caldrail

Personally I think the idea that the Pax Romana suddenly stopped on a particular date is nothing more than the usual human desire for categorisation. It eroded over a long period of time. I've always considered that there was the Principate, the Pax Romana, and finally the Dominate, but the border between them is a bit hazy. I don't think any soecific event or date is actually relevant, although for the purposes of historical study I'll probably have to think about when the oldm order had functionally ceased to be.

No, because historians have identified nine seperate Arturs in the Dark Ages from all over England and Wales. The problem is that the various events and achievements of them have all sort of blurred into one aided by some very hazy and inaccurate reporting, not to mention the extraordinary retelling of british history by Geoffery of Monmouth in the 12th century. Actually your grannie was way off target. An englishman can always be found in the midday sun.

At some point, somehow, I must have upset my neighbour downstairs. I can tell what mood they're in generally by listening, given how much noise goes through the floorboards. Yep, he's slamming doors in the early morning. That means he's had hardly any sleep last night and wants me to wake up too. It's like living with a cantakerous alarm clock that speaks a foreign language. Yeah, yeah, yeah, I heard you. Oh good grief it's not even nine o'clock yet. Time to roll over, shut those eyes, and snooze for a another hour or two. Does that sound lazy? Nooo of course not. I have lots of very important sstuff to do today and oversleeping is not recommended. Or possible. All Fair In Love And War I see that some are demanding that Gaddafi's son must have a fair trial. After all the hoo-haa of his father's demise, I'm sure the new lean mean still slightly green Libya wants to be seen as an emerging mature friendly nation. So I suggest giving him an hours headstart. Lock and load chaps. Don't Panic! Don't Panic! Late into the night I roused myself from the dull witted stupor caused by watching a Jackie Chan movie and fill in my paperwork for the fortnightly benefit claim. Except I couldn't, because the rucksack the papers were stowed in was missing. Oh no! People usually regard me as a well organised person. If only they knew. Yet I too am afflicted with a measure of chaos and absent mindedness like everyone else. Where is it? Where's my rucksack? Yes, I was having one of those little drama's that make life such a frustrating experience. Quickly I searched the house. Did I leave the folder or the rucksack anywhere other than its normal resting place. Nope. Have I been burgled? Please tell me someone hasn't managed to penetrate the stout walls of Castle Caldrail. Things like this always leave me feeling unsettled. Some people have an ability to shrug, roll over back to sleep, and nonchalantly make excuses the next day (and in all probability, get irate afterward when they don't get what they expected). Before I embarras myself with a call to the police there was just one possibilityleft. Maybe I'd left the sack somewhere else without realising... Yes. On Friday I strode away from the library completely oblivious to the fact my belongings were stuffed under a table. It's a wonder the library never held a bomb alert - that's what usually happens when suspicious containers are left unattended. Shame on you library. Mind you, thanks for not asking the army to blow my rucksack up harmlessly. That would have been a disaster. At least it would in my tiny little chaotic world. Right. Forms filled. Time to brave the dangers of the Job Centre and their man eating inhabitants.

The underlying idea here is that many of us are thinking in terms of conquest and territorial ownership. That was not necessarily on the minds on the Roman commanders, who had more sophisticated or short term objectives to consider. Although they had yet to contruct Hadrians Wall, there nonetheless a need to establish the security of the current border of what the Romans considered theirs. In other words, it wasn't enough to simply build a few watchtowers and patrol the road, it was also necessary t impress upon the Picts that the Romans were not to be messed with. In the early empuire the legions still pursued what might be described as 'aggressive policies' as opposed to the frontier safeguards common to the late period. In much the same way that some countries launch air strikes against troublesome nations for limited objectives, so the Romans also marched into foreign lands not necessarily to conquer, but to intimidate and dominate.

