caldrail

Dreams are funny things aren't they? They say your mind works things out at it's leisure during your slumber. Last nights big feature dream in widescreen imagery was me and someone else robbing a till from a shop. I can't remember the details of how this all started, but we went in, my colleague threatened the shopkeeper (I think he had a gun or something) while I stood there gormless until I realised I was supposed to take things from the till. Anyway, having committed this virtual and dastardly crime, we rushed out into the street where our yellow van and it's 'flower power' paint scheme waited across the street. I suggested we didn't drive it, but instead found a dark corner to hide in until the heat was off (you can sort of tell I don't commit crimes like this in real life). And the outcome of this sorry tale of criminal outrage?.... Never got there. The garage across the yard opened for business and I woke to the sound of wheel nuts being loosened. Well, if I've learned one thing from my sleepy fantasy, it's that I'm a really crap crook. Waving Goodbye To The Heat Is our current heatwave over? Weathermen predict cooler temperatures for the week ahead following a wave of thunderstorms crossing the West Country as I speak. Earler this morning the clouds were indeed heavy and grey. Now they're white and hazy. Have I missed the storms? Or more to the point, have the storms missed me? The End Is Nigh Recent reports suggest Britain could be suffering 100,000 new cases of Swine Flu every day by August. Well thats wiped out the population of Britain in two years. One does hope that the treatments are effective (especially as bogus tablets are now in circulation) and that the virus isn't in a bad mood. If it is, this could be my last blog entry ever. Assuming anyone out there is still alive to read it. What a nightmarish vision of the near future.... On the other, I suppose it is remotely possible that Mr Burnham was none too good at maths. Or using calculators. Or maybe he just dreamt those numbers up?

Yes, sounds familiar. In fairness though Lydiard Park is now used as a venue for open air concertes (The BBC held one there a month or two ago) so the rubbish problem is actually not an issue. The problem is that the people responsible for the park wanted a big grass lawn for people to laze around on. It's as if single mothers and their noisy offspring are all that matter. That's as far as their imaginations and experience go regarding the use of public space. They're trying to do the same to Queens Park and that will be a tragedy.

Yesterday, in a decision that only an englishman could make, I went out in the midday sun and visited Lydiard Park. The local council make a big deal of the work they've done there which was supposed to restore the grounds of Lydiard Manor to it's former magnificence. I've got many photographs of Lydiard as it was. Secluded bayous, wooded paths, a warm natural patina. There used to be a waterside platform where you could look out across a small lake and view cranes resting on a dead tree in the centre of the water. It all had a picturesque quality to it, something very ideal and to be honest a place where you could marvel at the beauty of nature in a very subtle way. It was, by accident, as close to principles of a japanese garden as you could get. Tranquil. Not any more. The woodland has been cut back, the bayous swept away to recreate the old lake, everything opened up to the sun in an attempt to make the place more attractive to lots of people who really don't appreciate natural beauty much, and I suspect, attempted by people who don't much appreciate it either. It now looks exactly what it is. A weed infested demolition site. The lake is cold and artificial (not to mention stagnant), the gravel paths bare and garish, the woodland peripheral and unwanted. You might best describe Lydiard Park as a bird with it's plumage well and truly plucked. There was a time you could visit Lydiard and return refreshed from experiencing the natural warmth. Now you either play ball games or get bored by it. After all the money they spent on tearing the place apart, you'd think there was something to show for it. Oh yes. I forgot. I see they've just installed a fountain in the lake. Well that makes all the difference doesn't it? Weedy Swindon The decay and wanton vandalism of Lydiard Park isn't unique in Swindon. Around the borough are areas where buildings are lying abandoned or demolished. The same pale gravelly landscape and its weedy foliage are well established. There's a house under construction near where I live which still has brick and breeze block walls two foot high. The weeds have grown faster. The Old College site looks ever more dilapidated every day, more broken windows, more weeds sprouting under the vandalised wooden fence around it. For a town that's been promoting regeneration and beautification, it all looks like a lot of hot air and incompetence. Oh yeah. Weeds too.

What a lovely morning. The birds at Queens Park, normally preparing for a days foraging for breadcrumbs, are all resting on the island on the far side of the lake. A solitary woman struggles to stop her young infant from learning to swim. The day has that quiet feel to it, a relaxed, easy going day to sit back and enjoy. Unfortunately the sun is also shining which means it's going to get blistering hot. The weather people have taken great delight in pointing out how urban areas heat up under sustained sunshine. I think I know that already. Better yet, they're displaying a telephone number for those who want to know how to survive hot temperatures. A young lady appeared from a side street as I wandered down to the music store. Brunette, athletic build, walking with a confident poise. If that wasn't attractive enough, her denim breeches were so skin tight they must have been cutting off the blood supply to her ankles. It's too much. I turn away and wipe the sweat from my brow. It reminds of an occaision, many years ago, when I was taking our dog out for a walk, something I used to do two or three times a day. On that particular day, the temperatures were veryu high as well, and my faithful hound plodded along ahead of me in a determined effort to make it home to his water bowl. Now our old dog was fairly obedient, up until the heady scent of bitches in season caught his nose. Then he abandoned any vestige of domestication in a primeval urge to do something... He was never sure what. He would try nonetheless. Off in the distance an old couple were walking their dog too. They shooed away another dog wandering by himself, and clearly the golden labrador was lapping up the attention. My dog was approaching, veering to one side in curiosity at the pleasant smell wafting in front of him. The old couple waited to defend their labradors virtue with walking sticks at the ready. I called my dog's name out and commaded in as stern a voice as I could manage "LEAVE!" Our dog looked around as if to say "What? Oh... All right then, if you want, I'm too hot to argue.." and plodded past temptation, once again putting cool fresh water on his list of priorities. "What a well behaved dog!" The old couple agreed. If only they knew.... The Wolf's Mating Call It's become fashionable these days to draw attention to the fact that our domestic dogs, man's best friend, is little more than a wolf in drag. It is true. Our relationship with canines goes way back to the Ice Ages, with wolves and humans learning to co-operate on the hunt, and our ancient ancestors keeping stray wolf cubs as pets to rear as personal hunting companions or whatever. Our dog, in his younger days, was asleep on the flagstones by the fire, his favourite place for a snooze. We heard the people passing outside and clearly they had a dog with them. Suddenly our dog lifted his head, stared up into space, and began to make a mournful howling noise that reduced us to hysterics immediately. Poor little lad. He only wanted to get to know her...

