caldrail

Previously I've mentioned our resident dragon. His party trick of issuing dark smoke from his lungs has got us all curious and earned him the nickname Mistymouth. Today I spotted him on the search for precious stones and knights in armour amongst our boxes, and I decided to confront the creature and demand to know how he breathed fire. I now have the answer, but let's make a quiz of it. How did Mistymouth breath smoke? a - A quick, furtive, illegal, and highly dangerous lit cigarette? b - By living close to the edge of spontaneous combustion? c - His previous life was as a volcano? d - A severe case of halitosis? e - Escape and evasion training when he was with the SAS? Answer at the bottom of this blog entry. All In The Name Miss A has discovered my blog. Well, okay, almost discovered it. She knows of its existence. However, she's none too impressed about being called Miss A. I guess it sounds too prim and proper for her. So tomorrow she will be renamed in a grand blog ceremony and has been given 24 hours to come up with something she likes or find herself given another moniker by default. That, believe you me, is a tough decision for a young lady whose decision making process involves increasing her phone bill by 200% Part of the deal for giving her 24 hours to render herself bankrupt was that she revealed the secret nickname the girls call me down on the shop floor. Sorry, but that name remains a secret known only to department store personnel on the grounds that no-one would believe it anyway. Tough In The Stockroom Some people are never grateful. In particular bosses seem to be psychologically unable to comprehend that people are not robots, nor as well paid or swimming in perks as they are. KS, bless his cotton socks, cleared up the old dungeon at the back of the stockroom today as requested. That was no mean task. Several employees went missing in there some time ago and KS did mention finding some fossils. The thing that gets me though is where did he put all the dust? I mean, if all you do is sweep it to one side with a broom it merely moves from one point on the floor to another. What did he do, suck it all up like a human vacuum cleaner? His life-or-death struggle with dust mites went on unnoticed. Poor lad was moaning about all the dirt encrusted on his hands afterward. Erm... Just a little helpful hint for anyone that finds themselves with a similar problem... Use some soap and water to wash it off afterward. Most workplaces have facilities that can cope with this demanding task. I on the other hand rolled up my sleeve and restacked the piles of carboard boxes again. What is it with people there? Is this some sort of party game where you have to turn boxes around so you can't read the reference number? Or is the idea to try and stack boxes in such a way as to defy gravity? Or are they awarded points for stacking in the most sanity-busting original way? Sadly soap and water didn't cure my problem and instead I had to resort to upper body strength to make the beige wasteland safe for human habitation once more. You would think our heroic efforts would be appreciated, but no, the boss spotted us standing idle and chatting. Clearly that was all we'd been doing all day and the recriminations began. A special thanks to J for congratulating us on our efforts today and for shielding us from the end of level boss. Tomorrow we progress to the next level of difficulty. The Quiz Answer So what answer did you choose? If you answered a you have a logical and very suspicious mind. Clearly management potential. If you answered b you have no idea about reality at all. Clearly management potential. If you answered c then you obviously hadn't paid any attention to geography at school and must have been more interested in sports which looks very impressive in the hobbies and interests section on your CV. Clearly management potential. If you answered d you don't know what halitosis is. That must mean that bad breath is a foreign concept to you, and since you clearly belong to life's beautiful people, you are therefore management potential. If you answered e you have no idea at all about special forces training, or even military studies, and since you must therefore be ignorant of team building skills you're clearly management potential. If you answered f then pat yourself on the back. Yes, it was just a nicotine-substitute thingy that allows you to smoke safely and healthily without anyone noticing, and since you must be sharp witted, knowledgeable, and aware of current facilities to assist sufferers of cigarette addiction, you clearly have no management potential at all. So go and restack some more boxes. Oh, and make sure you can eat your dinner off that stockroom floor.

I've been requested by J to make a full and complete report on the events of Mellow Monday. Okeedokee. Here goes... First Things First Woke up. Still dark. Dozed off again. Woken at the last minute by the noise of my neighbour slamming the door, proof that noisy neighbours can be useful. Got washed, dressed, fed (in no particular order) and stumbled down the stairs to start my short amble to work. Lovely morning, bright sunny sky, but heck it was cold. Dramatic Developments In Stockroom Street It's over... It's all over... The magic that was KS and Miss A is at an end. A sensational split took place over the weekend. I know, it's a huge shock to hear of such a tragic end to a blossoming relationship, but hey, that's life in the stockroom. It was cold outside, and now it's all gone cold inside. As it happens, all parties behaved in a mature responsible fashion and no-one threw tantrums or burst into tears except J, who already knew about the split and was waiting for emotional outbursts to fill in the boring bits of his day (which is most of it). Sorry J. Maybe next time. Feeling Old A bunch of us were chatting and in the course of conversation we got around to J's favourite hobby. No, not the martial arts violence, I mean his addiction to parkour. With lively little Miss L bouncing and skipping around the stockroom I suggested J teach her the tricks of his gymnastic and devil-may-care pastime. "Parkour?" She answered with a sneer, "That's easy." Erm... Easy? Have you seen what they do? "I used to be a gymnast." She shrugged. But now you're getting a bit old for that? My humour is so biting sometimes. "You're how old, exactly?" She answered with a cold stare. Meeeow. Good answer Miss L. I admit defeat and point out that I'm 48 and proud of it. So there. Arriving On A Breath Of Wind Miss L is a little slip of a girl, but when I spotted her hanging off the end of a clothes rail, I pointed out the whole thing could fall over. We all laughed on the basis that L was so light there was no chance of her falling over. She doesn't walk to walk, she opens her jacket and arrives on a breath of wind. She's sometimes late when the wind changes direction. We have our own gothic Mary Poppins. Later That Night Went home. I grabbed a bit of television while I grabbed what was left of yesterdays chinese meal from the fridge (I am an expert with a microwave oven and yes, I do glow in the dark) and came across Animal Park, a sort of fly-on-the-wall documentary series about Longleats Safari Park. I think it was the declaration of a dramatised tiger attack that got my attention. Sorry Kate. But apart from man-eating tigers keying the zebra-stripe paint job on a landrover, I was suprised to learn that giraffes are not as boring as you might imagine. During daytime, they just wander around, chewing this, chewing that, looking splendid but otherwise pointless. During the night, they party. They are literally party animals. The infra-red camera revealed all. So my tip for an interesting late night party is invite a giraffe and turn off the lights. Lets see... Grab my telephone directory... Giraffe Hire....

