caldrail

I saw a program not long ago about the history of the devil. Interesting stuff though in all hionesty I've forgotten most of it. The issue is rather confused because Eve was apparently not Adam's first girlfriend. Lilith was, and she took one look at her new partner and told God in no uncertain terms she wasn't dating him. For some reason Lilith (you might want to guess why) has been acossiated with the devil ever since. I must admit I've always thought of Satan in the same terms as most people do (ie a male demonic adversary) but the female association has a very strong historical link it seems. Didn't mean to sound sexist by the way - but girls, face it, sometimes you make our lives hell

it was also Roman practice to read wills beofre the writer had died. This was done to please friends and family (one hopes) with knowledge of what they might expect. I can't remember the anecdote off hand but I do recall one such reading at a dinner party causing some upset. Now obviously I don't know if Caesars will was already known but given his status it probably isn't too hard to believe that at some point it was. Although there would be a risk of a sudden death and a very happy recipient of the wills contents (such things were hinted in the early empire) it would also mean that any unexpected content would immediately raise suspicion, so doctoring the will in this case would need to be somewhat sneakier (Robert Graves weaves a tale about how Livia did this with Augustus's last will and testament in I Claudius)

As I understand it, the beats were not actually set alight themselves but carried something flammable to that end - though obviously I can't guarantee the poor animals weren't eventualy harmed. The point being of course that if the animals started to burn themselves, they would cease running in a single direction and begin contorting in pain.

The problem with ancient art is precisely that there's no confirmation of the style they depict and it might be merely an artistic convention. The issue of 'parade' dress is interesting because although we know that military personnel did parade in ceremonies and civic events, there's very little mention of what they were wearing. partly that's because no-one saw any reason to. If you watch soldiers parading today few would bother mentioning the spit and polish uniforms although even if clearly evident. That's something we expect because that's how parades are conducted today. There's basically two bodies of thopught. One is that parade dress was in some way identifiable by decoration or quality, or that the personnel simply cleaned and polished the kit they already had. We do need to be wary because our modern perceptions of parading come from the pleasing conformity of appearance which may well be inappropriate in dealing with the ancient world. However, whilst our hollywood style perceptions of massed ranks of indendikit soldiers carrying spears and shield are somewhat fanciful, it remains a part of human psychology that conformity is good for certain things. For that reason I suspect the Romans in all military pursuits had a similar line in appearance that other era's exhibited - that a campaign appearance was not exactly conformal and in many ways altered by practicality in the field, whereas on parade some common factor mitigated against a 'rabble' appearance. The biggest problem of course is the lack of evidence for such conformity other than artwork.

Anything that uses the phrase 'martial arts' in connection with Roman history is on dubious ground in my view. However, the possibility that a pankration specialist was used to recruit is an interesting possibility - I have no idea about its authenticity - because my main obection would be that pankration was a greek sport with a limited following in Roman society whose contestants tended to be regarded as athletes, or infama, and quite often slaves themselves. The connection between legions and gladiators is established. There was a commonality between their equipment with a parallel development and we know that on occaision gladiators were used as bodyguards, trainers, and in rare instances military units entirely. However, since the pankration was not identifiably a legionary sport, where's the connection? My guess is that this was an ancient example of celebrity endorsement. They dragged a famous pankrationist to speak out and persuade the impressionable youths to sign up.

I had a dream a while back that had some oddly romanesque qualities to it. Everyone in it was dressed in roman style clothing though the architecture looked more modern. It all got very confused and fraught with people getting pointed out by informers and dragged off to some unpleasant fate. There was a woman who tried to elicit my assistance before she vanished. Wouldn't mind bumping into her - except of course it was all a dream and even if by some strange quirk in the fabric of space-time I was recalling events in a former life, she's long gone.