One of my daily rituals is to open my mail box and browse the contents the postman deposited there this morning. Sometimes there's nothing new there of course, I'm not that popular. With all my job searching I get a lot of letters from employers, typically telling me the shortlist is complete and I'm not on it. So be it. With every bundle of interesting, useful, or expecnsive communications from the outside world comes junk mail. Offers of products and services are largely wasted on me I have to say. But what's this? A newspaper? One of those community publications? A party political pamphlet highlighting local issues and requesting my support? Nope. It's a Christian rag, full of articles describing the woes of people 'locked in negative cycles' and facing self-destruction by one means or another. It isn't that I'm blind to the suffering of those whose lives have turned sour, but then I notice a few things about these stories. The range of them is diverse. There's a sense of pity evoked by them, or perhaps more pertinently, a sense of fellowship with the unfortunate souls described within as you recognise the familiarity of their trials? Then I notice other things. It seems Jesus is no longer solely concerned with your spiritual destination. He now offers financial advice, and a statement in the text of one tale of woe suggests confidently that "People are turning to prayer more than debt advisors". Oh? I wasn't aware of any offical statistics along those lines. It does worry me a little about what sort of advice people get. The important point of course is 'The Message'. Christians bleat on about Jesus's message quite a lot but never actually tell you what it is. I can see it written in black and white all over this publication. It is, effectively, 'Lean on me'. You too can be happy well adjusted fulfilled individuals if you just let Jesus in. What an insidious message. It is, for all intents and purposes, an advertisement for psychological dependence on an omnipotent diety. Just pray to Jesus, and your life will be better? How To Find God In the last few days we've had a television program devoted to the Alpha Course, a religious self-help programme. I watched most of it with no suprise at all. Many individuals on the course were discovering God right left and center. Well power to them I guess. I do notice though that there was some blatant manipulation of the customers emotional state. After two thousand years, it seems these God-merchants have become very slick at persuading others to see the light. They're looking for people who are weakened by the hardship of modern life, the loneliness of society, the emptiness of materialism. For all the group therapy and charity, there is still something very exploitative about this process. My Shock Revelation Have I found God? No, of course not. For me, God is a human concept, not an absolute truth. He's no more than another diety imagined by someone and presented to others as the answer to their wordly fears and spiritual longing. Do I believe in any supreme being at all? It seems many do, subliminally, though I suspect this is merely something locked deep inside our psychology than any description of the infinite. After all, for all these people who claim to have heard the voice of God, how many have done so at their leisure, as opposed to having the guidance of a priesthood? The important point about all this Christian recruitment is that it relies upon unhappy souls seeking something better. Why would a content man need religious conviction? Since the word of God is so dependent on the negative cycles that spawn the mindset required to accept membership of his select club, is it not a simple step to seed the market? To influence peoples lives for the worst in the hope they see the light? Now that idea might be dismissed as paranoia. In fact, it would never have ocurred to me had someone not said to me once, for no apparent reason, "You're always welcome to return". They meant of course that they wanted me to recant my spiritualism and sign up for God. Except... It isn't God they're talking about. It's Jesus. God is too remote, too large a concept. Jesus on the other hand is more real, a personality, something more tangible and undertandable. So instead, Christianity becomes a personality cult. The claims of divine origin have no basis in fact, unfortunately. That means that worship of Jesus has no more credibility than Elvis Presley, Marylin Monroe, or Adolf Hitler, or any other larger than life character. We worship the image of these people, and suprisingly often, look to their lives for inspiration for our own. There is no difference between a dead celebrity and Jesus Christ. As the pavements of Los Angeles demonstrate in the wake of Michael Jacksons demise. Oh, you might argue, but that's nonsense. Jesus is the son of God, not some guy in Gary, Indiana. I prefer something a little less gorounded in propaganda. Jesus was the son of human parents, born in very worldly circumstances, with all the character faults of a charismatic individual, and died for political reasons. If you want to believe there's more to it, that's your choice, but why would I listen to the teachings of a man who railed against the wealthy two thousand years ago? I can hear people saying the same things today.

