caldrail

Not as fast in armour? The Roman system of roads was built for twio reasons, one of which was to expedite long distance marches of troops. Further, whether armoured or not, if a commander needed his men to be somewhere else a bit quicker, he had them force-march. I don't think armour slowed them down as such but it probably have made the troops a little wearier at the end.

Throw the vendor to the lions, I say.

the large temples are not as prevalent as you might imagine. Most temples are very small and modest affairs, sometimes with a stall nearby or attached so worshippers can buy whatever religious bits and bobs they need to observe their rituals. The larger temples are civic projects financed by the wealthy to impress the locals with their benificence or to impress Rome with your local towns latin aspirations. It had little to do with spirituality. By nature I don't think the Romans as a society were particularly spiritual, but rather that individual superstition was the driving factor. For instance, there's a tale about August at Perugia during his campaigns to defeat his political rivals. He goes to the walls of the town he wants to conquer and begins to make offerings to the gods for success in his forthcoming assault/siege, only to be interrupted by a troupe of enemy gladiators who make a suprise ambush. The pagan gods represented that uncertainty about the world. Would the weather favour your farm? Is that eagle over there a sign? Otherwise life goes on. Notice that powerful individuals psychologically identified themselves with gods. Julius Caesar claimed ancestory from the gods (deliberately and entirely politically motivated - spirituality had nothing to do with it), Nero with Apollo, and so forth. For the common man, the discovery of clean water from a natural spring was a gift of the gods, whereas drowning in a river the act of angry god upset you hadn't honoured him for permission to wade across. Gods were everywhere, not restricted to temples.

It's been strangely quiet in Swindon. I dare say many people like me were up into the small hours following the events of the General Election on the news. I won't bore you with the commentary on the details of our current hung parliament - we all pay television license fee for that. What interests me is perhaps less than the news that the Conservative Party are now running Swindon South, but rather the maneovers in high places as the various leaders jostle for dominance and influence. This afternoon I watched as Gordon Brown stepped out of No10 Downing Street to make a statement. Of course he had to, or else lose initiaive entirely. Although he technically lost the election he still remains Prime Minister with a minority government because the opposition didn't score an absolute majority, and the law says the Prime Minister keeps his job until obliged to resign. Now call me suspicious, but I seriously doubt Gordon Brown will relinquish power as honour demands. For all his fine words in front of the press outside his highly polished black front door, he doesn't want to give up, rather like a spoilt child who's now expected to pass on a borrowed toy. In fact, whatever the news commentators have said, Gordons Brown statement really didn't say anything at all, and I watched him walk back inside No10 with his head down and no urgent questions or applause to follow him. Meanwhile David Cameron manoevers for power, forming his reserve government and clearly pressing for official status, whilst Nick Clegg of the Liberals waits to decide which side to back, essentially holding the balance of power. This sort of thing reminds me of the plots and skulduggery of powerfiul samurai warlords, only in this case razor sharp swords are not an option, and I suspect most politicians aren't quite so good at martial arts, never mind dressing in black and scaling walls to poison their enemies in the dead of night. But then, is it not truly said that the pen is mightier than the sword? The most fascinating thing is that these events are unfolding around us and we all have a ringside side thanks to the modern media. British politics has never been such fun. I might as well enjoy it while it lasts. I'm sure the smiles are going to wiped off many peoples faces in the near future. Enter The Bunny Forget Jackie Chan... Forget Bruce Lee... Forget wise-cracking anthropomorphic turtles... The biggest bad-ass martial arts hero is your average bunny. I'd like to thank Bill Oddie for enlightening me to the astonishing ability of rabbits to kick each other, and when the time comes to sort my enemies out, I will definitely be dressing my fiercest rabbit in black clothes and two-toed plimsols. J, you are so sacked. Go get 'em Bunn... Red Tape of the Week Nearly two weeks ago I went to the Job Centre for a review of my work placement. Strictly speaking, I should have been advised by letter to turn up as required. As it turned out I had to arrange that interview myself to avoid being without income. During the course of that interview my claims advisor slapped me down like a twelve year old at the top of her voice. But alll this you already know. On the way out of the Job Centre I stopped by the enquiries office and made a complaint against my claims advisor. Since the Department of Work and Pensions have a policy of supporting cultural diversity on any grounds and respect for customers, I felt that was the correct action to take. That was two weeks ago. Call me a little suspicious, but two weeks without any contact regarding the complaint process seemed a little too much like filing under miscellaneous. Time then to take matters a bit further. This afternoon I popped down to the Job Centre and asked the lady whether I could be advised on what action was being taken. Naturally she didn't know, nor did she make any effort to fetch Customer Services. Instead she suggested I went upstairs and dealt with the office concerned. It's called "passing the parcel". The lady upstairs was a great deal more polite and helpful. My complaint, so she informs me, hadn't reached the manager concerned. It's called "filed under miscellanous". Not any more it isn't.