As I draw ever closer to the day when recording my new album becomes a necessity, so the desire to be ready for it drives me on. I learned to play guitar in my early twenties though I have to confess I was never particularly talented or technically proficient - just good enough to embarass specialist players at my level - especially since I was a drummer by trade. Mostly I just embarassed myself. Nonetheless it's been twenty years since I played guitar anything like seriously, so in order to save myself from further embarrasement, I must practice. Practice makes perfect you see. They say you never really forget a skill once you've learned it. Clearly they've never played guitar. I'm discovering that re-learning the fingering you used to do as a matter of course in your younger days takes a lot of hard work when you're not so young any more. Just ask my neighbours. What makes a comparison between then and now imore difficult is that the emphasis of my guitaring has changed. That definitely is the result of my age. I'll listen to stuff now that I would have ignored back then. There was a pub called the Cornflower which regularly hosted live music. It's still there even if the music isn't, and me and my drinking buddy GS used to pop down on the off chance they were any good. If we saw a tambourine, we left immediately. It was the done thing to do. A local promoter by the name of RK once spoke to us and said that the band on that night were brilliant. He learned something from them every gig. Yeah? Really? GS and I left the premises. The band were okay, sort of, but mostly it was the two extrovert frontmen that kept any real interest while they swung off chandeliers, sat on rafters, and other shenanigans on stage. RK heard my comments on learning nothing from them as I left and that propbably sankl my chances of local success. C'est la vie. On one occaision I got to play the Cornflower myself. This was a semi-pro band called Bardiche which I functioned in as drummer-manager. The gig was the first outing of our new vocalist. It was an important local gig. We needed to impress. So I ordered a light show, PA, and just about anything I could think of to make that vital impression on what I knew was going to be a fickle audience. RK had done the dirty. My PA and light show was cancelled. The night before I managed to secure another PA system but we still had the smoke machine from the council arts department. I instructed JS, our roadie, to switch on and off at my command. He nodded that he understood. That was a mistake. Roadies do not understand. If they did, they would be playing out on stage, not running errands for band members. But I didn't know that then. The gig went underway and we were doing fine. When the moody guitar solo started, I signalled for smoke. JS obligingly thumbed up and thick grey fog exuded from the funnel like the exhalation of some giant fire breathing monster. Realising we were going to set off fire alarms, I signalled JS to stop. He grinned and thumbed up. NO! Stop it you foo;! We got told off. by the pub staff. At least we got paid, even if the audience couldn't see their pints in front of them. I don't ever want to have to rely on stage sets and effects again. Unfortunately that means I have to become proficient at my guitar all over again. Bryan Adams - you have absolutely no idea mate. Sun And Fun of the Week Good grief. It's getting seriously warm out there. We Swindoners aren't adapted for this level of sunshine. There are things I need to do, like searching for gainful employment, or shopping, or practising guitar... But it's sunny out there. Nnnnnnnnn gah! I'm sorry. Temptation is too much. Stop the world, I want to get tanned.

War seems to loomed large on the television screens of late. Not just the tragic deaths of six british servicemen in Afghanistan, or the equally tragic killing spree of an american NCO, or even the revelations of terrible things that happened in the Libyan Revolt or are happening now in the Syrian troubles. It was also wars of times past. The usual war films are playing regularly in the afternoons. Brave british chaps stiffening their upper lips in the north african desert, or americans freezing theirs off in the Ardennes winter. But I've seen all those before. I did see one interesting film, a drama based on a jewish breakout from a death camp based on real events. It looked very realistic as opposed to the often pantomime appearance that production costs often dictate in other films. Then last night I saw the meeting of a british and argentine veteran who were both involved in the same action during the Falklands War. I just knew it was going to get emotional - let's be honest, the programme makers ensured it would be - but there was something very admirable about two men who had tried to kill each other in their youth finally lay their ghosts to rest, if not their political viewpoints, and walk away good friends. It did leave me with a number iof emotions. Sadness for those who died so needlessly and sympathy for those they left behind. Envy for those who can cast aside their past for a better future. But then... back in 1982, neither side actually hated the other. A war of necessity perhaps. A part of me will always believe that hatred is the common enemy. Another Sunny Day Yet another sunny morning to enjoy. Yesterday I wandered around the local park, astonished at the bare earth policy of the grounds keepers who seem determined to reduce the recently opened path around the lake to a representation of a world war one shellshocked landscape. Pigeons, as usual, gathered around any hint of breadcrumbs. Seabirds whirled noisily around the lake waiting to pounce on hint of a pigeon fleeing with more than his fair share. Swans gently floating by here and there, waiting for any hint of that goose they don't like to turn up. Then my attention was drawn to a solitary bumblebee. Quite a rare sight as it happens, bit there it was, silently buzzing from blossom to blossom on the nearby tree. I dunno, sometimes something so insignificant grabs your attention for no apparent reason. It just seeemed to suit the mood. Relaxed, everyone minding their own business, just enjoying another spring day. Chorus Of The Week It appears that my whinging about late night football songs has taken root. I've been informed that on the weekend a bunch of slightly happy inebriated football-philes passed my house with a loud and cheery rendtion of New York, New York, It's a wondeful town.... great to see that some of the locals are trying to raise the cultural level of Swindon to new heights, even if it does require a large slice of Broadway. Sorry I missed the performance guys, but I can't be everywhere at once. Hey - that's show business.