Todays the day. My first job interview in months. The alarm clock was set, something I've not had to bother with since last year, and to be honest, given the humidity during the night it wasn't required anyway. It takes me a leisurely forty five minutes to stroll down the leisure centre. The weather is cloudy but that humidity is still there. Lord knows what it would have been like had the sun come out. There are indications of storm clouds sweeping across the West Country this morning. Apart from an occaisional errant drop of rain, it remained warm and dry, so I arrived at the centre soaked with sweat instead. Hi, my name's Caldrail, I'm here to see AG for a job interview.... "Oh..." Said the woman at the desk in suprise, "She doesn't work here. Hang on, I'll find out what's going on, please take a seat." Okeedokee. Ten minutes past my interview slot I'm informed I have to see AG at another site, another forty five minutes away. "Is that all right?" The woman asked me. "Can you get there?" Eventually, I answered, feeling a bit miffed. Eventually I arrived at the other site. Eventually they collected me, and I was given an interview in front of three senior bods, something new for me. Never before have I been interviewed by a panel. Well it all went sort of okay. They're going to let me know how I did and whether I got the job. Eventually. Beer Tent of the Week By sheer chance I chose to wander home through Town Gardens yesterday afternoon. The siren of a police car sounded as I approached the south entrance. A police car? Inside the pedestrianised park? My imagination ran riot with images of dramatic arrests taking place. As I reached the gate I noticed a line of flags set up along the hedge. Ahh... It's an event... And so it was. The Town Festival was taking place and families wandered around between all sorts of stalls and exhibits. My attention, naturally enough, was directed toward the beer tent, which for some reason was the only stall not doing business. Strange... I asked the woman at the beer tent what was going on. At least it gave her something to do for five minutes. Apparently she was in competition with the beer tent down by the Town Garden Bowl, where the show was taking place. It was a hot day. I'm sure she'll sell some booze... Eventually.

Not quite. The Air Training Corps offered flying experience to youngsters as part of it's affiliation with the Royal Air Force. At the tender age of 14, I flew for the first time, though on that occaision I got ten minutes handling the controls. At that age, flying in a military trainer is really something. You just couldn't help be excited by the prospect of it.

It was one of those uncomfortably hot nights. We're due to get more of them soon, and worse, as the midday temperatures are predicted to reach thirty degrees centigrade, which is the offically the point at which the British melt. Sleeping on nights like those is defined as the moments of weariness between rolling around in your own sweat. Instead, I sat bleary eyed and watched television, idlely flicking through channels in the vain hope of finding a programme that was even remotely interesting. Oh hello, what's this? Coverage of the Glastonbury Festival? Cool. At least that's the only thing this evening that is. Better yet, on stage are Crosby, Nash... Erm... Crosby, Stills, Young, and.. No that's not right either... Well, a bunch of seventies rock stars, now suitably aged, with the obligatory girlfriend on the xylophone, looking more like a music teacher these days. I was shocked. I really was. The performance was almost shambolic. The drummer kept good time but not the same one as the songs. The guitarist played his battered instrument with all the grace of a drunken elephant. But you know, the crowd still loved it. To the repeated encores of Rockin' In The Free World the crowd swayed back and forth. I sat slack jawed and marvelled at their longevity. Reminder of the Week One of the great disadvantages of hot humid weather is the necessity to keep the window open. That unfortunately means it's difficult to shut out the noise of the local wildlife, and in the wee small hours, a local loudmouth complained bitterly, and at the top of his voice, that he couldn't drive my car. Comes as no suprise to me, mate. Now go away and throw up on somebodies pavement, which is about all you're good for. Funny thing is, if he spent a little less on getting drunk, he might be able to save up enough to pay for a car of his own. I wonder if he's thought of that?

