caldrail

Actually I was a bit careless with my previous answer. The praetorians in the time period of yourstory were small units of bodyguards in the military looking after generals in the field, not a 'unified' paramilitary protecting an emperor at Rome with official state functions.

Usually I pass through a supermarket checkout with little interaction. Do I have my own plastic bags? Do I have a nectar card? Twelve pounds sixty five please Sir. For the most part, these women are bored out of their tiny boxes and the quicker they can push you through the tills the better, or so it seems. It isn't always that bad. Sometimes I make a lame joke and they politely smile. You get the feeling they've heard me say that one a couple of times before. Yesterday the woman on the till was decidedly chatty. I sensed a certain enquiry as to whether I had kids. Expensive aren't they? Well, probably, I'm too busy finding enough money to pay for my meagre needs, never mind a family. She looked up with a cheery smile having convinced herself that I was a responsible father and then I noticed the makeup. Mascarra an inch thick surrounding her eyes. It looked horrendous. It would be easy to think she's after me, but then, I could have used any lane of the four normally in use, and she wouldn't know I was popping in at that particular time. I made another lame joke and having paid for the goods, left forthwith. Womens makeup is a funny thing. Used properly it really can make a woman look her best. I've seen one woman in particular wipe fifteen years off her face with expert application. Used with all the skill of a painter and decorator, it looks more like desperation. I wonder sometimes if ladies realise that a nice smile and a friendly manner usually wins the day? We blokes are suckers for women anyway, nature having made us that way, although I accept our motivations are often physical. Or, is there an unknown woman at the supermarket, quietly plotting to ensare me... I hope she uses less makeup. Accusation of the Week I was but a young lad, invited to Dungeons & Dragons session and keen to take part. The game was okay, I guess, DP was a hugely imaginative guy but without any ability in gamemastering (or indeed, social interaction). At one point in the proceedings, just before I went home, one of the two adult players said "Your mascara is slipping". Eh? What? Was that an insult? What's he on about? I was completely mystified at his knowing smirk. No matter. The next week I discovered him to be a poet, and boy oh boy did I make him feel uncomfortable with a much bigger smirk of my own. Mascara duly returned I think. Never did see him at the table again.

Arrested? Easy. Just make a social faux pas. Have your character sit beside a senator in the theatre. Outrage! But that wouldn't get him sold into slavery. For that, your character would have do (or be accused of doing) something that would make a magistrate taking away his freedom and status in that manner. Debt perhaps? Kidnapping is less likely in Rome. Solitary travellers in the countryside were more prone to this fate. Not really sure how prevalent this sort of thing was, but Augustus had Tiberius look into it, so it reached imperial attention. No, but knives were common enough and there were plenty of muggers at large in the city after dark, some of whom wouldn't think twice about killing their victim. No, usually a soldier wouldn't be seen with a sword, especially in Rome which had customs against armed soldiers in the streets. Praetorian guards wore togas on duty at the senate house (not in armour, as usually portrayed)and swords were not to be seen. Roman legionaries could be a rough crew however, certainly capable of handing out a beating, and the nature of legionary organisation meant that contubernia, or 'close friends', barracked in eight man squads, would often socialise together. Yes. The toga has a voluminous nature and plenty of bulky folds. Caesars assassins concealed daggers under theirs for instance. Depends on the character of the soldier. many were less than good mannered. Juvenal includes a satire about the fate of a man who complains to a legionary commander that his men stole a donkey with menaces (legionaries weren't tried in civil courts). The following 'court martial' was biased against the plaintiff ('Judges in boots') and the indeed the plaintiff may well find himself beaten up afterward by aggrieved soldiers.

You guys are so lucky. If I were forced to move to Texas I'd get jailed for not having a green card.