I forgot to add that the yougoslavs tested a Hawker Hurricane airframe fitted with a german Daimler Benz DB601. They considered it superior to the Merlin engined variety. But they got invaded shortly afterward anyway.

Possibly, but then bear in mind the P51 was well suited to the application it was used in, and was available in increasing numbers at the same time that the Luftwaffe fighter strength was beginning to wither. Actually it was a good aeroplane, even I admit that, but not one without faults as you would expect from airframes designed rapidly in wartime with 1940's technology. Supercharging has considerable advantage in power generation at altitude. The differences, even at sea level, between Merlin and Meteor engine (both used the same block - the meteor had no supercharger and thus was used for boats) is remarkable. However, we need to realise that fighters demanded outright performance and long term reliability was not a huge concern when airframes might last weeks in service. The americans began world war two with aircraft that were no better than anyones elses, and in some cases, worse, but the point is that they were built for peace time service, not total war. The original mustangs were built to british requirements (North American were originally approached by the British Purchasing Commission to build P40's, and NA decided to offer something they thought might be better - and their design) but allison V12's were available immediately and these power plants, whilst decent engines in their own right, had not been built with superchargers and thus lacked altitude performance. That of course meant the early mustangs were second rate and thus not used as front line fighters by the RAF - however their potential was recognised and the idea to mount a Merlin came afterward. The rest is history as they say. The P38 used Allisons with turbo-superchargers however, fitted in the tailbooms. Since the Americans had focused on radial engines as home grown high power units, it made sense to fit superchargers, especially since heavy bombers using these engines were now expected to fly with bomb loads at higher altitudes. As for fuel the Merlin was designed for a certain octane rating and I don't believe that was any worse than british supplies of aviation fuel. The russians of course ran into trouble with lend-lease aeroplanes because american high-octane fuel was in short supply and russian fuel wasn't suitable for the fussier american motors. Since Henry Ford was building british designed engines in the 'Arsenal of Democracy', why did he discover those blocks were heading for Britain? Surely that must have been part of the contract for production? Did the Merlin engine win the war? No, of course not, but it was an excellent engine and came at the right time. However there were other engine designs waiting in the wings - that happened for all the manufacturing nations - and the Merlin achieved ascendancy not only because it was good, but because it was available in significant numbers and its use was supported by the procurement systems. bear in mind however that shortages of Merlin engines were a distinct possibility in the early part of the war and thus we see airframes tested with alternative engines should a disaster occur. In fact, some designs were refused Merlin engines as there weren't enough to go around.

An odd thing to say. The nature of the Roman nobility was that military experience was essential for political success, something that was traditional for senior romans, and thus his wealth was less to do with his command than perhaps wishing to gain kudos by conquest, especially since he would probably have to invest his own money in the legion with no return unless booty was won from the enemy.

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?