On another website I came across some collected video footage from the Korean War, mostly concerned with communist aviation. It was interesting to watch. I don't know a great deal about that conflict and this was the early days of the jet fighter, who were still fighting with WW2 tactics lacking sophisticated radar and 'beyond-visual-range' missiles. Now what comes across is the speed involved, which really shoudln't suprise anyone, but when you consider that at this time the Sound Barrier really was an obstacle for aeroplanes, an unseen phenomenon that caused aircraft to break up, the fact these pilots were flying as close to it as they could and risk enemy fire is worthy of note. Of course sometimes a pilot was in the wrong place at the wrong time and got hiit. The footage showed plenty of jets exploding under fire, and this was when ejector seats were semi-experimetal items that weren't necessarily safe to use. Having sat in aeroplanes during aerobatics I'm well aware of the forces generated by tight manoevers. The first time you encounter it the sensation of your head weighing three times as much as usual is a little uncomfortable. With some experience, you would soon get used to that, but the most interesting thing I saw in that the Korean War footage was an in-cockpit view of a russian pilot, rolling his Mig 15 enthusiastically and remaining blissfully calm throughout. He keeps glancing left and right but stays ridiculously unfazed by the forces generated by his aerobatics. Was that a propaganda shot? My First Aerobatics One of the great perks of joining the Air Cadets was the chance to fly in real aeroplanes once or twice a year. We flew from Filton, the same airfield that the British Concorde protoype flew from, and I have to say, that was one big concrete runway. Or at least it was on a British scale. The red, white, and black De Havilland Chipmunk trainers, the very same used by the Royal Air Force at that time, were lined up near the hut where we got our briefings for the day. We all entered the hut staring across at those aeroplanes waiting for us. Being military machines, parachutes were required. The 'seat' type we had to use were uncomfortable and awkward, making you look like a ninety year old duck as you walked back and forth with a large pillow slung under your bottom. I hated them. It was winter when we turned up to fly that day. No snow, but it was cold. It was also my misfortune to be the first cadet to fly, so in front of the others and bearing the brunt of childish humour, I waddled to the waiting plane. The mechanic told me to wait. We weren't allowed to sit in the aircraft whilst the engine was started. So I stood there, eager and totally naive about the aspects of flying aeroplanes that I was about to discover. The first was windchill. In the propellor wash the wind was frighteningly and extremely cold, way beyond the ambient temperature. By the time I had clambered up the wing and intop the rear cockpit, I was utterly frozen. The mechanic helped me strap in and he seemed completely unaffected by that arctic wind. The engine noise was considerable, warbling away at just above idle, but I remember the vibration most of all. The machine felt alive and that was a curious sensation. Once everything was in place the pilot taxied out to the runway and introduced himself over the intercom in a sort of parody of the sort of thing you hear in airliners. "So sit back and enjoy the ride..." He finished with. Yeah, okay, when I recover from frostbite... The surge of power and the acceleration down the runway is something the novice doesn't expect. The ground fell away, and I was flying, watching Bristol recede beneath me through the slightly distorting perspex canopy. Out over the Severn Estuary, the suspension bridge off to my right, and I was starting to enjoy being up here. "Right then," Said the pilot in clipped RAF english, "Four thousand feet, no-one about, barrel roll to the left.. Here we go..." Huh? What? Hey, what's happening? My world was gyrating. The sensation of being upside down at that height was alarming. "Now to the right..." He said. Oh no. Not again... "Now we'll try a loop. Gain a little speed, fuill throttle, up we go..." I'm strapped into an aeroplane with a homicidal sadist! My head wobbles around hilariously under its own volition. I feel helpless. "Now a spin. Nose up, power off, wait for the airspeed to reduce...." A loud whine is hesitantly filling my ears. That's the stall warner. Suddenly the right wing drops and the aeroplane noses down in a mad spiral. "Recover... Now spin the other way...." It was a thirty minute flight. That's all you get. I emerged from the cockpit back at the hut bravely smiling, weak at the knees, totally shaken but thankfully not stirred, and very much the wiser about aerobatics than my childhood fantasies of spitfires and messerschmitts over the Channel. See you next year then.

Yesterday may have been chilly, but once the sun broke out, it got warm with a vengeance. After an hours walk, I was sweating like nothing else. For a while, around midday, the sky was typically hazy with a few clouds peeking over the top. By the time I had gotten home, cumulus was building nicely. Of course I should have realised. It's the Glastonbury Festival this weekend and how could our annual musical mudfest pass without torrential downpours? Would they get away with it this year? I only needed to wait. This morning began with the garage across the yard pulling bits off cars. Then the mechanic suddenly stopped. I pulled down the duvet in bleary eyed suprise and noticed how dark it was. This is the end of June for crying out loud, almost nine o'clock in the morning, it should be bright out there. Then I heard the rain begin. Looking out the front window, I saw the road submerged by water for almost a third of it's width, buses pushing bow waves ahead of them, and that's on a hillside. The amount of water coming down was stunning. Hmmm.... I think today I shall walk down to the library a little later... Goodbye Farrah, Goodbye Wacko Last night I watched the news reports of the passing of Farrah Fawcett, the blonde babe in the original Charlies Angels tv series of the 70's. I have to be honest, I always preferred Jacklyn Smith, but all the same another icon of my youth has gone. And now Michael Jackson has gone too, the internet news site filled with articles about his cardiac arrest at the sadly young age of fifty. Wacko or not, the man had talent, he genuinely did. There is something curious though. How shallow many of the recent stars seem compared to these people, almost as if they're simply living in the wake of the greats. I noticed the same thing about movie stars. Those familiar characters we used to see in their latest feature on the big screen seem to dwarf the reputations of the pretty-boy successors. At any rate, at least our latest two casualties did something with their lives. Most of their critics do nothing more than sit idely and pass judgement on everyone else. Apart from, that is, watching films and listening to albums in the first place.

The nights are very short at this time of year and very ealy this morning the daylight announced its presence through the curtains. Had I not stayed up late last night investigating the possibilities of electronic music, I might have noticed. Still, I did wake earlier than usual, and somewhat bleary eyed wandered down to the supermarket for a few odds and ends. Luckily I was just concious enough to put some clothes on. So lets see... A loaf of bread (so I won't starve), a bottle of bleech (so I won't need a machete to enter the kitchen), and a local newspaper (so I won't get bored). The lady on the till was very chatty. I guess at that time in the morning the day is fresh, and she hasn't succumbed to the ennui of constantly passing items across a scanner. Not for another hour or two yet anyway. "Cold isn't it?" She said. Yes, I answered. It is. (I know, but I can't help it, I'm such a coversationalist....) After that invigorating discussion on Britains favourite subject it was back home and browse through the articles in my recently purchased newspaper... Fountains The beautification of Swindon hasn't been abandoned, even if major developers have pulled out of regeneration schemes. Now they want to build a fountain for the local vandals in the wide space between the Brunel Shopping Centre and a nearby multi-storey car park. I feel better about Swindon already. We Like It Here The funny thing about Swindon is whilst it's been the butt of stage comedians jokes for generations and has all the liveliness of a spanish siesta, people who live here say they like it. No really, they do. It must have something to do with that ephemeral sense of isolation and detachment that Swindon has. The real world appears on the huge television screen mounted on the side of the car park and crowds gather daily to stare open jawed at its cinematic grandeur. George Orwell eat your heart out. Strange really. We've had coaches, canals, railways, and now the open road for the last century, not to mention a direct motorway link for the thirty years, and still the people of Swindon see themselves as living in a detached world. Of course, given the planned eastern development, the spread of urban growth toward Wroughton and Wootton Bassett, our neighbouring communities, you can't help wondering if Swindoners are going to notice that Swindon is rapidly becoming a semi-detached property. City status one day. You mark my words. Now if they can only rebuild the canal they filled in fifty years ago and make Swindon a tourist spot, our lives will be complete. Or at least a little more connected with the outside world than at present. There is one small point I would like to bring up. If Swindon is such a great place, why do six people a month drink themselves to death here? Ah. We haven't got enough fountains... Got it.