The British weather is an endless source of comment. When you want to start a conversation in Britain, you always begin by asking how good or bad the weather has been of late. Yes, it's been pretty good these last couple of days. Hot sun, light winds, but yesterday afternoon? It poured with rain. Those unlucky enough to still be out and about trudged past my home in a state of abject misery, their clothes two shades darker and dripping wet. I do have sympathy of course. I've been caught out by rain so many times before. Thing is though, even in dry shelter, I couldn't really be all that smug. Having been busy that morning I was sweating like a pig. It makes me wonder how people used to cope in the days before we thought latin was a good idea. No brick walls or slate roofs back then. Just a fur rug and a muddy straw tent for shelter. Come to think of it, just how far have we advanced as a civilisation? We're just as vulnerable to the elements as we always were. As a nation, we Brits seem very ambivalent about it. We know our weather can turn on us quickly but we so rarely ensure that we're prepared for the worst. Anyway, must dash, I need a few odds and ends from the supermarket and pick up a newspaper to check if anyones advertised a vacancy. Quick glance out the window... Hmmm... Weather looks good. Yep, I'll think I'll pop down there now.... That Sinking Feeling The Airbus A330 isn't getting a very good reputation is it? Quantas had one that went into two steep dives, one has tragically exploded over the Atlantic, and now Air France has had a mid-air situation with a faulty airspeed indication. We pilots are superstitious creatures. I can just imagine the rueful expressions of aircrews flying them right now. It seems security needs to be stepped up at airports around the world - Mr Gremlin is busy sliiping onto flights everywhere. Life is always a risk, no-one is guaranteed survival, and the grim reaper gets us all in the end. Nonetheless, its times like this that makes flying seem more of the gamble it actually is. Keyboard of the Week All is well in the land of keyboards. I now have a serviceable instrument with which to entertain, amuse, baffle, confuse, frighten small children, and occupy council noise investigators. Can't wait.

Oh cheers Neph... Actually, the woman was an idiot. I never took her seriously after that, especially when she didn't seem to know what a session musician was - and she was the local rags music correspondent. Fun? Well it had its ups and downs, like any endeavour. The interminable travelling wore us down a little. Our red van (it had to be didn't it?) wasn't actually roadworthy and on one fateful night, we had a loose spark plug on our return journey from Blackpool. After repeated attempts to screw the thing back in with our bare hands, it eventually fell off somewhere on the M6. With an engine that never ran well in the first place, having only three cylinders wasn't enough to haul two tons of gear and people, so we pulled into a service station to make repairs. This was late autumn if I remember. The wind was strong, cold, and it was a damp night. Me and Dave caught sight of each other in a mirror and we could only laugh hysterically. We looked like a cross between scarecrows and victorian chimney sweeps. It's interesting how perception plays a part. Swindon by and large regarded us as a local band, something I found odd, since we only ever played a handful of gigs there. Indeed, most of our gigs were outside Wiltshire. Our usual venues were found in London, Bristol, the south coast, and the north of England. The fact we were recording albums and playing some serious gigs didn't seem to impact on Swindons conciosness, and I wonder if this was partly because that silly journalist had written us off. The truth is the music business takes no prisoners. It really doesn't. Something like half our gigs in the early years were played to almost no-one, and it's soul destroying to watch your audience melt away after the first song. I think though it was those occaisions where it really did work that made it worthwhile. Besides, we all felt it could go somewhere.

Where to start? As one novelist once wrote, "at the start". Joining or forming rock bands as a teenager is something of an exercise in folly. A chap I used to used to know at work would say it was all about acceptance, that by making yourself an entertainer, even at such a low level, you improve your popularity. He might be right. It would account for the endless stream of people who joined my bands only to wander away again when they found out they weren't going to be rock stars the day afterward. Perhaps the realisation that rock music was hard work made up their minds. Sometimes the new girlfriend demanded more attention (which for a youth is a very strong motive), sometimes the allure of a motorbike and it's status amongst the 'have-nots' proved stronger. In my case, it was rebellion, pure and simple. My parents were horrified to discover that I'd found out about forms of music they'd sheltered me from. Encountering Deep Purple's Strange Kind of Woman for the first time was a revelation, and my future was being plotted and designed with youthful optimism... or perhaps more accurately, youthful fantasy, but that was before I'd actually done anything. The funny thing is that I can't remember why I chose to be a drummer. Wiltshire County Council paid off my first kit (guess where I spent my student grant) but I have to say for all the fun I had in those early years, it was always a case of Go Back To Start, Do Not Collect

I am so tempted to write 'Confessions of a Rock Drummer' Truthfully, I did encounter 'groupies' but obviously the level of attention varies with the success of the artist concerned. "Spider Dijon" I was not. But hey, having a woman do her best to get off with you in the darkness of backstage 'Devizes Bowl' may have been poorly timed (I was waiting to go on stage) but ye gods it was fun.

