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Without wishing to sound like a tired old blues singer, I woke up this morning. After almost four years of unemployment I consider that a demonstration of my self discipline and work ethic. Hmmm... Let's see... What shall I do today? As it happens I woke up this morning to a bright sunny day. There's a very lazy feel about the town as I stroll down to the library, quite unlike a typical monday morning, and the streets are much less busy than usual. Knowing the british as I do, I wouldn't be suprised if half the residents of this area have looked out of the window and decided to phone in sick. My speculation was cruelly dashed when I discovered half the residents of this area were sat upstairs in the library before I got there. Come on people, have you not got things to do? It's a bright sunny day out there. Oh well. Since I can't nip onto a computer immediately I'll just book one for later - it's not as if I've got anything to do today... Huh? What the?...Suspended.? Oh brilliant. Time then to go to the helpdesk and ask the librarian for assistance. This particular one doesn't like my title and not suprisingly she asked me to wait while she dealt with the other customer first. The pair of them then tried to achieve the impossible by getting the photocopier to do something other than it's makers programmed it to understand. They were having a great time. Having defeated the evil photocopier and with the world made safe once more, she turned her attention t my small problem. It turns out I wasn't guilty of any crime or misdemeanour, but rather that the computer administrators don't seem to understand that some people don't move house every year or so. Having confirmed my address and my account reactivated, I booked my slot and that left me with two hours to kill. Hmmm... Let's see.... What shall I do this morning? Idea Of The Week Young L was talking about public transport, a rare diversion from reciting the script of every Top Gear episode from the last decade, and finaly, having thought about it, he said "Sometimes I think I'd like to get on a bus and see where it takes me." His thirst for adventure is admirable but I as far as I'm aware, bus drivers have to follow a set route and usually end up back where they started. Come on L, get a life, it's a great day. Now if you'll excuse me I booked a couple of hours on a library computor.

I haven't had time to investigate but on first reading my thoughts are that it probably isn't a likely scenario. Bear in mind that if troops get by the wall they want to get further into the city, and unless they waste time 'conquering' the wall, the byzantines are still going to be manning it, thus the area behind would then become a killing ground?

I doubt that anyone realistically intends to build a new Roman Empire - but there are plenty of people who would want an empire that drew on its principles or public perception. This is mostly because human beings seem to have a fascibnation with glorious emopires - it carries connotations of success, prosperity, safety in numbers, and military virtue, all of which appeal on an instinctive level.

When I was very young I used to come across the vast seies of books published by Ladybird. Little handooks, lavishly illustrated with paintings, covering just about every subject you possibly teach a child. One has stuck in the mind for some strange reason. That scene where a dishevelled beggar by the name of Marco Polo claimed he had just returned from the orient to jeers and laughter, then bringing a stunned silence to the crowd as he ripped open his clothes and revealed the treasure in gemstones he'd hidden there. Appearances can be deceiving can't they? There was an old chap I used to work with. He always had time for other people and I used to chat to him regularly. One he made a playful punch in my direction that left me stunned at his speed and accuracy. I was curious about that but the penny didn't drop. Only when he retired did I learn that he'd been a professional boxer in his younger days and once fought at Madison Square Gardens. I can't say I ever wanted to be a boxer but there were plenty of things I did want. Some I achieved, some I chased as best I could. Isn't that what life is for? Another work colleague once told me that "You can always dream" when I discussed my passion for very expensive italian supercars. What? Am I supposed to sit there wishing it would happen? Wouldn't it make more sense to work toward that objective? Without possibility, dreams have no value. "In his dreams!" Said the voice outside in the street a couple of nights ago. Loud enough to be heard, and deliberately so. I wonder who that was aimed at? Probably me. It wouldn't be the first time someone has poured scorn on things I've said about myself or the stories others have told. What I have noticed is that the loudest critics are invariably youngsters who've learned how to shout people down on the school playgrounds. As I always say, he who shouts loudest knows least. Well young man, there's plenty of things in my dreams, and as long I can dream, there's always a possibility. Simply a matter of geting there. But you wouldn't know about that. Car Choice Of The Week Congratulations to James May for his enlightened and inspired choice of car in the Top Gear attempt to do rallycross. I've owned two MkII Toyota MR2's in my time, one red, one blue, by extraordinary coincidence both were K reg as well as Mr May's (except I paid somewhat more than

