caldrail

Just the other day I wandered through town in that aimless state of uncontrolled free time that sometimes happens between shifts at the car factory. Ooh look, a book store, let's have a browse and see if there's anything worth reading or better yet purchasing with my new found affluence. So I wandered in and headed for the 'scifi/fantasy' section as it was the nearest section I had any interest in reading. Almost immediately I spotted it. the Dungeons and Dragons Starter Set. Good grief, I remember the Basic Rules from when I was a teenager back in the seventies. Oh what fun we had. gathering around a table pretending to be heroic fighters, rascally thieves, clever wizards, or insidious clerics. Or for that matter, pretending we knew anything about medieval society, Arthurian mythos, or that we'd actually read Lord of the Rings. No matter, the Dungeonmaster would hide his papers behind a cardboard screen and describe the world we were about to set forth into and play merry adventure. D&D always came back to haunt me. For a while in my thirties I ran a game world for a bunch of players. Some might snigger or shake their head, but it was fun, social, and the added maturity of the players resulted in a much more rewarding experience in my opinion. It does occur to me that there must be plenty out there who don't know what a tabletop RPG is all about. I did think computer gaming had all but destroyed the hobby - what a surprise to see the box on the shelf of my local bookstore. Nostalgia is a compulsive beast. My mind goes back to those starting games and so often they began with that first old door in some neglected or forgotten crypt. Listen at the door? An odd sound, like a rasping noise, intermittent but quite audible. Aha, so you try to pick the lock do you thief? Yer can't, 'cos the door ain't locked. Duh! Armed to the teeth with blades and spells, ready for anything, eager to find what was the other side, they ask what's inside. In the centre of the dark chamber is a table and chair. A goblin is sat face down, holding a bottle, snoring as he sleeps off his ill gotten drink. The fact the poor little green creature was incapable of defending himself or that he would know where the treasure was mattered not one jot. The players would burst through the door and in a mad frenzy of rolling twenty sided dice the creature is dispatched to the grave. Then the ritual of searching the body. When they discover all he had was a pair of used underpants the players got annoyed, having risked their lives for so little gain. That's okay. Two levels down in a room far more secure is something they won't be so brave against. Heh heh heh.... Such fun. Reality Check Of the Week With my nostalgia trip over it was time to head into work and resume my quest for a comfortable life. Yesterday I had a bit of a problem. Recently I've been handling packing waste on four baling machines, half the section in total, and believe me, I get swamped out with mountains of cardboard and plastic regularly. On this particular day two of the machines went out of action. Oh no! So I improvised, swapping full and empty waste cages, heading outside into the cold where the big industrial balers were to make sure the cages were emptied, and after a shift long physical exercise regime like that, I was broken. I had, by my own initiative, kept our section from complaints of senior managers for leaving the section looking like a rubbish tip. And no-one thanked me. Nor did I find any treasure. Worst of all, I earned no experience points to advance my 'Level'. Pfah. This real world stuff sucks big time.

Interesting how people immediate use terms like 'NCO'. Sorry to add a sour point (I can't resist it) but the Romans had no NCO's by definition. The reason is that while 'not commisioned' as officers, they are in fact holders of military office (hence the name) thus represent a level of authority that is independent of role. The Roman system does not normally separate status and purpose and on no account were the Romans going to give lesser mortals a form of imperium no matter how restricted or humble. They had enough trouble keeping their men in line as it was. For instance, I perused a volume that mentions a role in the late empire legion called campidoctor. No, it doesn't define an effeminate physician, but an instructor of weapons drill. They were said to be masters of the sword and could take anyone on - they were also individual placements and rare. Note however the book refers to this as a 'rank' but surely this was a role with status, since one would not ordinarily be promoted through this job? The same thing happens with Optio, which means 'Chosen Man'. Varro informs us that centurions used to choose who their optio's were, but later the tribunes (presumably post Augustan reforms) allocated them. The point is that a man was not promoted to being a centurions right hand man - he was selected speficially for the role and there is nothing to suggest he could keep that role permanently or even rise higher for having held it. Okay, that's my gripe over with

The weather is getting colder. The words of wisdom issued by weather girls on television isn't necessary for me to know that, With doors open to the elements the ambient warmth is quickly defeated by draughts or breezes that penetrate. One young lady from Poland is suffering from the decline in British weather. It's laughable, it really is, because in her country the winters can be way more severe, yet she stands shivering in the same ambient warmth that we Britons take for granted in the workplace. And that's after the company issued everyone with bulky winter jackets. Forklifters are wandering around in garments that would protect them from the Atlantic swell, one increasingly resembling a WW1 air ace, and layers of clothing like hoodies are much in evidence. Yet although the outside gets very cold at night now, the inside temperature is much the same as it has been for the past month. One colleague who works on waste is now spending much more time indoors. I asked him about that. He said it was because the next shift was coming in and making his job difficult. Yeah. Right. My Phone Company Two weeks ago I discovered my mobile phone was blocked. Apparently I needed a PUK code to get it working again. As you might expect, security issues mean that you can only get PUK's from your mobile provider, as I quickly discovered. I tried to use their website but my account number wasn't accepted. Oh great. So I looked through my statement and found the hel mail address. Which they don't recognise any more. You have to use the website. Which I cannot use because they gave me an account number lost in the files marked 'Miscellaneous'. Does this company want my business? Do they want any business at all? yes, Virgin Mobile, I'm talking about you, and your lack of customer service. Your loss I guess. Driver of the Week This much admired accolade goes to the moslem lady I saw the other day. Right now one major road junction in town is being upgraded with work expected to last until January and big delays advised by electric signs. Motorists for the most part are taking it all in their stride, queuing up responsibly and patiently, but this lady? Apparently she'd taken the wrong exit, but instead of finding a more suitable turning place she decided that continuing was not a good thing and proceeded to cut across the unsurfaced road marked off by road cones. her car wobbled over the rough terrain, confused motorists unsure of what she was up to, and with complete determination she turned onto the opposite lane and squeezed into traffic. And not a single horn was blasted in her direction. Keeping Allah a bit busy there, I suspect.

