caldrail

True, but that doesn't mean he was a likeable guy (you get the impression he was snide, arrogant, very demanding, wasteful, and yet strangely weak willed). The populace saw him in the same way we would a celebrity in the modern age, and Nero played to the crowd like the unashamed attention seeker that he was. For all his faults, he was a star.

When it comes to job interviews, you can tell a lot about the company from the information and advice they give you. Or not. It's been a while since I smelled a rat but something about this woman who phoned me a couple of days ago made me wonder. I quickly realised she was from an agency, though she din't tell me that, nor did she give any information about the job I'd originally enquired about. Not a good sign. "Do you have transport?" She asked.... No. "Have you got a bike?".... No. "So you're using buses?".... No. Are they kidding? The National Minimum Wage and they want me to blow my budget on a bus pass? She paused before asking "How are you going to get here?" I walk. From my home to the industrial estates in the north of Swindon takes an hour, more or less. Clearly walking was a foreign concept to her so I assured her it wasn't a problem. Then she gave me the address, and just to be helpful, told me I could view a map on the internet. Of course the arrow on the map pointed at the wrong part of the industrial estate. So like dozens of other hopeful jobseekers over the last few days, I wandered helplessly up and down the road knocking on doors and asking where these people were, and of course, no-one knew. I was stopped by a rotund gentleman on a scooter who asked me if I knew where the office was. What could I say? I made a humourous quip about being just as lost as he was which for some reason failed to reduce him to hysterics. Oh well. A big articulated lorry drew up and the driver wound down the window to lean out. Please don't tell me he's going to lech.... Thankfully, he didn't, and politely asked me if I knew where such and such a company was. Never heard of them. I refrained from a humourous quip this time. There is such a thing as living dangerously. Finally I found someone who knew where these people were, a pokey little office in a dark, quiet corner of a building in a dark quiet corner of someone elses yard. The woman looked suprised that I'd turned up. I was then handed a wad of forms to fill. Do I understand that I can die in the workplace?... Signed... Do I understand I can be sacked from the workplace... Signed.... Do I understand I can be paid by the workplace?... Signed.... Do I understand I need permission to work in the UK?.... Signed.... Do I understand English?.... Groan. I think I need to resubmit my request for independent state recognition to the UN. Through the Foreign Quarter Interview concluded, it was time to go home. My route took me though the part of Swindon where many immigrant families tend to live. There's an interesting difference in the area, besides the obvious cultural dress, strange accents, and skin tone. On every main street are a number of small grocery stores, piles of fruit and vegetables on wooden shelves erected outside the shop front. Young foreigners stand idly outside too, smoking or chatting to each other. It's a very different lifestyle to our conventional western supermarkets and revolving door mentality. One gentleman of foreign extraction was having a problem with his car. His mate was staring at the engine bay under the raised bonnet. Then, having successfully fired his car into reluctant life, he drove the car with the bonnet raised in front of him (so he couldn't see where he was going) whilst his mate ran alongside, keeping the engine barely running by some mysterious witchcraft or other. The driver turned onto a main road between parked cars and kept going. With a bit of luck, and some help from his fitter friend, who knows? Maybe he'll reach his destination without bumping into something? Foreign Resident Sadly there's a foreign resident living in the area we can all do without. After walking under the railway bridge and turning the corner I almost stepped on a rat. The matted grey fur was perfect camouflage against the dull asphalt surface and the only reason I saw it was because the wiley little monster realised I was about to tread on him and scampered into the bushes nearby. They say you're never more than six feet away from a rat in England. Sometimes you get closer than that. Giggles of the Week A little further on I passed a couple of young asian women. Naturally they were talking in quickfire giggles, albeit in a language beyond my comprehension, and their inability to find time to breathe in makes me wonder if oxygen starvation is the cause of 'dumb blonde' syndrome. One of the girls, wearing a flowing white dress rarely seen outside a fairy story, crossed the road and passed me in a state of repressed mirth. I'll assume for the moment she was being flirtacious and not discussing my official fatness. It must be said, you do come across some asian girls who are trouser-dropping gorgeous. Think unsexy thoughts Caldrail. This is machete country...