I have, I am sure, made evident in numerous passages and chiefly in the prefatory remarks dealing with the fundamental principles of this history, where I said that the best and most valuable result I aim at is that readers of my work may gain a knowledge how it was and by virtue of what peculiar political institutions that in less than in fifty-three years nearly the whole world was overcome and fell under the single dominion of Rome, a thing the like of which had never happened before. The Histories, Book 6 - Polybius Domination of the known world has a resonance in our time. We live in the aftermath of tumultuous wars spanning the entire globe in with three ideologies struggled for dominance. The contest that took place between democracy, facism, and communism created the backdrop for the Twentieth Century. For us, this has become imbedded in our culture almost to a subliminal level. Perhaps then we shouldn't be suprised if we notice similarities with our recent past. Hindsight is part of any historians armoury, but always a subjective one, and there lies the danger of comparison. Politics hasn't fundamentally changed since ancient times, although they had ideologies, alliances, and cultures to contend with. For although a society may have different structure and emphasis, the song remains the same. We are the same animal. Like the inhabitants of the ancient world, we have the same emotions, motives, and ranges of responses to choose from. There is, therefore, a haunting familiarity in the events that Polybius wrote about. We must not however foist our modern world upon the that of the ancient. However similar their struggles may seem, analogies between events are at best very approximate, and in using parallels we run the risk of distorting the past. The only true comparison between ancient and modern events is the decision making process of the inluential within the context of situation. The passage given above illustrates the wonder and pride Polybius had for his city state. It is easy to forget how close Carthage came to achieving that first. What chiefly attracts and chiefly benefits students of history is just this

By mid morning the postman has been and gone. In the postbox this morning are two more glosy menu's for takeaway food. They're going in the bin. I do like like my food but for the time being I shan't be buying anything more expensive than the budget label stuff from a supermarket. Aha! A letter. Another rejection note to add to my collection? Shortlisting has been completed but I'm not on it? Please don't get depressed and jump off a cliff? At first glance the letter is different. More sheets of paper than expected. Have they included more than one rejection in the envelope? Hang on, the letter has a different layout of text.... Oh ye gods, an interview! After I recover from the shock I notice something interesting. It's on the exact time and day that I sign on the dole. Coincidence? It does seem a little odd. Anyway, I wandered down to the Job Centre and showed them the letter. "Oh just turn up at four o'clock and sign on with the lates." She shrugged. This all seems a bit odd. For an organisation that goes to great lengths to persuade me to turn up at a certain time on the day, and one that I've observed grilling those unfortunate dole seekers as to the reason why they were late, why are they so lackadaisical all of a sudden? Anyway, I persisted and got the woman to take down the details. She tapped the shoulder of a colleague and I got the same answer from her. Turn up at four o'clock and sign on. Right you are then. But I shall be miffed if some toe-rag starts interrogating me on the day. You just know it's going to happen. Keyboard Disrepair I am a little miffed as it happens. The music store told me the new internal battery would solve all my keyboard woes. No, it hasn't. The user bank is still as corrupted as it was when I manhandled it through the door. I have to say guys, that I'm not impressed. Thanks for fitting the new battery, but as an advert for your services, I'd have to say it's not going to attract any new business from me. Oh No Not Again Wow. Another offer of internet services plugged into my home. Yes, this is all very good chaps, but whilst the government is keen to get us all logged on it's also keen to get us to spend the money to enable it. And since the authorities haven't made any allowance for offsetting the cost, your glossy pamphlet goes in the bin.... I'm not going hungry to suit Gordon Browns dream of spying on everyone in Britain via the internet. There you go. Forgotten it already.

ROFLMAO!!!!!! Course I can't quote Mein Kampf. I wouldn't waste my time with that kind of diatribe at all, but then I already know what a supremacist is. To be honest though, my capabilities have nothing to do with yours, and catty comments won't make your point valid. You still haven't provided a cogent arguement to support your contention and I'm certainly not wasting my time trawling through a document trying to prove you right, and for that matter, clicking your fingers at people doesn't make you a better historian. That's the problem with history Scylla. If you make an assertion, the onus is on you to prove your case, not your audience.

To be honest, Scylla, you don't come across as very objective. Trying to find a neat definition of supremacism isn't really going to work, it isn't a black or white issue (pun intended). What we should be concerned about is the extremity of the views expressed. Most people think they're better drivers for instance, even after they bump into something. Our social instinctt is a positive thing but it does have a nasty underside. The two go together in any society. Polybius expresses no more than you'd expect from a Roman who was proud of his nation, no worse than a modern person describing his patriotic pride. Supremacist? No. Not even close. Go and read Meine Kampf and discover what a supremacist actually is. Yes. It is. But to the Romans, it was also a consideration of someone elses emotional state. Romans didn't pair offf for love as a rule. It was either gratification or cultural tradition. For a young Roman male, to see one of his buddies hopelessly in the grip of romantic attachment would have been something laughable. There is after all a very macho, thuggish side to Roman male behaviour, evident even in their well of offspring.