It is an interesting subject. I saw one report on the news bulletins recently in which one expert suggested that because of all the foreign genes introduced to British society, at some point the British will have a 'coffee' coloured skin. Now whilst that might be true due to averaging, I doubt that would happen. I would expect the skin tone to migrate toward white - not because of any racial issue, but simply because the British live in a northerly climate and have already migrated to a general pale skin despite in the influx of african genes since the Roman Empire, due to biological adaption to the enviroment. the possibility of neanderthal survival in our gene pool has been debated before. One study came to the conclusion that the last few neanderthals in Portugal sought shelter with Cro-Magnon tribes and eventually interbreeded (such a cold description isn't it!). Others have refuted it. But if the genes are present - I would have to say that's a few wisps of smoke left in the barrel.

In broad terms the behaviour of worshippers probably wasn't too dissimilar to modern christianity. People back then may have been very superstitious on the whole, but you would have found those who were too worldly to bother with such things, those who paid lip service, those who kept up appearances, and those who were devout believers. On the other hand, notice that in the sources the writers rarely make references to pagan spiritualism at all. For the Romans to admit that a divine being dictated their lives was to make slaves of them - and that the Romans could not swallow. So therefore they were appealing to these powerful beings to intervene on their behalf, or perhaps not to cause them any woe in the immediate future, thus offering sacrifices to help persuade the gods of their sincerety and need. It was a personal thing for the Romans. You entered a temple and made your prayers/offerings in a quiet commune with whichever god you were seeking favours from. Perhaps that's the biggest difference between Roman pagan and later christian religions - it didn't organise them socially.

It's election day at last. Today's the day when the British public decide who runs the country. To be honest, the apathy that afflicts the public has indeed left its mark on me. It's hard to care who's voted in because deep in your heart you just know they're all the same breed. That said I still have something of a soft spot for the Monster Raving Looney Party. Way back in the late 80's Red Jasper played a gig in Devon for them to celebrate their defeat in the polls. Screaming Lord Sutch was there, performing as the headline act, and we were his backing band for the night, pumping out crowd pleasers for two or three hours into the night. The old guy is now gone of course. He sadly committed suicide in a fit of depression something like a decade ago. I like to think it wasn't because we trashed his music career once and for all, and if there really is a heaven, by now God is bursting into tantrums at his irreverent antics. Rather like the Department of Work and Pensions getting annoyed with me because I don't fit their socialist stereotypes, a situation which should raise eyebrows given they claim to support cultural diversity. Fine words but the reality is they want us to be is subservient beggars. It's a class thing. By claiming benefits you're automatically considered a lower life form. That means of course they sometimes fail to observe the respect for customers they also like to trumpet about. But it looks good in head office meetings with the politicians we vote for. I am of course further saddened by the news that Screaming Lord Sutch's belongings went to the auctioneer last week in Cirencester. It seems a very downbeat epitaph to someone who brought a little diversity into peoples lives. One can't help wondering if he'd been voted into office whether he'd still be here. In a sense I can understand the pain he must have felt. People become performers because they feel a need to. As I can readily confirm, failing to win an audiences approval is a very soul-crushing experience. Red Jasper used to play gigs around England two, three, four, even five nights a week, and whatever criticisms I might level at the other members of the band back then, it takes a certain commitment and resilience to face yet another audience that needs to be convinced you're worth listening to. My stars for today tell me that Venus and Mars are on speaking terms in my chart and all is sunny and bright in my life, apart from the glaring possibility that other people might not see it that way. Sigh. It looks as if I have yet another gig to perform on my next signing day with my claims advisor plotting to demean my unofficial status and threatening me with expulsion from the premises if I don't like it. Since this is an institutional thing, would voting for a particular party make any difference? Yes, you can have cultural diversity, but only if you're culturally correct. Ferrari of the Week I see a lot of expensive, luxurious, and obscenely fast pieces of automotive machinery passing me on the road where I live. Porsches, Lamborghini's, Maserati's, and no shortage of gleaming red Ferrari's either. Of course their owners are concious of losing their licenses in a culture where speed is the work of the devil and owners of fast cars must be crucified at any opportunity. So instead of that stirring scream I hear them burble by with a muted cackle. Owners of Mercedes and BMW cruise past in an attempt to gain some of the admiration, but let's face it, driving cars without that air of exclusivity is rather like squeezing into the corner of the photograph just to impress someone. That said, there are Ferrari's and then there are Ferrari's. A 1962 Ferrari 400 Superamerica Cabriolet Pininfarina SWB has just been sold for

