the whole attitude was very modern day, with none of the 1940's demeanour from the officers. Everything was done in a sort of chummy, personal manner, without any air of authority at all. As living history it just didn't convince. Last night they did World War One, getting two expert pilots to fly old wood and canvas planes to 'see how it was'. Having a young woman as a talking head was very politically correct, and at least she'd read up on the subject, but she seemed a bit incongruous talking about what was an all-male arena in a chivalrous but chauvanistic era. You couldn't help but feel that she wasn't as worldly wise as the program needed her to be. Standing beside the memorial of Albert Ball in the middle of a french field was a very touching gesture yet one she didn't have the gravitas to carry off. Noticeably the expert pilots were flying these old aeroplanes in a very sedate manner. It isn't that they can't fly - they were once members of the Red Arrows aerobatic team and still fly formation displays - but hearing about Werner Voss avoiding six british fighters and very nearly getting away from them, clearly they were being very restrained. I've flown Cessna's more ethusiastically than that. Okay, they had good reason. These were valuable airframes that were other peoples property. But does that mean you got a feel for how it was? As documentaries go, it wasn't a success. Meanwhile, Back At The Library I knew something odd was going on the moment I entered the library this morning. Where did all these people come from? There's some sort of society meet going on and crowds of pensioners are milling around in conversation with each other. Keep the noise down, please!

I caught up with a program about Atlantis the other night. Finding this program on television was a suprise and something of a coincidence. I'd recently spotted a book on our library shelves that was on the same subject. The book, unsuprisingly, delved into every myth and urban legend ever associated with our famous lost city. Some people actually believe all this stuff. A while back I noticed a chap looking at a book on the secrets of the pyramids and since he had all the appearances of studious intelligence, I made an unwelcome comment about whether reading books like that was really the right thing to do. He of course did believe what was written in it, and we had a long debate about various myths and realities. It all got a bit metaphysical and I'm not sure who won the argument. I think the problem was that neither of us had any pictures of landscape, dramatic re-enactments, or detailed graphics to prove our point. Which brings us neatly to the television program I saw, which included all these things as the female presenter trotted around various places pointing out all the connections that everyone else has been pointing out for the last hundred years, except she's prettier than most Atlantis seekers and had access to a film crew, not to mention some restricted areas. Despite my misgivings I was pleased to see that she more or less said the same things I've been bleating on about for years, if not quite a century. Great minds think alike, as they say. Hang on a minute.... Flies Another blistering hot day to come. It's mid morning and already the air is getting sweaty in the library, the air conditioning intruding upon orur silent internet browsing with an insistent rush, something like a well behaved vacuum cleaner. My thoughts are less on my job search, which I'm pleased to say I've added to today, having sent one application for an impossibly restricted vacancy, receipt of a rejection email, and finally having my forgotten password details forwarded by a company that tells everyone how it believes in customer service. No, instead my mind is wandering and considering what to do with this wonderful weather. I can see the hazy sunshine out of the window. It's very appealing. As always seems to happen in summer, an open window at home attracts a small swarm of flies. They congregate in the living room and re-enact the aerial battles over the trenches of WW1 in miniature. Luckily my carpet isn't covered with mud, barbed wire, and dead bodies. Funny thing is though - When I close the window, the flies vanish. Disappear completely. I sense an episode of Doctor Who coming on. Of course the relentless media machine behind the new series continues. Recently I saw that actress Karen Gillan, who plays red head assistant Amy Pond, is voted the best Dr Who assistant of all time, by the program advertisers naturally. Would it be possible to make up my own mind, please? Well, she can act I suppose, but somehow she just doesn't engage my attention. But, as the saying goes, she got the part, so no flies on her. Lost City Atlantis is a funny thing. Plato wrote a story and everyone since has believed the whole thing was real. Certainly it was based on real world events in centuruies gone by, but adapted, enlarged, and grossly exaggerated. Rather like our new series Doctor Who. I wonder if in future archaeologists will be coaming through ancient records of the twenty first century trying to find real evidence of Swindon? Perhaps holo-books will be created on the subject, telling that space aliens founded a colony here. Children sat open mouthed in front of their virtual teacher as the imagery of a powerful railway civilisation conquering the known South West is created by artists. Swindon has long had ambitions to become an offical city. Civic pride I imagine, no doubt fuelled by under-the-table deals. A part of me thinks, like Atlantis, that finding the real city will never satisfy those who want the status. I think Swindon should be allowed to remain a legend. A myth, a forgotten place of unfashionable mediocrity and rainy streets. Why? Because I don't think anyone will take the place seriously, no matter what you call it.

