caldrail

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as much barbarian threat, particularly since the Roman system collapsed so spectactularly after the legions were withdrawn.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....

The Etruscans are often credited with the origin of gladiatorial combat but whilst they did indulge in bloody funeral rites (as did other cultures of the time) there's no evidence that it was a direct descendant. In fact, Roman sports owe more to the greeks and if you notice, the symbolism and religious significance of gladiators inlcudes celebration of greek warriors, a connection made stronger by the tradition of two greek warriors deciding a battle by single combat (a familiar theme in human warrior ethics). The Romans themselves might have inherited Etruscan attitudes, yet it must be acknowledged the origin of the Roman civilisation emerges from rival tribes raiding each other for assets, and this sort of thing is enshrined in the story of the Rape of the Sabines which survives as the modern marriage ritual of carrying a bride across the threshold. We have then a martial culture which had little to do with the bucolic bliss later Roman patrons like to portray and instead absorbed customs from dominant cultures around it. The development of the gladiator roughly begins in 264BC when the first public display was staged in a cattle market between two pairs. Combat between two slaves to honour the dead with blood sacrifice had been going on for some time, a Roman invention based on their interpretation of Etruscan methods allied with greek culture (which although responsible for much academic learning was also no less violent than the Romans). The need to impress others for political purposes gave rise to public displays which eventually developed into the entertainment industry we know as gladiatorial combat by the late republic, with professional and volunteer participants emerging toward the beginning of the Empire. The Augustan Franchise (Augustus cleverly instituted a competitive system of urban development in the provinces in which towns vied with each other for favours in return for efforts to emulate Rome itself - and increase tax revenue at the same time) spawned a rapid increase in the spread of gladiatorial combat beyond Italy, a trend reinforced by the policy of colonisation by Roman veterans as part of the franchise. Public demand for these free shows and the desire of Vespasian to impress his Roman subjects inspired him to have the Colosseum built, though he never lived to see it finished. Most performances had (until the mid-Principate at least) been held in temporary wooden arenas or any available public space. Caligula's death for instance took place in such a temporary arena erected in front of the palace. The trend toward permanent stone arenas was encouraged both by this need for impreessive architecture but also to offset the shoddy work often done at a budget by the builders of wooden structures, and the worst case was the collapse of one such arena at Fidenae in ad27 which killed and injured thousands.

We've got a considerable rat population in Swindon. You do need a sense of humour to live here.

There's been an item of good news in the local paper this morning. It seems the government has decided not to force housing development in the Swindon area, or at least look at proposals again, which means the much-criticised Coate Water scheme and the bigger East Swindon scheme will now remain in limbo until someone makes a definitive decision. The current buzzword in Swindon is asbestos. Our buildings are riddled with the stuff, including schools and public facilities. More than 11,000 council homes and 40 schools according to the front page story this morning. My uncle died from asbestosis, a lingering and excruciatingly painful end to his life he never deserved, yet the experts are telling us it's all okay as long as the stuff isn't disturbed. So what happens when the inevitable development occurs? Many years ago I flew over Swindon and it was something of an eye-opener to see just how much land was abandoned or unused within the town. Now that was after the railworks had closed. Swindons Great Western Railway based their engineering here and for a long time the 'A' shed was the biggest industrial unit under one roof in the world. I watched the demolition of that shed and remember that massive multi-ridged roof stubbornly hanging on to three walls. Of course it's all gone. The old sheds, even the wagon works that lingered on as premises for ailing industries, have been demolished, and for the most part those sites have now been redeveloped. Is that a good thing? Well, on the one hand, land has been freed up for housing and businesses, but a part of me regrets the passing of that Victorian industrial landscape, as grim and sooty as it was. But nothing stays the same, so the old era has been levelled and a new one built on it's grave. Sadly though progress isn't always desirable. There's a small farm in Rodbourne that was once on the edge of town beside the rail works. Now it's surrounded by an urban landscape and I see the owner is finally surrendering to developers and selling up to make room for seventy five homes. I'm just so used to seeing the farm working, small flocks of sheep chewing listlessly as they watch the world go by, and another familiar part of my childhood enviroment vanishes forever. Stars of the Week It seems my astrological readings are becoming less challenging and more inclined toward opportunity. Funny that. It seems to be a perpetual circumstance. Things can only get better say the astrologers. Sometimes you wish they would get better at reading the stars.