Dragon Lady is back on duty at the library and already one man is risking life and limb by making a phone call to his boss with a mobile. So far he's kept it relatively quiet, whispering responses like "Yes, I'll see to that tomorrow" and "Right...", and other clever answers to demands from frustrated organisers. Oh ye gods, he's finished the phone call and survived! How did he get away with it? Is Dragon Lady in a good mood? Hi There Yesterday afternoon was the moment I discovered my larder had become an extremely good illustration of the vacuum of space. Now it might seem that all I needed to do was stroll down to the supermarket and replace my empty ration cupboard with the bounty of goods available on special offer, and you'd be right, but the matter is complicated by the works going on in Regent Street, our main shopping centre. It started just after christmas, with some minor holes dug here and there. When the contractors finished those, they didn't bother replacing the decorative stonework, just spread garish tarmac over the scar. They didn't stop there. Now half the street is fenced off and slowly they're building a replica of Verdun in 1917. And it gets worse. Regents Street has been pedestrianised for a few decades now. The tram lines are long gone, the road no longer accessed by vehicles apart from security vans and those annoying little pick-up trucks the council uses to push pedestrians around. Instead of a clear open space, the planners filled it with all sorts of obstacles. Seats, trees, internet access points, advertisement billboards, and so forth, such that pedestrians are left with exactly the same space to walk along that they had before the street was closed to traffic. So now these works are ripping up what's left. I huffed, puffed, and pushed my way along the crowds of afternoon shoppers. Passing the department store where I'd worked earlier this year I saw Miss A, relaxing outside during her break. Hi there! She smiled at the reminder I still exist. The chap stood next to her grimaced at the interruption to his attempt to charm the knickers of her, and I waved cheerily. Almost makes you feel wanted. Election? What Election? The General Election takes place tomorrow. I just thought I'd remind you all in case any of the news coverage hasn't reached you. I notice that Simon Cowell has been praising this chance to choose a new government. From X-Factor to X-In-The-Box. For the first time, I actually like what he said. But quite why we need him to tell us the obvious is beyond me. Is it just me or has Simon Cowell been wheeled out to persuade disinterested Brits to bother turning up and registering their vote? After all the polls and detailed analysis of the run-up to what seems to be a very dull election, there seems to very little urgency about it at all. As for me, I look out the window, see the hazy sunshine and cool breeze, and wonder if I might be better off enjoying the countryside. After all, the lesson of the last year in British politics is that our politicians are a worthless lot, whatever they're promising us. Sorry Simon, your word is not going to persuade us. Maybe you should offer a prize or something? You know about that business more than I do. All I know is whoever gets into power is going to pee me off with stupid initiatives designed to make us believe they actually want to make our lives better and send us the bill the year after. Oh dear... I'm getting pessimistic. No, this is a chance to choose another star studded government...

"Why don't you revert?" My mother asked me after I'd inadvertantly whinged about what a cruel world I live in. Revert? What do you mean 'revert'? "Oh" She said with that air of confidence I would receive a revelation of commonsense as she defines it, "Go back to being Mister..." For my mother it's a matter of self esteem. She all but admitted that during our conversation. It isn't really a matter of status because she would never accept I was above her in any case, regardless of legal and social issues. Instead she has always taken great delight in popping peoples bubbles. To her, my title is an obstacle to becoming a christian, something she desires above all else. Whilst I have the title and insist on its use, I must by definition have some sense of self worth. If I lose that self worth, then surely I would turn to God or Jesus in despair at my failures in life? Why would I turn to something that I have no faith in? What she fails to grasp is that I don't believe in christian mythology at all. To me it isn't real, just a fabricated belief system designed to create social order and obedience. For her that system is perfect. She is, without doubt, the most joyless character I've ever known. Everything is about duty in her mind, and my failure to adopt the christian faith is something that rankles and continues to make her seek ways to persuade me otherwise. So blinded by her own faith, and indeed, ego, she fails to realise that all she's done is demonstrate how false christianity is. I've spoken many times about how the church always attempts to assume the moral high ground when in fact for the majority of adherents it serves as little more than an excuse to assuage their guilt for their very human sins. Don't just believe me, ask the Pope. Why would I turn to something that attempts to denigrate me? To crush me underfoot? It is interesting that there's been a sudden wave of resistance against my use of Lord, a title I hold legally. Someone doesn't like it obviously. But like many influential people with an axe to grind, that person doesn't speak to me, but instead has obedient associates make life difficult until I surrender my principles. In my mothers case, she clearly doesn't see me as anything more than a naughty child that needs to see the error of his ways. As I left my parents house on sunday, she said "Remember you're my son". Being an adult of sound mind and with legal rights and opportunities, I don't like the inference. There was a Roman writer called Cassius Dio. When I read his histories of the society he lived in, I noted that he continually mentions men being made slaves of. At first, I thought he meant literally, with these unfortunate victims being dragged off in chains. No, that's wrong. He meant people being made to act in some elses name, forced to cast aside their beliefs and principles and darn well do as they're told. But then - My mother wouldn't waste her time reading Roman history. She wouldn't understand any of it. Because it doesn't fit her own ideas of how the world should be. Her attempts to convert me are not based on moral or spiritual superiority, but spite and vanity. I find it somewhat ironic that she is, in effect, doing the devils work in the name of Christ. My mother hovers like a vulture, waiting to pounce on my dying individuality. It is therefore for me a question of free will. She doesn't like my right to choose alternatives. I imagine she didn't like what I said about that either. On A Lighter Note My struggle for self-determination is a bit wearisome. So lets forget that for a while. I have another four job applications to make today. The sun is shining, the man in the library who groans loudly periodically has left, the other guy has been told to switch off his mobile phone, and the little brat downstairs has been refused permission to do whatever he wanted to. So at least I'm not alone!