The existence of travel between east and west in classical times is much debated now. Even the Chinese have admitted there is evidence of greek artisans working for the Chinese around 200BC (their influence is mooted as the reason for the sudden improvement in technique that led to the terracotta army). It isn't beyond speculation that a few made it the other way, but the historical record underlines how few occaisions this probably happened. Eight thousand miles is a very, very, long way without modern transport and infrastructure. To assume these finds indicate ordinary travel either way is taking a lot for granted.

More or less. The only non-Roman usage is 'Guard'. The Romans would always have referred to them as the Praetorian Cohorts.

Tarterus. Hades was the greek name for it, so given greek was the lingua franca of the Roman world, it would have seen a lot of use.

Now we run into an inescapable problem. Many assume that the Romans used a comparable pyramidical system of ranks - it seems obvious to us because modern systems are so similar and prevalent, not to mention easy to understand. But our organisational needs vary somewhat from those the Romans deemed important. Any specific comparison is not recommended. The equivalent ranks mentioned in Wikipedia are nonsense. There was no direct equivalence because ancient and modern use different tactics, organisation, and authority. Nowhere in the Roman sources is there a convenient listing of ranks. Vegetius merely mentions that troops 'rise through the ranks' and rotate among the cohorts. The thing is, our needs evolved from the use of gunpowder on the battlefield and the rapidly increasing need to manage a battlefield rather than lead it in the manner that the Romans used to. Centurions had far more authority to act on initiative than today - necessarily, because the Romans had not developed battlefield management and did not keep their generals at the back directing the battle. They never created a corps of runners, or any sort of overall communication system - messages were always sent ad hoc and it is mentioned that using runners was a risky venture due to casualties or mistakes. These days we need to spread our forces out, to prevent large casualties from single hits, to prevent flanking movements, and to deny territory to the enemy. The weight of fire that firearms development has made a difference too. Whereas in the days of muskets men were massed for maximising the short range inaccurate smoothbore flintlocks, the basic level of soldiering went down to the 'squad' in WW2 and now automatic weapons are making the smaller 'team' more usable. Back two thousand years and the squad is a disaster waiting to happen, easily overwhelmed by numbers, and thus the Romans group together in larger numbers. The only reason that basic units like the century were of around a hundred men (or a bit smaller in imperial times) was that was as many men as a single man could lead in battle conditions. If the Romans had been able to have one man lead the entire army in one go, they would have happily done that. Note how senior legionary officers behave. Caesar recalls how he ranged behind the line, urging men on, forcing them back into line when they wavered, or when he felt confident, picking up a sword and shield to fight alongside his men in the front rank. Try doing that today. There is a case for believing the Romans had a different system of rank - I've written often about this - based on temporary status in the same way a politician gathered offices during his career, but for this answer, avoid direct parallels. There are no NCO's as such, but there are soldiers with better status and some responsibility. Centurions are junior officers with their own hierarchy and social class. The remainder are senior officers, not career military men as such, though some did serve in that manner, but more often politicians or hopeful politicians serving their time to gain military kudos. If you want to create a sci-fi story and don't need precise Roman classifications, then adopt whatever names you need. You might even combine ancient and modern titles for added flavour. If this is a time travel scenario then your travellers are going to find a military system they would see some parallels in, but many nuances they did not expect. Always remember that money made the Roman world go round, and their military was no exception, effectively independent of the state though under the command of its representatives.

Most books on gladiators have this sort of information. One title I do recommend you try to get hold of is Gladiators - Violence and Spectacle In Ancient Rome by Roger Dunkle (Pearson Education 2008). Archeology and history documentaries sometimes add interesting detail provided you're astute enough to spot the rubbish that sometimes creeps into them.

Gladiator schools were focused on Rome and Capua, these being the centres of excellence in such things, but as you rightly point out schools existed elsewhere. However, the issue is not so clear cut. Formal schools were connected more often than not with established arenas in imperial times. Pompeii had a gladiatorial barracks and its own stone built arena (that Nero had banned from holding events for ten years because of a riot between the townsfolk of Pompeii and visitors from a rival town)There were also less formal schools often in more provincial areas. There were even itinerant bands of gladiators wandering around rural areas giving mostly demonstration fights that had no school property at all, but since education in the empire was often informal in this manner, that was to be expected. There are also hints that wealthy gladiator owners (used for bodyguards or status symbols) indulged in their own training whilst not being an actual lanista as a trade. Cicero mentions the highly regarded troupe of fighters owned by his friend Atticus. For the purposes of your story you have many options. It is worth pointing out though that if you intend a story based on late empire practice, gladiatorial schools were closed and fights declared illegal by 396. Of course it did carry on behind the scenes nonetheless and persisted in one form or another into the dark ages.