Another day, another shopping trip. Once agai I trudge down to my local supermarket in a fruitless quest for bargains and cheap two for one deals. Yesterday the weather wasn't bad. Not like today with blustery rainfall, so I guess I chose the right day to go shopping. Let's see... What can I buy?.... Most of the goods are the upmarket brands for people who follow the teachings of the prophet Jamie Oliver. Can't afford those. I don't care how many television adverts he makes. Five pounds doesn't feed me for four days unless I go on survival rations. Even the cheap brands are rising in price inexorably. Eight years ago a packet of mince costing fifty pence now retails for one pound twenty five - and the packaging is smaller. Of course if you're a well paid professional that difference in price probaly wouldn't appear on the radar. For me, it's a coloosal drop in affordable resources. Eventually I chose the cheapest and least ghastly items I could find. Time then to stand in the queue and await my chance to pay for them. For some reason I seem to have developed a talent for finding the the exact time when coachloads of Swindon residents have decided to do their shopping as well. Nothing I can do about it. Join the queue and wait... Movement. Something caught my eye. With almost static lines of people a sudden movement among them was not going to go unnoticed. A mobility buggy went into fast reverse, scattering shoppers as they tried to save themselves from injury. Funnily enough it wasn't the fault of the old lady on board, although she didn't react to the situation very quickly. Her granddaughter, a very young child sat on her knee, had accidentially tripped the reversing switch with her coat. Doesn't the law say something about kids being at the wheel of motorised vehicles? It was all over in seconds. The buggy was brought to a halt, the old woman left the premises red-faced with embarrasement, and the herd of shoppers went back to grazing at the till, content that all was calm and safe once again. Oh No... Not Again... A car horn should be used to warn other road users of your presence. Usually it's used to tell them to effing well look where they're going. I can't really criticise because I've done the exact same thing when some idiot cut me up on a road junction. Anyway I was heading for home and the horn alerted me to the presence of a vehicle. As it happens I wasn't in any way obstructing the passage of the road vehicle, nor did I recognise the irate driver of the car, nor for that matter do I believe my fashion sense is quite that outrageous to warrant a loud blast. I wonder what his problem was? Ohhhh... So that's where the horn control is.

Many years ago I went off one weekend to visit a kit car show. It meant a long journey there and back the same day but I was young, enthusiastic, and totally nuts about cars, or indeed most things that moved courtesy of an internal combustion engine. Needless to say the main hall was packed full of all sorts of DIY cars. Fun cars, serious cars, wierd cars, and a few that turned out to be infamous money pits. I wandered among replicas of ferrari's and lamborghini's that seemed almost as expensive as the real thing. Salesmen waited in the shadows ready to pounce on unsuspecting members of the public, and I too escaped from one before he ripped my wallet open. He certainly tried hard enough. Out on the track the owners of these cars roared by in a succession of hamfisted cornering. Deep growling V8's of Shelby cobra replicas, the grand prix shriek of motorcycle engined Caterham clones, and sooner or later, the screetch of tortured tires as the newbie driver got it completely wrong. Nonetheless I made a huge error of judgement. I was holding an open can of Pepsi. Now the problem wasn't an issue of credibility or manhood, but a target for the local wasps. Here in Swindon wasps are generally shy and retiring. In the vicinity of that race circuit they were evil malicious carnivores hell bent on intimidating any stupid human being they came across. It wouldn't go away. I moved here, moved there, swiped haplessly at the agile little monster. It just hovered there, staring into my face, trying to mug me of the precious source of sugar. Finally I gave up. Go on, have it. I threw the can in the bin and consider myself lucky to have escaped with my life. Buzzing About Without doubt reicarnation is a real facet of existence on Earth. I know this because She Who Objects To My Internet Use is definitely a reincarnated wasp. She is exactly the same, always buzzing here and there and always glancing over my shoulder hoping to glimpse just one flesh coloured pixel on the computer monitor, always annoying me with her presence. I wish she'd realise that I have no interest in pornography. If she's that interested, why doesn't she browse for some and point energetically at the computer screen? It'll keep her happy. To be honest I preferred her when she hid in the toilet. One More Time Talking about not going away, learning that Putin just got himself re-elected does not suprise me at all. Interestingly the anarchy of the post-declaration has subsided and Moscow is very quiet today so I gather. Maybe people have made a complaint and now resign themselves to more Adventures Of Putin? I have no idea if the election was actually fair and free, or whether the rumours of tricks and thuggery we normally expect of corrupt african nations have any basis in truth, but the man is back. Maybe he just wants a can of Pepsi?