An interesting thought! 1630 - 1550 BCE ... is that about the time that Moses and Exodus was supposed to have taken place? First of all, uhm, please common, it cannot be news that people want to identify Santorino with Atlantis (which is nothing but ridiculous) The Santorini idea isn't ridiculous. We are of course relying on Plato's description. He wrote the tale about then island continent beyond the Pillars of Hercules, larger than Lybia, whose dispute with Poseidon could only end in tears. As far as we now, he got the original story from Solon, who in turn was told that by the pagan priests of Egypt. Here's the thing. If I tell you there was a big city in England that flooded disastrously, wouldn't you be a bit suspicious if it wasn't on the map? People listening to Plato's story knew the Mediterranean and any mention of a huge continent would have resulted in scorn. Naturally, he described in in an unknown region, in this case beyond the Pillars of Hercules. Therefore the description by Plato is at least partially fictional, and undoubtedly exaggerated enormously. There is a wall painting somewhere of a volcanic cone with a city built on it (I've only seen a photo once and I haven't a clue where it is). Santorini is of course an active volcanic site. Such places build cones (Krakatoa is another one and is currently rebuilding it's central mountain out of the sea - stand by for further explosions) that do explode occaisionally. The problem is that such geographic features often coincide with earthquake zones and if an underwater volcano suffers an earthquake, there is a risk of seawater getting into the cracks, which results in a very big bang as the superheated steam rapidly increases pressure. This sort of thing is what happened at Santorini. The volcano suffered (or triggered?) an earthquake, water got in, expanded rapidly as steam, and KABOOOM!. The resulting crater and empty space then filled with seawater immediately after. The momentum of that causes a 'depression wave', a tsunami, that spreads out as water at a higher level than the surrounding sea, an event which inundated the Minoan Empire and completely destroyed their naval infrastructure (and their economy) overnight. Try it. Fill a bath with water, and place your hand on the surface. Wait for the water to calm. Then depress your hand qickly to simulate a sudden empty space. The water will quickly rush in to cover your hand. Notice though that a noticeable ripple spreads out. If you look closely, that's a mini-tsunami. There would have been verbal tales of this event passed down. Not a slow flood like Noahs tale, but a catastrophic act of the gods, a violent demonstration of natural forces. So what if the Minoans had built a city on a volcanic cone in the middle of Santorini? This isn't so stupid as it sounds. It would have made an excellent sheltered harbour and was partially consistent with Plato's description (if you excuse the greek inspired exaggeration). The cone may not have been obviously active to those living there. We humans only live for three score years and ten on average and our memories are selectively short. However, an event escalated and the cone exploded. Any city there would have been turned to dust and rubble right there and then, spread over the area as debris. A speculative approach, and one about a city that might not have been known by the name Atlantis, but if existent one that would have easily spawned the legend. What is certain is that Atlantis is a wild goose chase. I've said this many times, but it's a story. Sure, there might be some historical precedent for it, but Plato wrote a story about the folly of human pride which has been taken a bit too seriously by readers ever since. The same thing is occuring right now with Dan Browns 'Da Vinci Code', where people are utterly convinced the rationale behind the story is genuine, especially since it can be shown that the Holy Grail never existed in the first place, but was a literary invention of a medieval novelist. It may be then that Atlantis is entirely fictional. So be it. But those priests of Egypt knew a civilisation in the Mediterranean had perished before them. Even if a city wasn't actually on that volcanic cone when it blew, a large prosperous empire collapsed when the resulting tsunami washed it away.

Some years ago a guy I knew from my schooldays looked me up and we decided to have a pint or two, catch up with events, and basically fall over drunk at some in the proceedings. By strange quirk of fate, MS and I originally crossed paths over music. I was a keen up and going nowhere drummer, he was busy inventing new and interesting beeps on toy keyboards. I must confess, it was his idea to stage a charity rock concert at a local sports hall but an idea I got behind. We formed a band to take part in what turned into a 'Battle of the Bands' contest. All in all the event went well. We won Best Instrumental Track (we'd found a decent guitarist) and that was pretty much the last I ever saw of MS, though I suspect that was because he thought I was a complete looney. You see, we'd borrowed a car to haul our gear to rehearsals. It belonged to the bass players father, a generous man who had no idea of what sort of driver I was. RH, the guitarist in Red Jasper, used to describe me as using an accelerator pedal as an on/off switch. Yep. That about summed me up. So eventually the car, a sorry looking Datsun that had seen better days, finally gave up trying to stay on the road, and I had a fun thirty seconds demonstrating the finer art of losing control. When the dust cleared (and without damage), I fell off the seat laughing at the shocked expression on MS's face. Oh the fun we have when we're young. Anyhow, on our reunion bash we headed for a pub in Old Town. There was a strange atmosphere in there. Everyone stopped talking and looked at us with smirks on their faces. What? Have I got a bogey on my nose? "What'll it be Gentlemen?" Asked the barman who could barely conceal a grin. Oh, ahh, two pints of lager please. "Certainly Sir. Would you like a room too?" He asked quizzically. Huh? What do I need a room for, I responded scornfully, I came in for a drink. Then the penny dropped. I was in a gay pub. Quickest Escape of the Nineties Oh heck. I'm in a gay bar. I wonder how quickly I can drink this pint?..... (glug glug glug belch)... That's it, I'm outta here. As far as I'm concerned, if two gays want to go off and do whatever it is they do to each other, fine, I don't care, just don't involve me in it. How far away is a safe distance? Strange Goings On In A Queer World First there was that comedian from Little Britain whose partner died. Then a gay singer pops his clogs on holiday. Tragedies like any other unexpected death I guess, but what an odd coincidence, both events occuring so close to each other and presented in such a non-discriminatory way by the media. What? No scandal? Final Statement of the Day And you thought I'd lambast Gordon Brown for having to repay a years wages he spent on his own comfort? Life is so full of suprises, eh?

