caldrail

Health issues are very much in my mind right now. As if the dust at work wasn't provoking enough coughing, I seem unable to completely shake off symptoms of a bad cold. The lads I work with now expect me to break out the Lemsip. Hard Hat, my Jamaican colleague, sometimes offers a can of energy drink when I look especially tired. That weary demeanour hasn't escaped the attention of other colleagues either. But, if I don't stay, I get no pay, so to quote from an old Red Jasper song, I'll carry on "Crawling into work". Cough splutter. One chap on another shift might not be working there much longer. Carelessly he left a packet of cigarettes in the toilet. Worse still, a small supply of drugs was secreted within it. There's been quite a flurry of activity over that mistake and no shortage of gossip. I say bring in Sherlock Holmes to work the Case of the Discarded Fag Packet. But of course, we all know it was Colonel Mustard with a lead pipe. Max Power Time to go home, so I tramp tired and weary up the road to the bus stop. Sometimes you see the same old regulars waiting in the cold for bus rides somewhere close to home, sometimes you get occaisional adventurers out for a double decker thrill. As we mere mortals wait, those blessed with vehicles demonstrate their superior social status by blasting past at high revs, sort of like beating their chests but faster. Naturally that stirs discussion among the young lads, and once fast cars become the topic of the night, everyone taks about their own machines, always chipped, tuned, and stage three everything. They boast earnestly about how their car's capabilities allow them to ignore common sense and the laws of physics. Come on guys, I was young once. Who are you trying to kid? On the money we get paid affording hyped up cars really isn't realistic. Sure, I've done my fair share of speedy driving - we human beings have a strange fascination with going faster than anyone else unless it's do to with working for a living - but at least I showed some restraint if conditions weren't suitable. I was, after all, only ever caught speeding once. But those modified and lowered shopping trolleys roaring past the bus stop are probably no faster than the version their granny bought from the dealer, although I will concede, the idea of an eighty year old woman hurtling down the road, aggressively using her horn to persuade those youngsters to stop obstructing the road, and challenging their Women's Institute colleages to traffic light drag races is just bizarre. Max Canyon Thee's been a series of adverts on television for a breakfast cereal in which the fictional survival expert 'Max Canyon', is about to demonstrate a source of protein, if only you had the guts the try it, only to hesistate when his camera crew tuck in to a healthy bowl of something more palatable. Exotic game meat has become available at my local supermarket. At least that saves me the bother of travelling to faraway places to find something different to eat. I must admit to a vicarious interest in consuming animals simply because I haven't consumed them before. Wild boar sausages were quite good, ostrich burgers perhaps a bit bland but they never taste quite as you expect, or at least, until you try crocodile. A pair of crocodile burgers looked suspiciously like gammon and funnily enough didn't taste much different. However, I didn't take to it and I now understand why they're survivors of a lost era. They're just not pleasant to eat. Having seen the first series of The Mighty Boosh, the prosect of consuming kangaroo meatballs are challenging my determination. Breakfast cereal it is then. Philosophy of the Week The site manager at work has been spending time on the shop floor and needless to say has left havoc in his wake. Especially for me, as it happens, because his expert eye has detected that our rubbish exraction system isn't making enough profit. Now I'm told off if I try to obtain some means of dropping off the rubbish I collect, and told off if I leave it lying. Never have I seen a warehouse that generates such amounts of rubbish. Cardboard, shrinkwrap, paper, cans, bottles, packets, shards of wood, it's all out there, until we wave a magic wand and make it all disappear like the site manager wants. Naturally the presence of senior management is intimidating for some. He is, after all, a pretty decisive guy. He doesn't have much time for practicality or any input from me about the realities of warehouse waste management when profit margins are too small. Hard Hat has other ideas. "A man is just a man" He says in terms of true equality. Yes, I agree, but we can't sack people. He can. On the plus side we can only hope that he accidentially left a cigratte packet in the toilet and we can go back to making the warehouse look respectfully tidy.