I hate the internet. It all looks colourful, quick, and easy. But no matter how much I try, there's never a version of the interesting looking pages in english, the downloads get filtered out by web security, the online application system sends you round in circles, and the company that requires you to log on doesn't send you the password reminder. That about sums up the day so far. I've wasted tons of time trying to get this to work. Now I've got ten minutes to write todays blog entry. Okay. I'm up for a challenge. Bump In The Night I think my neighbour is getting fed up with my long nights over a hot PC. It isn't that I deliberately make noise but it just isn't possible to be completely quiet, and the edwardian floorboards are creaking like an old galleon every time I move. So early this morning he was banging draws and doors. Okay, okay, I get the hint. Maybe if I put a spot of oil on the floorboards they'll stop creaking? A part of me so wants to try that. Annoying People There's a guy in the next cubicle who keeps making heavy breathing noises, rather like someone who's personal life is entirely devoted to photographs of naked women in anatomically impossible poses. Glancing across the website he's browsing seems inoccuous. There he goes again. Wheeze. Now on the other side is a guy who fidgets. He just can't keep still. Always coughing, gesturing, clearing his throat, and now he's testing the contours of his balding head. Sorry mate, but the brain isn't getting any bigger. More Rubbish More rubbish has filled the alleyway beside the houses where I live. Where is all this stuff coming from? Mattresses, clothing, bottles, all sorts of stuff. I notice some of the clothes look vaguely asian in style. So let me take this opportunity to point out to our immigrants that we have bins in this country to put rubbish in. I know the council and their recycling is a pain in the butt, and that you have to sort your own rubbish into fifteen different plastic bins these days, but please try. Gun Law I was reading on another forum about one chaps uncle, who apparently owns live .50cal machine guns. It all sounds dubious to me. Automatic weapons have been banned from public ownership in Britain since 1937. If you look at the legislation, it's been rising exponentially ever since, and these days toy guns are illegal to sell if they're anything other than cheap lurid yellow plastic. Following yesterdays alarming and tragic shooting incidents in Cumbria, clearly the next step is to ban shotguns too. I suppose there's a case for that. If you don't have a gun, you can't shoot someone. And it would prevent those idiots I passed in the countryside last year from posing and looking macho with shotguns draped all over them. But then - if all these pistols and rifles are illegal - How come people still own them? More Gun Law Israel has done it again. After my comments about Al Q'aedas recent loss I've no doubt serious islamic revolutionaries are howling for my blood and demanding to know why I'm not speaking out against Israel for its heavy handed approach to national security. Well... Perhaps if you didn't keep threatening them, they wouldn't be so bullish. other than that I just don't care, because if I don't get a job soon, the government will shoot me for being a drain on their financial resources. On the Bright Side The weather is nice. And I still Have... Woah! Two mintes left. Just enough time to press submit. Job well done.