You're also forgetting the insidious nature of a paranoiud emperor. It's hardly likely that given the communication lag (which you rightly point to) that Domitian was going to trust his general completely. It isn't beyond reason that spies and agents were on hand to observe what was going on, even possibly armed with a recall letter should they feel that Agricola was attempting to create a breakaway power base by conquest. Don't forget, once Britain was totally conquered, it was (as it always has been) a challenge to conquer because of geography. Now I admit that this is based on speculation. However, we also shouldn't forget that our mental image of a totally obedient professional army is one based on our own modern experience, not that of the Roman. From the very start the Romans had attempted to ensure that no army was commanded by one man alone - and as later history shows, with good reason. Emperors were usually well aware of the fickle nature of their legions. Many of them would come to power via their good graces, and many would be on their receiving end. I often see many articles or forum posts praising Roman civil engineering or the finer points of their society. Whilst I can't argue with that, it tends to be a rosy picture of the Roman Empire. It ignores the corruption, greed, and violence within it. It ignores the insidious nature of a very Roman desire to control another person - not just slavery, but by manipulation, association, and threat as well. Not for nothing does Cassius Dio frequently refer to men being made slaves of when in fact they officially free. Therefore to describe the end of the Caledonian campaign we need to observe it from a Roman perspective - not a familiar modern one.

Eat your greens. I wonder how many kids these days get that traditional command? Sometimes I wonder if the whole point of the old Popeye cartoons was not to entertain, but to sell truckloads of unwanted spinach. Of course Popeye was violent so like Tom & Jerry, it doesn't get shown on television these days. Without the mighty forearms of Popeye to inspire kids to engage each other in fistfights, these days the kids resort to knives anf firearms in a playground arms race. Our boss at the museum (the real one, not Young L) has found a solution to the problem of that most hated of all vegetables, the ghastly Brussel Sprout. He made a Brussel Sprout Vindaloo. For the purists among us that isn't possible without meat and potatoes, but these days anything that sets fire to the taste buds is measured in curry type. There are some people who say that you can't taste hot curries. I'm not one of them. Of course you can taste it - if you can take it. Mind you, a recent competition to eat the hottest curry saw loads of people ferried to hospital recently, and what about the withdrawal of Lloyd Grossman's disease-inducing curry sauces? Some years ago I had to stop cooking with very hot jalapeno peppers because they were starting t do strange things with my stomach. But I still like my vindaloo's. Yum. So I guess the prospect of a volcanic curry isn't so daunting for me. But brussel sprouts? Sorry. No curry, not even if radioactvely hot, is ever going to make me want to consume those horrible things. So I guess when Claude Van Damme gets tired of advertising lager, there's a career just waiting as a fist fighting champion of the downtrodden given strange violent powers by consuming brussel sprouts. I mean, wouldn't you be pee'd off if you were served them? It Might Rain Here we go again. The Prophets of Global Warming have prophecised that extreme weather is ever more likely. Well it would be. We're still coming out of the previous Ice Age and the last few thousand years have been unusually stable. With an estimated fifty thousand years of very warm climate before the glaciers return in the next ice age, surely this would be expected? But we humans like scapegoats. Let's scape the car, or industry, or people who fart. I was reading a learned volume about climate changes and it points out that there are cycles in the climate, some short, some long, linked to wobbles in the Earths orbit or the variations in the Sun's output, that cause these wild swings. But I've said this all before. The UN never listened when I asked for national independence, so I doubt they'll listen to my prophecies of climate change. Actually I'd better stop whinging or they'll be imposing sanctions on me. Good grief, I might be in danger of UN Peacekeepers patrolling my premises. Oh well. At least they might shoot the burglars for me. It Might Download As something of a ferro-equinologist, I do like to explore the virtual world of railways. It's okay, I admitted this years ago. Lately one of the librarians has decided my hobby is against regulations. Worse still, she seems to regard it as something like the straw that broke civilisations back. Either that or her eyesight can't tell the difference between a russian diesel and a naked lady in a silly and provocative pose. Then again both of them are dirty, right? So a few times now I've gritted my teeth at being refused permission to access my favourite railway website because it falls within the category of evil decadence. Finally I managed to negotiate the bureaucracy involved in accessing such politically incorrect sites. Ahhhh.... Time to relax and browse the 3d replicas that talented modellers create for download. This site looks interesting... It's all written in cryllic so I haven't a clue what the text says, but after a while you sort of get used to it. Hey wow! Look at this! That I have to download! Except that I can't because I personally exceeded the total bandwidth used by the native Russians and unless I pay thropugh the nose for it, they've forbidden me from completing the download. Yeah? Really? Listen you Russian secret agents, if I can get past the obstacle of the local librarian, the FSB is no challenge at all. Errrr.... Where's my phone?... Oh hi. Is there a Mr Bond there?

The problem with Jasper Carrot is that he never changed his act - ever. Each performance pulled out the same old jokes all over again. Funny the firtst time. Witty the second. Booed the thirtieth. What did he do - sack his jokewriter?