Sorry it took so long for me to get onto this, but the answer is rather simple. His son NUMERIANUS, too, whom he had taken with him to Persia, a young man of very great ability, while, from being affected with a disease in his eyes, he was carried in a litter, was cut off by a plot of which Aper, his father-in-law, was the promoter; and his death, though attempted craftily to be concealed until Aper could seize the throne, was made known by the odour of his dead body; for the soldiers, who attended him, being struck by the smell, and opening the curtains of his litter, discovered his death some days after it had taken place. Historiae Romanae Breviarium (Eutropius) Although the disease in the eyes is mentioned, there is no actual conclusion that the disease killed him - it reads more like a man who was quietly bumped off while he was weak. He had two sons, Numerianus a very promising youth, from whom the state might have expected all possible happiness and good, had he not been murdered by Aper; and Carinus, a person abandoned to all kinds of vice, who was killed by Diocletian New History )Zosimus) And so it appears that it happened that way. Beware of jumping to conclusions when reading Roman sources I would suggest, but this was an intersting point. Peter Heather has chosen what appears to him to be the most logical and supportable conclusion in this case.

There i8s bound to be some retention of religion - people generally need a good reason to convert and the Romans were always tolerant of local faiths. However, an auxillary unit raised in Gaul will have other aspects of religion to observe, such the Imperial Cult and unit spirit. As soldiers tended to marry covertly in the deployed regions it's a fair bet that family pressure insisted observation of the local faiths, whatever they may be.

Rome worked on two levels, open commerce in which you simply bid a better price than your competitors (and hoped you weren't being ripped off) or deals under the table. Commercial agreements sometimes got arranged via the client/patron system, though the patron was not supposed to muddy his hands with grubby business, so normally his agent, freedman, or slave handled that. At Ostia there were specialist traders whose wares were advertised by images on the pavement. Regarding exports/imports, for the most part traders would be working to a plan, either obtaining goods where they knew they were plentiful and could get a good deal, or selling them on to where-ever they knew a market and demand for those goods existed. OFten this was done via business contacts rather than simply going it alone. I imagine some captains speculated themselves with cargoes, or simply charged a price for transport, as required. We know that vessels headed to India and back annually with the trade winds so such speculation was profitable.

Don't you just love conspiracy theory? Despite everyones manifest inability to control their own destiny and Mankind's penchant for getting it wrong, people believe their lives are being controlled by some strange unseen group of elite conspirators. Personally I find it a bit hard to imagine that the typical career politician reaches the top of his political tree and becomes top dog in his own country only to be told what to do with it by Men In Grey. The whole genre is nothing more than religion by another name - the very same sense of our lives being buffetted by forces we don't understand gave rise to ideas of gods, devils, and things that go bump in the night. Now we invent secret cabals of influential people that somehow control every aspect of our existence. I met a convert the other day. A young Romanian worker who was adamant that our dearly beloved BBC news was 'controlled'. I pointed out that the news team make editorial decisions about which stories it runs with, allowing for authenticity or public interest. "No no no" He urgently interupted in wide eyed piousy, "The news is controlled. I see on internet video of three thousand people being shot in back of head by ISIS terrorist with AK47. But BBC does not show it.". Oh. I get it. The internet is the source of all uncontrolled and real news is it? As much as I believe ISIS is liable to inflict such violence, even they have to obey the laws of terrorist practicality. In order to watch a terrorist shoot three thousand people taking an average of ten seconds overall for each, in order to aim, move, fire, and reload, would require a video eight hours long. I seriously doubt the BBC would contemplate showing that. Not even excerpts either - most people don't want to watch snuff movies. It's also worth pointing that something like a hundred AK47 magazines would be required for the task at the very least. That's a lot of ammunition to carry around. "No no no" He replied to my explanations, "I give you link to website that shows these things." No, don't bother... Under A Pass Walking back and forth through a pedestrian underpass near the bus station there's three things you an be sure of. Firstly it's going to be packed with people walking back and forth, secondly there's going to be some unfortunate soul who did not survive the encounter with their claims advisor sat under a duvet, and thirdly, someone will be busking. For some time we've been subjected to some old guy with a guitar, performing endless and half hearted blues music. This last time was a little less palatable. A youngster was banging the heck out of upturned pots and pans to an amplified drum track. Quite badly too. Of course it's easy to criticise. I learned that lesson in the music business. It did occur to ne though that back in the days when I was a teenager attracted to playing a drumkit and unable to own one, that I'd gone through a process of starting my experience of percussion with a mattress annoying everyone who could hear my efforts. Will this youngster go on to see his face on Drummer Monthly? A house in the country? Audiences of thousands around the world? Don't laugh - I used to think that was where I was headed. Okay, I did achieve a few big audiences and my stick skills ended up somewhat better than his. These days I keep a warehouse tidy. Maybe I ought to warrn him that no matter what his ambitions are, his life will be controlled by Men In Grey who will frustrate his efforts for the betterment of Mankind? Heck, I need to startb using the internet more... Training Of The Week Proof that my life in the workplace is controlled by management, I was offered an opportunity to get trained up on a pallet truck the other week. Not that big a deal in some respects - I've driven such vehicles in warehouses for years - but the fact the company was willing to invest in my training is a good sign. So I watched the non-violent videos, listened to the advice, took the truck out into the warehouse and guided it through an obstacle course, and finally passed a theory test. All passed. All smiles and handshakes. Once let loose my colleagues took the opportunity to poke fun, though some did congratulate me on my achievement. Eventually I came across Hard Hat in the racks who was most amused at my new mode of transport. I also got a phone call asking me what I wanted to do with those qualifications I'd gotten whilst unemployed. You mean the ones I asked you to tear up? Don't bother me with trvialities lady, I've got a pallet truck to drive...