play water organs

Mankind is a clever species. These days we can talk to someone on the other side of the globe. We can, in theory, arrive at any point of the worlds surface within 48 hours comfortably. Some human beings have been to the dark and crushing depths of the oceans. Others have skipped across the dusty surface of the moon. With all these wondrous inventions and achievements, why is it we cannot design doors that work? My love/hate relationship with doors is nothing new. Time and again I've pulled instead of pushed, pushed instead of pulled, and on at least two occaisions pulled the darn thing off its hinges by accident. But automatic doors are even worse. I truly believe that autiomatic doors are designed to frustrate the general public. So when it's time to leave the library and go home, what happens? The door sulks. It just stays immobile. No... Hang on... yes, it is moving, ever so slowly. With my recent post about the nature of time, I start to wonder if I haven't encountered a space-time anomaly. Where's Captain Picard when you need him? He never had trouble with doors. And if he did, he had only to ask his engineers to sort it. Wait... Wait... A gap slowly forms and I try to exit by stepping sideways through it. You might think I was tempting fate. You are correct. The door suddenly stuck solid and I bumped into it looking like the helpless victim of mechanical gremlins that I am. This is one door, above all others, that deserves to be pulled off its hinges. But the security guard is watching me struggle with the door. I wonder if he knows what I'm thinking? How did he know I was going to collide with the only architectural feature in the building with a bad attitude? No, that's it, I'm going to make a complaint. Sorry, Librarian, but that door is rubbish. I want it fixed. "Oh. I see. If you have a complaint Sir, please fill in this form" She said. Okeedokee. I'll just sit here and... "Sorry Sir, but that seat is for new library members." Needless to say, there weren't any. Perhaps she can tell the future? More Proof Of Psychic Powers? Now here's a strange thing. Walking along the front of the old college site I pass a number of bushes growing between the delapidated brick wall and the white-painted plywood fence put up behind it to keep out beggars and druggies. With all the good weather, you can imagine how well these bushes and young trees have grown over the last two years. One small branch in particular is so virile that that it droops under its own weight and makes an annoying obstruction on the footpath. No, that's it, the next time I pass it, that branch is being broken off. Too late. Someone has sensed my annoyance and done it for me. Earlier today. How about that? All I have to do is think about things and it happens. Now let's see if I can negotiate that door safely by the power of my mind...

Because he had talent to begin with. Some people do. That's one reason why the Romans considered his sentence a very apt way to pay for his crimes. There's no record of any appearances made in the arena at all, and at the time, gladiators were treated very harshly. His escape was one major reason for changes made in gladiatorial combat leading to the classic genre. I doubt many people people volunteered back then, and in any case, the 'famous celebrity' gladiator was a thing of the future. Trained as a 'thracian'? He was a thracian, by birth, and that's where the confusion starts. I don't think the stories describe him as a specialist in any style although it's entirely possible his owner decided that was a suitable class for him. Going back to the point of the thread, what about Anicetus? He was a freed slave who rose to command the fleet of Pontus when that kingdom became a Roman province. He remained in charge of the fleet under Roman command. When Nero died, Anicetus sided with Vitellus, and so became a pirate until local tribesmen handed him over to the Romans and executed.

There is a sort of innocence about that piece, isn't there? Like we're all shy teenagers agonising over silly details like fashion, pimples, and whether our dream partner will actually respond to our timid approaches. Funny thing is, at my age I long since ceased being worried about it. Hello pretty young woman. Doing anything today? No? What about sex at my place?... Oh, I see. Oh well, at least I tried

That's just it. The cosmos contains no record of what happens. The quantum state of the universe exists for only that single individua frame and then it's gone, changed, another quantum state. It literally is impossible to travel in time because there isn't any. Nobody is certain how many dimensions exist, just that attempts to reconcile physics into one unified law strongly suggest that there are. We can only perceive three. We are aware of the change in the universes quantum state, which we describe as 'time'. Some believe the other dimensions were split off from ours by the Big Bang, others that the unseen dimensions are curled up tight and too small to be perceived. Perhaps the only 'real' and empirical evidence for multiple dimensions, or indeed, parallel universes, is gravity, which is weaker than the other forces in physics by a huge order of magnitude and shows every sign of leaking through from outside our own continuum. It is fortuitous, because if gravity were any stronger, we wouldn't be here.