So much for drizzle. We had a right downpour yesterday afternoon. The weather is the same today, a grey day with a sense of dampness in the air. Certainly there's some great piles of darker cloud in the vicinity threatening to make my day wetter than planned, so my trip to the supermarket is starting to look risky. Hey, that's life in the wilds of Darkest Wiltshire. I find the habits of Swindoners a little odd when confronted with changes in weather. We seem to be a few days behind, continuing to wear clothes more suited for sunny days and then adopting more rain-worthy apparel when the sun returns, no doubt having realised at last that occaisionally we might get wet. Umbrellas appear in sudden tides of fashion for a day or two. Those in hoodies get soaked by rain or sweat either way, because they do so love their anonymity. As for me I just get soaked because I didn't bother looking at the weather report. A Tale Of Two Burgers Thursday night and my rations have not contained the hunger I feel. I could save money and indulge in another dry sandwich.... No, I can't face another slab of foam rubber and yeast. This does mean spending some money of course, but there's only so much bread and water you can consume before you realise you've become a prisoner of your finances. So off I trot, to the takeaway across the road. The turkish lads are, as always, all smiles. They do love a good customer. Anyhow I ordered my cheeseburger and with his usual display of turkish service, he asked me if I wanted cheese with that. Yes. Yes I do. I like cheese on my cheeseburgers. This isn't the first time he's done this and I suspect it won't be the last. With a smiling apology he handed me my seriously unhealthy but seductive snack and away I went happy as larry. Yum... Good burger this... Friday night and I face the same problem. Only this time my bread is twenty four hours drier. Another burger? Okay, just this once. I resolved to buy the bottom bargain basment model, the one with a slab of processed cow and other stuff in a toasted bun. No sauce, salad, or cheese. This evening I will take my burger straight. I am not afraid. The turkish lad flipped the processed cow over on his hotplate and asked me if I wanted anything on my burger. No. No I don't. Just an ordinary burger in an ordinary bun for a low low price special offer. Somehow he didn't really understand what the problem was in piling food into a small carton with a shovel, but there you go. I paid my cash, and waited for the meal to finsih its chemical reaction and become halfway edible. He was distracted by more customers arriving. A jolly bunch, made sociable by copious alcholic drinks and luckily they managed to save one of their merry group from altering his nose on the floor. So I was served by another turkish lad. They all look the same. They really do. Is there a cloning facility in Istanbul? Even the chap who serves kebabs down the hill, a young turk, claims there are too many turks. But I digress. The youngster started assembling my meal and he too looked confused by the stark bareness of merely a burger in a bun. "You want something on this?" He pleaded with me desperately to improve the culinary appeal and creative artistry of my intended snack. "Salad? Cheese?" Oh go on then. Put some stupid cheese on it. He beamed with delight and handed me my cheeseburger, obtained legally at a 20p discount. I strolled home, negotiated the drunks and drivers, and set about polishing off my meal. Yum...Great burger this...