Religion was less strictly organised during Hadrians time being primarily a pagan era, and Mithraism was not at that time entrenched in military life (though it was known and beginning to expand). Pagan Roman soldiers were hugely superstitious, sometimes refusing to board ships for fear of angering gods, or even crossing rivers, seen as the domain of local gods who would extract terrible punishment for those that risked wading across, as if they were trespassing. There was a sort of "unit spiritualism" too, where centuries and legions were supposed to have a martial spirit that could be called upon for favour like any other deity. Of course the Imperial Cult was in place and had been ever since Augustus, although the figurehead was not necessarily fixed - soldiers would put images of their popular ruler ahead of a column as easily as the Caesar they were supposed to be loyal to. Remember that in Imperial times the post of Imperator ("victorious general") had ceased to be an honour installed by the men themselves, becoming a political office agreed by Senate and Caesar, yet by tradition the soldiers were as willing as ever to dedicate those senior men who were clearly blessed with divine favour (and the ability to bring victory and booty to the men).

The canal was presumably easier to navigate than the Tiber or there wouldn't have been any point, and it allowed a convenient one-way system to supply Rome. As to motive power, I confess I don't know. The canal was intended to facilitate supply of Rome from Portus, where sea going vessels were unloaded, to traders and warehouses in Rome, and I imagine wheat would have been important traffic. Goods heading out of Rome headed back to Portus for export along the Tiber. Evidence from other parts of the empire suggests to me that incoming goods were subject to speculation and sellong on, with some extorionate mark-ups if the middle men could get away with it.

To assist cargo barges and small vessels from having to move against the Tiber's current, and with a straighter path, to ease the difficulty further.

I am. It was more focused on settlement patterns in the Roman mindset. Germania, despite its indigenous population, was still a wilderness because it had little infrastructure or development compared to Rome. SPQR was the official abbreviation for the Republic/Empire, much the same way as USA is for America. In a sense you're right, in another you're wrong. Rome was the centre of the empire and all provinces, whether conquered or reorganised territory, owed feality to it. Sol whilst the province had its indigenous leadership, it was plugged in to the Roman system, and in terms of allegiance it definitely was SPQR. Officially and by tradition they should have worn togas. In fact, Augustus got quite worked up about the laziness of senatorsa and insisted they wore the toga on public duty. The toga was the same as a formal suit today - it did not in itself delineate who was Roman, and yes, being Roman was extremely important for senmatorial careers - Trajan could laughed at during his first speech in the senate house because he had a provincial accent the senators found hilarious.

Strictly speaking the correct latin for the Roman Empire (historically) was Senatus Populous Que Romanus

Interesting. There's been some other revelations concerning Roman hydro-engineering and clearly there was more water management than traditionally thought. Channels have been found that provide evidence for flooding and draining the older sunken basin of the Colosseum (later filled in with cells and such to form the hypogeum under the arena), and from satellite data, a canal linking Rome to the sea, parallel to the river Tiber.