And what are the my stars today? What does the astrological alignment of the heavens have in store for humble Caldrail? Let your childish side come out and play today, dear Libra. Your dreams are in full force so let them lead the way. Enjoy light-hearted conversations with friends about the latest movies and the articles in your favorite magazines. You might want to consider going shopping or getting a haircut as well. This is a good day to improve your general appearance overall. You have a much keener eye for beauty on a day like today. My dreams are in full force? Way cool. So that means I can drive a Ferrari around town and not get arrested as a homicidal maniac? Well I'm off down the Ferrari dealership, having cleaned my trainers. Just show me the fastest reddest car you've got sonny.... No, that's a door.... Oh. Next. Films. I like films. Especially the funny ones.... Well, as light hearted conversations go, maybe that wasn't the best. Shopping... Just paid the bill for a musical keyboard repair, so no joy there. Haircut? Pfah! I'm insulted. As for my appearance, I have my style. Oh yes. Leading the way for pre-geriatric retro-grungies everywhere. A much keener eye for beauty eh? You mean, like that blonde woman downstairs? Oh great. I'm into middle age, my plumbing ain't what it used to be, I'm nearly destitute, no job, no Ferrari, no blinking car at all, and at last I get to appreciate the charms of women? Help. She's noticed me looking... Look away Caldrail or the security guard will eject me from the premises. I doubt he'll be impressed with a neat haircut, fashionably challenging clothes, and clean trainers.... Oh. Star of the Week As a spiritualist, you'd think I'd believe all this 'written in the stars' stuff. Well, there are predictions and then there are predictions. I notice that tv presenters who make documentaries on the subject usually find that the supposedly defined character traits are so generalised that anyone could read an assesment and find a signficant agreement with their own personality. But can watching the stars predict your own future? Yes it can. Go out of an evening and wander about watching the night skies. I predict that you will go on a trip.... A scientifically tested prediction by Caldrail. And I wasn't even drunk....

Polybius wrote his account of events surrounding Cannae fifty years after they occured - still within living memory perhaps, but many sources of information gone. Infact, despite opinions to the contrary, Polybius was not the first original historian of the campaign. That honour must go to the greek Philimon, whose now lost work was the basis of most accounts that followed, including Polybius and Livy. Polybius in fact goes to some length to assure his readers that his work is justifiable, mentioning at one point the discovery of a bronze tablet marked by Hannibal himself and listing his available forces. Was there such a tablet? I'll give him the benefit of the doubt. Polybius has no supremacist agenda. That concept is a distortion of Roman politics of the day. The Hannabalistic War was a terrible experience for Rome. They were under attack on home soil by a foreign power. Domination of the Mediterranean was at stake. Rome was in danger of losing everything. The threat felt by Rome was tangible. Fabius could not assert a new dictatorship on the Roman public because the senate was under suspicion of prolonging the war deliberately for their own benefit (History of Rome - Mommsen). The senate felt obliged to make an all out effort to stop the delaying tactics of Fabius and deal with Hannibal directly, thus the unprecedented levy of eight legions that year. This was a national emergency, and as such, left an important mark on the Roman psyche. Florus lists the 'thunderbolts from the gos' that struck Rome during the war with Hannibal, and describes Cannae as 'The fourth and almost mortal wound'. Carthage was an enemy bent on their subjection or destruction after all. The idea of slavery was unpalatable to Roman sensibilities. It's worth noting that a Roman citizen forced to obey another man was considered as if enslaved, even if not actually constrained by status for real. Young men in love were 'emotional slaves' of their intended partner. It's an important concept. The Roman Republic was born out of a struggle for freedom from a lking considered tyrannical. Cassius Dio frequently refers to men becoming enslaved by obligation. Rome was master of Italy, but not the empire of later times. It was the head of a federation of similar, if somewhat weaker, city states (perhaps town-states might be more accurate). Cannae produced some far reaching changes. The Roman economy was seriously harmed. One seventh of the available manpower of military age had been killed in that battle alone. Farmland had been stripped of produce. Settlements put to the torch. Slaves and rogues formed bandit gangs in the countryside producing a level of social strife that Romes confederation of italian city states had been intended to stop, only this time, is was the criminal element that became a threat to stable and peaceful times. In fact, many of Romes federated allies told the Senate in no uncertain terms that if they wanted to wage war in future, then Rome must pay for it - they would no longer supply men or funds for military adventures (Hostilities in the Second Punic War began when Rome guaranteed the freedom of Saguntum, under siege from Hannibal as an excuse to provoke Rome to warfare). Polybius might possibly be accused of writing a pro-Roman account, but then what else would he write? Pro Carthage, as Philimon had done? In a city that had suffered to the point where families were introducing slaves as family members in desperation of maintaining the family line? Where eight thousand slaves were levied as soldiers, something unthinkable in a state where serving in a citizen army was a privilege? Where businesses were forced to conduct themselves without profit, for the good of the state? The war with Hannibal was costly. Not just economically, but politcally. The senate had fallen under suspicion from the public. The Roman allies wavered, both during the campaign and afterward, and to preserve the peace that Rome had won, the allies would find themselves with reduced clout and eventually formalised as parts of Roman Italy. That was not a supremacist ideal of Polybius at all. Livy on the other hand wrote his history at the time of Augustus. There is no supremacist agenda there either, even though he lived at a time when Rome was indeed supreme. If anyone should be accused of it, surely it would be Livy, at a time when Rome had "been granted with an empire without limit for all time" by the grace of the gods. He didn't. The image of Rome as a facist state is in no way correct for the time of Cannae. It was a republic, with democratic institutions that encompassed far more of it's population than hated Carthage. They went to war to guarantee the freedom of a town in northern spain, an independent ally that had been granted that status by the Romans, who, it was described by one writer, paid the utmost respect to treaties, and did so against a man from an enemy state that had recently lost a war against Rome, led by a man who had sworn vengeance against the Romans. It's very easy to see Rome as a conquest state, as an aggressor, but the excesses of the late Republic and imperial eras do not apply. . Rome was after all a state in which legality was an important issue. It was one of their founding principles after the immoral behaviour of Tarquinus the Proud. The greedy conquests of personal armies was a matter of the future, not of the time of Cannae, whose army was no more than an annual citizen levy until another century or more had passed.