That depends. If the 'knights' were sarmatian cavalry in Britain then it might not be quite right, but at least preserves the correct feel. Certainly the helmets were wrong since they were old fashioned attic-style jobs which had gone out of use centuries before and even then reserved for ceremonial use. If the theory about sarmatians is wrong (and I believe it is, since foreign horsemen are not mentioned in the sources of the period and this theory seems to be merely an attempt to reconcile history with medieval fiction) then no, the image is hopel;essly wrong. The only possible guides to the corrct appearance of dark age Romano-British cavalry are archaeology and contemporary literature. I included a possible description of the Romano-British army at the battle of Mons Badonicus gathered from welsh poetry of four or five hundred years afterward, but there's little to guide us apart from that tradition. http://www.unrv.com/forum/index.php?showtopic=10750

Not to be outdone by the recent weather in California, a dramatic if understated outburst of dampness took place yesterday afternoon. Our first rain in ages! A very light and persistent drizzle that was a refreshing change from all the good weather we've been... What am I saying? One benefit of the lightly damp evening was an absence of late night revellers entertaining us with drinking songs and impromptu boxing matches, but very considerately the local police prevented us from boredom by passing my house sounding their siren. Okay, you got a mention. Can I go back to sleep now? And what happened to that unseasonal warm weather we were promised? It might not be actually chilly out there, but it ain't exactly warm. Today is one of those indifferent days. A carpet of lumpy white and grey cloud obscures the sky yet fails to completely douse the sunshine. This is a day to do stuff, life all those outside repair jobs for instance, rather than incinerate burgers on a barbeque on the back lawn. Not to worry, burgers are apparently poisonous, and if you thought salad was good for you... Eating Is Bad For You After all the health scares about what we eat I couldn't help noticing the news that an elderly Indian man is being studied after claiming he's gone the last seventy years without food and drink, relying on meditation. It does sort of beggar belief that you get around bilogical requirements simply by thinking about it, but I also sort of think maybe he needs to get out a little more. Life without good food? Unthinkable. Life without cider? I cannot comprehend the merest possibility of speculation on how awful that would be. On the other hand, with food prices going up, he gets to live pretty darn cheaply. What to do? Decisions, decisions... No, I have to think about that a bit more. Thinking About The Sales Pitch The last of the televised debates between the three top contenders for the general election due in a weeks time has been aired. As someone who didn't bother watching any of them, why were three programs needed? Surely one big bust-up was more than adequate? The reports I've seen in the media are pretty much what you'd expect. Nick Clegg of the Liberal Democrats wants us to know that they have policies. Gordon Brown of the Labour Party wants us to know that they haven't. David Cameron wants us to know that he he has lots of policies and hopes to have them thought out by the time we elect him. A pretty typcial election then. Of course being politicians all the "We're here to help you" speeches don't cut much ice with pessimistic potential voters like me. If everybody had delivered on their promises before I'd be blissfully happy owning my own home in a pedestrianised paradise where poverty, ignorance, and hospital waiting lists are a thing of the past. If you think about it, how much of these messianic political squabbles we get every few years actually make any difference? Labour have already proved we're voting them into office to get rich even quicker. Shall I vote? Or not? Truth is none of them seem particularly impressive specimens right now. Other People Thinking About Things NASA are considering which of their 28 missions to discover life on other planets should go ahead. A little tip gentlemen. Cancel the Swindon mission. Just thought I'd save you some expensive disappointment.

Osprey do a book on late empire cavalrymen that might help you [url="http://www.ospreypublishing.com/store/Late-Roman-Cavalryman-AD-236

Have you seen this? http://uk.news.yahoo.com/4/20100428/twl-ex...on-41f21e0.html I'm sorry, but this really does encapsulate everything I despise about religious obsession. Okay, they found a lump of wood on Mount Ararat dated to around 4,800BC. So what? That doesn't mean it was part of an large wooden sailing ship grounded on a high mountain by receding flood waters. This isn't even archaeology, it's just dogma, pure and simple.

The nature of legions at this stage had changed somewhat though still recognisably Roman. However, a legion wasn't a regiment in a national army in quite the same way as we see today, though it had developed closer to our concept in that the Romans had for some established five armies under whom units were allocated. Hiowever, the idea of the legion was that is was a brotherhood, a familia for soldiers, and whilst eroded by foreign practice and some lapses of tradition, not to mention an increasingly expedient method of recruitment, the individual soldiers were expected to remain as part of a legion they join. Men were sworn to serve certainly but their immediate loyalty was to their legionary commander as their patron and representative of Rome. Transfers from one unit to another in the modern sense did not occur. If a man was a problem case, you didn't trabsfer him, you simply punished him again, more severely until he gets the right idea. The Romans were very keen to avoid soldiers serving in their home country for security reasons which was bound to happen if transfers took place at their request. In any case, by this stage of the empire many units were tribal formations brought under the Roman banner to serve as mercenaries with their own commanders, and thus the loyalty of these men was to their chief and his ability to provide for their living whilst serving Rome and not actually to the state.