Sometimes I encounter opinion regarding my blog. Well, it is there to be read, and I'd rather people formed an opinion good or bad than simply shrug and go back a *or* video. Mostly I hear how rubbish it is. Funny how the loudest people are those who want dismiss or abuse. No matter, but I do understand that not everyone wants to hear the latest whinge or moan from me. So before I whinge and moan some more, here's the fun bit. There I was, bored and miserable, sat on a bus bumping and swaying in unison with all the other passengers, when this old chap sat down next to me and started whinging about how bad the world was today. I agreed with him. The thing is he turned out to be an old railwayman, an engine driver, a man who had stepped onto the footplate of Castle class locomotives for the Great Western Railway in those good old days when coal was king and everyone employed when they were fourteen. He was one of those drivers who deserted the railways en masse when steam finally gave way to diesel. No way was he going to drive one of those 'tin cans'. Funny how much attachment people have toward steam engibnes. I do. The blessed things almost have a life of their own, like big animals that need constant fettling and feeding. "I'd like to get some of those yobboes on the footplate" He growled, clearly full of despair at our nations youths, "That'd teach 'em a few things". Sadly it wouldn't. I agree that working on a steam engine footplate, the control cabin if you will, is no easy option where steam engines concerned. I remember hitching a ride on a preserved line in New Zealand, and even for a little locomotive, the physical effort was impressive. never mind a much larger express locomotive gulping down several tons of coal per trip. Buit the sad truth is it would only be another job to avoid. Bad backs, migraines, too many interesting tunes on their I-pod, or perhaps just a strange tendency to shrug their shoulders would result. Aside of course from injuries inflicted by a coal shovel wielded by an irate driver I suspect. But I admit the conversation was fascinating. He told me about an accident on the railway. A train driver had misread a semaphore signal thinking he was cleared for mainline operation. The fireman realised that he'd made the mistake but by then the locomtive had accelerated to 25mph and derailed on the points, taking with it six wagons from Wills Tobacco factory. "Cigarettes everywhere" He said. "Absolutely everywhere..." I also discovered the sad tale of a canadian flight sergeant in World War Two, who was flying near the Vickers-Supermarine factory that used to be at South Marston. At low altitude he turned and a wing fell off. No chance of survivng that. Apparently his family still cross the Atlantic regularly and visit a small memorial to him. Gone but not forgotten. Not Again... I happened to catch Prime Ministers Questions before I went to work this week. There was Cameron, happily pulling the arms and legs off Mr Milliband, who sat there shaking his head. They've almost become a comedy duo. What I didn't find funny was Cameron crowing about how unemployment figures are down. Of course they are. People are being forced off Jobseekers Allowance by any means fair or foul and forced onto a hardship grant which the figures don't count. That's what they did to me. I went from trusted and hard working jobseeker to petty fraud and dishonesty in one fell swoop. An entire months dole money refused. Suddenly no-one believed my submissions. My evidence was unacceptable or 'not realistic'. For thre love of God, Cameron. Go. Your plan is only working because not enough people have cottoned on why you're able to claim it is. Beggar Of The Week Finally I'd gotten to the bus station and shivered as I strode through an empty town centre on my way home. It was perishing cold, and after sitting on a bus for half an hour, I really felt it despite wrapping up warm. "Hey mate, you got a cigarette?" Said the down-and-out in a shop doorway. Sorry , no. "Eff off then". He replied. One wionders how he expects any sympathy with that attitude. Suit yourself buddy, but stay under that cardboard, it's a cold night. By the way, does David Cameron know you're not earning a living?

Isn't this all a bit arbitrary and nothing more than an exercise in categorisation that has no useful value?

You too? I get envious lads asking me what's in the sachets when I prepare my lemsip at breaks. Just Lemsip. "Oh, are you ill?" they ask. I suffer in silence you know...