Hannibals attempt to take on Rome was in effect a 'bltizkrieg' in ancient times. Such fast attacks have always relied on achieving a knock-out blow, because once the war becomes drawn out, the isolation of your troops becomes a significant disadvantage. This is what happened to Hannibal. Notice that he remains mobile. His army is always on the move. Despite his string of victories he does not indulge in capturing cities. Although the Romans panicked with cires of "Hannibal at the gates", the carthaginian general had little opportunity to lay siege. Had he done so, he would have been trapped in situ, and he knew it. His forces were mercenaries by and large but make no mistake, these were men happy to earn a living from violence and had joined Hannibal for the express purpose of going to war. Even the hardships of the alpine crossing hadn't deterred the majority. The story goes that whilst desperately short of food, one his generals suggested that his men should learn to enjoy human meat, something Hannibal wouldn't entertain. Apocryphal? Possibly, but there's no doubt the Carthaginian army was not having a good time. Unlike the Romans, Hannibals army had no supply line. His men would have to forage for food and water as they went. It was therefore important to remain mobile because to do otherwise would reduce his army to starvation once they had cleaned out the immediate area. So Hannibal attempts three things. 1 - Outflank and suprise the Romans. He achieved a success. His march over the Alps was unexpected and although he suffered cobsiderable losses en route, he did suprise Rome who hadn't planned on such a large force attacking from that direction. 2 - To whittle down Roman forces for eventual victory. In this he came so tantalisingly close. The Roman defeats such as Trasimene and Cannae caused huge losses to the legions, such that 'green' troops were being hurriedly raised and sent to plug the gaps. Hannibals failure of course was that the Roman recruitment pool was large enough to withstand these losses - but it must be noted they were becoming desperate for soldiers at short notice. 3 - To attempt to intimidate the Romans into surrender. The Romans are losing battles, they fear for the worse, and Hannibal is marching across Italy at whim. Sooner or later he would surely turn on Rome itself? Hannibal was gambling that the Roman senate would seek peace terms if he created enough havoc. No doubt there were some senators who would have considered such a choice - historically, they had once before during the sack of Rome in 392BC - but in that case, the gauls had strode into the senate house itself. Rome in Hannibals day was a tougher nut to crack, and he was hoping to achieve a similar result without raising a siege to the city, thus tying down his forces and making them more vulnerable to Roman counterattack. In short, Hannibal failed in this objective.

The guy in the music store has known me for many years. He's a nice chap, as far as it a shopkeeper can be. I guess I've spent a fair few quid buying instruments, drumsticks, strings, and several guitars in that period. He is of course, a businessman first, and kept a poker face as I manhandled my ailing keyboard through his doors. Yes, another technological toy has bit the dust. My long suffering Yamaha keyboard, which must be nearly a quarter century old, a veteran that saw action on the front lines of stage performances, has decided to stop working. Of all the times it could have chosen to break down, it has to be now. How can life get any more painful? No, that's tempting fate isn't it.... The answer was staring me in the face. The salesman sighed and took down a few details in a fruitless quest to get the keyboard repaired, and warned me that if it wasn't an internal battery that needed replacing it's going to be expensive. There are pound signs revolving in his eyesockets as I write. Noise Schedule For 2009 I understand that the Old College site is to be demolished later this year. Can't wait for that. Explosions, collapses, big cranes swinging back and forth, earthmovers, heavily laden lorries, loud shouts of "Over 'ere, Fred!". Just to get me warmed up, the garage across the yard started this morning with a mechanical rattle, rather like a manic robot woodpecker. Demolishing someones car no doubt. And charging money for the privilege.

This spring has been very colourful. The chalk uplands of the MArlborough Downs are a somewhat lonely landscape, but that isolation has a charm of its own. Farming is more intensive than it was forty years ago, much more emphasis on crops rather than sheep grazing, but it's also a suprisingly rugged area with all those rolling hills, mostly because being so exposed to the elements you're not sheltered in the same way as the flat lowland farmland around it.

Couldn't agree more. There isn't any relation at all. Ethics are after all the informal rules of behaviour, whereas quality of art is a somewhat subjective appraisal of ability in expression. The behaviour of an artist (and many of them are distinctly flakey, others extremely cunning) varies enormously, and since ethics are rarely imposed on artists, their own ethical codes vary along with their personalities and egos.