Close your eyes. Empty your mind. Picture a whitewashed thatched cottage, rose bushes lining the manicured lawn in front of it. Oak and chestnut trees forming a lush backdrop. The sun is shining, birds are singing, all is peaceful. Now wake up. I don't know what sort of England you live in, but that rose-tinted image isn't anything like mine, which resembles an edwardian brick terrace, built in the days of cloth-cap engineering, Cars with stereos blaring pause at the traffic lights before vibrating under their own power down the road. Lorries rumble past at three point six on the richter scale, and buses demonstrate their immunity to the Clean Air Act of 1956. Bit of a shocker that eh? It gets worse. Late night revellers hold shouting contests in the street, while party-minded girls communicate by shrill screams and giggles. Yet despite all this, you still manage to find a few hours in the day when things are quiet enough to carry on with a tranquil and fulfilling life. Then my neighbour decides to go out for the night. Surely that would make things even quieter you ask? Nope. In order to get in the mood for boogie-ing the night away he insists on recreating the noise, the sounds, yes, even the smells, of a hard working nightclub. When this house was built, at the height of British Empire, no-one owned electrical consumer goods and so no-one invented sound proof walls. As a result, the interior space reverberates and so if anyone makes any noise, next door can hear it. Every chuckle, conversation, snore, and moment of passion is overheard by one and all, although I suspect not all my neighbours have realised that. They certainly haven't told their girlfriends. Once again the music impinged on my conciousness. I confess I got a tad upset. Having yelled at them to shut up I thought it was all over. Sadly not, because another of my neighbours, clearly less impressed than I was, walked out into the street and yelled abuse. That certainly cured the noise problem didn't it? Protest of the Week Greenpeace members have taken to roof of Parliament and demanded action on climate change. What are they expecting? Politicians to wave a magic wand and make everything better? The climate is changing. It's a huge, powerful, dynamic force in nature, and you can't stop it or put it back the way it was even if ruins your entire day. The real trick, as demonstrated by nature for the last three or four billion years, is to roll with the punches. Adapt. Survival of the fittest is fundamental to the success of species in the wild and I suspect, probably something that will emerge in climate politics. If I were in their place, saving cash and buying property on a hilltop might be a more comfortable (and ultimately profitable) exercise. Who knows? Maybe they'll be able to afford a car in a few years...

Hilary Clinton has made a fashionably late visit to our shores and naturally the press conference followed. It's becoming a bit of a soap opera. Is it just me, or are political speeches becoming a bit commonplace? To some extent that's partly because of modern media coverage. With so many channels and air-time to fill, it seems politicians are rising to the challenge of opportunity. I guess that's politics. If you want to get ahead in that business you need people to hear you. The subject matter was predictable. The strife sponsored by the Taliban in more than one country has understandably provoked responses, and the current nuclear ambition of Iran is causing serious concern. Everyone is building 'relationships'. Clinton and Millibrand continue to enthuse about the 'Special Relationship'. The countries of Europe aree being pressured to sign up to the next stage of the empire building process. China chases it's cultural ambition with ruthless showmanship. Middle east dictators search for weakness in the west and religious fervour at home. Politcally, things are slowly heading toward another 'Balance of Power', a situation in global politics that offers security on one hand and disastrous conflict on the other. A couple of times now I've mentioned how things were better in the eighties. It was a period when people were optimistic, when they had money to spend. More than once I've pointed at the current economic situation and my own personal difficulties arising from that. I've just been watching a news documentary about Syria. In one region, rain hasn't fallen for three years. A family that owned a hundred sheep twenty years ago now spends most of its meagre budget buying water to drink. I have no doubt these people are in desperate straits and that circumstances haven't favoured them. Syria isn't alone. The Sahara desert for instance is spreading and the once verdant north african coast is far drier. Of course the world climate is changing. The climate always changes. As the world leaves the last ice age behind it it will no doubt become warmer still, like it's done many times previously throughout the Earths history. Nonetheless, our efforts to survive and provide a better life have backfired in many places around the world. Not so longer ago I pointed out that there were too many people. That starvation will eventually get the better of us. It seems, unbeknown to me, that we're already getting thirsty. I agree with the presenter - shortages of water, one of our most basic requirements for survival, will be a major weight in the future balance. Footprints of the Week Dinosaurs have been in the news again with a set of footprints found in France, near the border with Switzerland, of sauropods weighing in at around thirty tons. The area was a warm shallow sea at the time so it looks as if our Brontosaurs were having a day out at the seaside. They must have been magnificent creatures in their heyday. Sadly, they're gone, and let's hope we don't follow them too soon.

View From the Roof of the Temple This is Durocornovium today, a southeast view from where the temple is thought to have stood. The modern dual carriageway turns south along the Roman road to Cunetio, a minor route in those days, whilst the main Roman road to Calleva is now a country lane off the left hand side of the photo. In the distance is Liddington Hill, the highest place in Wiltshire, and you can easily make out the ramparts on the right hand side. On the right of the photo is the outskirts of modern Swindon, on land that the Romans apparently never developed. The cemetary for Durocornovium was situated over there too, a little further away.