The colour of light through my bedroom curtains this morning was unmistakeable. Definitely snow. Not a great deal of it, but the yard and car park beyond had been given a white sheen. As I wearily glanced outside, the snow was still falling - it's tailed off right now and the sun is breaking through. Winter has a bit of a problem right now. It doesn't seem to know what sort of weather to throw at us. Wind, rain, snow, bitter cold sunshine, it changes on the hour every hour. Yesterday it started to hail. British hail is somewaht weedy compared to the icy cannon projectiles you get in some parts of the world, but that makes it a mere inconvenience to us Brits. Especially when a hailstone drops straight down the back of your neck, which is what happened to me. There I was, minding my own business, when all of a sudden I'm squirning uncontrollably in the street and making strange moans of discomfort. People notice this sort of thing, usually when they don't know what caused it. Crawling Into Work Another cold morning. TIme then to answer the call of the alarm clock at some ungodly hour of the morning, ignore the protests shouted through the walls of my home, and head down to the bus stop, hopefully fully dressed, for that all important bus to work. I feel so ordinary these days. The town has an empty clammy feel. A long high street is almost deserted and tinged in an amber glow, aside from some guy who I know will be taking the the same bus as me. He stops at a cash machine to pay for his ticket. He's already paid for his cigarettes which he'll chainsmoke as he waits behind me at the bus station. That's his business of course, it's just that he has the annoying habit exhaling as noisily as possible. Swindon's bus station is doomed. They're going to build a new one sooner or later but for now the dull brick edifice hiding under the shadow of a disused multi-story car park will do. A few hardy souls hang around here and there, aside from my chainsmoking fellow passenger who queues up behind me every day so I can derive such pleasure fro listening to his cigarette habit. A van turns up to drop off piles of newspapers. The Devizes bus turns in off the main road. That'll be full of several passengers shortly and probably on its way. Second comes our bus showing 'No Service' as it turns into the bay. The driver gets out and heads into the admin offices for a few minutes. Eventually he'll be back, fussing with the controls of the ungainly double decker, and then allowing us to present travel passes, coins, or desperate pleas for assistance. Some bus drivers are quick, others aren't. Some struggle with issuing ticketrs, some are incredibly efficient. I see the same people boarding or disembarking at the same stops. No-one says hello. We're all too miserable at having to get out of bed to go to work. My Day At Work One of the team leaders goes through the register. After four weeks of persuasion I finally managed to get them to put my name on it. "Caldrail?" Yup. "Pallets today please" That means I'll be wandering around the racks finding empty pallets so the guys unoading containers can put more boxes on them. Well that's the next eight hours sorted then. End Of The Shift Finally it's time to go home. Suddenly the warehouse comes alive and it's a life or death sruggle to find your bag, wrap up for the cold weather outside, and clock out out as the next shift rushes in desperately trying to arrive on time. Hard Hat, my chilled out colleague at work, never rushes at any time. He's never frantic, breathless, urgent, or even remotely rushed for any reason whatsoever. At lunchbreaks he sometimes takes a quick nap. When we wait at the bus stop after work, he's guaranteed to amble up the road long after we've settled who's going to be first to board the bus. A couple of times I've mentioned that my life would be complete if I ever saw Hard Hat running for the bus. My life is complete. And The Winner Is... As a fourteen year old I went with the school on a skiing trip to Austria. All a big adventure at that age, made embarrasing by parents giving us last minute advice and emotional send off's. No matter. We negotiated the unfamiliar hazards of a Dan Air flight to Munich and a long coach journey across the border, finally arriving at the resort. One kid got caught smoking and would have been sent home had that not meant a teacher would have cut short their holiday. On the other hand, the much hated geography teacher got hit by a snowball. By the end of the week, it was time to settle the most important question of all. Who was the best skier? Naturally the dominant lads, the ones good at football, pretty much figured it was one of them, with one character a clear favourite in the stakes. So we gathered on the slopes that last morning for a timed slalom run, not just the school, but every tourist at the site. I was number five in the running order. With mounting trepidation I watched the others head off. Gate 1.. Gate 2... Gate 3... Then Gate 4, a nasty tight left turn on the brow of a steep drop. Every skier in front of me fell over at that point. Okay. I'll make a note of that. Ready!... Three... Two... One... GO! I was off. My mind was absolutely focused on the task. I didn't harbour any fantasies of doing well, but I sure as heck was going to try. Then I arrived at Gate 4. Snowplough braking... turn as I reach the edge and lean in.. Oh yes. That's how it's done. I carried on and headed for the finish line quite satisified with my efforts. The austrians at the finish line were yelling at me, urging me on enthusiatically, and somewhat bemused I gave myself a few pushes with the sticks. They were all thumbs up and germanic appraisals, which I failed utterly to understand. Here's the thing. I was the only skier that day who did not fall over at Gate 4. The only one. I watched amused as each and every contestant did a sort of helpless swan dive off the dip. Not only that, I sat there in disbelief that night when the instructors handed out the certificates. My name wasn't appearing. Until the end. Not only had I beaten my classmates, I'd beaten everyone at the resort, adults as well. Defintely one of my finest moments.