Nah, you lot are all Vikings. Nothing sensible about putting to sea in twisty iversized canoe no matter how much of our gold and women you pillage. Anyway, I seem to remember us Wessex chaps beat you fair and square.

There's a number of reasosn why the Romans withdrew. Firstly, the emperor Domitian was suspicious about Agricola's motives in the wake of a succesful campaign abroad and had him recalled to Rome, evisdently with a view to keeping 'friends' closer. Secondly, there weren't any resources to interest the Romans in occupation of another stretch of wilderness. Thirdly, despite the victory at Mons Graupius and claims of outright Roman victory, the territory was not fully secured and represented a difficult challenege to maintain. Bear in mind that the Romans were essentially urban in character. The Picts had no cities to occupy, no infrastructure to faciltate governance, and were clearly not going to like Roman presence. Also I believe the motives for the campaign are misunderstood. I don't actually believe the expedition was there to 'conquer' Caledonia. Instead it makes more sense to view it as a punitive expedition to force the Picts to back down, thus making the frontier safer. This was a standard Roman strategy which they had employed in Germania. Then of course, the Romans had bitter memories of the Varian Disaster, which resulted from an attempted colonisation of a 'barbaric' wilderness. Therefore it's unlikely the Romans were keen to stay in hostile territory. To counter that we have the evidence of the creation of permanent fortress sites in Caledonia, abandoned before completion. Instead of seeing that as a primary motive, it might be better to view it as forward thinking and some evidence of local initiative - and perhaps some intent to claim Caledonia as a 'conquered' region - which was why Domitian recalled Agricola in the first place. He didn't want ambitious generals returning in triumph with a victorious army behind them. In other words, the campaign was pacification, and tacitus might be presenting Agricola in a better light than he deserves.

One of the enduring qualities of the ancient Roman Empire is an instinctive need by europeans to revive the idea of a continental empire. The European Union was supposed to be a collective of nation states although clearly there are politicians who saw it as a vehicle for imperial ambition. Others saw it as no more than a convenient gravy train. I suspect the same was true two thousand years ago. Things aren't looking too good. Those nations scrounging from the pot have been told to pull their socks up. Austerity measures and changes of leadership have resulted. For me there's still doom and gloom since much of Britains prosperity now depends on the EU, and with the foundations of europe's new empire wobbling, unemployment is not getting any better. Usually at this time of year there's an endless demand for temporary workers to shovel stuff from here to there in time for Christmas and the January sales. This year it's harder to find such relief from signing on. Fewer employers are hiring and many are imposing strict regulations on their annual intake of slaves. In one advertisement for a temporary manual job, the employer was making clear that high standards were expected. What? Monkeys need to be groomed this year? No picking fleas at that place. Only those with the right attitude would be tolerated. That's a telling statement. Every year the amount of mail surges as the festive season approaches. One agency has forwarded my name to the Royal Mail for a short term job sorting letters, driving vans, delivering mail, or other such matters vital for the war effort.That's okay with me. The odd thing is that the agency who put my name forward to the suprisingly secretive Royal Mail is based in Leeds. For those with no comprehension of things english, that's foreign territory to us Swindoners. A whole different culture, steeped in strange accents and customs, with clever and cunning natives that confound and befuddle their prosperous southern neighbours. DS was from Leeds incidentially. She was my boss for a while, and despite the complete chaos and dodgy deals that followed her everywhere, she maintained that Leeds is the true home of sensible englishness. Can't quite see that myself. To confirm my suspicions, I keep getting phone calls and emails from the sensible Leeds agency telling me to respond to an email I'd been sent and book myself an interview at the local post depot. Erm.... What email? All the links I've tried send me back to their website. It's a bit like being caught in an endless circle. Worse still, the clever and cunning Leeds person I spoke to asked me for my password so he could faciiltate the application process. Pardon me? You want my password? Welcome to sensible Leeds. Stay alert people. Pardon Me For Squirming Another quiet day at the library. Even the businessman who received a very important call on his moble tried frantically to persuade the caller that everything was working out just fine so he could hang up and carry on using a computer in peace and tranquility. But some people are never satisfied. BFL was sat a few cubicles away. It's hard to miss her really since the world tends to stop when she comes upstairs. She can be persistent, demanding attention and assistance for the sheer pleasure of getting people to act at her whim. She's tried pulling my strings once or twice. No, sorry, I haven't the slightest idea how that printer works. This is a library. Go and ask a librarian. Jeez. The rest of us grimace as every possible obstruction to her very important studies is removed. Every day she's at the helpdesk asking a librarian for help. There's no escaping her. Like a child throwing toys out of a pram, she's learned that making a big noise results in things happening. It was therefore inevitable that the atmosphere of the library was suddenly shattered. At the top of her voice BFL suddenly blurted out "Do you mind? I'm doing some very intense study and I can't concentrate because you're constantly jumping up and down!" "Is there a problem" Said the librarian, poised to pounce upon some hapless victim. BFL said no more. As to who was jumping up and down I have not the slightest clue. Maybe I breathed too heavily? Maybe someone was thinking too loud, maybe there wasn't the right mix of hormones in the air, or perhaps BFL was getting frustrated by the lack of attention she was getting? Who knows? Oh. She's leaving. With a bit of luck she won't bother to announce it. Might There Be A Winter? There's been a definite chill in the air these last couple of days. Still not cold enough to see your own breath, which is unsual for this time of year, but the relatively balmy weather we've been having appears to be receding. I saw a young lady standing outside the shopping centre, waiting to hand leaflets to any interested passer by, wrapped up in fur lined coats and ear warmers as she watched the disinterested majority pass by. As it happens Swindon has relunctantly decided autumn is here. The trees are finally dumping their leaves for the winter shutdown. At least with the trees in hibernation they won't be disturbing BFL. Now that Swindon is becoming a cold and depressing place again, perhaps BFL might consider a holiday in warmer climes, like Leeds for instance. I'm sure she'll sort those insolent natives out..