Strictly speaking this was a frontier area between british tribes (Dobunni, Belgae, and the apparently dominant Atrebates). Since the name refers to a fortifies place in celtic phraseology, it might be that the fort was Celtic, not Roman. Certainly there are hillforts nearby (Liddington is only four miles south and very evident, being the highest point in Wiltshire). There doesn't seem to be any evidence of native forts in the immediate vicinity of the site, and given the relatively flat land thereabouts, one might be forgiven for assuming the place was named after Liddington hillfort looming in the distance, which would have been (and actually still is) a visible landmark.

The Romans were less of a menace to 'barbarian' folk than commonly supposed. True, their regimes were often uncompromising but part of this image of ruthless conquest is down to the fallacy that barbarian nations were assimilated. Again, it is true the Roman encouraged the adoption of Latin culture, but as long as native peoples obeyed laws (usually their own ones) and paid taxes, the Romans left them to carry on business as they pleased. It remains a odd circumstance to our eyes that Roman governors would adjudicate differences not only according to infractions of Roman law, but oversee native justice as well, and it's worth remembering the events in Judaea during the reign of Tiberius in this light. It wasn't just high ranking officials either. Roman legions sometimes had a surplus of centurions (to reward long and dutiful service, as well as promote men with leadership ability) and these extra officers were routinely given territorial assignments rather than military command, so that this junior officer could learn about government. The Romans were nothing if not career minded. The Germanic invasions in the late empire were all about perceived wealth. Certainly the Roman soldiery wasn't entirely well behaved in that period and there was raiding on both sides of the border, which resulted in a turbulent frontier reminiscent of the Wild West but in reverse. The essential problem remained the Romans themselves and their political ambitions of men encouraged to seek status by their competitive society. The reason Britain was abandoned was to bring troops over to Gaul to take part in developing rebellion, not to deal with barbarians. The British Isles were increasingly ungovernable in any case and that was a failure of Roman administration as much barbarian threat, particularly since the Roman system collapsed so spectactularly after the legions were withdrawn. As much as the Romano-British elite wanted to remain within the Roman sphere, there was a period described as a golden age in which no-one paid taxes and life was easy. Society abhors a vacuum of course and Gildas refers to the rise of 'petty tyrants'. These new warlords were britons, not barbarians, people who knew the Roman empire by what it left behind. Of course the external threats were many and various. With a weakening central empire and suyrrounding tribes rising in confidence and co-ordination, there was bound to be a change in the balance of power. The increasingly unified barbarian response to Roman decay should be viewed as partially a failure of Roman politics too. Habitually the Romans had divided their neighbours for centuries in order to prevent exactly the circumstance they faced in the late empire, but also the increasng ability of foreign tribes in such matters as warfare and ship building, much of which was learned from the Roman world. The Romans were, effectively, creating their own nemesis and proving less and less able to contain it.

Another day... I drag myself out of bed and glance out between the curtains. It's been raining during the night and the yard outside is thoroughly wet. No matter, it's a bright and sunny morning, it'll soon dry out. Our beloved Fuhrer, Gordon Brown, must also be feeling the same mood. He's just announced that Britain is 'bouncing back'. Well, he can quaff Happy Juice at breakfast if he wants, but he earns rather more money than most of us, so I don't suppose for one minute he's noticed how expensive life is getting for us Dolesters. Now there's a warning that energy prices in Britain might rise by 60% in the next ten years. My bills have already doubled in the last five. I don't feel bouncy about that in any way whatsoever. So realistically, what can I do about that?. Modern society revolves around energy use. All I can do is watch less television (and therefore less good news about our economy), play music a bit less, buy food that needs less cooking, tolerate colder temperatures in Spring and Autumn, and make do with less hot water. That's the problem with life in a modern industrialised society. We rather like our comfort. Hello Sophie I'd had enough of government announcements of good times ahead on daytime television. There really isn't anything good to say about perpetual game shows featuring the worst dullards in circulation. So whilst the outside world looked dull and grey, it was far more interesting. So naturally I popped out for a stroll. Fresh air, exercise, and who knows? Maybe you'll see something or meet someone? There was a little yorkshire terrier that didn't like the look of me as I approached, and true to the species, it began yapping at me incessantly. The owner apologised. Her dog was only protecting her she said. Somehow I found it difficult to see the dog as dangerous at all. It came across as a gentle (if somewhat noisy) soul so I took time out to greet the dog, make friends with it. The terrier refused to approach me no matter how un-threatening I tried to be. The owner admitted she was a nervous dog. Okay, what's her name? Sophie? Hi, Sophie.... Ah, didn't know I knew your name did you? What a change. The little dog stared in suprise and began wagging its tail, and I could see her trying to figure out where she'd met me before. This she did approach, and visibly trembling, made a cautionary sniff of my hand. There you go Sophie, you've been a brave girl. Nice to meet you. Enjoy your walk. Funny how these little things make you feel good inside. Style of the Week Occaisionally you get people in the library who come across as a litttle odd. It's easy to mock and criticise others, but sometimes you just have to laugh. There's a young man sat at a computer across the aisle from me. He's dressed in black, with a woollen cap and a large pair of headphones so he can enjoy his music while he vegetates. It's just that at first glance he looks like a gothic Messerschmitt pilot. Albeit one who hasn't woken up yet. Still, at least he's happy.