It gets better. I've just popped down to the supermarket, and my route passes by one of these rehearsal places tucked away in an alleyway behind some offices. As I passed, a group of lads were leaving, guitars in hand, all looking very fresh faced and innocent - not one over the age of twenty. One of them was talking and he said (and I kid you not) "I swear to God, he used to play in some band called Red Jasper. Got left behind or something". I don't know whether to smile or cry

Erm.. Was that a compliment? Actually I don't really think I'm idealizing the past at all. I spent my youth banging my head against every brick wall in my path. The internet wasn't the tool it is now in any way whatsoever, and for the most part community support for music was paying lip service. Local music is a different ball game now. In my home town, there are at least three professional rehearsal facilities - you didn't see that in 1980! All we could do back then was find a hall we could hire and hope no-one complained. What I haven't described is the sheer frustration of trying to run a local band. The image of a bunch of mates getting together and making music for the fun of it is a ridiculous notion that belongs to american youth fantasies. The reality was you spent ages trying to find someone who could actually play, then watch them fall under the spell of girlfriends or motorbikes as you desperately tried to stop the band falling apart because we weren't playing someones favourite style of music. Don't get me wrong. I did go professional in the end, for three short years, and I do make a lot of tongue-in-cheek comments about my 'rock star' status. It was tough going. Lots of travelling in vans barely held together by rust, late nights, ungrateful promoters and venue owners, and a population of people who wanted to hear something else. But I don't regret it for a moment. I do get people scoffing at my efforts and sometimes disbelief I did anything in the first place, but I was there, they weren't. 'Nuff said. Intellect doesn't come into it.

In some ways, my computers health crisis has proven to be something of a break from my usual routine. Its been a while since I last did any serious work with music but already the temptation is growing. Unfortunately it has been a while since I last practised, and to my chagrin I've realised how lame a player I've become. No matter. The guitar, bass, and keyboard have colonised my front room and my fingers are very, very sore! You know what? I think its time I explored some of the musical forms I had in mind way back in my Red jasper days. I don't like making promises about producing great work and so forth, it always sounds like sour grapes and talentless bluster, so I'll say no more. If you'll excuse me, my masterpiece awaits... ...And the best bit is, our old band singer won't be able to claim the lyrics and melodies are his! Ooops. Did I mention sour grapes? Music Lesson of the Week It's struck me how lucky youngsters are these days. Back when I started rock music, and this was 1976, getting reheasal space and gigs was a monumental effort. Today the young musicians get government assistance, college courses, community gigs, exposure slots on radio. What struck me even more was just how clueless some of these kids are. Is that because I'm some great expert in the business? Well hardly, though obviously I've had some valuable experience, but with all this assistance available how come so few of them actually learn anything?

Nothing complex about slavery at all. Its the ownership of one person by another. It really is that simple. However, if you want to consider the ramifications of it, then the subject becomes more detailed, but 'immense range of seemingly divergent social structures'? The Romans were very clear about what a slave was. A slave, in their eyes, was beneath social class. Property, sometimes described as 'Talking Tools', used for menial tasks as the owner dictated. Wealthy families employed them as domestic servants, industry owners employed them as labourers, individuals employed them for specific skills, entrepeneurs and trainers employed them as violent athletes. Have I missed anything out?

Yesterday I was browsing the net and just for a laugh did a search on my name (the real one, not my UNRV moniker). What's this? A facebook entry? Lets check it out.... Imposter! There's a guy in London pretending to be me! Here's a little clue if you ever get confused. He likes icelandic music, I don't. Thanks to social networking, he's more famous than I am. There is no justice! Or Perhaps There Is... Last night I starting reading a novel - a pleasure I rarely get time to indulge in these days - and from outside in the street the noise of a crowd of revellers became apparent. Nothing unusual there, but in this case, they stayed outside the house. Naturally I got curious and on looking out the window, two 'Street Pastors' in uniform were warding the crowd off. 'Street Pastor'? What on earth is that all about? Not that I'm complaining of course, and it did save me the bother of clearing up discarded litter this morning. Then again, since I made the Council aware of the littering problem, are these 'Street Pastors' the answer? Well, it seems for the time being my castle is guarded. Hey, I might even finish this novel.