The Romans placed a great importance on merit, although they also had the idea that 'blocks off the old chip' had an advantage from the start. So we have politics generated by a contest between meritocracy and patrocracy. Later they developed a much bigger reliance on bureaucracy, and that form of organisation has one major failing in that it encourages the employment of those who don't actually do anything, the antithesis of merit.

No matter how long you've lived in Britain you never learn. By sheer chance I heard a weather forecast and guess what? Our balmy relaxing weather is about to go siberian again. I must admit we did get sleet on sunday. Today though is a slightly chilly sunny day. No-one would know it was monday morning. Of course having watched Kate Humble breathlessly roam the globe to show us what a breathtakingly wondrous planet we live on, I now know that Britain sits under a boundary between arctic and tropical air flows, thus our unpredictable weather is the result of an atmospheric battle for supremacy. Now I know. And I thought is was just my bad luck every time I get drenched. Puppet Shows As regular readers will know, I was a fan of the Thunderbirds puppet series when I was at a very young age. Back then televisions were steam powered and only came in black'n'white, so it was either that or As I get older I start to wonder what inspired Gerry Anderson to create an island of recluses who fly supersonic aircraft to disasters spots around the world without feeling the need to tender their bill? Jolly generous of the lads from Tracey Island, but the other day I realised why. The series was inspired by none other than the Salvation Army. Same stiff upright movement and stirring band music. Question Of The Week There's something I've never quite understood. I don't mean cosnological physics, although quantum theory is a bit wierd even if you paid attention at school, nor do I mean government policy which turns out to be no more than the blind leading the blind. For that matter nor does human relationships confuse me. All a matter of the right aftershave or if that fails, either hit something or buy pornography. No. My problem is far more significant to modern culture. Why do women like Meatloaf? The band, I mean. Some of them even describe it as rock music. Now I could excuse that if they've never bothered to go out with the long haired geek when they were younger, but surely western civilisation has become more sophisticated than that? When you come to think of it, how could Meatloaf pretend to be anything other than he is? But against the glitzy image of stretch limo's, gold encrusted hoodlums, and handguns held in the silliest possible manner, how does a slightly large older person with bad hair and a sweat problem cut it with the ladies? There is an argument that the appeal of Meatloaf is that it represents something alternative in the toneless world of rap, drum & bass, R'n'B, or all those other video releases that have a guy in sunglasses pretending to be Al Capone. Girls, please, discover music before you start looking like your mum.

There's a different quality to Roman chauvanism than the usual gender subjugation. Granted the social relationships are not really much different, but the average attitude toward women seems more respectful and open, even in earlier austere times. There were plenty of female gods in their pantheon I notice. That doesn't mean some women weren't badly treated, rather that there seems to be more of a cultural role attached to them and despite the apparent ownership of the female sex by fathers, guardians, or husbands, I can't see much in the way of stress or constrictment. Of course once the social order is relaxed toward the beginning of the imperial period the bad girls start to make their presence felt to the tuts and groans of menfolk (in the widest possible sense of course). One or two got made examples of. Augustus had his daughter exiled after being embarrased by her immoral behaviour, and in one case, I seem to remember a husband threw his wife out of a window in rage at her behaviour. There;'s a story of how a woman from a wealthy family threw away her luxurious lifestyle to elope with a gladiator. Yet these are isolated cases. I doubt the majority of women felt all that hard done by and nor was their behaviour quite as bad as Suetonius describes those of the 'party' set. But then Juvenal tells us about the awfulness of Roman women.