You're underestimating the menace of the Irish Scots, who effectively outflanked Hadrians Wall and made a nuisance of themselves into the Dark Ages.

I don't often cook meals late in the day but last night it occured to me I hadn't eaten much and sure enough an unfamiliar and uncomfortable sensation was making itself felt in my belly. Okay, lets see what I've got in the cupboards... What's this?... A beef and ale pie?... Hey, I'd forgotten I had this and I'm in the mood. Bang that in the oven for thirty minutes at 230deg and prepare myself a feast. What I hadn't realised was that my antiquaited cooker is in fact nuclear powered. It cooked my pie so efficiently that it was fusing elements together and creating carbon. I cottoned on when I noticed what a smokey atmosphere had developed as I watched tv with eight minutes left to go. In haste I rushed to the cooker - We've all done this at some point, yes? - and I pulled my blackened pie from the hellish conditions I had subjected it to. It sat there on a baking tray with a plum of grey smoke spewing from a hole in the pastry.. Despite my careless and inept cookery the pie was edible and actually very tasty. That was a close run thing. National Poetry Day Last Entry Okay, who forgot to tell me it was National Poetry Day yesterday? Thanks a lot guys, my life is ruined. But I shall not be put down by this reverse, no, I will persevere and produce my latest work of art for the edification and delight of the entire Caldrail-reading world. Here goes.... The Man On The Door I wandered lonely on the dole to visit my local library But as much as I cajole The guard is still contrary So instead I search the shelves And find a book to read He leaves us all to please ourselves It'll do no good to plead Book of the Week The door to the library remains shut until precisely 9:30am. The security guard is nothing if not pedantic. Yesterday he closed the exit and told everyone to use another way out. A part of me wonders if he does this purely to look important. Anyhow, with ten minutes to waste, I perused the collection of best-sellers on display in the foyer. It didn't take me long to find an absolute peach of a book. Civilisation One (The World Is Not What You Thought It Was) - Christopher Knight & Alan Butler. Books like this turn up occaisionally. They mix and match whatever number juggling they can think of and try to illustrate ancient monuments as proof of a super-civilisation long forgotten. Not quite so super then, were they? This sort of book has been popular for decades. The entire genre was spawned by stories of the lost city of Atlantis, an enduring myth that some take so seriously as to form their own religion. In particular, the writers draw attention to the 'Megalithic Yard', a system of measurement so precise that it is accurate to the width of a human hair. Have these people seen a megalithic site? The stones may have been well-fitted (there were skilled craftsmen in previous ages too) but they can hardly be described as accurate to a hairs-breadth. As for Atlantis, I do actually believe it existed. No seriously. However I depart from Plato's description somewhat. His image of an island-continent bigger than Libya and beyond the Pillars of Hercules was nothing more than a literary construct to tell a tale of human folly. It was a story. Like King Arthur, Robin Hood, El Dorado, the Da Vinci Code, the Holy Grail, or whatever 'conspiracy' and 'hidden truth' you prefer, Instead, I see Atlantis as based on something smaller, grubbier, and ultimately less impressive. My own feeling is that the city that spawned the legend was a Minoan port on a volcanic cone in the center of Santorini, an unforunate place to build a harbour as volcanoes and seawater are uncomfortable neighbours. But that's merely my view. It seems the 'Golden Age' is something human beings dearly love. We look back to the legend of Atlantis. The Middle Ages looked back to the glory of the Roman Empire. The Romans looked back to their greek and home-grown immortal ancestors. Our distant ancestors looked back to a time of spirit beings. It's a familiar theme. Christianity is built on this foundation for instance, in the sense we look back at Jesus and assign him divine properties. It seems we all want there to have been a world in the distant past that was better, cleaner, more desirable than the mundane reality we're responsible for. "Any readers who feel unable to opern their minds right up at this point should close the book now" say the writers in Chapter One. Thanks for the advice. But for that timely reminder, I might have wasted a few hours on this. I think I might write a book - Civilisation - The World Is Exactly What It Appears So Deal With It