It isn't the international co-operation that bothers me, it's the creation of a single european empire. We have our individual nations as a result of all the tussles and bickering you mentioned. Any great empire put together the way this one is, by the back door whether or not its populace want it, is bound to end in tears one day. All these politicians want is power and their name in a history book. What we'll actually get is to bequeath strife and violence to our descendants when local nationalism grows more powerful than central bureacracy.

My computer is not well. He's in a coma. No matter what I do, he refuses to boot up. So today I could no more than take him to hospital. There, the repair technicians are drinking endless cups of coffee trying to figure out what is wrong. A quick visit to the hospital before it closed for business today wasn't encouraging. They wouldn't let me see him, and the receptionist told me that the computer has not yet regained conciousness. He's getting a bit old now I suppose, and deep down you know that one day his circuit boards will go inert for the last time. Sniff. Hang in there old buddy. Finding Things To Do It's incredible how dependent I've gotten on that heavy plastic box. Most of my hobbies now connect with it in some way or other. The second thing I'm missing is the car. Without one my horizons have shrunk alarmingly. The third thing I'm missing is enough income to go out and enjoy myself. The government don't pay me to be happy. Not to worry. There's plenty of things for me to get on with. Maybe even things to go and do. There is a world out there after all. Even if it is pouring with rain all weekend.

Of course not. It didn't disappear. It was inevitably diluted by Germanic influence and local diversity but elements of classic culture continued well into the dark ages. As History is no subject of experimentation, any inference on causality is highly speculative. The effect of decision is what is most important here. NN regards an important event as inevitable, almost determined by fate. Fate is after all the sum of all decisions and natural forces. Without the influential decision that overrides the conflicting ideas of lesser people, without the leadership to impose that decision, the event might not occur at all, or an alternative event might take place because the 'new' leader has different motives. You can speculate if you want, but a study of human behaviour is more useful. For someone who preaches a determinative approach to history, the mention of chaos theory is highly amusing, since that is hardly a proven quality of the universe at all. Absolutely not. A butterfly can only change the world climate if it persuades the other butterflies to assist. Otherwise it's only a flap in the wilderness. Chaos theory is very charming but complete bunkum. It fails to recognise the existing enviroment and it's dynamic influences, nor for that matter momentum, a principle and restrictive quality of physics. Momentum, of a sort, is also apparent in history. Events are changed for better or worse by decision, and only influential people can make influential decisions. Popular causes are still conformal to this view, because the original idea is more powerful than the originators personality, but inevitably, without leadership of some sort, the movement fails. You need a dominant butterfly, willing to take the risk to persude other butterflies to flap alongside him. Why is that risky? Because some butterflies might not like the idea of having to flap their wings at anothers direction. Thus we introduce conflict, which I notice Chaos Theory ignores as well.

Wow Doc, you're dating a viking! I reckon it's those beards that do it. or maybe the horny helmets? Well, I won't intrude, I daresay there's a lot of pillaging to do