What a day! Glorious blue skies and sunshine. I'm in a good mood, the young lady leaning out of her upstairs window smoking wasn't in the mood to criticise me when I walkd past, the ginger cat rubbing against the brick wall didn't run away, and this has to have been the quietest saturday night for a long time. Apart from the usual renditions of the 'F' word up until three o'clock, but hey, kids like to play don't they? All those tiny little dramas were played out on the street again last night. Cinderella left her shoe on the pavement, but given her screeching disapproval of her boyfriends chivalry and a barbed appraisal of his manliness, I doubt Prince Charming is going looking for her. Incidentially, there's a fashion around here to pronounce the 'F' word by using O instead of U. It sounds more streetwise apparently, and the use of this pronounciation turns you instantly into a hard-as-nails bad boy. And remember to use the word in every sentence twice. As loud as you can. Use in very quiet areas and late at night for maximum effect, Forlorn and Unloved Came across this site elsewhere. Absolutely fascinating. It seems appropriate on this gloriously sunny day to see pics of another, far away, in a place of sleeping warriors... http://www.dhc-2.com/Monthan_Memories.html

It is noticeable that Roman deities are imported - even Minerva was Etruscan in origin. It's as these divine beings have been imposed upon or adopted by the Romans as symbols more relevant to their mode of thinking, even to the extent that by the late republic powerful individuals were claiming divine ancestory. Our modern neo-paganism movements do suggest a similar phenomenon in ancient times, a sort of competition between established and traditional beliefs compared with newer, more fashionable cults (or even those that had previously died out and were restored as part of a select social group in later times - the current neo-paganism is nothing new in human culture), and even in the days of the Imperial Cult there were Romans who adopted foreign beliefs such as those emerging from Syria, a hotbed of religious invention at the time. An interesting question then is what came before the adopted pantheons? I do note that the Romans tended to adopt deities after their worshippers had been conquered and hauled away in chains. Was an animist faith, using natural characters and phenomena? It's hard to believe that the first Romans were entirely basing their religious beliefs on theor own legend and myth. What I'm getting at is that Roman religious beliefs readily adopted foreign divinities because they hadn't developed their own. Although a superstitious peoples (or indeed because of that quality) they undoubtedly had simple spiritual concepts and the tribal element of the earliest Romans suggests something much more typical of primitive warrior societies. Is this why they deified their own legendary forebears in later times? And why the Imperial cult emerged? Certainly the power of the emperors was evident to observers, yet it never prevented the Romans from removing these living gods from power if it suited disaffected or ambitious individuals. There is in later times then the superstition implicit in Roman culture combined with an overriding urge to compete for control over it. Since even in opur modern day religions exist more for control over their worshippers (and their cash more often than not) than their spiritual welfare, it isn't hard to imagine the same motives existed in Roman times, and tey do note that early christian bishops were not above becoming very wealthy. Was the adoption of foreign gods merely an acceptance of 'superior' or more focused and sophisticated belief systems by a superstitious people without any such cultural foundation of their own, or was it the influence of important (or self-important) individuals who sought to add to their own status and wealth by inviting others to worship something new and fresh?

Human endeavour is a curious thing. A lot of what we do is little more than instinct. Watch any wildlife program and you see exactly the same behaviour patterns that human beings have always displayed. It's just that we like to kid ourselves that we're somehow superior when in private we like being as animal as possible... What? The same goes for war. It's just an extension of one herd against another in competition for something. Most animal species have learned to ritualise such behaviour to minimise casualties and indeed so have we. It's called sport. So a little hint to moslem fundamentalists - practice your soccer skills guys - it's just as effective in making your point as blowing up the enemy team. But is there more than simple instinctual responses? Is there something deeper? As a spiritualist I have to say yes, though I do point out that latent quality is present in all living things, and that usually our four legged friends have better things to do. Like eating, sleeping, and making baby animals (after headbutting each other for a couple of hours). The reason I ask this is a conversation I had back at the programme centre. We were sat around chatting, constructively of course, and in the midst of the chatter the subject of my musical career came up. It turned out that one of the guys at the centre was also a drummer in his glory days, but that like me, for various reasons he didn't play anymore. He added that he'd recently felt an urge to get back behind the kit and do something. I understand exactly what he means. Despite all commonsense, experience of failure, and general lack of talent, the urge to bash the heck out of a drum kit is insidious. That chap described it precisely as a 'little acorn' that grows and festers away until your revitalised hobby causes a divorce - as indeed he suffered not too long ago. The real point is where this urge to play music comes from. You could argue it's simply part of what we are biologically. I might argue it's our spiritual side impinging on our decision making process. What? You want an argument over it? Okay buddy, put 'em up.... The Need To Practice Now that I'm working on my new album (the first in twenty years - you can sort of tell the royalties have run out) I've rediscovered how pigging difficult playing a musical instrument well can be. Of course I can still play. it's like riding a bike - you never really forget, just fall over a few times until you remember how to balance yourself on it). For me the worst thing is actually finding the time to do anything, and that's despite my absence from the workplace in recent times. When you're young, idealistic, and full of enthusiasm it all sort of takes over your life and playing music is pretty much all you do, and the urgings of the older generation to get your hair cut and find a job go unheard. Now of course I'm older. Which means growing my hair is a sign of anti-social nostalgia for my lost youth and that playing an instrument no longer makes you immediately popular with your mates. That little acorn is still there, nonetheless. Egging me on, making me look over my shoulder whistfully at that dusty Marshall stack and wondering if the neighbours deserved a rendition of a heavy metal guitar riff I last played a quarter of a century ago. That is of course a blind alley, one just as insidious as the need to play in the first place, as simply repeating the same old riffs over and over is not entirely a creative process, and isn't the creation of something new and unique the entire basis of art? Looks like I'm going to have to practise....