With all the rain and weather warnings currently afflcicting everyday life in Britain, it was a pleasant suprise to see a blue sky out the window this morning. Of course this isn't summer and a clear sky means chilly weather. My breath was easily visible. Not to worry, the sun will warm things up in due course. Days like this sometimes have something extra. There's a splendid view of the Moon this morning, a splotchy ball of of putty grey that you normally associate with the night-time. It's a fascinating rock. These days it's 250,000 miles away or so. When it first formed, as a result of Earth's cataclysmic glancing blow with planetoid Thea, it was as close as 15,000 miles away. 15,000!.. It would filled the sky and the gravity effects must have been alarming. By day the moon is a mundane curiosity. By night a beguiling ball of silvery light, a source of romance, superstition, mental illness, womens problems, and other strange transformations into bloodthirsty creatures. There's an interesting tale that involves the moon. Back in the days of 'British Prohibition' in the eighteenth century, Swindon was only a small market town on an isolated hill with four toll roads leading in and out. The Downs to the south were used by booze-smugglers to hide their illegal barrels. It seems one night customs men came across a bunch of men in the countryside, smugglers who had left a barrel concealed in a pond and intended to recover it for delivery. When asked what they were about, the sly smugglers responded that they were attempting to drag the big cheese out of the water, referring to the moon's reflection in the water. Thinking this was a bunch of ignorant country yokels, the customs man chuckled at their apparent idiocy and left them to it. Liquor smugglers in the West Country were called 'Moonrakers' thereafter. To this day, tunnels under the streets of Old Town dug by these men have been uncovered. Recovery of the Week Honda are back in production at Swindon, just in case you haven't (by some strange fluke or phase of the Moon) noticed the news coverage. Actually it is good news because car manufacture is so important to our local economy. But isn't that indicative of a larger problem? The increasingly anti-car stance of the worlds governments might be okay for the enviroment and for saving the lives of kids who like running across roads without looking, but it's done absolutely nothing for peoples affluence. Money makes the world go round but it's the internal combustion engine that drives it.

Aerial pictures are the most illustrative. There are some kicking around, such as views of the mansio, the granary, and associated field systems, but I don't have access (or publishing rights) to those images. I did take some photos from the road bridge last year. Unfortunately, the foliage, lay of the land, and ambient sunlight made for some very dull and uninformative photos. The article does need illustration however and I'll be adding to it in due course.

The notice said "Closing Down Sale! Everything Must Go!". That's a familiar sight these days. There's plenty of commercial properties with shutters down, boarded up, and windows whitewashed. Most of the time a shop closure doesn't matter to me because I'd so rarely need its services.This time it's the shop where I get my hiking gear. Now it's personal. A part of me thinks the shop has only itself to blame. The goods are not exactly cheap and that's at sale prices. I suspect that's partly the reason other shops are falling by the wayside. Too expensive, poor service, and possibly not the right goods in the first place. It must be said however that people generally have smaller wallets these days. I know I have. On the way back home I passed a couple of guys handing out leaflets. In a fit of optimism one attempted to thrust a leaflet into my hands. What's this then? He started spouting a load of stuff about Jesus. The other man looked on as if to appraise the gentlemans efforts in recruiting me as another slave. "You'll need Jesus Our Saviour!" He announced as I spurned his offer. No, I don't need Jesus. God helps those who help themselves, isn't that the phrase? When he tells me what he believes rather than what he's been told to believe, I'll listen to what he has to say, because at the moment, he won't listen to me. The man is absolutely brainwashed. As I walked away I heard him sermonising to my back. Perhaps if he'd spent more money buying stuff instead of funding Jesus, one or two shops might still be open. Jesus saves? Not if you run a business in Gordon Browns England he doesn't. Saving the Economy With a general election looming the political parties are all describing how much money they're going to save by cutting costs in public spending. That's an interesting reverse. I seem to remember a certain Prime Minister telling everyone to spend their way out of the crisis.

Just added a new article to Wikipedia. It's a shame there's no plans to open the area to public display (especially as it's been threatened by projected housing development), so to illustrate the area please enjoy the following link. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Durocornovium

The weatherman said it would rain early this morning but clear later. I won't ignore such advice and although the map looked encouraging with disappearing blue areas, this is rainy old Swindon after all. So when I got up I glanced between the curtains and behold, the rain has indeed stopped. Brill. Now I can go about my business safe and secure in the knowledge I won't get wet. By now you've probably guessed what's going to happen. Congratulations, you guessed correctly. I was of course completely misled. Once out the front door it bucketed down. Luckily the library isn't too far away and I arrived with only a mild soaking and a humourous appraisal from one of the librarians. Yes. You're right. I am soaking wet. Thanks for the observation. An hour later and the sun has broken through the clouds outside. Such is life in the rainforest of Darkest Wiltshire. Fashion Statement of the Week The numbers of dole claimants who've been claiming for more than twelve months (me included) has grown to such ridiculous proportions that the lady responsible for signing us on has been sweating with a lengthening queue of impatient people. The guy next to me, about twice my size and looking like a refugee from a football terrace, starting muttering complaints and dark curses. Sadly his latent aggression didn't help him one bit. Whilst waiting though I looked up and down at the various lazy and lame claimants. Many of them have the fashionable shaved head and wollen jacket, a sort of 'hard-man' uniform these days, and one guy turned up in unwashed clothes two sizes too big for him. Either they aren't paying him enough to eat, or he has contracted the terrible shrinking disease that also coincidentially afflicts my mother. One chap stood out a mile. A young asian lad, in a colourful leather jacket, sparkling white trainers, and a white head scarf. To be honest, whilst he clearly wants to look like an urban terrorist, he also looked ridiculous. You need to be the right sort of character to wear clothes in that fashion (usually only black guys have the necessary cool) and he was, without doubt, in street parlance, a poser. He's also an idiot because clearly he's got money in his pocket and claiming benefits looking like that is bound to arise suspicion. Apparently not. He sailed through his interview and left smiling, looking about to register our admiring glances. I on the other hand make the mistake of wearing clothes I can afford, thus I look downbeat and therefore remain a potential victim of claim-advisor zealousy. There is no longer any doubt. The key to success in life is to have ultra clean expensive trainers.