Yesterday afternoon I made my way home through that familiar alleyway that riuns along the old college site. It is something of a rubbish tip, a place for personal drug deals, and even sometimes the odd bonfire or two. The discarded clothes, rotting wood, rusty springs, smashed plastic shells of consumer electronics, incomplete graffiti, and broken bottles and stones are something I've wearily become used to. As I leaned forward to avoid the ever-increasing expanse of foliage, the troughs dug by urban wildlife to get under fences, it was with something of mixed emotions that I realised it was coming to an end. The old college is due to be finally demolished in autumn. A new shopping mall is to replace it. I'd spotted the display in the library foyer and wondered what all those 'suits' were doing, milling around in even-pitched conversation. So when I'd finished adding the previous blog entry I went across and began enquiring about the plans on public view. The old development was a glass tower farago, hopelessly awful, but this new one was much more understated. I found it hard to fault. The news that the top of three level car park would still beneath the yard outside my home was a pleasant suprise. This was a development intended to fit in, rather than dominate the skyline, and I approve. I also notice that some of my comments reached the pages of this mornings local paper. That's the trouble with speaking out... You never know who's listening... But back to the alleyway. In the new scheme it will no longer be a dark haven of urban squalor, but the edge of an open space. Paved, lit, brought into the 21st century kicking and screaming. The trouble is the developers can't find out who owns it. End Of A Politicians Image Also in the pages of the local paper is the news that our Prime Minister, the ever-clumsy Gordon Brown, has been to Swindon and has spoken of its importance in the coming economic recovery. Recent events do make you wonder what he said when he got back inside his limmo to go elsewhere in swift scheduled progress. We have immigrants here too.

For some strange reason I seem to have been co-opted as the local guide. Some guy stops me in the high street and asks where the supermarket is, even though his friend already knows and can't get a word in edgeways. Another chap wants to know where a certain solicitors office is. A lady stops me in the street and I confirm she isn't lost. I'm thinking of selling guided tours of Swindon. Or perhaps there's an opportunity to make a living exploiting the rich variety of wildlife and colourful grafitti to be found here? Swindon Safaris... Hey, all I need is a pair of shorts, a hunting rifle, and a land rover with big tires and my fortune is made. Unseasonal Weather We're being warned that even hotter weather is due to arrive in the week ahead. Ye gods if it goes on like this I'll have to start wearing tee shirts. I did see a black a few days ago waiting for a taxi at the car park next to the Brunel Centre, our local shopping mall. He was dressed entirely in black, his long leather jacket shining in the afternoon sunshine. Of course it goes goes without saying his head was shaven and his expression hidden mysteriously behind dark shades. An image certainly, but one might argue it wasn't cool in this weather. No wonder he was stood still patiently. he would have drowned if he'd moved a muscle. Either that or he was already dead from heat prostration and was too street-credible for anyone to notice. Sweaty Nights Last night it was too much. The warm air had filtered up into my ordinarily chilly flat and it was becoming uncomfortable. This is the end of April for crying out loud - what's going to happen in late August? Anyway I opened the window and did my best to cope. All the traffic noise outside gradually subsided as the night wore on. The people across the street from me are too weary from the heat and for once seem unwilling to provide another demonstration of how to make sex as boring as possible. The girl downstairs has finally recovered from her emotional upset, and the cries, yells, wails, sobs, and banging of furniture has quietened down. All is reverting to the silence of a Swindon nighttime... So inevitably along come a bunch of anthropoids fresh from their watering holes and as always seems to happen, stop outside my house to socialise in loud hoots, pick fleas off each other, and genrally get involved in a lot of male bonding. Yes, I can hear you... But they give up and wander off in silence as is the standard behaviour of Homo Bozo. Now it's peaceful and quiet. So I'll get some shut eye until a late night reveller decides he fancies driving home in my car and discovers to his dismay his car thieving skills are not sufficient to breathe life into it. Guess you'll have walk home, sonny. Oh if only it was raining...

Also, the optimistic comparisons above are based on a society wide adoption principle. Archaeological evidence confirms that mostly water driven machinery was created by the Romans, but not all of them. In other words, any technological advances were local in scope (though there were exceptions, like concrete, but that might be argued to be a 'secret' that got out). As I mentioned above, the communication of ideas in a culture that based its dynamism on ruthless competition is hardly likely to share ideas on an open forum (pardon the pun). Further, since the patrons were not investing in new ideas, being essentially conservative image concious politicians, there was no background of financial backing. Technology didn't stagnate - it never really caught on.