"Cooo-eee!" Huh? What? Hey, I'm just stood at a pedestrian crossing minding my own business in my usual semi-comatosed state. "It's me!" Said a young woman who clearly knew me. I think I was supposed to know who she was. Oh hang on... Finally I realised who she was. Mr J's girlfriend, the human pinball. Here we go again... To my astonishment she was sober and behaving in a normal friendly manner. I don't think I've met her in that condition before. When slightly inebriated she describes herself as a female Vince Noir, an odd idea seeing as she's nowhere near as androgynous as the Mighty Boosh character. If I were brutally honest, she hasn't anything like the same style or fashion sense either, but don't tell her I said so. Just in case. So we had a little chat in which I learned about the dramatic events surrounding her confrontation with Mr J's former girlfriend. You see, this is why I can't be bothered with television soap operas. Who needs them? I get updates on all the same pointless intrigue and violence out here in the real world. Thing is, when we blokes get miffed at each other, it's easily settled. A loud shouting match, possibly with an exchange of threats and pointing fingers, or if worse comes to the worse a few punches back and forth until honour is satisfied or someone goes to hospital. No problem. Women are different. I do admit that loud shouting matches are common, but instead of an entertaining cat-fight, they turn into witches, vampires, or martial arts experts. You know what I mean. In this case however all that happened was a spilt drink. Disappointed... Make My Day Last night the next film in the Clint Eastwood series was aired. I'm not a huge fan of his work but what the heck, there was nothing else on. So I sat down to watch The Gauntlet, a film about a cop and his female prisoner taking a death defying trek across Arisona for truth, justice, and the american chase movie. I've never seen the film before and boy oh boy did I enjoy it. Not for the typical wisecracks, glimpses of the leading ladies mammary glands, or the slightly lesbian scene in whch they got exposed, but the hilarious gaffs in the films plot. Okay, I can't resist it. This was typical. Hero has avoided ambush and holes up in a cave overnight. Along come some Hell's Angels the next morning quite by chance. Hero sends them packing with a display of bravado (and a big pistol), forcing a few to walk away and leave their treasured Harley Davidson behind. Hero and Prisomer then have an exciting chase scene with a gangland sniper in a helicopter (which was hardly the most suitable place to shoot accurately from, but the hero was supposed to survive). Once the helicopter had collided with the scenery in the time honoured ball of flame, the hero and his prisoner hitch a ride on a passing freight train only to discover the boxcar was already occupied by three pedestrian Hell's Angels who were slightly miffed at losing their treasured motorbike. Call me suspicious, but how did three pedestrians in the middle of the Arizona desert catch up with the other two on a speeding motorbike ridden hell for leather in what appears to be the opposite direction? If that wasn't bad enough, the finale featured the presence of pretty much the entire Pheonix police force who stood around gormless and passive once they had emptied their weapons at the hero's borrowed bus, while the main characters shot each other like The Gunfight At The OK Policemen's Ball. Certainly entertaining. Especially the slightly lesbian bit. Buck Privates Privatise the police? Is that seriously what our government is planning? Good grief we'll be running away from Robocop and ED209 next. And charged two pounds fifty plus VAT for each bullet and cannon shell fired at us. It's the British way.

Maybe it was inevitable. Once again the internal dissent in Syria inspires a report that government forces are still cracking down on anyone they can find worth cracking. Sometimes you have to wonder how objective news reporting actually is because after watching film of tanks rolling down deserted streetsI kind of wonder if half these actions are designed to create news rather than achieve any worthwhile objective. Another question that comes to mind is how long the west are ging to sit on the sidelines, and for that matter, why they've done nothing so far. Partly I would say that was because as yet the people of Syria haven't formed any credible resistance yet. You can't change a regime without something else to change it too. The other symptom may be a little covert. I know the west has already held talks about the subject of regime change. I've no idea what their decision was. Is there some political deal done under the table to keep the west from rolling up its sleeves and get stuck in? Or have I just embarased someone unwitingly? I'll soon know when red dots waver near me or newspapers run headlines about what I do with sheep every night. Come To Mention It... Sometimes you just kind of know when things are a bit odd. Rustling in the bushes, strange voices in the head, or phone calls from people you've never met are some of the symptoms other people mention, but in my case it has be the level of sneering I'm encountering. Why are people sneering all of a sudden? Don't know. Don't care. It's probably because of complete rubbish being passed around and in fact I really do believe that those who sneer loudly behind peoples backs (or the other side of brick walls) are saying more about themselves than me. Not Enough People Dying... With all the housing shortages I hear about I never cease to be amazed at how long it takes builders to renovate premises left abandoned. Take Cardinal House - a modest building on a street corner - which has taken yonks plus ages to turn from abandonment to half finished construction site. It used to be a funeral directors premises by the way, so now they're turning it into housing it's the english equivalent of a house on an indian burial ground. Clearly not enough people are dropping dead to keep them in business. Proof perhaps the NHS really is working despite David Camerons best efforts. But One Too Many Today I discovbered the police constable shot and blinded by gunman Raoul Moat has died, probably by his own hand. I've lerarned to dislike the police as many do when you have dealings with them, but I won't criticise them for the commitment and risk the majority of their officers face to keep people safe. I am genuinely saddened this officer could not go on. And so Raoul Moat claims another victim posthumously.