Sunday dinner with the folks is something I don't mind enjoying. There's a familiarity in the cooking, something I've known since birth, and to be honest, with my parents getting older I do prefer to keep a eye on them. I find it heartbreaking to watch these people I've always known slowly shrivel and weaken. Deep down, I know it will happen to me too. But in between the persistent medical disorders and the increasing clumsiness there are moments of levity. Sat at the table munching away, my mother asked if anyone had been given an extra yorkshire pudding. Erm... No. But only three had been put on plates and four had been made. This can only mean a phone call to Perry Mason... Still, just in case, I'll post photocopied missing pudding notices on local lamposts offering rewards for information. Doublyoo doubleyoo doublyoo dot missing pudding dot com as well. that way if it gets past the police cordon at ports around the country Interpol will be able to trace its movements and return the errant pudding to its owners. If you find a lost yorkshire pudding, please mail me immediately. It's round, well formed, light brown with a biege center. Happy Ending of the Week "Oh..." Said my mother is suprise, "There it is.... (chuckle) It was right in front of me all the time. Fancy that..." Hello? Perry? Yep, call it off mate. The pudding is alive and... Ohmigawd! Someones eaten the pudding!

The Roman historians were biased? Yep. They were. As for 'embarrasing' the events concerning Cannae, thats a daft assertion, and to say they never seriously attempted to study Carthage is also a very poor assesment, although one or two versions are painted in supernatural overtones. They may have arrived at different conclusions than you want to read. That in itself isn't bias, nor less than serious history, it's merely preconception at odds with evidence. That's what is obvious to me. Supremacist agenda? It is true the Romans by the imperial period believed themselves to be lessed by the gods to receive an empire without limit throughout time, but then any successful conquest state would have similar leanings, and since Rome had effectively become the masters of the known world by that time it's hardly any wonder they had supremacist leanings. However... The events at Cannae took place in the context of a struggle for dominance. This is a very important physchological matter when the possibility of your entire culture becoming no more than a pile of ash and rubble arises. Such strong feelings often survive in folk memory, and indeed, so they did in regard to Hannibals campaign. Analyzing Carthage as a society isn't reliant on supremacist teaching. Even if that were the case, careful study could still bring useful information to light. I don't believe biased Roman accounts are all we have to study Carthage with. There is after all archaeology, and works not limited to Roman origin.

Where is the evidence that Carthage uses citizens to man their oars? The armies raised by Carthage weren't citizens Sylla. They were raised by cash. Even those men who could call themselves citizens demanded cash from the Carthaginian senate when they discovered the mercenaries did so. Hardly patriotic sentiment or civic obligation is it? "The fallacy of appeal to prestige" - Sylla, what are you talking about? Anyway, I've plenty of evidence for my assertions, just not enough time to put it together. Sorry if that doesn't suit you, but hey, thats life. As a matter of fact, apart from a lot of info dumping, you really haven't presented much a solid arguement, and arguably, you've made some howlers. Why else would I be contesting it?

I'm talking about priorities. All nation states have them. Other than yours? The information I have, which comes from published works on the subject, suggests that Carthage did not have anything like the proportion of citizens that Rome did at the time. Citizens defend out of public obligation more often than not, so yes, for the record, in front of the whole UNRV community, Carthage lacked a citizen army. Was that simple enough?

I sat down in the office for another job searching session. There's a friendly atmosphere there, and the extra four hours of dedicated internet time is proving useful, if not quite achieving the result I'm looking for. I'm collecting rejection letters from local employers. I hope to have the complete set by Christmas. One of the staff members is H, a somewhat scatty woman who likes to trip over cables. She was sat on the next PC to mine, busy finishing off someones CV. If there's anything you can get from from government agencies and private companies these days, it's a fresh new CV guaranteed to boost your chances of getting that dream rejection letter. She sighed and said "That's it, finished. You'd like her, Caldrail, she's just right for you." Oh? She sends a lot of Dear John letters? Nonetheless, out of curiosity, I reached for her CV to see what sort of person she was, at least employment wise, but then you can never really believe a CV can you? Not that it mattered. With instant reactions, H pulled the CV out of my hand before I could read it. "I should start a dating agency" Said H with some amusement. How about that? The government are setting me up for a date. I can just see the forms now... Application for Personal Relationship PR101.... Name... Address.... Telephone number.... List all my previous girlfriends.... State reasons for breaking up.... Do I have any record of bad habits?.... Situation Update For those of you who have been following the recent illness of my poor aged computer... Now you are concerned aren't you? I notice no-one sent it a get well card. Sniff.... Well, I have some good news. Despite a threatening relapse I have managed to get the old codger up and running, even if he does run with a bit of a limp. Well it's important to me