Yesterday marks the point at which I truly became a rock star. Not because of millions of pounds in the bank, wild celeb parties in exotic locations, records in the charts, or thousands upon thousands of doting fans - nope, none of those which I freely admit aren't exactly part of my life experience - it's because yesterday I got recognised by a newer generation for my music. You have to ask how they stumbled across it, I mean, I was never a big draw back then, something like twenty five years ago, or since, and record sales were not making any impression on the public even in the days when we went out gigging to sell them. But they were, a group of kids who weren't even born when I gave up performing publicly, exercising their right to poor scorn upon my musical efforts. Hey, that's fame, you don't get the praise without the criticism. What shall I do with me new found fame, I wonder? I know, I'll tell more people about it. I think that's what you're supposed to do.... Can't remember.... Big Bad And Bursting In I don't relish the chances of those Russians stationed on the far northern island of Svalbard right now. It seems that hungry polar bears, denied their natural habitat of pack ice, have done what bears end up doing everywhere else in the world and have started persuading the human beings nearby to stump a choice meal or two. The Russians are besieged in a none too friendly situation, and worse still, the young polar bears are learning that humans are weedy creatures who have lots of food to steal. A sleigh dog or too has already been eaten. I remember not too long ago a documentary about putting animals back in the wild. There are benefits to letting carnivores loose - it restores a natural balance and eventually leads to a more fertile and varied environment. Except bears. Put bears back in the wild and the first thing they do, not knowing where to find food, is to seek out human settlements where they almost instinctively know they can scavenge from. Like they do anyway. I wish those Russians on Svalbard well and hope they don't run out of flare cartridges too soon. Trip Home OF The Week It's a long walk home from work, so imagine my despair when the storm started an hour before I finished in the afternoon. It really did lash down intermittently. It was well humid too, almost tropical, and although not so hot as holiday destinations it was still well warm for a British September. Some of the lads in the changing room exchanged a few wry jokes about me having to walk in the torrential rain. Oh how they laughed, but as usual, I had come prepared. Not only that, I knew full well that the storms were in a line passing over the factory. A little south, where I was headed, it was bright and sunny. So not only did I manage to walk home, I didn't get soaked either. Result. Just one small point though.... Usually a colleague stops to offer a lift in his snazzy non-Honda. On that particular day, he drove right past me. Okay. I can deal with that.

I see another high ranking terrorist received a visit from a US drone. Well Mr Al Ad... Erm... Al Adn.... Well whatever your name was, I doubt you'll be missed. Oh. You weren't. Personally I don't really like assassination as a tool of global politics, but in all seriousness, I just cannot find myself criticising America for it if extremist hatemongers get a taste of their own medicine. Meanwhile, Back At The Ranch There's more and more nationalities that I'm stumbling across at work. South Africa, Colombia, and Nepal. All working in Swindon? Amazing what a global car manufacturer can do for a town. Except train their employees. I've been there two weeks and still haven't received 'full training'. How hard can this job be? Too hard for one lad. he had that aura of mischief about him. I never spoke to him much, partly because his vocabulary was limited to several phrases, partly because it was impossible to feel safe in his presence. Whilst the boss was wandering the shop floor he observed this one particular individual outside, throwing cardboard boxes backward over his head into a baler machine. Come with me young man! And that was the last we saw of him. Turns out he was also enjoying a wizard wheeze throwing on the handbrakes of passing forklift trucks. We were lucky something didn't blow up. Instead, the boss did. A Little Red Faced When Facebook wanted to launch their own satellite costing millions who did they turn to? NASA? Russian Space Agency? India or China? Nope. They went to Spacex, creators of the worlds first re-usable launch rocket, or at least, re-usable when they can land it without the thing exploding. So having successfully landed their creation, they perch the Facebook satellite on top, refill the tanks, and light the fuse... KABOOOM!!!! You really have to admire the Spacex sales team. Product Placement Of The Week Buy a Honda. There you go. My first ever product endorsement now that I'm sort of sponsored by them. Americans have no excuse because some of the cars we're building are heading their way. That means that some of you will be purchasing automobiles that have my DNA on them. Now before I get letters from US lawyers demanding compensation for some horrific accident (or even just parking in the wrong place), I would point out that I did report an error in one part the other day. Potentially I saved the company millions in product recalls, or who knows, even lives. Didn't even get a thank you. Hmmpf.