Why are Tuesdays so dull? Years ago I started a Tuesday Survey, the Worlds First Ever, though as it transpired some other ruffian nicked the idea and even got interviewed on television. Life is so unfair. But as it happens his tuesday survey has been forgotten and in any case never answered the question on the lips of the nation - How can tuesdays be made more interesting? Now I happen to be at a disadvantage. Swindon simply isn't an interesting place. I know the local council and media guru's will probably be demanding my public execution for writing that, but face it guys, Swindon is a mess and you've almost completely wasted the cultural heritage. It's a a mish-mash of initiatives that never get anywhere, which is probably how many motorists are feeling this morning as they queue at junctions during the rush hour. Clearly then a community inspired Tuesday isn't going to work. I think Swindon must have tried that before once or twice. It's the sort of thing they think of. Unfortunately if you don't live in a local ghetto or decorate the neighbourhood on behalf of your teenage crew, I really don't see much evidence of community at all. There is however one small light bulb in this dreary grey conurbation. There's a new club for role players, and they even stage a Dungeon & Dragons night. Ye gods that takes me back to my youth. Now if only they'd had the foresight to stage that on a tuesday... Gripe Of The Week Okay... Who forgot to reward me with an Oscar? Haven't I proven my acting ability in job interviews?

Asking me which unit was where is like trying to guide a chinese airliner through fog. I know they're out there but something gets lost in communication. I too would like confirmation and I accept I'm only restating what I've read elsewhere, and not from academic sources either. There is a case for compilation of all postings and associated details in an easily referenced form. The site Melvadius suggested deals only with Britain. Is there a site with better imperial coverage?

We were gathered there together to hear the words of Young L, our local high priest of the Top Gear temple, whether we liked it or not. The lesson for the day was the wayward handling of the new Ferrari FF when in high gear. Having watched the Stig fail to negotiate a frozen lake surface for that reason, Young L gamely attempted to convert the faithful to his way of thinking, or rather to sound clever by repeating what he'd seen on television. L - Just stop talking for a moment. If you drive a Ferrari FF in a straight line calmly and sensibly, what's your problem? The car will only crash if you push the boundary or do something stupid. After all it's usually footballers who crash them Too used to kicking things with their right foot. For a moment Young L thought about it. I count that as an achievement in itself, but having failed to think of a counter argument he went straight back to his usual boasting about being the fastest driver ever around the Top Gear track. Needless to say Young L has not yet passed a driving test and instead believes beyond all reason that experience on a Playstation game makes him somehow equal to those who've actually driven cars in the flesh. I've no doubt the game is a very good simulator - Even Mr D tried to tell me it was just like real life - but no, it just isn't. Young L seems to have forgotten that his hero proved that in an NSX at Laguna Seca. No cheap simulator for home entertainment can ever be classed as totally realistic. On a flight simulator I'm a world war two air ace capable of the most hair raising stunts known to aviation. In reality I've flown light aircraft a little close to the edge once or twice out of inexperience and consider myself older and wiser for having discovered how real actual aviation can get. Mr Clarkson - Please - If by some strange quirk of fate you happen to be reading this, please give Young L a chance to fall flat on his face around your track. I hereby waive my own opportunity for that pleasure alone. Thank you. Rock On! Also on the thank you list is a saturday night radio rock show host who's finally realised she's been playing the exact same tracks week in, week out. I listened open mouthed as long forgotten classic rock riffed, screamed, thumped, and rumbled from the speakers. Ye gods I nearly moshed from the comfort of my own home. Okay, it wasn't in the same league as The Friday Rock Show back in the reign of King Tommy Vance the First, but what radio show is these days? Down They Go What a difference a few trees and bushes make. I looked out the back of the house the other day and all the trees and bushes that fomerly obscured the ruined expanse of the Old College site had gone. It looks very bare and shabby now. Not for long, according to the developers, who plan to level the site this spring. Poor old foxes, where are they going to live now?