Big bangs aren't anything new. When Nelson caught the french fleet napping off the coast of Egypt in 1789, one of Napoleons flagships caught fire, and resulting explosion from both magazines stuffed full of gunpowder was heard fifty miles away. The entire battle stopped for ten minutes because everyone present was completely stunned by wwhat they'd witnessed. The rudder of the ship, a sizeable slab of wooden planks weighing more than a ton, was found on the sea bed five miles away. That poem "The boy stood on the burning deck"? That comes from this incident.

Today I made another visit to my local surgery. All part of keeping the Grim Reaper at arms length. Nothing much to report, just a routine visit, and despite not feeling completely fit as a fiddle, I'm not suffering in any real sense. By coincidence I spotted a news article teling us fifty-somethings how to stay in the front line against the Grim Reaper. Sort of like a survival manual for grey haired old codgers. Who knows? Maybe there's a few tips I could use? Tip number one. Keep Checking. Oh yes. Bumps, bruises, coughs, splutters, and all those invisible microbes trying to ruin my day must be prevented from entering my private space. Where can I rent a penthouse suite cheap? Must remember to design a pointlesslly huge aeroplane sometime soon. Tip number two. Keep Your Feet Fit. Apparently the rot starts with the feet. Once they go, you get knee problems, then back problems, and before you know it, you're exactly the sort of person you used to fume at when you were young. Mind you, the article doesn't tell you how to do all this. Lifting weights with my big toe isn't as easy as you think - you have to balance them at the same time. Tip number three. Stay Immune. So checking you're not unhealthy isn't enough? It seems I must also fight ilnness and infection if I want to stay healthy. Might need to contact that policeman and tell him I need that shotgun after all. Tip number four. Get Moving. If I remain motionless for too long everyione will think I'm dead. Don't laugh, it uisn't the first time a person has woken in a morgue. Must... type... next... word.... Phew. This survival lark is hard work. Tip number five. Eat Well. Oh I shall. I like my food. Especially the tastier stuff I can't afford. Tip number six. Get Some Lovin'. Yes well you see - this is the sort of advice that really does ignore the realities of being an old codger. It's all very well persuading that young lady to allow you to embarras yourself, but I'm also old and wise enough to know what sort of grief I'm going to get. Still, there's no fool like an old fool, so I guess I'll just have to compensate for my waning love life and become a famous celebrity instead. Who knows? Maybe I could combine the two like Bruce Forsyth. Tip number six. Do Something New. Like what? I'm fifty. I've done pretty much everything I set out to do when I was younger and if I were brutally honest, bungee jumping is never going to be my favourite pastime. Maybe I could make it more interesting? How about... Bungee jumping with a young lady strapped on. Now that would be something new, and also kills two birds with one stone. My worry is that she'll want to go faster. Tip number seven. Brain Fit. In other words, don't stop learning. Don't stop thinking. Take your brain for a trip down to thew newsagent every morning. Make it sweat with crosswords, quotations from shakespeare, and calculating the correct date for the end of the world. The trouble with doing this sort of thing is eventually you figure out what an idiot you've been. Quote Of The Week The best way to become famous is to invent a new dub two step. (Youing L, 2011) Well there you have it, budding starlets. No more casting couch, no more silly television shows, no more endless signing sessions. Just pop down to the patent office. Fame and fortune will be yours.