Music is an interesting phenomenon, apart from modern metronomic high volume siege weaponry. I speak with some experience having been a professional drummer during my mispent youth - I wasn't known for being quiet. However, as a drummer I recognise the need for 'music', something to listen to, something to evoke a mood, whereas a lot of music today reveles around the concept of physical punishment as bass frequencies pound you like punches from Mike Tyson. That's all very well if you like that sort of thing, but I prefer something a bit more tuneful, like heavy metal for instance. The problem is those darn bass frequencies. Brick walls can obscure the sound of my neighbours hi-fi to such an extent that I wouldn't know they were listening if it wasn't for the invasive rumbles, thuds, and drones that make you grit your teeth. One of my neighbours has discovered the joys of bass. Whilst it isn't actually loud, it's impossible to get away from it. The vibration goes through the floorboards and thus straight through me. Even if I can't hear it as such, I still feel it. The chap in question heard me yell though. I also heard his reply. Thanks for that mate, but you will find the law is on my side, whatever you believe my manhood to be. What the said gentleman hadn't realised was that I come equipped to make noise too, should I feel the need. Well whaddya know? It's gone quiet. Headphones on... CD in the slot.... Give it your best power chord Jimmy.... Spider Spotting The remorseless advance of spiders across Britain is underway. Today I notice one fat ugly specimen has spun a web across my bathroom window, right where I can't get rid of it. You'll be sorry. Caldrail's Rushey Platt Villa is hereby an arachnid-free zone. Apart from the one lurking at back of the cupboard.... Where do these things come from? Certainly wasn't a chicken... Rain! I've just glanced out the library window and it's raining. What? Not heavy rainfall as such, just a concentrated spray of fine drizzle. The weather forecast said nothing about this! Having been lulled into a false sense of security by persistent good weather, I wasn't prepared for Swindon to revert to it's normal enviroment. Oh well...

Yes but rats wee on things just like us. Surely they find that funny?

I wonder if rats have a sense of humour?

Oh come on. Anyone can see that's a glove puppet. Sheesh...

From time to time we all need a little help. Yesterday it was a young man asking if anyone knew how to get to the town centre. Even at a good pace, he looking forward to a hours walk and the route wasn't entirely obvious. So in a moment of generosity I suggested he came with me - I was going that way anyhow. We got chatting. He was a talkative type and the conversation was fast and furious, not just for intensity of communication, but also the subject matter. We got chatting about cars. As it turns out he bought himself a serious motorbike a few years back (so he claims, but I hadn't any reason to doubt him) and he described with considerable enthusiasm the thrill and excitement of travelling faster than everyone else. It's what you want a fast car for, he advised me. With that I couldn't resist a small lecture. You see, there are three reasons for wanting a sports car... 1 - Status. You want to show off. You want people to notice you.You want a symbol of dominance and/or importance. You want everyone else to see you as a wealthy and sexually rampant daredevil. But this didn't apply to me. I was never that interested in what other people thought of my purchase, which mostly consisted of rude hand signals anyway. 2 - Thrill. A fast car? A very fast car? The sense of power under your right foot elevates your mood. You derive satisfaction from travelling faster than anyone else, but more importantly, you want to experience danger as humans enjoy doing. You want to be overwhelmed by noise, speed, vibration. Again this doesn't apply to me. Sure, I like speed as many people do, but this route dictates that the car overwhelms you. Ultimately, the danger is derived not necessarily from situation, but because you're essentially not in total control of it. 3 - Challenge. You want to master this raging bull or wild stallion. You want to push through a corner hard and with precision. You want to drive without thinking, reacting to the forces developed by the car instinctively, making the car an extension of yourself. You want to be a better driver (and not necessarily a faster one, though with performance cars the temptation is always there, and any idiot can press an accelerator pedal). Now this is me. Which are you? Research of the Week Can you believe this? The skull of Adolf Hitler preserved by the Russians turns out to be that of a 40 year old woman, not a 56 year old dictator. One researcher says "There is no forensic evidence that Hitler died in the bunker". Well there wouldn't be. The bunker was demolished some years after the war to prevent it becoming a shrine. In any case, there were witnesses to events in late April 1945 and they all agreed on what happened. He shot himself and the body was burned outside in the yard. Anything else is conspiracy theory, especially since there's absolutely no forensic evidence the man survived the war at all.