There are some mentions I believe though most of our detail on this point comes from archaeology. We know for instance that at least one cohort of african negros were posted there - I think it was in the 2nd or 3rd century AD.

It sounds rather like a passage written in tudor Britain, though the author wasn't credited in the piece I read.

If Hendrix had survived another 10 years? According to a mate of mine who is something of a dedicated worshipper, Hendrix was increasingly showing interest in fusion style music rather than rock/blues. My own feeling is that while his reputation in the Hendrix Experience is pretty well unassailable, his later stuff would have been much more biased toward what happened in the mid eighties anyway - albums full of instrumental electric guitar symphonies (of which I bought a few myself by players such as Dave Chastain, Tony McAlpine, and so on - I was a confirmed metalhead in those days)

"This next one is going to be brutal" Said the DJ on the radio last night. He did sound like he needed trauma therapy for Post Thrash Metal Syndrome. "So you might want a bag. Don't put it on your head though, that's dangerous". Consumer advice at this time of night? Okay mate, no bag on head. Got it. Then the next track started, or at least I think it was music, it was sort of hard to tell. I seem to remember Young L at the museum trying to impress me with a downloaded mp3 from the band Carnifex once before. It's okay though, I didn't suffer any long term effects. The music was pretty indescribable. Everyone in the band seemed to be playing stuff at random, played so quickly it all sort of merged into a staccato drilling noise. As for the vocals, I'm not sure there was any. Anyway the sum total was that I've witnessed the noise made by a tortured dinosaur attacked by a psychopathic dentist. I might have to apologise to Simon Cowell. Big Noise That was enough. Maybe I remember when music had a tune buried in it somewhere? By sheer coincidence I turned to television and a Russsia Today documentary about how sound has been used in a miltary context, for morale, psychological warfare, and torture. I think they showed this particular documentary before as I remember the interview with an american rock band about the use of their music by troops in the war zone. At first glance it all seems odd and suprising, but then, isn't making a big noise a tactic used by wild animals to achieve their ends? And so warfare comes full circle, except by now we're a little better at being noisy than we used to be. Little Noise This morning sees a welcome return to the library of Mr Fidget, who is currently the noisiest person here. Coughs, splutters, heavy breathing and mumbling, all performed in perfect synchroonicity with graceful scrathing, rubbing, weight shifting, and clothing adjustment. This mornings performance was assisted by a gentleman giving us a solo on the mobile phone, plus a chorus of the Swindon Cough Society. Anyone would think I'm in a grousy mood this morning. Gripe Of The Week Recently I discovered that a recruitment agency was not using the CV's I sent them, preferring one that was years out of date. Having brought that to their attention I now discover they're still doing exactly that. Needless to say I'm outraged. No, seriously, I am. It's poor customer service, misrepresentation, and breaches data protection legislation. Needless to say I sent a stiff email in response. That'll sort 'em out. Cold emails... They don't like it up 'em....

Sexist is a modern phrase that distorts the concept, but I agree they were very chauvanistic and responsible (or at least some of them were) for the purge of female clerics in christian times.

Our local newsletter revealed that the old college site is to be demolished. Sounds familiar. Could I sworn I heard that soewhere before. It seems the impending destruction of Swindon's favourite ruin is too good a news story to forget. You would think that everyone would be talking about it. At the library yesterday morning all I heard was a request for maps and the constant moaning from someone who couldn't cope with the intricacies of the computer booking system. I know where you're coming from fella. It's got a quaint randomise function secretly built in for those who get too complacent. Think you booked a screen at eleven thirty? So does that other guy. What fun those librarians must have with innocent customers.. Gold Rush Mind you the imminent obliteration of the old college site has had an interesting side effect. Workmen have been putting in new paving to assist disabled people from suing the local council for injuries sustained. The street has been there for a hundred and twenty years so I'm glad they finally got it finished in time to impress the construction workers due to work on the site next door. Not only that but the abandoned financial services store across the road is getting a facelift. Good grief. If this carries on we'll be coming out of the recession. Sadly my local supermarket has cottoned on that foreigners will soon be arriving in the area and so the traditional rise in prices is taking place. Forty pence more for a six pack of crisps? That's a third more than they cost last week. Lucky for me there are other supermarkets in the area. Cheap crisps and more exercise. News Of The Week What's this? Two boxers getting into a fight? Scandalous...