I have now finished my six months with New Deal, which means I get a new claims advisor, so at last I don't have to suffer that loathsome woman. She tried today to put a vacancy under my nose that I'd already discussed and decided was untenable. When I mentioned we'd already discussed that one, there was a flash of anger across her face. She very nearly went into another display of bovine outrage. Another thing is that recently I applied for a job being handled by a recruitment agency. I really do dislike agencies. Quite apart from the fact they operate as slave-traders to all intents and purposes, they also come across as untrustworthy and very definitely partisan about how they go about their business. That said, nothing ventured, nothing gained, so I answered the phone message left by one of their team this morning. No matter how much I tried, all I got was a 'diverted call' message. Doesn't he want to talk to me, then? Oh well, their office isn't far away, I'll drop in and sort something out. I should mention at this point that the weather today is wet. It's been a while since we've had more than light drizzle, and a uniformly sombre grey sky is delivering its load of rain without interruption. Looking out the window I see the usual collection of umbrellas and soaked hoodies. The reason I mention this is that I didn't turn up dressed neat and tidy. There were two people in the office, both of afro-carribbean extraction. Near the front was a sharp dressed man, shaven haired, spotlessly clean, and clearly not noticing my presence at all. I see. You will hear it said that we judge by first appearances. There are those who judge entirely on appearances. Because I wasn't dressed in a similar manner to him, I was, in his eyes, worthless and fit to be ignored. For an employment agency that relies on people coming through the door for business, you have to wonder at his attitude, but then it's a sign of the times. With so many people unemployed or seeking better jobs, they really can pick and choose. Eventually the pretty and charming young lady sat right at the back of the office could stand the strain no longer. She bounded to the front and asked if she could help. Thank you. However, it seems the phone call I received was dubious. She told me that no-one of that name worked there. "We're mostly women here." She added. Well, I said, glancing at Sharp Dressed Man, it seems he's been put in his place. Bang, You're Dead According to the news, a CIA pilotless drone has killed a senior member of Al Q'aeda. Third in command no less. As the saying goes, you live by the sword, you die by the sword. Back in the days of the Cold War, it was common urban legend that the CIA went around assassinating people, a story no doubt fuelled by paranoia, anti-americanism, and no shortage of spy thrillers in print or the big screen. For once, I'm glad they have. Sadly it probably doesn't make the world a safer place. The job will soon go to another zealot. But at least you can't help feeling that justice has been done in some way.

So was Spartacus, if the story is correct. He joined the auxillaries and deserted to become a bandit and thus condemned to the gladiator school when captured. I should point oput that Spartacus is famous for being a rebel, not a gladiator. He was never trained for professional fights (being a condemned criminal) but was due to take part in a spectacular in or near Capua shortly before he and his fellow conspirators organised their breakout.

It's no good. I'm going to have to wash myself. I cannot tell you how much I'm dreading this experience. Please don't misunderstand. I have absolutely no desire to go about smelling of body odour whatsoever, but without hot water, all I have is a bucket of cold water in the bath which I very cleverly allowed to stand for a few hours in order for it to achieve room temperature. When I was young, I remember the fun I had washing mysef in such a manner during my camping expeditions. With all of us going through our own communal hell, it was a jolly wheeze. Now that I'm dangerously close to being a wheezing old gent, this isn't jolly in any way whatsoever. It comes as a shock to discover exactly how uncomfortable room temperature really is. Rub myself down with a damp sponge... Whip up a lather with soap... So far this is just about bearable... Right, now to sponge off the soap and dirt I've accumulated since giving up my life of luxury... As I rub the sponge on the back of my neck and shoulders the water runs down my back in cold rivulets... Ah.. Ah.. Ah.. Not nice. Don't like that. You know, I think this is what it's like being poor. I so want to be rich and famous right now. Covered in Oil "BP have failed" Announced my father. As he's a relatively uncommunicative person, such a statement was beyond my experience and it took a while for the sound to register on my perceptions. Such a long while that he repeated his observation. Usually I would make some clever or erudite reply and bring the conversation to an end before it becomes a socially awkward monent, but considering the scale of the impending disaster facing Louisiana, I was lost for words. I know Louisiana is a place far far away, a corner of the world I've never been to and if my gas bill continues to rise, never will, but there's a sense of grim resignation about it all. You know there's going to birds struggling to stand up, coated in thick sludge on a blackened sandy beach, no matter how hard they work to prevent this fate. I do actually hope those working to contain this disaster achieve something here. It would be tragic if attempts to avert the damage were abandoned or failed. Good luck chaps (and chapettes). Do yer best. All in all, I think my own cleaniness isn't such a big problem.