Things just get more and more awkward every day. It really doesn't feel like I'm in control of my life any more, and to be honest, there's every reason to believe someone is interfering in my business as no opportunity to disrupt my income is being missed. Well, for the time being, I'm back in the saddle, working at the Honda car plant. Don't get me wrong - this is not my dream job in any way whatsoever, but it will pay the bills for a while. My colleagues, many of whom are being taken on at the same time as me, come from a wide variety of countries. There are of course the ubiquitous Poles, as well as Hungarians, czechs, Goans and other assorted Indians, Italians, Egyptians, and at least one American appeared on the radar today. Two of my female colleagues wanted to know who he was, and with typical working class forthrightness demanded "'Oo are you then?". It turned out it was the Vice President of Honda USA on a visit. Result. On the negative side the 'full training given' turns out to be rather less full and more sporadic. I even had to walk away from one trainer I was assigned to because he admitted he didn't know what he was doing. The trouble, so the agency informs us, is that Honda don't normally take on so many temps in one go. There's certainly demand for them - I've had a total of five agencies trying to hire me for the same job. I know, the scheme to earn five times as much has occurred to me, but I tried that once before in another warehouse - it doesn't work. Also Not Working My grand plan to learn some Polish has hit the rocks. Not through want of effort, it's just that the Poles shorten their vowels so much that their language is almost impossible for us lazy English speakers to get right. I've had one young Polish lady reduced to hysterics by my continued efforts to say "teabreak" in Polish. The word is said something like p'sher'va, but as easy as it looks, she just giggles and says it again in clipped Polish preciseness. Vending Machine Of The Week The works canteen has a row of typical vending machines for snacks and drinks. They do work, as it happens, as anything not working is not the Japanese way. So, having no cash to spend, I decide a cup of free cold water would do. Number eighty.... Aha... I now have to chose whether I want Strong, Normal, or Weak water. Really? My trials are nothing compared to one colleague, FJ, who is the only temporary worker to receive full training, knows everything, and thus is respected and consulted by all despite this being his first job and only present for a week so far. He's even decided to go on the night shift to get away from all the fame and fortune. His choice of breaktime tipple was Beef Soup. Strong, naturally, as he always chooses Strong. Big mistake, FJ. When it says Strong, it means it. Now he buys cans of fizzy drinks and looks forward to his girlfriends curries to get through the day, and breaks out in a sweat whenever Beef Soup is mentioned. Personally, I 'll stick to water. It doesn't seem to make any difference which strength I choose.

That's not evidence of life after death. It's evidence of awareness during the death process. However, having had two quite sincere but strange experiences regarding perceptions, I do not discount out of body experiences, near death or alive, and because I cannot satisfactorily explain those experiences logically, it has formed the basis my religious belief - but I do stress - life is what happens on Earth. Death is the end of that experience. If there's anything afterward, that's not life - it's existence after death. What I'm not going to do is create some strange rationale to ease an instinctive fear of death (and let's face it, the original popularity of Christianity had a great deal to do with the ancient Roman population, of all provinces concerned, being assured that a paradise awaits them after all the dangers and trials of life)

The last two weeks have been physically demanding if not quite strenuous. I've been working for a private military company, one of the commercial enterprises that service the needs of modern armed forces under contract. Although strictly speaking that makes me a mercenary, I was not dealing with arms in any way, just the logistical side of army business. Finally, with the schedule successfully completed, we were allowed out of work an hour early. A different mood had swept across the town of Swindon. I'm not sure why. I passed the beer garden of a popular drinking den on my way home, and unusually, it was full of families enjoying the afternoon. Maybe it was the weather? The sun was hot and the breeze delightfully cool. Or maybe it was just that Friday feeling? At any rate, I felt the need to just chill out, relax, and enjoy the very same afternoon. I sampled the new blackberries growing out of the hedgerow beside the road. I'm not the only one to do so of course, you find individuals occaisionally collecting berries, but a berries in the mouth as I pass by is a welcome relief on warm days. Most are young and a bit sharp, but after a while you get used to finding the larger, more mature berries, and they taste just great. They weren't enough however. I needed to stop and let the world whizz by. I found my spot at Summer Gardens. To tell the truth, it isn't exactly a garden at all, just a large patch of grass hidden between residential and business areas. It is however wonderfully sheltered. Beneath one of the oak trees I sat down, listening to that wonderful sound of wind in the leaves. I'm not really into that 'communing with nature' thing, but this once, it felt right to do so. It isn't the sort of place you see wildlife in daylight hours - too many smelly human beings - but I did spot a white butterfly moving randomly a little way off. A white one, not the dirty grey modern variety. It occurred to me how few butterflies there are now. In my childhood, you'd see loads of them, everywhere,. The outside world still intruded. Barely audible was a passing police car, then a fire engine. A lorry bleeped as it reversed into the business unit behind me. Cars passed by the multi-story parking lot the other end of the Gardens. None of it really bothered me. Eventually I needed to be somewhere else, so I gathered myself together and hobbled away on stiff legs. That's the price you pay for inactivity, but this once, I really didn't mind.