Welcome back to Caldrail FM, and for those just tuning in, it's a special hello to J, my stockroom supervisor, who's just discovered this blog and is probably sneaking into the office to read it as I write. Hi Mr J. Love the nunchucks. Meeting People leaving work just now I bumped into Sophie again. She's a lovely blonde lady who does all this charity work, where she lulls you into a false sense of security then gets you to sign away all your money for gay eco-deaf children or whatever. By now I'm used to this sort of thing so instead I chatted her up for a few minutes. Her friend is from New Zealand. We both watched him scare passers-by and fail totally to raise conversation, never mind money. "Do you want to hear my spiel now?" She asked nicely. Nope. Nice Seeing ya, Soph... Next week okay? Meeting The Stockroom Boss We don't get much managerial attention up on the haunted top floor, but today, our manager turned up in civilian clothes, looking like a scarecrow in a football shirt. It turns out that he's a bigger and louder looney than anyone else on the premises (including me) and I seriously had my work cut out making a fool of myself with that sort of competition. Nedless to say, Caldrail FM swung it. My constant radio chatter in the aisles attracted much comment. Any publicity is good news. That's showbizz. Meeting The Lift The lift to the loading bay has a serious attitude. It's already tried to kill me once before, crushing me against the boxes by closing it's doors without warning. Today was no different. With an afternoon emergency to cope with our team of selected expert unloaders were assigned the dangerous and heroic task of clearing the bay of everything left untouched during the week. With no other course of action available to us, we had to fill the lift with boxes to take upstairs, and not suprisingly, the lift tried to kill me again. It sulked over it's failure too, refusing to operate. usually I would have said that I'd broken the lift. This time? I got threatened by a psychopathic access facility. Well that just about wraps up todays program... So it's goodbye from me, Caldrail, your host on Caldrail FM. I'll leave you with Deep Purple's hit, Strange Kind Of Cardboard... Strange Kind Of Cardboard I once found some cardboard A strange kind of cardboard The kind that gets written down in history It looked kinda brown Left there on the ground What's inside is just another mystery I want it, I need it I gotta see in it I want my box on the nearest stack I want it, I need it Recycle, and crush it Maybe if I just open it a tiny crack (guitar solo) Newsflash We interrupt this song for an important newsflash. Today was the dullest ever. KS was so bored he was driven to hide my red pen. He is such a child. We ask the public not to panic as the Pen Police have found the missing writing implement and it's been returned to the grateful owner.

The prospect of Work Experience Day is something I've come to dread. Every week we file into the classroom and spend the day wallowing in retro-infant school nostalgia. Needless to say, I was expecting another lesson better suited to four year olds. To my pleasant suprise our advisor, TB, brought out a pile of Mecanno sets and tried to give us a lesson about following instructions. As if I listened. I was too busy enjoying the delights of pseudo-car manufacture from kit parts. The only other person interested in doing so was the guy who does maths for a hobby. Maybe he has the right idea considering he spends the whole day oblivious to our teacher, deeply engrossed in bipolarnomial fractions or whatever it is he does. The funny thing is that his girlfriends father is a maths teacher. One suspects his continued dating of that particular young lady is subject to sufficient homework. Learning can be fun after all. Anyhow I successfuly built the chassis, he finished of the bodywork. Teamwork! Our incredibly sporty looking car (sort of like an Alfa Romeo with holes in the bodywork - for downforce, of course) was a success. And the other two teams failed to complete their project. Maths and Second Childhood in perfect harmony. Not In Perfect Harmony The saga of Miss M continues. After her extraordinary and explicit behaviour the other week I had no idea what to expect. Apparently her paramour, despite seeing her all week, has not yet consummated his relationship. Allegedly. Strange thing is though that however much he denies they're together, they always are. And he has claw marks on his back. Letter of the Week Rather incautiously Miss M wrote a love letter to her reluctant partner. "I love you loads XXXXXX" it said. I know this because boys will be boys and the message was intercepted by our agents operating undercover. Many dole-seekers died to bring us that information... Unfortunately boys will be naughty boys, so the message was delivered to Miss S instead. She was genuinely pleased with the news she had an admirer. Was it me? Nope. KS? Nope. Him? Nope. What about that one? Nope? Then who..... The penny dropped. Of course we all chuckled raucously but they both seem happy with the situation. Errr.... Right.... That's a happy ending then....

There's a chap who works on the shop floor who sometimes comes up to grab stock from us. The sort of guy who's completely grey. He just doesn't intrude on the senses at all, In fact, I wouldn't mention him at all if it wasn't for his party trick of exhaling smoke. No, seriously he does, without a cigarette, dark grey smoke billowing out of his lungs. It looks utterly bizarre. KS spotted it today and we had a banter about this strange phenomenon. Not only do we have a ghost on the premises, but a dragon as well. I wonder if the store sells floppy hats? Either that or the air conditioning seriously does need investigating. Silliest Books of the Year? I spotted a run-down of this years nominated books for the annual silly book awards. Okay... Take a deep breath as Caldrail dons the mantle of literary critic (Which is perfectly legal despite opinions to the contrary - the Geneva Convention doesn't cover this aspect of hostilities). Lets see what people are writing these days... Afterthoughts of a Worm Hunter (DWT Crompton) Most people give up putting worms in their pockets by age nine. The rest write books like this when they retire. Collectible Spoons of the Third Reich (James Yannes) This is not a joke. You really can collect them. Read this handy guide and rush down to your nearest Nazi memoribilia store now! Crocheting Adventures In The Hyperbolic Plane (Daina Taimina) I had no idea that Crochet was such a scientific subject. It's like Star Trek in wool, but without the comedy and relationship stuff. Or any kind of plot whatsoever. Governing Lethal Behaviour In Autonomous Robots (Ronald Arkin) Get this. This guy believes that self-governing robots will be nice to us. Okay, Mister Arkin, we know you're a cyber-agent sent here to prepare the way for your logical masters from another planet. And we all laughed at those fifties space invasion movies. Erm... Whatever happened to the guys who made those films? 100 Girls On Cheap Paper (Tina Berning) Hand made *or* for those who prefer art. How You Are Like Shampoo: For Job Seekers (Brenda bence) You want that job? Forget CV's, interviews, and letters, just send the employer a thirty second video with you smiling at your lack of grey hair. I Stopped Sucking My Thumb... Why Can't You Stop Drinking? (Elaine Bergmann) A story about someones mum. Nope. I've just put it back on the shelf and forgotten it exists. Peek-A-Poo: Who's In Your Diaper? (Guido Van Genechten) An existential tale of a curious mouse in four hundred sizzling chapters with lots of hot gypsies and soiled underwear. It's like a potty-training manual in code. Venus Does Apollo While Apollo Shags A Tree (Tim Desmondes) This is about the sex secrets of the Roman Empire. As if they bothered to keep it secret. Good heavens, they're all at it you know... Sorry, but the existence of Frankie Howerd proves that the Romans knew very little compared to our very own Neo-Orgiastic period. But I digress.... A Tortilla Is Like Life (Carol Counihan) Collected biographies of Hispanic American women concerned with food. Wouldn't a recipe book have been a better idea? Advances In Potato Chemistry And Technology (Lovedeep Kaur/Jaspreet Singh) Wow... Potatoes are taking over the world. Next years computers will be fitted with potato chips for the first time. Bondage For Beginners (Lisa Sweet) Yes... I'm afraid she has written it. Knots and all. Plough Music (David Medcalf) Everything you ever wanted to know about ploughing is in another book. This title has everything else. Schoolgirl Milky Crisis (Jonathon Clements) Everything the aspiring Roman wanted to know about Japanese comics and cartoons without having to invade. You only need to look at the pictures.