Lately there's been a few dictators receiving redundancy notices. As if unemployment wasn't bad enough already. We seem to regard dictators as a modern phenomenon but if you think about it, there's always been aggressive nasty individuals who rather like throwing their weight around. Something imbedded in the human psyche means that although we usually co-operate as a society, there's always going to be one or two individuals who want to run it. That trait doesn't always mean politics. Criminal ganags are run by ruthless individuals more often than not. Even some families have a minor tyrant or two in their ranks. Power over others is an intoxicating motive - it even inspres some of the less well regarded human endeavours like serial killings. Young L has been given charge of the front desk at the museum. Whilst it's pleasing to see he takes his responsibilities seriously, the manner whicjh he carries them out is ridiculous. On my last shift he tried to put me in my place in front of the team, for no other reason than trying to put me in my in his pocket, so to speak. "When you're sat there, I'm the boss" He trumpeted loudly. He almost beat his chest. Unfortunately for Young L he seems to have forgotten that I'm not under contract to the museum. I work there as a volunteer by mutual agreement. Therefore in strict terms there's nothing to stop me getting up and walking home other than good manners and betrayal of trust. Sorry, L, no. You might have authority to direct my activities there, but you're not my boss in any way whatsoever. How about that? I fended off an attempted subjugation and Poland is safe from invasion Doff Of The Cap Despite the gloomy weather reports I see a bright sunny morning out there. For a november day it's remarkably mild. Perfect weather then for the Remembrance Parade at our local cenotaph. The sacrifice of previous generations is of course the whole point, but as I waited for the library to open the bugles sounded the last post. You know, that;'s a very evocative sound, and even without any direct association with the armed services or indeed any excess of patriotic spirit, I couldn't help feel stirred by it. Why is that I wonder? What is it about that bugle call that resonates in my subconcious? I don't feel guilty about not serving in the armed forces - I was refused after all - and indeed I'm grateful I've never had to suffer the pain and anguish of warfare. Just now, as I'm typing this, the column of servicemen are marching down the local high street. That insistent drumbeat is audible above the mass of boots on tarmac, or the excited hordes of asian children swarming over a computer downstairs. Why aren't I there, among the onlookers watching the parade march by? Because I'm typing this instead, doffing my cap in my own particular way. You see, that's the way of things. If you fight to stave off dictatorships and preserve your freedoms, you must allow people to be express that freedom their own way, or all you've done is change the regime.

Unfortunately Eastenders have never revealed the horrifying truth that Dirty Den is one of the undead stalking London alleyways on dark foggy nights. Or have I just blown the christmas special?

During which period? I've always said there was a world of difference to the confident conquerors who swept across Europe and marched arrogantly into the roman senate against the settled and reluctant tribesmen of Caesars day. I also note that the Gauls readily adopted latin culture as well (once conquered themselves), which aklthough has overtones of capitulation, it also suggests they were willing and able to progress their society even if they did so under foriegn social mores.

Talking about ammunition, the's a ship load of it in the Thames Estuary. A wartime cargo vessel moored outside of London and apparently foundered in bad weather. It's still there today, blocking a river channel, full of decaying WW2 munitions. Experts believe that a detonation would be as powerful as a minor atom bomb. I think that assumes that every shell will explode at exactly the same time mind you, but it's a worry nonetheless.