Sadly, it's essential to realise that Carthage had different priorities to Rome. They had a large navy? Agreed, they did. So if a sizeable portion of the available manpower is pulling oars on galleys, they can't be rounded up to wield swords. Adrian Goldsworthy wrote a book on the Punic Wars that covers this point adequately.

You need only ask S. No I didn't. I said that there were no established methods of communicating that were all inclusive and reliable. There wasn't. A great deal is made of Roman signalling (which did exist in imperial times) but even that required line of sight or to be audible above the considerable tumult of tens of thousands hacking each others extremities off, and in any case, that signalling wasn't designed for the battlefield. Neither do we see any evidence for widespread use of couriers or runners. No doubt such means were employed when the occaision demanded, but the formal courier organisation such as found in napoleonic battlefieds did not exist - the ancient armies weren't that sophisticated nor for that matter, so spread out as in later times. Unlike Rome, Carthage had no large citizen base. Plenty of people living amongst them, nominally obedient to their government, but Carthage could not raise a large enough citizen-based army because of that. Therefore they recruited anyone willing to fight, and as often happens in these xases, that meant cash incentives. Carthage was after all wealthier than Rome. It's farmland was richer, it's tax base effectively larger, and in the early days close trading links with Britain meant they almost had a monopoly on the manufacture of bronze. By the time the Iberian campaign had ground to a halt, Carthage also had access to silver mines which funded Hannibals campaign in Italy.

No, we have differences in opinion. They weren't ballet routines either. Excellent. So no more "Exquisite synchronicity" please? Neither was it absent by default; those may be the reasons why I didn't state either. Oh? And what form of communication was being used? How did Hannibal send and receive messages from fast moving cavalry hundreds of yards away from a scene of carnage and pandemonium intent on seeing off an enemy formation? Do you know? Because if such a form of communication existed in 216BC, we'd all like to know about it. Do you know what a battlefield is? It's a co-operative riot. That's all. The imagery of Hollywood and imagination is all very well, but the battlefield is a place where a large group of men has met another to fight it out. For real. With all the blood, agony, and fear involved. There will always be men eager to commit violence. There will always be those who disdain violence. Most will be at the battlefield because it was expected of them, for one reason or another. Courage is a desirable asset in fighting men, but what is courage? Without fear, how can a man be courageous? He's merely confident, and very few warriors are so fully confident that they can attack without adrenalin making them brave. There are no established means of communicating on the ancient battlefield that have all inclusive properties and reliability. There are practical limits to the number of men a single commander can wield during all the noise and chaos of a fight. Thats not an assertion, that's millenia of military experience and human behaviour. You might use all manner of things - flags, horns, drums, whatever... In the heat of battle, a soldiers senses are restricted by his viewpoint, his equipment, his situation. You cannot guarantee a message will be received, not even today, with all the benefits of instant telecommunications on campaign. That a leader was able to enquire of three or four units is all very well, but what was the situation? Were they busy fighting or standing idle waiting for action? Were they close, in sight of the man, or far away hidden by foliage and dust? Were horsemen available to carry word? Did someone run there and back? Who responded? Was it leader or was he too busy leading the fight? Leading a group of men into battle isn't a sophisticated thing. It's about leadership, or in a more primitive way, dominance and example. Riots only surge forward when a braver man rushes the police. So to a Roman centurion fights from the front, not directing his men from the rear, a task left to senior officers who might be solely occupied in ensuring the men of that unit don't turn and run. The availability of message bearers isn't necessarily your means of communication. Most armies in the ancient world had hardly time to get used to fighting alongside each other. It takes experience for that army to operate efficiently. Why else was Hannibal so blessed? He was using veterans of the spanish campaign and experienced mercenaries (sorry, but he did). They understood what was required for that reason, not because some message was sent by means unknown. History is about what we know. You can speculate all you want, but please don't attempt to convince me know better by suggesting something existed that left no record or mention. Clearly that was not always the case; just remember what I did actually write and check on Pharsalus. Good. But study of one event does not illuminate you to the variance and averages of others. The image of ancient generals stood around a table in a breezy cool tent pointing daggers at brightly painted maps is laughable. Without the presence of that commander on the field, within reach of his men, an important factor of leadership and morale is lost. So many times armies have begun to crumble because they began to hear their leader had been cut down, only to see him reveal his presence in some way and rally them on. Would a hardened warrior, a man capable of hardship and violence, be impressed with a general stood on a hill a mile away? I don't think so. Ancient armies are nothing like as sophisticated as our modern viewpoint suggests. Certainly the elements of behaviour are relatively similar, but the organisation of armies was in it's infancy, and for that matter, so was the science of communication which too often proved to lacking throughout military history, right up to the present day. Thats an assumption. The act of communicating in one instance does not imply this was readily available on all battlefields at all times and distances. Nor does this imply active communication. It merely implies that the commander was able to retrieve information from seperate units there and then.