Well I would but italian cuisine is out of my price range. I guess rats have an advantage because generally they aren't so fussy (nor for that matter do they have any problem with bank managers). No wonder rats are laughing.

Does it taste nice?

Another day, another session at the library. You can tell which librarian is on duty by the amount of conversation going on. Today is the scottish lady, who happens to be very strict about noise. God help anyone who turns the computer sound up. The young man in the next cublicle answered the raucous mobile phone ringtone. "Aw right mate?... Yeah... Chillin' out in da library... Yeah... No... Wicked game wuzzn'it?... Played it on da wheel, man, well cool... (laugh)" That was it. Out of the corner of my eye I spotted movement from the librarians desk. She was on the attack. I cast a glance at the youngster still chuckling at whatever his friend was telling him, and sadly he didn't notice. She veritably pounced on him. He sat in shocked awe and fear and nodded agreement without a response. "Yeah mate, gotta go... Yeah.... No, coz' the library don't like phones... Talk to ya later mate..." He said, switching off his phone, logging off, and making a hasty exit before he received another mauling. A few minutes later the security guard strolled past and began chatting to her. Come on, people, this is a library, please keep the conversation down a bit.... Deal of the Week Its time for another chat at the Job Centre. I've been requested to turn up on a certain date and time for an interview with New Deal. There are some people who would say that was an interview at the Joke Centre with Raw Deal. Perhaps, but it might get worse. The Conservatives are making unemployment a major selling point for the next election and clearly they've set their sights on people who claim Incapacity Benefit ("Can't work for health reasons", but I don't claim that seeing as I'm officially fit and healthy according to the claims advisor, as if I didn't already know) I suspect this is going to hurt. No pain, no gain, I suppose, and seeing as a harder regime is looming on the horizon I don't have much choice. Wage slaves apply here.

Given my prediliction for using computers I can hardly claim to be a technophobe, but I must confess when it comes to mobile phones I'm almost a luddite. I hate the things. Horrible little contrivances designed to frustrate the owner and annoy everybody else in the vicinity. Buying them is a little problematic for me too. High street vendors are very keen to fit you into a stereotype, which annoys me greatly, because I just don't want a phone for the reasons they're trying to sell them. What I get offered these days is a lifestyle organiser. Do I really need all that functionality? All I want is a means of communication. A phone line with some text message capability. That would be great if the nasty little device actually worked. The problem is the battery. When you buy the phone, the salesperson will insist the charge will last... oh... two or three weeks. Oh? Mine always lasts two or three days, and one battery I use as a backup lasts two or three hours before beeping at me and cheerily informing me that it's about to expire any second now and attempting to make a phone call will result in embarrasement and failure. And on the subject - don't get it wet. Mobile phones aren't waterproof. As I've discovered twice to my cost, these devices were never intended for convenient communication in anything other than a dry urban enviroment, which is suprising considering the utility of a mobile in the wild can't be underestimated. Not any more. There is now a clockwork mobile phone. You pull it out and wind it up to start. One minute of winding will generate three or four minutes of phone time before it beeps at you to get more exercise. Is it just me, or have mobile phone manufacturers missed the point? Much as this new phone means I would be freed from the tyranny of the battery charger, it's also rather like being freed from the tyranny of a car salesman by buying a Model T Ford. Advice of the Week The library computer whirred away as I went about my daily chores busily. So far I hadn't gotten one of those annoying 'Must terminate process' dialog boxes and I was downloading information off the net at a rapid pace. I wasn't aware of the approach of a librarian. "You're going to get into serious trouble if you keep on downloading *or*." He whispered. Pardon? Personally I've got no time for pornography at all. Why would I get excited over a photograph of a naked woman in a silly pose? (Put the real one there I might start to sweat a little - I'm only human after all). More to the point, why did he think I was downloading *or*? As it happens I was downloading information about colour schemes for Messerschmitt 109's in eastern Europe. Much as I like the subject, I'm not really going to get that excited over it. Go away you silly little man. Wow... Look at this....

I agree. A sense of humour keeps those higher brain functions oiled and turning They do say that (in England at least) you're never more than six feet away from a rat. We now have super-rats (I'm not joking, it was a news item) that are resistant to chemical warfare employed by pest exterminaters. Makes you wonder who's going to have the last laugh doesn't it?