See those racks there? I looked at the endless ranks of women clothes stuffed tightly into every possible space. Not even an anorexic see-through nightie could find a spot to hang out. Well, my job was to move all the tee-shirts and clothes with multi-coloured labels from there... over to... there. No particular reason, it's just that managers like to see us working so invent tasks for us to complete. heck, this is like working in the army. So KS and I began our task with our usual banter. In fact, my workmate is getting ideas in his head. today he even attempted to give me orders. He might have a hard-as-nails shaven head, but trust me, leadership material he isn't. Now that I mention it, the topic of conversation (What? Work silently? Pfah!) revolved around how dangerous certain parts of Swindon are. You could get mugged, beaten, even raped, in just about every part of our fair borough according to KS. Erm... I walk through those areas without any problem... Both KS and J looked astonished. They could not believe that I'd not witnessed or been a victim of malignant youths hoping to grab a jail sentence. Looks like I'll have to make do with my noisy neighbours and that idiot who gets off on ringing my door bell in the small hours. KS was busy hanging clothes as I went off to collect some more. I heard the bar fall out of the slot and the soul-crushing thwump of gravity stricken clothing. "Awwww...." Said KS, clearly not impressed, "You did that! You didn't put that bar in right... Look at it... All messed up... It's all tangled up, Look... I gotta sort out each one... Awww this is gonna take forever..." Moan moan whinge whinge. He just didn't stop. I kind of chortled and left him to select a box to sit on while he sorted out the terrible mess. I heard a cry of alarm and another thwump as the box collapsed under him. Never have I laughed so much in a stockroom. We're all agreed that Alice, our resident ghost, has been her usual malicious self. Stock Search Party By this afternoon we'd all gotten a tad bored. The work had dragged on, the banter had died, so when J returned and KS's girlfriend turned up after being dumped earlier in the day, we decided it was time for a stock search party. Without music of course, we're not insured to enjoy such delights up there. The first party game was Who Do You Look Like?. According to Miss A (who appears to be KS's girlfriend again despite beating him at a playstation racing game and making his Male look decidedly less than Alpha) I look like Rod Stewart. I think Miss A looks like a girl who desperately needs a visit to Specsavers. The second party game was How Old Are You?, which was almost amusing because Miss A was the only participant who didn't know my age and was hopelessly inaccurate. She thought I was 60. What a charming girl. She was suprised to discover that I was younger than her mum. Official Announcement Please do not panic. I wasn't stuck in the aisle earlier today, and despite a major pen failure, two trolleys of reduced price stock were completed. Just in case you were worried about the quiet bit just after lunch. Driving Mister Brown A shock horror discovery is that becoming a chauffeur for government officals in Britain makes you three times more likely to have a car accident. Whilst that looks bad (and Bully Brown apparently gets quite impatient with his drivers) it has been pointed out that it isn't always the chauffeur who's guilty of causing the damage. Which kind of means our government ministers are victims of the public trying to save Britain from government policy by bravely risking their lives in suicidal collisions. No wonder the government want us taxed off the road. Ahh! Now I get it! The reason taxes are so high is pay off car insurance for big fuel hungry limousines that are driven by careless and bruised idiots. Either that or they're worried the British public will discover the delights of car bombs. I should also mention the furore about Lord Ashcroft, who doesn't pay tax on his earnings despite being resident in the UK. Now I'm assuming he arranges his financial affairs legally, but it does look bad, especially since he bankrolls the Conservative Party in elections. No wonder the Labour Party are gnashing their teeth gleefully. Now they have someone other than Joe Public to blame after all those collisions on the way to work.

Today was a little dull at work. It always is when you know the weather outside is bright and sunny (mostly because the managers are away enjoying it thus they're not directing your efforts). So I spent much of the day restacking piles of cardboard boxes. Another thrilling day in my life. However, I noticed some of the odd architectural features of the stockroom. The long dark alcove behind the air conditioning ducts. The empty room beside the fire escape that the stairs don't quite reach. It gives our working enviroment a quirky feel. I've already explored those areas already, but KS got curious and attempted to investigate the alcove on his own. His attempt to climb through the railings in a very restricted space rather than climb over them as I did was hilarious. Never have I seen a guy as tall as he is wedged in like that. He was beginning to think he was trapped, at least until he listened to my jibes and realised I was right after all and climbed over the railings between the boxes and ducts. "Err... That was spooky..." He said. He meant of course that darkened space left unused. Of course he's right. It is spooky. There's a sense of timelessness back there, like a tomb uncovered. Anyone would think the stockroom was haunted. What was that?... As if on cue a pile of boxes fell over. Definitely the work of an annoyed spook. A lady from downstairs came up to collect some stock and I made a quip about the stockroom being haunted. "Yes. It is." She said. Huh? "Oh yes." Replied her companion, "The ghost of Alice". Wow. Our stockroom is genuinely haunted. That explains a great deal about the strange movement of stock that goes on when we're not around. No wonder no-one likes working in there. And I thought it was just me! The usual Soap Opera Story KS is back with his girlfriend, even after she broke his bed again. I know exactly what you're thinking... However his former girlfriend, Miss G, passed us both this afternoon and wouldn't talk to me. Erm... Was it something I said? Talking about soap opera stories in real life, have you ever read those letters to agony aunts that the public send in to newspapers? They are hilarious. There was one recent one where a woman slept with two men the same day and now agonises over who the baby's father is. She confesses she was desperate for a child and was only trying to maximise her chances. Congratulations, young lady, a stunning success. Hope you and the father are happy ever after, assuming you eventually manage to pay for the DNA test to settle the issue. Isn't child-rearing expensive these days?