Another day, another job interview, and another bag full of documentation and proof of who I am, what I was, and why I think I could be. For a moment my trusty old CAA pilots license passed through my hand. I hadn't seen it for some time as no-one had ever asked to view it, and as for flying, I haven't been at the controls of an aeroplane since 2002, which at my age means to exercise the full privileges of licensing means another round of costly dual instruction and expensive medicals. Not really a practical lifestyle choice at the moment, not with my career wading through the mud. I happen to be one of the last Britons on the old UK CAA lifetime PPL's. These days a pilot can either get a UK recreational license, restricted to British airspace, or the full European JAA five year license. I wonder what will happen now that Britain has voted for Brexit? Those were the days. I would come out of work early on a Friday afternoon, glance up at the sly as I walk across the car park, and decide whether to pop down to the airfield. Looks like a lovely day. Let's go! After an hours blast across southern England in my trusty old Toyota sports car I arrive at the field. There's no fuss or nonsense getting in, and I park up to visit the flying club office, where I ask about availability (always a formality, they had enough aeroplanes to go around) and sign out my choice of aircraft. Then it's up to the tower to look through the NOTAMS (Notices To Airmen) to make sure I don't do something stupid, ignorant, or just plain illegal.. Check the weather report. All looks good. Today I'll be flying one of the Piper Tomahawks parked out on the grass. The PA38 is not exactly exotic, just a simple two seat American trainer, and good enough for an hours flying to keep my hours up. The metal airframe is hot to the touch under the summer sunshine, even with white paint, and the moment I open the cabin door I feel the heat inside - it's like a cooker in there. So, leaving the cockpit to ventilate and hopefully cool down a tad, I leave the door open, stow my bag, and wander around on my preflight check. You really need to do these habitually. You cannot assume an airframe is ready and safe to fly. After testing this and pushing that, I conclude this aeroplane is okay to fly. The cockpit is still uncomfortably hot, but I expected that, and put up with it. A few more checks, then the business of starting up can begin. These aircraft are not sophisticated. Their design, both airframe and engine, dates from 1930's technology and that means I have to do some jiggery-pokery with the plumbing to persuade that lumpy four cylinder engine to turn. Not like a car at all. Even with an electrical starter like this installation, there still needs to be a number of controls set just right. I push the primer pump a couple of times, set the mixture, set the throttle, shout "Clear prop!" to prevent anyone lurking under my Tomahawk from being minced by the propeller, and try the starter. The engine doesn't like being woken up. It turns over with a click and whirr, the innards doing everything except firing. Woah! There it goes, bursting into noisy life. Immediately I reset the throttle, check the readings on the instruments, and prepare for movement. Call the tower and tell what I intend to do today. They reply with the usual terse permissions and advice, so now it's just me, releasing the brakes and letting the Tomahawk trundle forward. On the grass it waddles and rocks about, so go careful, because if that propeller hits the ground my flight is over before it begins. Now I arrive at the end of the runway. A last minute check that the controls are working as expected, that the engine temperatures and pressures are within safe limits, and run the power up briefly so I know the engine is working properly. I have to know that - take off is the most dangerous part of the flight, the moment when the engine is under the greatest strain and the aeroplane at the slowest speed. One last call to the tower and they confirm the runway is mine. Lining up on the runway is quite an experience, no matter how many times I do it. The width of the tarmac, the knowledge of what the strip is for, and the anticipation of a sudden burst of speed and power to get this aeroplane into the air. With everything ready to go there's no more delay. The throttle lever is pushed steadily forward, the engine bellows loudly, and the little Piper starts to accelerate. Unlike a Cessna which almost flies itself, the Tomahawk is a reluctant flyer and needs persuasion to lift off. A pull on the yoke at around 50 knots and with a slight unsteadiness, I start to leave the world behind me. For a short while I'm in a tiny little world of my own, a metal can suspended half a mile in the air, growling loudly around the sky. Occaisionally a voice over the radio interrupts, sometimes quick orderly exchanges with air traffic control, or simply someone else talking on the same frequency that doesn't involve me at all. As usual, the air is a little hazy, and although I steer clear of the white cumulus tufts as the law and commonsense dictates, I can't really see that far, just a dozen miles or so, and the various thermals and gusts of wind make the aeroplane wobble and jolt. I see another light aircraft flying a little way off. A military helicopter blasts past below at an impressive speed. A couple of gliders in the distance wheel about looking for the same thermals I'm trying to avoid. Maybe you might spot a car on a road down there. For the most part, my little world is a solitary place, the world outside strangely empty and silent. Sooner or later I either run short of fuel or money, so the flight has to end, thus I head back to the airfield and call them to announce my imminent arrival. They reply with instructions on which approach to use, and it's up to me to guide my aeroplane correctly. The runway looks ridiculously small from there. Getting down accurately is a skill that requires practice, one I enjoy completing successfully, and it is a necessary part of flying. What goes up must come down. I adjust the power to control my rate of descent. I adjust the aeroplanes attitude to control my speed. A little counter-intuitive perhaps, but that's how flying works, and I've done it often enough not to have to think about it. With a few more adjustments the aeroplane settles into an approach I'm happy with. The runway gets larger, and closes on me ever quicker. Start to ease off the speed and descent, trying to judge it so the aeroplane is hardly descending when... There's a hesitant whine from the stall warner. A quick screech and bump as the tires touch the tarmac. All power is off and I'm down, keen to get off the runway and open the cockpit before it starts cooking me. Finally I arrive at the parking place. On with the brake, shut off the fuel and electrics, letting the engine stop itself, and finally, a chance to get that door open and breathe fresh air. My ears are buzzing in the odd silence that follows a flight. There's a stiffness in the legs after having to push rudder pedals for the last hour. All I do now is finish off putting everything back where it belongs and close the door behind me, then back to the office to sign off the airframe. That was a good flight. I enjoyed that.