There is a fundamental difference between pagan and christian worship in the context of late imperial Rome. Pagans worship is individualistic, a client/patron relationship where the worshipper enters the temple, or a deities atrium to all inents and purposes. Since the Romans saw power as evidence of divine status, it therefore follows that extremely powerful individuals like the caesars should be given demigod status (and many of them played up to this idea - they had done ever since Julius Caesar proclaimed he was descended from divine ancestory, so clearly this was also a means of impressing their subjects as much as a social aspect) Notice that to the pagan, it was entirely plausible that a man could become a god if sufficiently deserving, and also notice it was possible for the senate to elevate a man to that status by decree. In their minds the distinction between mundane and supernatural worlds was a little blurry. Christian worship in this period wasn't quite the austere regime of later eras. Women in late imperial times were able to become priests (although this distinction was soon to be removed and images of female clerics vandalised as women were ousted, sometimes painfully). I've said this many times but the movement was factional, not united, and even after the Council of Nicaea there were still heretical or non-conformal groups. Bishops were notorious for getting wealthy on the backs of their congregations and as soon as they realised their social control and ownership of land was about to bring them real influence politicially, "the roads were filled with galloping bishops" as Marcellinus tells us. We therefore have a situation where a Roman citizen chose between religious mindsets. On the one hand, he might ask and appeal to his chosen god for clemency or favours in the face of the ravages of life, or indeed, the fear of death, whereas a christian received a promise of eternal life after death in paradise if he simply obeyed, conformed, and stayed a paid up member of the chosen club. So when christians refuse - for instance to serve in the legions, or to take part in arena events, or other such activity regarded as offensive or dealing in blood, it's a statement of their faith To make a mere gesture toward christian alignment is something we're accustomed to in the modern day when belief is usually no more than an uninvolved tick in the box. In former times, christianity was something much deeper in the minds of the congregation if not the cleric, something much more similar to the evangeklical movements of the US for instance. A simple gesture is enough to satisfy a pagan. For them, an action is real, a visible identifier of allegiance, since there's no emotional or intellectual ownership. A man must display his loyalty in other words by deed, not thoughts or words. Christians do not have this choice. They face eternal damnation if they do not adhere to their faith. As many human social structures discover, strength is sometimes found through suffering, something a pagan would not entertain. There's little comparison with modern suicide bombers because those individuals are zealots who want to inflict harm and see their own death as a means of cleansing their guilt and earning the rewards of paradise in the process, while christian refuseniks are simply saying that they cannot do these things because it would interfere with their chances of achieving the same. Incidentially the suicidal infliction of violence did exist in ancient times. Jewish zealots were known for practises vaguely similar to middle eastern suicide bombers albeit lacking the modern invention of explosives. By the late empire this had largely been addressed.

I found out a big secret this weekend. Stay tuned to learn more. Party On Dude Saturday was the official museum social event of the year. Normally this sort of thing takes place around christmas or new year, but us museum folk take life at an easier pace, except for Mr J's hyperactive girlfriend who was clearly never taught how to behave in polite society. So we we stood there sort of drunk and confused while she turned into a human pinball. At one point in the proceedings she was comparing us to zoo animals. Somewhat foolishly I insisted on finding out which ferocious and magnificent creature I most resembled. Tiger? Elephant? Rhino? Nope. A sloth. And she didn't have to think about it either. Complaining did no good. My punishment for raising doubts about her decision was a lecture on the charm, wit, and street credibility that sloths have in her inebriated world. Now I know. The Party - The Sloth's View It wasn't such a bad party treally. My score was two hugs from pretty ladies, three cans of cider, seven mouthfuls of bombay mix, half a baguette in chilli dip, three adverse comments about the boss's hawaian shirt without remonition, one doorman successfully evaded, one erection from viewing pictures of supercars, and only one drunken admission of morally dubious wrestling with a former female boss for her golf balls. You might sneer, and I understand if you do, because compared to the high jinks that some people boast of, museum folk tend to be a bit tame. However I did score something much better. When Mr J's girlfriend was introduced to me as she paused inbetween spraying everyone with hair care products, she mentioned that she'd heard of me. Yes! Famous at last! Proof that even sloths can make it to the top of the tree. Why Swindon? Also the same saturday night I encountered a chap with a suspiciously american accent. Sorry, I could not resist finding out more. Is that accent genuine? Where do you come from? "San Diego" He replied with an odd sort of glance in my direction. San Diego? What on earth are you doing in Swindon? "What are you doing in Swindon?" He answered. Mostly I just live there it must be said, but I take his point and admire his ability to treat the entire world as his own backyard. Sadly my money gets stopped if I go abroad. I'm already poor - I don't feel the need to be homeless too. But then the museum party was on in Swindon - I was there - and so was he, all the way from southern Califormia. Big Secret Of The Week Still here? Okay, now it's time to reveal the big big secret. At least I would do but DW, our intrepid online journalist, has slapped a gagging order on me so I cannot reveal the identity of the gentleman who exposed himself to DW's girlfriend one night. What a terrible way to behave. I would never do something like that because bad things could happen. I know this because a female boss once had me sacked for changing trousers in the office too often. Sometimes it pays to let her win at golf ball wrestling.