We've had the warmest January ever apparently, despite the persistent siberian snow falls. Is it just me me, or is this global warming thing a complete fabrication? The religious mania surrounding ecological issues these days is getting a bit tiresome. Do people actually believe they can 'save the planet' by obeying the worlds governments and not doing anything? 'Save the Government finances' more like. The increasing number of citizens and their use of energy is forcing countries to build expensive power generating stations. I can see a coincidence here, as Britain, one of the keen members of the eco-lobby, is trying to avoid paying billions to replace old power stations by telling us not to use them. We can't really afford them after paying for all our politicians to spout hot air. But surely CO2 is a greenhouse gas? Yes. It is. A minor one compared to some others and a gas that has formed part of the natural cycle of this planet since... Well... Ages ago. And I notice that the amount of CO2 in previous ages was way way way higher than anything we've produced. Surely all that CO2 pumped into the atmosphere is causing all manner of woes? Like what? It's still snowing in Britain, people! That terrible earthquake in Chile a day or two ago probably released more CO2 than the worlds supply of Dodge Vipers combined. Surely we're to blame? No, not entirely. Any species damages its enviroment to some degree. Remember the 'Rabbit and Fox' graphs you used to study at school? Take for instance the starving populations of northeast Africa. The humane thing is to feed them, to save them from all that suffering, and to some extent I cannot deny them that assistance. The reality is of course that if they're fed, they have sex and produce more mouths to feed. So all you've done is create a bigger problem for the next generation by being kind. I've said this many times before, but the worlds climate changes all the time, usually in small increments but as we see from the geological history of our planet, it does get a bit extreme sometimes. Evidence suggests that twice our planet virtually froze over. Not a few paltry ice ages like the ones we've had over the past million years, but full on global freeze overs, The resulting thaw from these two 'Snowball Earths' produced the perfect enviroment for life to emerge - Warm, shallow seas - and it did, twice, something I note the bible doesn't mention - I guess God didn't put everything in that Tree of Knowledge of his, or was Adam supposed to eat the lot? Hang on... What's the point of forbidding people to eat a knowledge enhancing apple if you plant an orchard of the blessed things in your garden? And God got upset? No good blaming us, mate, you made us what we are. The whole point is that we forget that we're just another species on this planet. We use what we find and when things are bountiful, create more of us to enjoy it. The problem with modern society isn't gas guzzling V8's, endless cups of tea, or turning up the central heating in winter, it's how many of us there are. Because all of us want to use resources like foxes chomping through rabbits. So the rabbits are running out? Oh dear... Have we eaten too many? Quick... Blame knives and forks and tell people to use them less... Debating Government Change With a possible (and indeed, constitutionally required) election looming in Britain, the Conservative Party are using a slogan that it's time for change. Gordon Brown has issued a rebuttal, saying it's more important to focus on 'what matters' and that the Tories would short-change families. What? And he hasn't? What matters to Gordon Brown is staying in power and avoiding an election. What matters to me is how much tax I have to pay to keep him there. Conspiracy of the Week I've just learned that the Ministry of Defence is destroying all new reports of UFO's. Their stated reason is to avoid releasing such data via the Freedom of Information Act. Wow! What a conspiracy! Britains defenses are run by the Men In Black! Hey - I saw the movie, okay?

Maybe the excitement was too much for her?

Now that really is interesting. The religious connations of the cross only ought to arise from christianity in the later empire because before that the cross was merely the preferred Roman means of executing criminals in a lingering torturous manner publicly. But now it seems there was a pagan significance to it, albeit a minor one. Treating criminals as they would a dog? As for crucifying a dog because one didn't bark a warning in 390BC, doesn't that seem a little odd? Animals were after all not human and could not make decisions in the Roman mindset. They behaved as dogs do. But it seems as if the Romans are seeking a cultural scapegoat for their embarrasement. This does of course highlight Roman attitudes to animals, which were regarded as no more than resources in exactly the same way you would view a quarry, although some animals were obviously more useful in agricultural or utility functions.

I have changed my mind. Such a decisive moment in my life is somewhat rare these days, but hey, there you go. The subject of this mighty mental re-evaluation is of course Star Trek. I've always dismissed Voyager as a bit wishy-washy, but after all this time and endless repeats of all the series, I'm starting to think Captain Janeway's politically correct attempt to reach home is the one that's maturing the best. The old Star Trek, the original, with all those iconic characters is of course pure sixties in scope. The Next Generation is looking a bit wooden and staid in places. To my utter horror, Deep Space Nine is resembling a parody of the universe I've come to know as well as my own. Enterprise? Never did grab you, did it? The characters all seemed so... well... uninspired. In the boredom of working in the stockroom alone (more on that later) I pondered how our Star Trek heroes would run the department store. James T Kirk would be facing a massive child maintenance bill and a rapid staff turnover. Jean-Luc Picard would fret and worry whether it broke the Prime Directive to talk to customers before they chose their purchase. Benjamin Sisko might well vanish into another department store for long periods, whereas Jonathon Archer would find ways to achieve sales in the face of Head Office interference. It seems we really are stuck with Voyager Stores Ltd. Stuck far from home in the depths of the Stockroom Quadrant, our isolated team of idiots explore the uncharted mess left by the afternoon shift as they struggle to find a way home... Todays Episode of Stockroom Street Baby Face KS continues to defy and flout the rules. Yesterday he got away with no job searching whatsoever (on the grounds he hadn't turned up for five weeks and needed to fill in all his timesheets - and he still managed to con them into thinking he was only missing four days attendence!). Today he got away with an extra twenty minutes on his lunchbreak. Now, really, these things are sacred to an englishman. Things are not all going his own way. He's broken up with his new girlfriend and is currently footloose and fancy free - when he drag himself from the nearest sandwich bar that is. More Not Working Properly Continuing from my previous blog entry I came across an advert in a performing arts newspaper left in the rest area at work. Remember those 'Come and have a holiday in California' ads where lots of celebrities pretend to be ordinary people and Arnold Schwarzenegger asks us "When can you kom?" You do? Oh brill, because they're making another. I have to conclude the last television advert hasn't prodiuced the desired results, thus the advertising company is now recruiting complete unknowns in Britain to film it. No no no, people, you've got it all wrong. We Brits don't care about famous, fun, or beautifiul people. We just want sun, sand, sea, breasts, booze, and loud music, in no particular order. Good grief, the Spanish sussed that out decades ago.