Right then. Another day, andother blog entry. A quick browse of the internet news site reveals the usual outbursts of optimism from politicians and malicious violence from maladjusted mental cases. You know, all these near-fraudulent promises and murders make you feel a bit tired of the world. How could you possibly tire of day after day of sunshine, put-downs by pompous claims advisors, and the endless red tape of DIY benefits processing? I think you need a certain level of detachment. As horrible as life sometimes is for other people, there's a point beyond which caring about other peoples circumstances really does nothing for you. That isn't because I could help them, but rather a sense of frustration that I can't. So today I must help myself. Having checked my bank statements and so forth, I went straight to the job centre. Long queues are a thing of the past and I must admit, service is somewhat quicker than even a few years ago. The lady at the desk smiled robotically at me as I approached. It's a learned response, an instinctive reaction to seeing a dole seeker before her. Remain patient, Caldrail... I explained the woes afflicting me. Today is the day my housing benefit gets frozen and I have no proof of Jobseekers Allowance, my only official income. She smiled back at me robotically, but apart from that showing no sign of life. With some irritation I pointed out that I'd need proof to claim my benefits. Suddenly she realised she was expected to do something, and lacking the necessary procedures logged in her mental database, she wandered off to find someone who might know what the heck I was talking about. As it turned out she did exactly that, and a polite gentleman sorted my proof letter for me no problem whatsoever, whilst my less polite claims advisor was passing behind on the way back from her cigarette break, no doubt incensed that I was not abasing myself at her desk for this morsel of financial aid. Then off to the council offfices. There's a large banner over the enquiries desk - Swindon Direct - Passionate About Service - and so I must wait... Waiting... Somebody just moved from one foot to the other... Waiting... One assistant is filing papers in a desk... The queue is now three times longer... Waiting... Uhh? What was that? Oh! My turn! As usual I receive a numbered ticket and wait for my number to come up. The excitement is palpable. But unlike most of my visits there, my number was called almost immediately. I'd like to think my noble title won me instant service - somehow I doubt it. Peraps I should have bought a lottery ticket this morning instead. Letter provided, receipt stamped, I'm a happy little claimant all over again. Life goes on. Life Making Itself Heard Occaisionally I find myself desperate to find a certain book at the library. The staff are always helpful and concientious, and although the epic quest lasting three months filed to turn up the exotic and now extremely rare book on dark age conquest in southern Britain, usually they suceed admirably in finding the stuff I need. My sudden move to the enquiries desk upset a baby. It burst into fits of vocal anguish, and the efforts of it's owner to silence it may have been heroic but ultimately fruitless. Hi... I'm looking for (*WAAAAAH!*)... Book on (*HI-HI-WAAAAAH!*)... The librarian smiled patiently throughout the discovery of speech going on behind me. I guess toys, milk bottles, and bouncy games don't please everyone. With a bit of luck I'll complete todays quest for litaerary satisfaction some time this afternoon... Might even get to enjoy some sunshine too. DING! Sounds the tannoy. A female voice wearily tells us that "The fire alarm will now be tested and will sound for a short period. There is no need to take any action. Thank you" WEEE OOOOH WEEE OOOOH WEEE OOOOH WEEE OOOOH WEEE OOOOH "This is a fire alarm" Says the recorded voice in upper class officer accent, as if I actually needed to understand what was going on. Oh at last. It's finished. Right then, back to chapter three, What To Do When Bullied By FIre Alarms WEEE OOOOH WEEE OOOOH WEEE OOOOH WEEE OOOOH WEEE OOOOH "This is a fire alarm, please leave by the nearest exit."

Incorrectly, I'd imagine, but it's interesting that they do. Rather as if the need for a motto to have existed is important. Must be a part of human psyche in some way, which does indicate that Romans did indeed use motto's in much the same way as we do today. Okay maybe that's hardly scientific evidence but I also notice the Roman sources don't advertise motto's. Does this indicate they were little used? Or that they were so commonplace as to escape mention? Or are the writers above that sort of thing and find it unimportant, given they're describing the lives and events of movers and shakers as opposed to the grunts, who usually get only get a mention shortly before some nasty retribution happens?

SPQR was the official name of the Roman state. Not a motto, surely?