Yesterday was a really nice day. Plenty of sunshine but not especially hot. Even the policeman who'd stopped me earlier wished me a good time out in the countryside. I was pleased to note that the path up Burderop Hill, a climb that gets ever steeper toward the top, was dry as a bone. Usually the track is a muddy quagmire, at the bottom of the hill at least, but yesterday it was baked hard. On my way home I was heading for Chiseldon along a farm trail. A streambed looked glaringly obvious with white stones littering the bed. No water whatsoever. The story was same north of Chiseldon. The normally free flowing stream next to the old railway was almost dry, with a few stagnant puddles in evidence. At Coate Water, the River Ray has receded alarmingly. We had plenty of rain during the summer. Where's all the water? Times are hard in the Rainforests of Darkest Wiltshire. If there's No-one To See It... On the way out into the countryside I passed through Bruddel Wood. It's only a remnant of what it was once was and now forms a wooded path between housing estates. There's a big tree that looms menacingly across the path at one point and I'm never entirely confident passing underneath it. No reason, it just makes me wary. On the way home I came back through the same area. The big tree remained in place, but another smaller tree had fallen over fifty yards further on., almost blocking the path. I wonder if anyone heard it fall? Weather We might be seeing a few more trees down today. Gale force gusts are expected to sweep across England. So far it's blustery and a tad chilly. But I have to say yesterday I saw the most extraordinary clouds over Swindon. Long thick fingers of it, absolutely smooth and soft edged. Elsewhere, a massive domed cloud looking for all the world like a huge UFO perched in the sky. I've never seen clouds like that in this area before. Very strange. Bird Spotting of the Week I'm certainly no expert on British wildlife (Bill Oddie can sleep safely tonight, his career is not under challenge from me) but occaisionally I do spot something wonderful.. I'd passed through Bruddel Wood and was passing the lower lake at Lawns. The council have stripped the lakeshore of vegetation and it looked ugly. Are the council determined to ruin every local beauty spot in this manner? Anyway, it seems to suit others. One side of the lake was festooned with amateur fishermen taking time out from the stress of family life by waiting for fish to commit suicide by swallowing a hook provided for their use. Before you jump to conclusions, this wasn't wonderful. Perhaps the fisherman didn't think so either because I don't think there's any fish in the lake at all. Maybe that's missing the point. What was wonderful was a crane, swooping across the lake in such a dignified manner before landing on the denuded bank the other side. I could only stop and admire the bird from a distance. Clearly it was after something. Slowly, ever so carefullly, it stepped forward in slow motion with its gaze directed at the ground. Then it pounced, almost on top of its prey, and help up something squirming in its beak. A frog? A lizard? A small snake? Salamander? I couldn't tell at that distance. The bird looked remarkably pleased with itself before it gulped the meal down. It took off and gently winged its way back across the lake with effortless grace. Sorry Bill, you should have been there.

Scientific empire? I think not. Rome was a martial society whose builders often created some of the most shoddy jerry-built housing ever known. A roman historian (I think it was Suetonius off the top my head) mentions the frequent collapses of insulae and that building regulations were brought in by some emperors to help prevent collapses and fires. Crassus, a contemporary of Caesar, made an absolute fortune by offering deals on property once a building had been accidentially destroyed and subsequently developing the land himself. Yes, the Punic Wars were a big deal to the Romans, but it made almost no impact on the development of gladiatorial combat.

The black notice popped up on the screen again. I need to retune my television receiver. Oh all right then, if you insist. Luckily channel Three Oh Something Or Other had a guide running permanently on a loop (Wow, wot an interesting channel!) so I wasn't technically challenged. Who needs nine year old experts anyway? Despite my extensive experience in consumer electronics, computer programming, musical equipment, and science fiction, I have to acknowledge that I am no longer nine years old and have therefore transformed into an old dunce like everyone else. Nonetheless I managed to get it done properly on the third attempt. I now have seventy eight channels to watch. Not that many compared to those equipped with Star Trek deflector dishes and bottomless wallets, but enough for my meagre needs. Especially since many are repeats of what another channel showed an hour earlier. Oh hang on... What's this?... A dating channel? Out of curiosity I paged through the single ladies searching for companionship. About half of the adverts were from a 48 year old woman in Devon. Who would have thought a television set could form the basis of someones social life?... Ugh... Not for me. Now if you'll excuse me, my neighbour is being noisy and I need to go and shout at him. News Just In... On my way to the library I was stopped by a policeman who took my details. Granted I was in hiking gear with a sack on my back (and thus resembled a drifter - I never wear my sunday best to wander about the countryside) but it appears my neighbour is responsible for 'an incident'. More news when I get it. Documentary of the Week Amongst the programs I stumbled across while surfing the channels on television was a documentary about the Battle of Britain. Actually this was one of the better ones, and one that made good use of outakes from the 1968 film. It wasn't all Spitfires and Hurricanes. Amongst the veterans recounting their memories of 1940 was one pilot who used to fly Blenheim bombers. Describing them as bitterly cold and draughty he visibly shuddered as he remembered what flying the wretched things was like. Imagine then his joy when the Luftwaffe bombed his airfield and blew his aeroplane up....