That's a curious one. It is true that the Romans used animals in some criminal punishments, but to crucify dogs in religious ceremonies? Not exactly a practical proposition given canine anatomy. A sacrifice of dogs perhaps, but I find it hard to accept they were crucified, since cricifixion was intended to be, quote, a nasty 'orrible death... It goes on for hours..., and if the idea was a religious ritual why were dogs veing punished by such a severe punishment instead of being 'humanely' despatched? Still, I might be wrong, so I too await any confirmation.

It's over - It's all over, the University of West England has pulled out of the negotiations to build a campus in Swindon. Those with ambitioious plans to create a city in the likeness of Swindon are in tears, hopes dashed, dreams smashed, plans trashed. The real reason it all fell around their ears was that government funding has been slashed. Whatever happened to Labours election battlecry "Education, education, education..."? The Old College site is to be flattened by the end of the year. It'll be sad to see it go in a way. That horrible edifice has been on the Swindon skyline since as far back as I can remember, and yes, I did my engineering courses there as a young man. How could I foget those production engineering classes on the south side of the main block, sun shining and everyone nodding in a desperate attempt to remain concious while the most uninteresting lecturer ever born droned on for an hour trying to see whether he could get us all to nod off. But no, it's to come down. Where are all the homeless people going to sleep now? What about Mr Fox and his family? Worse still, next year I'll be living next door to a major construction site as shops and cinemas are built on the site. Could it get even noisier on a Saturday night? He Had A Bomb Talking of loud noises, some guy wandered in to the local jobcentre and told everyone he had a bomb (He didn't of course. A real bomber wouldn't have walked up to reception with a silly grin on his face). Cue the evacuation and sudden arrival of a police car. Sadly I missed that having been locked away in a department store. No matter, at least Swindon isn't entirely dull. I suspect however, that particular blokes days aren't going to be quite as interesting for some time. Work Experience Session of the Week TB, our ever patient work experience advisor, finally read out the riot act today and told us to behave like adults or else. So much to her chagrin, we did, and she herself received one offer of a date from one freckled face youngster. Miss M, one of our companions, was pretty much in the mood for that sort of thing and never in my in life have I seen a woman try so hard to persuade someone (anyone) to sleep with her. Her intended victim was of course embarrassed and denied he was interested, so why was he walking away with her this afternoon? Am I envious? No... Not really. She's a little edgy for my liking. Still, at least the programme centre paid for a chinese meal for us all. Hey, it is the chinese new year you know. Do Jae!

A few times now I've mentioned the obstacles caused by old people as they struggle to manoever around the enviroment. Of course I agree that one day it'll be me doing none too well and obstructing young whippersnappers going about their urgent business, but hey, that's life. In the meantime I'd like to record a few encounters of the aged kind. The first clue that pensioners weren't just obstacles came when I popped across the road during my lunchbreak. I use another department store as a short cut to the shopping mall, and along the m ain aisle is a female dummy sat on a chair in the latest fashions. On this particular day, an old woman shuffled up to her and said "Are you tired, dear?" The second clue came today, as again I popped across the road. An old couple were out in the morning sunshine and the man said to his wife "What you need on a sunny day like this is a beautiful woman". Oh? Sounds like the voice of experience. Thanks for the tip mate. More From Stockroom Street The banter was flying this Wacky Wednesday. I have discovered a terrible secret, one so dangerous that lives may be lost if mentioned in public. Of course I can't tell you for fear the security services might be listening, but let me give you a clue... KS might be dating a girl from the shop floor, but he was already dating another one. Gasp! Don't worry, Miss G, your secret is safe with me. And I won't tell anyone you like bald men. Revenge of the Bully It seems the anti-bullying helpline that employees of our Prime Minister had called regarding his overly pushy manner has been suspended. Need I say more? UFO Enquiry of the Week With the latest release of offical files into UFO sightings is one curious one dating back to 1952, when the Prime Minister of the day, our very own Winston Churchill demanded to know ""What does all this stuff about flying saucers amount to? What can it mean? What is the truth? Let me have a report at your convenience". We were going to fight them on the Hollywood sound stages. We will never surrender. Probably why then that all UFO incidents originate in America. Can't imagine anything worse than an abductee demanding a tea break.

As far as I'm aware, the Romans did not use drums in music military or otherwise. I've no specific reference but I could well believe they regarded such instruments as 'barbaric' and thus unworthy of Roman attention, though that wouldn't stop them enjoying an act from the provinces, as a curiosity. A lot is made of Roman signalling but you know, I very much doubt the Romans utilised any great complexity. Even though they were taught to fight in silence, the noise and cbhaos of battle mitigates against sophisticated signalling because it would inevitably get horribly misinterpreted and disaster ensues. In any case, and much to the chagrin of the 'modernist' element of Roman history, I also doubt that the Romans made much of communication during battle. We know that they did, but it's the level to which they went to. It's clear from the accounts of Caesar that centuries were semi-independent, acting to an agreed plan. Caesar is recorded as often inspiring his men by fighting in the front rank, thus unable to command his army dynamically. We also know that senior officers were moving behind the ranks ensuring soldiers stayed in the line - Caesar records his attempts to keep men fighting in this way. The reason I mention this is that trumpets would have had an audible but limited repetoire of sounds clearly understood by the legionaries. I'm not aware of any evidence whatsoever that the Romans used these instruments other than to synchronise previously agreed movements, or perhaps sound the attack or retreat.

We were all stunned this morning to discover KS had not turned up for work. Absence is a dangerous thing on a government sponsored placement. You could end up losing your benefits entitlement (or even your freedom, as one young lady was found guilty of submitting the bus expenses three times over and now faces a criminal prosecution). We were all discussing our missing friend. Has he been killed on a runaway bus, has his girlfriend locked him up as a sex slave, or perhaps more likely, had he gotten too warm and comfortable in bed to notice it was time to go to work. Well, a little later he turned up, moaning about how the bus broke down en route. Yeah, okay, we believe you. KS insisted this was the truth, so we gave him the benefit of the doubt. Then he let slip his day had started really badly. Not only the bus had broken down, but his bed had snapped in half. Erm... Pardon?... He reckoned it was because of his weight training. Now you know, even if like us you don't believe a word of it. Particularly since his girlfriend was happy and even smiled at me today. The Truth About Pineapple Juice We had a long session of innuendo and urban myth in the quiet hours of the morning before lunch. Like you do. yes, I know, but when you're bored and with workmates in a mischievious mood it's all hysterically funny. Now that I'm calm, mature, and sensible again, I really can't write anything amusing about it at all. So it's apologies on behalf of the stockroom team, and I hope Miss L recovers from her traumatic discovery that people sometimes do strange things in bed. Incidentially, we did share a few gags about our resident sex-change person. I know, you shouldn't really make fun, but it's impossible not to. As it happens, KS referred to her(?) as a whale. My response was the she(?) certainly isn't Moby Dick any more. I mention this in case you think pineapple juice is significant and that you're missing out. Trust me. You're not. At Last The snow arrived an hour ago. It's been a wet day, and one young lady apoligised for having wet gloves as she shook my hand in preparation of receiving a charitable donation. Give to charity? I live on charity. But I digress. Safe in the warmth of our local library the rain turned into snow. Is that it? Is that all the snow we're getting? All those warnings and amber triangles for ten minutes of slush?