Van Halen? Oh yes.... I remember them... Van Halen have a warm glow about them - they were the quintessential party band - but who remembers them? Hendrix gets played at every exuse regardless of any asociation with corrupt politics. The problem with Van Halemn is that they weren't controversial enough to make any lasting impact. Sure they had a wild time and probably now suffer for it - Didn't I hear the original line-up was back together again? - but their glory days are gone and like many other bands they're plugging away on a lower level for those who want 80's memoribilia. Does that sound cruel? Show business is - witness the recent demise of Whitney Houston or the the relative obscurity of Caldrail - to name a few. I think if one of Van Halen had died in a horrific and bizarre accident then they'd still be a household name. Nothing preserves immortality like death. But then the original line up of Balck Sabbath is back together and let's be honest, it isn't Ozzy's singing we remember him for.

We know there were female actors - one is associated with Pompeii in its final days. Also Theodora who had to give up acting when she married the emperor Justinian. Women usually appeared in mime sequences, often short in character, which did not use masks thus women had to appear for female roles. Although I don't have any direct evidence the nature of roman theatre, often consisting of short inprovissed farces on domestic life, does lend itself to the addition of female players. As for the older greek and etruscan influenced styles, that might be different.

Fifty is a strange age. Part of me knows full well I'm not young any more, that I ought to change my ways and act my age, while at the same time I simply cannot help being the veteran rebellious teenager I always was. Take yesterday for example. I approached the pedestrian crossing minding my own business and as if pheromones were setting off air raid sirens, I couldn't help noticing the twenty year old brunette across the road. I've no idea what sort of person she was but physically she was just about my perfect ten. She knew I was looking - young ladies seem to sense that instinctively - and she avoided eye contact in that sort of impatient desire to leave the area immediately. Being the gentleman I am I then stopped staring at her. In a way being fifty saved me from embarrasment. At a younger age a certain part of my anatomy would not have remained under control. Having averted my gaze I then noticed her mother - and she wasn't bad either. Then it struck me that I was at an age when strictly speaking my options were as wide as they could possibly be. What a tragedy then that I lack that all important pheromone - money. Or given that I'm fifty, unmarried, and fashionably shabby, that sweet smell of successful conformity. But they both had their eyes on me instead of the traffic when the gap presented itself. Possibly in fear I was going to approach them, who knows?. Nevertheless I like to be optimistic and hope I'll be in their dreams tonight. Hey, it's the first step, right? Sadly my dreams were later shattered by two young ladies at the surgery who clearly didn't see me as a sex object at all. Might need to ask the nurse if she's got something to heal my injured male pride. No, wait, that came out all wrong.... Dammit, this fifty years of age is as bad as being a teenager all over again. Reward Of The Week "Have you got a sticker?" The grandmother of an energetic four year old boy asked the receptionist at the surgery as I waited in the queue, "He's just been treated by the doctor and he's been very brave." I made a lame joke about him earning a medal. The receptionist didn't have any I've Been A Brave Boy stickers so she told him to make sure his granny rewarded him with sweeties or some other shameless means of ensuring good behaviour. I think I might of made a lame joke about that too. As gigs go, I wasn't getting through to my audience. Anyway my turn came and I handed over the paperwork. The receptionist came back with a sly grin and asked me "Do you want a sticker too?" Ha ha ha ha. I like you, you're funny. Suddenly everyone's a comedian.