It is true that Cleopatra wanted her dead for dynastic reasons. Caesar also wanted to despatch her, both to secure Cleopatra's favour and also to punish Arsinoe for attempting to grab power from under the noses of the Romans (You could also argue that he wanted to reduce the number of potential power rivals, secure divine favour in true Roman martial manner, or that having her killed would be a propaganda victory for his political career). Unfortunately the crowd rather sympathised with her so Caesar had her incarcertaed at the Temple of Artemis until Antony sent soldiers to desptach her for much the same reasons, although in Antony's case he was committed to a Roman/Egyptian dynasty and thus was less concerned about public opinion, but I suspect he wasn't so politically astute as Caesar anyway.

Caesar was very quick to be cruel if he felt it necessary. He used Vercingetorix for propaganda before he had him executed. He tried the same with Assinoe, Cleopatra's younger sister who had tried to grab power briefly. The crowd didn't like seeing a young girl treated like a display piece and so Caesar had to abort his plans to prevent him being seen as cruel.

"You've had a wonderful life" My claims advisor had told me, having gleaned that pearl of wisdom fom my CV. Of course like all CV's it merely accentuated the positive. All those disasters and mistakes over the years never made it to the final draft, never mind the interminable hassles that life forces us to endure. She was of course trying to win my approval for her state sponsored rebuild of my appearance, character, and history, in the vain hope I might actually become employable. Little did she know that my lucky rabbit's foot would strike again and I'd get a job by my own efforts, unemployable or not. Is my life wonderful? That's an interesting question. It is true I've done things many people never will, but then again, the price was high. I've lost out on many aspects of life that those same people take for granted. Okay, the decade of being an aspiring musician gave me some purpose in life. And the following decade of fast cars and flying aeroplanes was very enjoyable, thank you very much. The following decade of unemployable mediocrity and occaisional disaster hasn't been quite so fun, no matter what Eva believes. Is my life wionderful right now? Erm, no. I'm doing a job that is the most physically demanding I've ever undertaken, at a relatively unfit and unhealthy fifty plus. Not well paid or secure, either, not to mention being forced to use a bus to get to and from my home, which for me is tantamount to raising a white flag. Truth is I'm just not used to going home barely able to walk. On the bright side, I can of course thumb my nose at Eva, my domineering and ignorant claims advisor. Maybe life ain't that bad after all. Pallet Man Having to cope with my persistent cold means I've taken to imbibing some much needed Lemsip during my lunchbreak. I hate the stuff. True, it helps me get through the day, but the taste is foul. They say medecine only works if you can barely swallow it. Hard Hat, my afro-carribean colleague who believs NASA overlooked him in the race to land on the moon, noticed I was getting abit drowsy. He generously offered me a can of some energy drink or other. I don't usually have much time for the stories of how these drinks affect people, but ye gods, that on top of Lemsip did the trick. I feel myself changing... Growing stronger... Stand back mortals. I am now Pallet Man, superhero and defender of the oppressed warehouseman. Up up and stack 'em! Wonderful Life Of The Week Right now I'm sat at a computer cubicle at my local library. Next to me is the same guy I always seem to be sat next to, irrespective of when I actually sit down for a couple of hours. He looks sort of like Bilbo Baggins evil twin brother. I wouldn't ordinarily take any notice but he talks to himself all the time. I get a running commentary of his internet activity. Almost as annoying as BFL, and the last time she sat down beside me (obviously losing a struggle with Gibbering Baggins for that accolade), she very loudly proclaimed what she was doing and moaned when she couldn't. It's been several years and she still hasn't got the message that I'm not interested in being her best friend. That lady who moans about my presence at the library moaned at me again today. And last night, a lady on the bus demanded to know where I got my travel pass from. Why, the bus fairy, of course. All I have to do is lay down a large sum of cash on a particular desk and it magically appears in my hand. Easy.

Might help if you open your eyes a little. As for not being at risk in Gaul, are you serious? He was sometimes found in the front rank fighting alongside his men. I call that a little risky, never mind the hazards of war lasting for years, involving not only the defeat of an entire region but twice making a landing on foreign shores. Caesar did not destroy the sovereignty of the Senate. They never had any to begin with. But as it happens, Caesar was careful enough to recognise that the Senate contained the most influential men in society and treated them respectfully even after assuming full ruling power as dictator-for-life. Hardly Rome's greatest enemy, and bear in mind, it was a minority of senators who acted against him, typical of their comnspiratorial behaviour.