After the ribald and violent cacophany of the saturday night, last night was as quiet as the grave. Taking advantage of this unusual stillness I gave in to curiosity and sat down to watch the British Film Awards. Award ceremonies aren't the sort of thing I usually watch. After the first few winners approach the microphone and say "Uuuh....", you kind of lose interest. Which is interesting in itself. I noticed that my attention varied in proportion to the awardee's ability and confidence at public speaking. What suprised me was how many 'name' actors and actresses stood in front of an autocue and read aloud horribly pompous and inflated praise in a monotone voice, body frozen in place, eyes fixed squarely on the invisible screen in front of them. Others spoke fluidly, full of natural movement, and to be honest, all the more interesting to listen to as a result. One or two of those and I started cringing every time the host, the ubiquitous Jonathon Ross, made another attempt to make the audience titter. Lots of expensive clothes, red carpets, flash photography, and I've forgotten almost all of it already. Geography For Beginners Every time I arrive at my local internet cafe I see the same thing. The Somali owners help other immigrants sort out official red tape in order to stay in England and claim our wonderful benefits. It gets a bit fraught too, usually over how many photocopies were printed off (I've seen some very creative accounting by some customers) or which document to be sent where, but on this occaision a heated discussion on where Muscat was, and was Jordan a Gulf-state? How odd that an Irish woman put them all straight. Bully In Office? I'm no admirer of Gortdon Brown, but the recent accusations of bullying at No10 caught my attention. Without a doubt it's a high pressure job and the fact that some of his offfice employees have sought advice from a bullying phoneline suprises not one jot. Now, I don't know what the truth of this media story is, but given how long the man waited to get into office and how grimly he hangs on to power, I really can see him as being extremely pushy. His public appearances are always designed as exercises as image improvement, thus in all probability an unreliable guide to what the man is like to work for. On the other hand, to be fair, I doubt working at No10 is a job for the faint-hearted. Bullied? Or simply not up to it? All a matter of perspective isn't it? One might claim however that Mr Brown really ought to have noticed his employees weren't happy. The Latest News From Stockroom Street My own personal soap opera has a new storyline just in. I came into work this morning to discover that J has spotted a change in the Facebook page for one of the girls on the shop floor. It seems KS has a girlfriend. His banter has won her heart, and of course being men we weren't interested at all in finding out the truth when she arrived at lunchtime for the late shift. Luckily for us she admitted it anyway despite our protestations we weren't remotely concerned whether the King of Banter was also a sex god. So, I asked her, what are you going to do with him when you meet up on Friday night? "Pffff!" She dismissed my question with some incredulence, "I'm not going to do anything with him".. Oh boy, is KS going to be bored or what?

In case anyone doesn't know, Archie is dead and Stacey did it. I imagine by this time the whole world has heard about that. Another thing everyone has probably already heard is that I don't like soap operas. That surreal glitziness of working class Coronation Street, that farcical drama and tragedy of rural life in Yorkshire, that irredeemably dystopic world of Albert Square. Those claustrophobic virtual worlds might be wonderful to some people, but seriously, I really don't care what happens. Why would I need a soap opera when I have one all of my own? Take this morning for instance. The image of Sunday mornings is one of placid calm after the joyful merrymaking of the night before. Not where I live. One of my neighbours decided to socialise noisily, thankfully without loud music, finally subsiding from his raucous observances on life, the universe, and everything by around six o'clock this morning. An hour later he had a quick and very loud argument with his mate who had by that time sobered up enough to realise his girlfriend was in the next room, an event he repeated again with his new girlfriend an hour after that accompanied with much banging of furniture. Are we there yet? Bad Boy On my travels this morning I saw the young man crossing a busy main road seemingly without a care in the world, oblivious to traffic, absorbed by the ephemera on his mobile phone. He just strolled across. One car passed him a little closer than he wanted and he gave it a hard stare. Ah. A young man with attitude. He was entering the same side street as me, on the other side, and didn't like the proximity of another car heading for the junction. With sullen temperament he gave the vehicle an indifferent kick. A dull hollow thud that didn't do any appreciable damage. Not suprifingly the driver got to to remonstrate with the youngster. It was a brave effort, but the driver wasn't giving off the demeanour of danger despite his irate manner, whereas the young man took offence at being told off. Gradually he got more and more aggressive, clearly spoiling for a fight, his hands starting to flex and form fists. The driver realised he was getting into a violent situation. He could hadly fail to with the youngster staring into his face and telling him he was going to... well... spoil things for him somewhat, to be polite. Personally I think the reason the young man was so bad tempered was because no-one would fight him. Maybe my next door neighbour could help? Just a thought.

It's difficult to discuss Caligula's empire because his reign foicuses on him as a colourful individual. Obviously it must have been somewhat Augustan, since it was within a generation or two of his reign without any great cultural changes... Or is that entirely true? I can't help thinking that the empire in Caligulas day was rather like the 1960's in our living memory. The wars are over, threats far away, everything is set up and working, people are getting wealthier and happier with their lot, veterans are settled, and a part of society is starting to push boundaries without the restrictions of wartime. Groovy man. If you belong to the right set. Okay, you can push the analogy too far, but I always find there's a hedonistic reaction from extended warfare after a generation or two.