Ouch! Actually we're not out yet. We're currently paid up members of the Union until agreement is reached with our European partners or the two year period of Article 50 expires. Further, if that article isn't started, in theory we don't leave, though I'm sure there would be some fallout from such a decision on both sides of the Channel, but then, May seems determined to see it through and good for her. As for the truth of the European Union, I doubt many people know what that is. I do note that whilst many opinions are probably inaccurate, my own included, it isn't difficult to fit them to what we observe, which is in itself a failure of the Union to be as open and direct as it needs to be.

Well, there does seem to be a unique feel and spread of personality in Roman records, possibly because their writers were more concerned with such things than other cultures. The Greeks for instance had more interest in valour and success, whereas the later Roman writers want to investigate a man's personality to glean some insight into why he did certain things. On the one hand you have people praised for their superior morals, temperance, and deeds. Sometimes, like Saturninus, you have someone slagged off and dismissed quite harshly. Some, like Augustus, have public reputations yet writers are far less consistent or complimentary. Revered or not, they were not blind to his faults. I also note that Spartacus, for all his bad behaviour and goat herder origin, is uniquely praised despite both being a slave and a rebel slave at that. HE receives an almost heroic praise in one source, yet it's hard to imagine, despite what Mommsen thought, that a bandit, army deserter, and rebel leader could be as noble as people like to portray him.

One of the great truths of Britain is that for every run of good weather, you pay for it by rainy days to come. Right now the weather is prone to heavy showers. Typically I got dampened by drizzle as I arrived at the library, only to see sunny skies out of the window as I'm typing this. I'm not tempting fate by declaring when I want to go home. The other day I was watching the birds in the park. The feathered ones I mean. Their antics are fascinating, especially when one gets cross with another. They don't just spar and conclude it like mammals, birds really do bear a grudge and once they don't like somebody, the aggressor keeps attacking the victim incessantly until it goes away. Or until an RAF Typhoon fighter screams across the park overhead. What a racket. But then he was shifting, using that surplus of power for airspeed, going about his potentially dangerous business. I didn't think of it any further, other than he blasted across Swindon at more or less the same altitude that civilian light aircraft often do. Come to think of it - there weren't any light aeroplanes about. Perhaps the Typhoon had chased them away? Then I spotted the unmistakeable presence of foreign airmen trying to understand the British cabbie as they flagged down a taxi. Not in ordinary or dress uniform either, but in their flying gear no less. Hmmm... I surmise, Dr Watson, that an air show is taking place within driving distance. I further deduce that since RIAT takes place at nearby Fairford Air Base around this time of year, that the town is strangely packed out with shoppers, and the roads jammed with endless queues of cars, that they are about to take part in Britain's premier airshow. But you don't have to be Sherlock Holmes to work that one out. Life In The fast Lane Although I'm not a Formula One fan, I did watch the British Grand prix this weekend. It started under a cloud, literally, with one of those heavy showers. This made for some dramatic racing. The drivers must have been all too aware how easy it was to lose control of their powerful lightweight machines, not known for being easy to drive at the best of times, and you could see real seat of the pants driving going on as cars wobbled and slid all over the place. I though F1 was boring? This was good viewing. Here's the funny thing though. The danger hotted up as the sun came out and the track began to dry. With grip returning, drivers were pushing their cars harder right up until they strayed into a puddle and whoops - there goes another rubber tired car, sliding spectacularly for hundreds of yards, unstoppable in true Hollywood fashion by any of the run-offs or gravel traps. I saw formula one cars doing four wheel drifts as they coped with unexpected issues in the bends. You don't see that every week, not in a sport that relies on downforce and grip. The speed of pit stops was stunning. The last time I took any serious notice of F1 racing crews took six or seven seconds to change tires. These guys were doing it in half that. I watched spellbound as Verstappen overtook his rival on the outside, earning a 'fastest lap' in the process. Woah - that was racing, full on. But as the water evaporated the average speeds of all the cars lifted and the race turned into the usual high speed traffic jam. Yawn. Oh well done Hamilton. Nice victory. I fancy a spot of lunch. Time to raid the fridge. So there you have it. To rescue Formula One from the dullness of anonymous insectoid machines buzzing around the track in an endless technological blur, hold the races in Britain. Forget all those exotic foreign locales with guaranteed sunshine and yachts in the harbour. Bring it back home to Britain where the weather can turn a certain result into a jaw dropping spectacular. Or at least until technology eventually finds a gizmo to cope with British weather once and for all. TV program Of The Week I nominate Love Island. Get a bunch of working class hunks and babes and watch them compete for lurve. Or not, if you have the gumption to change channels before you get sucked into this pointless farrago. The television announcer breathlessly sets the scene for us, musing over whether one guy or another will get a certain girl. Oh how the tension builds. Truth is, the entire rationale appears to be that we watch a bunch of nobodies trying to be somebody by shagging anybody in front of everybody. Truly missable.

It is interesting isn't it? On another website I'm being bombarded by people who think the Roman Empire was technologically advanced, well organised, an example of societal perfection in all its glory. Yet so much of their activity was based on profiteering, bribery, threat, and conspiracy. Not just at the top with wealth and power available, it wasa cultural trait that was never properly addressed.