Marc Antony was always very much a military man. I don't know whether he compared himself to Caesar in the way you suggest - that would suggest some kind of jealousy, and in fact, the two were close political associates. Antony would later lead an army of something like 35 legions against Octavian's 30 or so. Tht's not an easy undertaking at all, requiring a capable leader able to motivate, reward, and feed his troops in the ancioent world. Antony even asked the Senate for permission to sackk a roman town in order to supply/reward them. Whilst he did eventually get ambitious regarding a new Roman/Egyptian dynasty, his campaigning was well organised, and it's noted by many commentators that Caesar was good on the battlefield, but less gifted in other military matters.

This time Scooby Doo has bitten off more than he can chew. But still astonishing, if true.

Woo hoo! 2015! Yeah. 2015. Who would have thought we'd make it this far? What with the Nostrodamus prophecies of global apocalyptic disaster, global warming, outbreaks of Ebola, christians preaching the return of Jesus and mysterious disappearances, the relentless advance of the electric car, my unemployment benefit payments cancelled, no heating in my home, and finally discovering that being more than fifty years of age really does mean you have to resort to a bus pass. The other day I had a phone call from somebody. Not sure who it was, but they enquired about my involvement in a road accident two and half years ago. Hang on... That would mean the summer of 2012... I haven't driven a car since 2008, which means the only auy I could have gotten involved was if I had driven through a time-space anomaly, the sort of thing my claims advisor stops a claimants money for. Wow. Some accident. New years Resolution I faithfully undertake not to have so many car accidents. Bird In The Hand "Look!" Said the slovakian forklift driver, pointing toward the edge of the racking. Yes. I can see it. What's the big deal? I mean, it's just another piece of rubbish on the floor. I'll pick it up as I go by... "No, look!" He insisted. Then I saw what the big deal was. Not a piece of rubbish, but an actual little brown bird, sat there on the squeaky pale blue dusty floor, trapped in a strange rectilinear forest of cardboard, wood, and steel that we know as a warehouse. I know how it feels. A Pop Song Too Far I happened to catch a television documentary the other day. All about those Swedish superstars, Abba. You know, they may not be exactly the coolest artists to remember from the seventies, but face it, without them, where would Brotherhood of Man be? Truth is I found listening to all those familiar hits from long ago difficult to deal with. So synonomous with my formative years that all those uncomfortably embarrasing memories of being an awkward teenager came flooding back. It wasn't that I had any particular fantasy about the two lovely ladies (and none about their male partners), it's just that Abba were everywhere in those days. Television, radio, music stores... Inescapable. Of course these days I'm a bit older and now I've reached the age where being embarrasing is fun. Such as my guitar playing, military surplus trousers, and a complete inability to balance when the bus is in motion. Mystery Of The Week So now if you'll excuse me, I have another episode of Star Trek related entertainment to wait for. In the meantime I sit there watching the Father Dowling Mysteries. Not that the program entertains me you see, it's just that I live in hope I'll catch the episode where Father Dowling finally succumbs to temptation and seduces Sister Stephanie on one of their late night stakeouts of the villains HQ. I know this sort of thing goes on... I've listened to Abba lyrics.

Certainly makes my CV look dull...

It's very common these days to see history interpreted in modern terms, because it's a more populist and easier method of describing the subject. It does however tend to create anomalous situations that shouldn't exist, such as this recently topical example... Mordern interpretation: Augustus comes to power and rules Rome as their first emperor. He makes a lot of political fudges to avoid public objection My analysis: Augustus avoids becoming a ruler per se because he saw what happened to Julius Caesar after he'd taken full ruling power permanently from the state. Instead, Augustus makes himself the most important Roman (he calls himself princeps, or 'First Citizen'), and thus becomes patron to his client, Rome, a situation the Roman public are perfectly happy with because it's merely an extension of normal social structures. There is no fudge. OF course Augustus was a control freak and thus tends to advise rather more strongly than a typical patron might. You see what I mean? Relationships betwen human beings are often subtle and individualistic. To simply label two guys as gay because they have a close friendship is quite possibly wrong. It is true, for instance, that samurai often developed homosexual relations because women were not supposed to be trusted, and that they considered this normal and acceptable. The ancient greeks however weren't so obvious. Their relationships did not have the masculine boundaries of the Roman (or indeed our modern western world), thus close friendships were developed for different reasons than say the Samurai. That does not necessarily imply sexual behaviour (I'm sure it went on, human beings have always included a proportion among them with a prediliction toward such behaviour), but instead a tactile relationship which has more to do with instinct than sex - note how apes and monkeys groom each other to build relationships - the greeks essentially were doing something similar.

Welcome to my life