What a gloriously sunny day! Now that I spend four days a week locked inside 'The Bin' as the shop staff call it, sunlight is a rare commodity for me. What do you do on sunny days? I've forgotten. Well let's find out... Sunbathing I must admit, stripping off in these temperatures isn't a comfortable prospect. Despite the warm sun it's absolutely freezing out there. I remember when I was 14 years old I went on a skiing trip with the school to Austria. On the day we turned up there were young ladies stretched out on loungers grabbing the ultraviolet despite the mountain snow. All that reflected sunlight really did make a tan. I came back from Austria so tanned my parents didn't recognise me. At least that was their excuse. Nice try. There was one time I was walking our dog along the old railway line. Although a wonderfully sunny day like now, the snow from the day before was thick on the ground. Out of the shadows it got quite warm, so I was walking along in a tee-shirt. A woman walking the other way in coat and mufflers couldn't believe I wasn't dying of hypothermia. I therefore conclude that we need snow. Brilliant. Just when there's a fantastically sunny day in winter there's no snow to enjoy it. I blame the weather men for my heightened disappointment. Just when is this snow supposed to arrive? Mind The Holes Holes are very popular in Swindon right now. There's plenty of potholes in the road (there's a fantastic one, almost a cave, just off a car park in town. You need a 4x4, map, compass, and Indiana Jones along for the ride just to cross it). More to the point, half the main shopping street in Swindon is currently being dug up. Don't know why, they don't seem to be putting anything in or fixing stuff, just making lots of muddy holes. Perhaps they're after buried treasure? You laugh, but Swindon has a long tradition of smugglers tunnels in the borough, and some of these covert trade links have indeed been found in Old Town, as scurrilous liquor merchants traded barrels literally right under the noses of Customs & Excise in the highly taxed 18th century. Even better was the Great Western Railway. Loads of stuff was put into cellars for safe keeping in 1940. They only found it when the railworks were being demolished in the eighties. Out of sight, out of mind. I therefore conclude that Swindon is the site of a mythical ancient civilisation lost to human memory and very soon we'll see Nazi's and archaeologists going head to head in the race to find the beam of sunlight that points to a hidden secret every year. I'll keep a lookout, just in case I discover it first. The first clue will be a choir of angels in the background. Oh, by the way, they did the car chase last light.

Roughly every two or three days we get warnings on television about heavy snow. The familiar amber triangle displayed on our screens is getting a little boring, especially when nothing happens. Take today for instance. Despite "The end is nigh" every half hour on the news channel, I've witnessed nothing but fair weather. Lovely day out there. Birds are singing, children are playing, the boss is smiling, and I didn't have to wait for a library computer. What could be better? Apart from millions in the bank account and a Ferrari on the drive? Todays Big problem No, not anything connected with work, but my attempt to pop down to the supermarket at lunchtime. It was an all out offensive by massed ranks of old people to get in the way. No matter which way I turned, no matter which aisle I chose, no matter which checkout I saw as shorter, those pesky old people sniggered and blocked my path. Even better, one old person at the library just now has gotten into trouble on her mobility buggy. This one is proving somewhat immobile, stuck in a corner between bookshelves. Why doesn't she reverse and come out the other side? Plenty of room. But no, the old woman decided that negotiating this corner was essential. Bump. Reverse. Forward. Bump. Reverse. Forward. Bump. Funnily enough that's the sort of day I had at work. What a strange coincidence. Age Is No Barrier J, my temporary team leader, is a young wiry chap who engages in a strange pastime called parkour, a fun exercise activity in which people find the most difficult method of crossing town. Nothing is too difficult. They leap up stairs, leap across gaps, leap down from tall heights, and generally get all the thriill of escaping from the Police without actually committing a crime. Naturally I look a bit confused about it because I'm too old to do it. If I tried to hurdle every obstacle they way they do, I would end up face down on the pavement very publicly and very red faced. I did mention that to J, who shrugged and said "I don't know how old you are, but I've exercised with guys aged sixty or so". Really? There are old people who are fit, lean, agile, and still capable of driving mobility buggies without getting out of breath? If only I would spend my old age in such good condition. The irony is if I tried to go down that route I'd probably die a little sooner. Ninja of the Week This prestigious award goes to KS, who not only turned up for work this morning, but remained completely invisible throughout the day. He is beyond Black Belt. A true master of the Cardboard Arts. I sit cross legged in his presence and listen respectfully to his banter, for KS is wise in the ways of gossip...

The manner in which the Romans had fought had changed since Constantine. The smaller legions leant themselves to a more flexible method of campaigning (something well understood by Sebastianus) and although Marcellinus implies the veterans were good at set piece battles rather than raiding, this doesn't explain the chaos of Adrianople, unless the the problem was entirely down to lacklustre leadership. You seem to assume that the Romans were automatically aggressive. Armies, even Roman ones, are compelled to follow the orders of their generals, and at Adrianople Valens attempted to negotiate a peace with the Goths (a surrender?) before any fighting was to take place. Very nice of him, but it only played into the hands of Goths, who used the time to wait for their cavalry to return and to make the suffering of the Romans in the hot summer afternoon worse by setting fire to crops nearby, causing smoke to drift into Roman lines. I personally think some Roman troops were good at large battles, provided they had experience of it and leaders who knew what they were doing. Since the Romans no longer fought organised armies as a matter of course (having conquered them all and now faced barbarian raiders for the most part, Persia excepted), there would have been little opportunity to learn how to perform in a large scale battle. It really isn't as easy as it might seem. But about the shield wall. The late Romans still used the testudo for protected advances where appropriate (even with oval shields of the time), or the foulkon (a double line of shields, one raised higher than the other) for line of battle. One reason the infantry didn't immediately attack is because by then the Romans found it more economic to let the enemy infantry attack first. Shield walls are not easily manoevered and the days of heavy infantry advancing remorselessly toward the enemy appear to have subsided along with the legion size. In any case, the Romans at Adrianople were waiting for orders, not for the enemy. Negotiations were still going on and Richomeres had gone back to the camp to fetch hostages for the Goths as part of this process when the fighting broke out, due mostly because the late arrival of Roman cavalry stirred the Goths into activity that the Romans in turn though was an imminent attack. The Romans attacked first (or at least one or two hot-headed and confused units did) Marcellinus doesn't discuss this because he either considers the details a little anal for a public history, or perhaps more likely he doesn't know. At any rate, I don't recall any mention of who formed the lines, as the main thrust of his narrative in the deployment is how confused it was. In fact, the Roman army was still arriving when the fighting began. It had taken hours for the Romans to bring their column onto the field. In all, a shabby and drawn out effort. That wasn't a Roman army formed for battle, but a disordered mass of men surrounded and pressed against each other both for protection and by a natrual reaction of those on the outskirts to attempt to pull back from the incessant Gothic attacks. No confusion whatsoever on our part. Can't say the same for Valens men.