Well it seems somebody doesn't like what I said about flying. Okay, here's the reasoning. In the real world I took flying very seriously. Firstly because I need to fly an expensive machine within safe limits. Secondly for anyone who happens to be flying with me. As a pilot by law I must be responsible both for the conduct of the flight and the safety of passengers. Lastly, and most importantly, my own health and safety, as I remain the most valuable part of the flight Now about the scenario. In the temperatures at the South Pole, a DC6 can only lay up for two hours before the engines freeze and become useless. If you want to go, you have to go, and there's precious little capacity down there for maintenance or rescue. Now whilst in real life I would not have begun this flight, there are ways to maximise the take off performance. Optimal flap setting, full power against the brakes before setting off for max acceleration, and lightened load, which in this case would mean losing some fuel, etc. It is true that reaching the Falklands was not a particularly hard task for a DC6, I could have done it with 40% fuel and had no worries whatsoever. That would saved a lot of weight. But what if the weather at Port Stanley was too bad for landing? It's one thing to take off, landing requires more precision and care because instead of leaving the earth behind, you intend bumping into it, hopefully as gently as possible. Had the worst case happened, I would need to reach somewhere else, like Argentina or South Africa, and that required a long flight again over the South Atlantic either way, so I had to choose between making my flight to Port Stanley a one-way affair with no hope of reaching anywhere else, or put up with the weight of reserve fuel (which I did in the event since the scenario used random weather which I could not predict ahead of the flight) things aren't always so simple in the real world, and I conducted the sim flight accordingly (or at least I did when the sim reminded me that it was reasonably realistic)

In the last few weeks I've rediscovered a television series from the sixties. The Saint were the adventures of gentleman adventurer Simon Templar, played by Roger Moore, a sort of poor man's James Bond without the gadgets and evil villains taking over the world. Moore plays the part with his usual bond-esque humour but it is hard to imagine a real life counterpart so genteel and light hearted. In his world, just like Bond, he's infamous and known to everyone yet can wander around incognito until the he gets betrayed by a twist in the plot. The thing is, like most sixties television in Britain, production values were very low scale. You can see that corridor is a painted backdrop. That car chase across Germany looks more like Essex. The train carriage is a simple sound stage set. Paris no more than a backdrop of Notre Dame. But you don't mind that, because again, like most sixties television, these programs tell stories. The adventures might be contrived, predictable, sometimes even completely implausible, but unlike modern series the episodes don't rely on emotional wrangling or deep significance. It's actually fun to watch, a guaranteed gritty fistfight in every episode, and the sixties cut scenes and cars add period flavour. Of course, when Ian Ogilvy took over in the seventies, changing the charismatic Volvo P1800 sports car for a lumbering Jaguar XJS, the mood had changed. Gentleman adventurers were a thing of the past, aside from James Bond. American imports introduced us to the Ford Torino of Starsky & Hutch, Kojak and his lollipops, and in Britain, series like The Professionals had opted for a more down to earth and working class feel. The Seventies - when Britain joined Europe and the Old World finally withered away. Hmmm... We've just decided to leave Europe. I wonder.... Pole To Port Stanley The Douglas DC6 is a pleasing shape in the air, a fifties four engine propliner descending from that old warhorse, the Dakota. In the night sky a few miles south of the Falklands, the Pratt & Whitney Double Wasp engines, each capable of 2400 horsepower, droned on. Below us, hazy patches of sea mist lit by the moon. A few whisps of cumulus drifted by. Above, the stars, strangely static despite our two hundred mile an hour cruise. Most of the passengers would be dozing off by now, too tired by the white knuckle ride on takeofff and the subsequent journey across the South Atlantic to stay awake, too distracted by the vibrating rumble and the stale interior to sleep well. Finally, the radio messages became more frequent, and the command comes through to descend and head for the approach to Port Stanley. In real life my hand would have spread across four chunky levers, but with a couple of keypresses, the angry noise reduces to a quiet grumble, and the plane starts to lose altitude. But of course this isn't real. Finally with some time to relax and forget the busy schedule of the past year, it was time to break out the flight simulator. I'd been watching Pole To Pole, a travel documentary by Michael Palin, and fancied a go at flying down there. My first attempt was hopelessly inept. I ought to have known better, given my real life pilot training, but I took off without planning and quickly found the cold air causing engine failure after take off, made worse by the prospect of ending up in the icy waters of the polar seas. Not good. Okay. Lets think about this. The gravel runway in the simulator at the end of a rocky archipelago was too short for the heavily laden DC6 so I prepared every trick I could think of, and took a lot longer to warm the engines, running them up to power much more gently. Without that two hundred foot cliff off the end of the runway all would have been another disaster, and the random weather I took off in was appalling. All that had been coped with. There was the runway lights at Port Stanley. Realism? Well, Microsoft might claim its as good as it gets, but I certainly wasn't. Might have to practice a bit more before I get that phone call from a desperate airline. Crisis Ot The Week This star prize has to go to Brexit. it must have been obvious there was a chance the British public would choose to go, and everyone quickly forgot that until we kick off Article 50, nothing changes, and even then, there's still a two year negotiation period. Come on Simon Templar. Shoot the bad guys, kiss the girl, and put Britain back on course. At the moment you're a lot more real than some of our overpaid politicians.