The recent sunny weather has been very tempting, but long hikes in the countryside during hot weather can be a trial of endurance over and above lasting the distance. It isn't just sunburn of course. The heat can wear you down to the point where you get into an unhealthy state - and that's just England, never mind the tropics. Not being as young as I once was makes a difference - it really does. Anyhow, today was cloudy. The weather reports had suggested our run of sunny days was coming to an end so I'd already decided to make this my venture into the Wiltshire rainforest.. The sky outside early this morning confirmed it wasn't going to blistery hot. It was however, blisteringly humid. The sun made a few hesitant attempts to break through but by and large it was that damp sticky heat that's even worse than sunshine. I got a few of the usual comments made as I walked through Swindon on my way to the countryside. For the record, I do not look like Ray Mears at all. He's fatter than I am, and blonder. I'm not trying to be Bear Gryll's (though in todays humidity, I might end up having to). I'm not a member of Bravo Two Zero. Come on guys, I'm just out for a hike. Military surplus trousers are relatively cheap and really work against the ravages of undergrowth. It really does come to something when the builders waiting to start work on the terraces being built round the corner from me do no more than stare in amusement. Today it was the taxi drivers who poured scorn. And how much did you earn from my fares today, hmmm? Horse Play Limping home, I decided to pass through the lower side of Chiseldon. There seems to be a small nature reserve being built along the stream that cuts down between the hillside and the old railway embankment. One of those wetland things? Toads, frogs, salamanders? At the moment, it's little more than dry mud, but what a nice wooden walkway. I digress. Further on I turned right into a meadow where horses are often kept. Once before I had sat down in that field for a breather and a refill of water. Two horses cantered over in a fit of inquisitiveness. One stood back, the smaller one looked closely at my rucksack, which I imagine resembled a feeding bag. It had that naughty glint in its eyes. You leave that alone! My warning was ignored. It grabbed hold of my rucksack in it's teeth and almost smiled like a naughty boy. You! Let go! Horses are difficult to catch. Today however there was one horse and its offspring. The gangly foal stood close to its uninterested grazing mother and just as I prepared to take a photograph - it wee'd. How do animals know when to wee? They have this instinctive desire to make photography impossible. The best instance was at Auckland Zoo, New Zealand. The chimps were lounging on a massive climbing frame with boss chimp at the top. He looked around lazily and saw me watching through an observation window. He promptly stood up, gave an evil grin, and wee'd. Want to know why I think human beings are still animals? Reminisence of the Week During my walk earlier, I passed by fields full of yellow Rape and along the grass verges, red Poppy's and purple... ummm... Something or others. It was in that very same meadow at Chiseldon that it occured to me just how many wild flowers were sprouting up. Now I don't take much interest in such things, but for that moment I remembered how those meadows next door to our street used to look before Swindon buried them in housing estates. Dandelions, Buttercups, Daisies - masses of them. Seriously though, it's been forty years since I've last seen meadows like that.

In fairness, he wasn't a nazi, just very annoying. And he did get a mite upset when I wouldn't listen to his eulogies anymore. I've only met two other scotsmen in Swindon. One spoke an incomprehensible language whose origin is lost in the mists of time, the other was an ex-soccer hooligan whose hobby was beating people up. None of them mooned at me. I think Mel Gibson was talking out of his rear.

Swindon as a town always had ambition. Once the railworks closed in the eighties, the town brought in investment and new business and was always pushing to be raised to 'city' status. Back in 1994, I flew over Swindon in a Cessna and was stunned at how much dereliction the town still had, much of it ex-railway land. Since then these brownfield sites have been developed. More developments had been planned. Artists impressions of Swindons Brave New World have been published locally and presented a rosey image of a thriving, clean, happy town, a place of endless shopping malls and strange curving footbridges. Sadly the sites earmarked for these developments remain derelict. The Tented Market still stands and might even reopen as is. The Granville Street site is still a car park. The Old Police Station site is still a fenced off dirt field. The Locarno still looks more like a burned out ruin than the intended italianate piazza. The Old College, where I once studied, is now being demolished on the cheap by the occaisional vandal. Where has all the optimism gone? Alastair Darling, our beleaguered Chancellor (who may soon be replaced according to popular rumour), visited our borough yesterday to speak to Swindon business leaders. That was over quick. What did he say to them? Goodbye? Talking of goodbyes, I notice the artists impression of the renovated Old College site include a cute grove of trees where I currently live. Was that a hint? Scotsman of the Week There is a certain irony about Swindons reversals in fortune. A few years back, I was at a bar and requested a cider from the barmaid. "We ain't got none." She told me sweetly. What? No cider? How's a guy supposed to get drunk around here? All right then, I'll have some cider without the apples. So she poured me a Fosters lager. Having attracted some attention to myself with that display of mock indignation, the scotsman standing next to me proceeded to add me to his best mate list. Before I knew it, he was chatting to me like I'd known him for years. Anyone know who this bloke is? I discovered he was a Scotsman because he told me he'd come from Scotland, despite whatever preconceptions his scottish accent had led me to. Scotland is a great place. Much better than the south. Scottish money buys you more. The scots are much more cosmopot... cosmic... sociable. Hic. No scotsman would ever be rude, never any trouble north of the border. He likes Scotland. Scotland is a great place. Is it? Is it really? Did it improve a lot when you moved to Swindon? I walked away and avoided some trouble south of the border.

So they can clean up the mess after the weekend party probably. And you thought museums were dull...