What shall I do? I've finished my daily business at the library, had my lunch, and there's nothing worth watching on television for the next couple of hours. Aww what the heck, I'll take a walk around Lawns, a local 'open space', for a bit of fresh air. For a while I sat on the ornamental steps that mark the end of the formal grounds and overlook the low lying suburbs beyond the grassy meadow that sloped away from me. Maybe it isn't the most stiring view to be had in the area, but on a pleasant day it's good enough. So I sat there with my mind wandering, watching the trees bend in the light breeze that carried the scattered clouds on their way. My reverie was disturbed by the sound of an aero-engine. Way off in the distance, somewhere just beyond the southeastern edge of Swindon, a light aeroplane was performing aerobatics. I could hear the engine rising in tone as the plane gathered speed in a shallow dive. There he goes, up and over in a loop. It's been a long time since I've sat in an aeroplane doing that. My thoughts drifted away to thiose heady and fearful days of 1940. I know, but it's something that strikes very deep in the heart of the English psyche. For a while I imagined squadrons of fighters and bombers crossing the sky in front of me, a collective rumble of pistons and propellors on their way to do battle with an implacable enemy. There was actually plenty of activity in the area duringt WW2. Vickers had a factory way off to my left. There was an operational maintenance unit way off to my right, turning newly built aircraft into military weapons. An operational airfield to the north, and a training airfield to the south. None retain their former purpose, most having been returned to agricultural land. There he goes again, gaining speed in a shallow dive, his engine rising in tone enthusiastically. Think I'll sit here a while and enjoy the show. We're Here To Help The gas company guy answering the telephone went from disinterested boredom to a sudden fright. At the threat of my demand to curtail the service, he went to some length to persuade me not to do that. "We're here to help" He assured me. Oh? Really? Something tells me his interest is about quotas, targets, and my payments. She Said Hello? The Malignant Pixie said hello to me yesterday morning. I passed her at the bottom of the hill, and to be honest, I didn't realise she was there. Good grief, that's the friendliest she's been toward me ever..

Not true at all. People were no less intelligent during the middle ages than they were before or afterward. It is true however that the dominance of christianity was not conducive to intellectual pursuit. A religion that demands conformity and faith does not want its literature or methods questioned, especially with so much money and political influence at stake. Nonetheless, advances were made during the middle ages. We see the likes of Thomas Aquinas pursuing philoosphy. We see colleges and universities created in european towns, often with royal support. Agriculture began to develop from the ruin of the dark ages (albeit with a few disasters along the way). Commercial activity restored itself after the fall of the Roman Empire, and we see large scale enterprises forming a crude analogy of modern multi-national corporations. We also see monasteries making the first steps toward industrialisation. Literature is no less represented. It's thanks to medieval writers and copyists that we know as much as we do today about the Romans, and whilst its easy to sneer, don't underestimate the market for fiction in the middle ages. Arthurian romance is nothing new. The medieval equivalent of paperback novels were on sale seven hundred years ago, and the creative impulse to write them ever present. Lets be frank about the renaissance. There was no instant change of heart. People like Leonardo Da Vinci are exceptional, but despite his enormous intellect, he achieved very little other than muse about the possibilities, nor did his ideas have any significant impact on science or technological development afterward, which instead went hand in hand with the ability of industry to supply the hardware needed for these developments. The renaissance had less to do with intellectual growth, but rather the beginning of emancipation of christians from a form of intellectual and emotional slavery. What you'll find is that there are always those in society who want in some way to bend you to their will. I know that sounds vaguely communist, but that's how human beings are. Intellectual thought survives because historically there was no way to prevent people from thinking, and in cases where a regime destroys the evidence of such thought, then the adherents to philiosphy and science merely go underground. That again, is normal human behaviour. There are more modern examples of this.