There are basically two issues about Brexit I don't like. Firstly that Sturgeon and other Scottish politicians are behaving as if Scotland is already an independent country - it isn't. They voted to remain in the United Kingdom, and for that matter, what is democratic about saying "We don't like the vote result so we insist on another vote until we get what we want"? The second is the dangerously apathetic reaction of many British politicians. "Oh no... Crisis..." they tell news reporters and seem utterly unable to make decisions or take positive action, preferring to take advantage of perceived weakness to start stabbing each other. Luckily over the last few days sterner heads have calmed things down and leadership is starting to rise to the fore. Why the situation has to be a crisis I don't know. They all knew what the vote was about and what the potential results might be. So it seems so many of them were just sitting there expecting to be told what to do.

Sturgeon has an agenda and as much as she's a pushy lady at the best of times, there is no case for demanding referendums simply because she signed up to a deal that jumped ship. The facts are simple. Scotland voted to remain in the UK and the UK have voted to opt out of Europe. That much of Scotland wanted to remain in the EU is neither here nor there. The EU Referendum wasn't about British nations voting, it was a UK vote. She is obliged to observe the result or else her democratic principles are on very shaky ground. In nay case, it is possible for the UK to permit individual nations to negotiate some kind of associate membership of the EU in the same way that's being suggested for the UK now. The European Union means European Union. It always has. The problem with cooperative political entities like this is that they present vehicles for empire building, and let's be honest, the EU has some very ambitious bureaucrats working toward building a European superpower. The plans for national integration have been published for more than a decade. The whole of the EU, as it was then, had been divided up into provinces that did not rely on national boundaries. The reason that so much emphasis has been placed on educating people on the value of EU membership is that national identities, as we now see clear examples of, are obstructions toward acceptance of the ultimate goal of that Union. Even France, once one of the major players in dominating the EU's future, has now had to deal with many of the same issues that Britain has considered recently, and their economy is not doing well. In other words, the EU works because some member states were financially supporting the weaker ones. Our exit reduces the EU economy by 17%. That's quite a proportion, and note how keen the EU is to get rid of Britain now we don't want to play ball. My bubble is declared reinflated

The issues are actually quite simple. On the one hand, membership of the EU has allowed us access to the common market and enterprise grants of money. On the other, it demands we accept ever more immigration, continual taxation to support weaker European economies, ever more legal oversight from Brussels, and eventual absorption by the EU superstate. Under EU plans, Britain will at some point cease to be a nation state, becoming part of the Atlantic province along with coastal France. Scotland has already had a referendum on affiliation within the United Kingdom. It is quite stubborn and rather crass to then demand another simply because the UK wants to opt out of Europe, even though the process won't happen tomorrow. They made their choice. All fair and legal. Nothing was hidden from them. If the Scots can vote in a referendum and choose to remain, they have to accept that as part of the UK they also voted to be part of the EU, and even if much of Scotland wanted to remain - tough. The referendum was for al the UK, not just England. This morning at work the talk was all about the voting progress. No-one wanted to remain - we cheered as the votes began to roll in, though I have to say none of the Poles were present at that time. One colleague wanted rid of Cameron (I'm no fan of him myself) and it seems his wish has been granted albeit not until October. I must be honest - the result pleased me, but celebrations will have to wait because unfortunately withdrawal is not immediate nor a simple process. As much as I anticipate difficulties, the fact is Britain was already in a difficult economic situation and has suffered reversals along with everyone else. I'm shocked at the lack of strong will in the reactions of some politicians, especially those of the 'Remain' camp, who are now having to accept the result the British public have meted out. Of course Russia Today has managed to find some disgruntled political commentator from Scotland who has a negative, if somewhat odd, view of what is happening. His assertion that Britain is succumbing to right wing tendencies is hard to understand since most of us live and work in moderate and tolerant manner, but the truth is the increasing numbers of foreign nationals is making the job market extremely hard, especially for the low paid. Austerity in Britain has made the situation tougher - I've felt the effects quite badly in the last couple of years. The pro-European policies of Cameron, and to be fair, a great number of mainstream politicians of all persuasions, have become somewhat distant from popular sympathy. The last election had an apathetic turnout. Note how the issue of British 'independence' from Europe has raised the level of public involvement considerably.

Personally I've never liked the European Union. I support the Common Market, but the idea of becoming part of a federated European superpower sits uneasily with me. All empires, however accumulated, break up at some point, and it's never pretty, so whilst it's an opportunity for a few well placed politicians to get their names in the history books it will eventually leave a bitter legacy of some kind. As it stands, the EU is dangerously close to wobbling under its own weight, leaving Germany ironically with a European empire it doesn't want to dominate on its own resources. As much as there is something to be said for staying in, the advantages are short term. Long term, I would be happier with Britain resuming its independent stance. The 'Project Fear' is of little concern - Britain is quite capable of getting into a mess without Europe and the effects of leaving won't necessarily be felt immediately, but then, most of what we lose in legal terms can be re-introduced in British legislation anyway, and since our trading and security relationships are with individual nations and not the EU as a whole - where's the issue?