Well would you believe it? Stephen Hawking, one of the worlds most foremost scientists, has announced that aliens almost certainly exist and that we shouldn't meet them because they'll be horrible to us and nick all our resources. Joking aside, I agree the risks of cultural shock are very real and as I've written a couple of times in the past, contact with more powerful and sophisticated civilisations isn't such a good thing. I also note that it's taken until now to for Mr Hawking to reach that conclusion thus I can justifiably claim to be cleverer than he is. I am ahead of his time. In fact, Mr Hawking uses real-world analogies to make his point, quoting the example of the european conquistadors arriving in central america. He might also have pointed at the kago cults of the pacific region, where jungle tribesmen build bamboo 'radios' to contact the 'iron birds' that bring food and other good stuff, having experienced the logistics of world war two for themselves. Now as for Hawkings idea that these creatures would be nomads on vast interstellar ships, I have to say that's merely imagination however convenient it may seem to his ordered mind. There are any number of other possibilities, and as I'm sure he'll admit (seeing as he wants to remain gainfully employed), we don't know everything yet. I know there are people who believe aliens are already here, visiting for the purposes of barbeques and abductions in the name of experiment and erotic sex, and that Area 51 is where we get our own back on them for doing that, but apart from lots of special effects in the skies there really isn't any hard evidence. So one theory dating back to the eighties is that clever and paranoid aliens have built robotic starships packed with terrible weaponry that home in on any sign of civilisation and remove their potential rivals with big ray guns. So that's why we don't get any answers to our our hails (besides the huge distances and times these electromagnetic messages must traverse). All the recipients are already zapped. Oh yeah. I forgot. Didn't the Maya predict the end of the world in December 2012? Well they should know. They've suffered it once already at the hands of the Spanish. More Aliens Ridley Scott is to make two prequels to the Alien films. He's working on the first already, and in it we get to find out who the 'space jockey' in the original film was. Get a move on Ridley. The world ends in two years.

Islamic nations prior to the crusades were indeed regarded as centers of science, philosophy, and art. They were also justifiably shocked by the behaviour of the christian invaders. Nonetheless, this cultural pinnacle would only apply to a minority of the population and concentrated in certain areas, leaving the rest of islamic populations as somewhat less enlightened - just the same as anywhere else. The moslem turks of the time were after all responsible for the problems that forced the frustrated Emperor Alexius to write to the Pope asking for military aid. Well... He certainly got some... As for working together, they simply didn't. Faced with huge civil and logistical problems in absorbing so many foreign migrants in one go he had the lot shipped across the Bosphorus as soon as possible and pushed on their way, where the less than sophisticated turks dogged their every weary and heat exhausted step. Further, the byzantines at least once captured objectives from the crusaders, not the moslems. It was almost a three way fight with the byzantines trying to keep the whole problem outside their borders.

Utterly astounding. Still, it makes one think. Maybe in two thousand years time they'll find a use for the Toyota Prius that will enrich peoples lives. Or maybe not

This morning was for the first time in weeks a typical Swindon day. Uneven grey clouds obscure the sky and the ground is damp from the rain of the early hours. There's a distinct smell that arises at times like this, a sort of grassy odour amplified by wet vegetation. The alleyway past the old college site remains as unloved as ever. It never ceases to amaze me where this rubbish comes from. On a regular basis piles of discarded clothes appear, crumpled and dirty, often with a soiled mttress left in the way of vehicular access. Further along th last remnants of a dead piano are rotting. Beside that, obstructing the cinder path that winds along the grassy tufts between the fences and brick walls either side, I see the remains of a bed. A tumble of rusty springs and broken wooden framing. With spring arriving, the verges of this path will soon be smothered by nettles, brambles, and horsetails, a sort of slum area for weeds to thrive. A Tycoon Is Not Just For Christmas I see in the news that the super-rich among us are getting wealthy again after the depradations of the recession. Unfortunately thanks to the connivances of the council and the Department of Work and Pensions, that doesn't include me, as I'm now engaged in a life or death struggle to prove I'm in receipt of Jobseekers Allowance and thus claim enough Housing Benefit to remain with a roof over my head. If you detect a small chip on my shoulder right now, be aware, it's becoming rather larger. In fairness it may well be anonymous members of the public who feel it is their public duty to rat on dole cheats. For those not aware, a dole cheat is smeone who earns money for work and still claims the benefits for being unemployed. There's certainly plenty of them out there, I just wish the public would realise that not all dole claimants are drug using work shy political radicals with Save The Gay Whales Planet tee shirts and woolly hats. Very sorry I replaced my ailing keyboard with another but that money did come out of my savings you know - and incidentially, so did the money to purchase my poor old Eunos convertible, which languishes on an off-road notification permanently. It seems dole claimants are not allowed to enjoy life. We are, by definition, undesirables whose lives must become poverty stricken prison sentences so the working population can sleep safe in the beds in the knowledge they did the right thing. Remember - A tycoon is not just for christmas.