Six is an important number, or at least it is for me. It is after all the age many people believe me to be. I've always had a preference for the number four. No particular reason, just a nicer friendlier number. But why, you might ask, is six so relevant to me? It's because my life seems to be bounded by the number six. Those idiots out there who've convinced themselves that I'm a devil worshipper (shame on you) will of course by now be jumping up and down excitiedly and pointing red faced towatd their computer monitor. Christians don't like the number six either. Too statanic. Many years ago when I was a struggling would-be rock star, I had a small fan club who used to foloow me around on Red Jasper gigs just to hear me play a drumkit. Bless them all. Thanks for the pints as well lads. I did appreciate it, really. Now that the seed of my return to fame and fortune is starrting to sprout - a mere white shoot in a dark forest of giant trees as yet, but you never know - I seem to have accumulated a new fan club. All six of them. Mr D, one of my colleagues at the museum, took pity and promised to raise my fan club membership to seven. He's a genial retired maniac, a fellow member of the Free Society of Military Surplus Trousers, and true to his word he began using one of those little hand held gizmo's to access the internet. His web search couldn't find me. Not a single page. Fate has decreed I have only six fans. Good Boy! Those afflicted with Parkinsons Disease might be pleased to hear that a new treatment has been devised to ease their suffering. Apparently the idea is to retrain your brain. I imagine there's a few claims advisors who want me to undergo that kind of therapy as well. So therefore I can look forward to a healthy life fetching slippers or running for the ball. I must remember to raise a paw when asking for food at the supermarket. Oh My God!, No, It Can't Be Happening Guess what? There's going to be some shock twists to the plot at Alberts Square this year. For those few individuals who have had no contact with english civilisation since the invention of the soap opera, Eastenders is that London fantasy land where everyone sleeps, fights, and gets one over each other - and they still stop for a chat at the local pub. But back to the plot. Why on earth would anyone be shocked at the shocking prospect of shock storylines. Eastenders have been doing that since they began filming the wretched show. The only shocking thing is that it's still going. Never the same after they killed Dirty Den.

Peat does tend to preserve things but I'm a little dubious about stories like this, especially after someone reported recovering a WW2 pilot from his crashed plane in a peat bog. In technical terms, the original quality of the gun is not necessarily important. Much depends on circumstance and a poor quality weapon can survive if conditions are right. For a recovered weapon to function all that matters is that the metal is relatively free of corrsion and that the action of the gun has not been cold welded, corroded, or damaged by the initial event (or indeed events afterward). My worry would be that the strength of the gun had been compromised by shock loads - that will cause the weapon to fragment explosively when fired. I wouldn't trust the period ammunition at all. That said, there were some weapons in WW2 that I wouldn't trust fresh from the factory, such as the pressed steel german replicas of the Sten gun (MP3008)

Strictly speaking, in my view, the legions ceased to be after the reforms of Constantine. I say this because they were nio longer a conquering force as they had been but evolved into a security force. The 'legions' of later times were not the independent formations of earlier, no longer the 'one size fits all' formation (indeed, the earlier Strategikon of Maurice dictates that tagma should not be the same size to prevent accurate enemy estimations of their strength) , but had become smaller units that were formally part of a primitive army organisation and even then split between border and response grouping. As with many things, the Romans continued to use the term legio because that was the traditional term for levies of armed arm even though the organisation and purpose had changed. Importantly, the style of warfare conducted by the cavalry of Maurices's time was pretty much medieval albeit perhaps more sophisticated. I agree that the classic legion had always encompassd a security role. However, throughout their history, these troops had mounted punitive expeditions when necessary. The Romans always preferred an aggresive stance. In the later empire they seem to lose that martial streak. Certainly they riaded across the border - we have accounts of Roman troops attacking germanic villages covertly for loot - but essentially the later legions were maintained in a much more defensive posture.

Weapons of mass destruction? They have to be somewhere surely? But seriously, this does prove how ignorant politics can be. The only hassle now is preventing site scroungers from removing anything worthwhile.

Actually I feasred for the worst when I saw the home page, but after a quick delve here and there it doesn't look too bad.

Somebody, somewhere, decreed my week would be a rotten experience. I know this because my week was a dreary rotten experience. Nothing major, you understand, just more life on the rubbish tip. It began with a suprise visit to the chinese takeaway at the bottom of the hill. Sometimes you just have push the boundary a litle to make life worthwhile. It will mean I spend the next month eating chicken roll sandwiches, but these are the sacrifices we must make in the face of economic woes. Why is it takeaways never put all the right menu choices in the bag? I never choose egg fried rice. Too boring. Normally things like that are no more than lifes little learning experiences and we move on. So I popped down to the local supermarket where the lady on the till refused to assist me. Not sure why. Maybe I didn't meet her criteria for membership of the human race? On the other hand, maybe she's just a crabby old witch in a bad mood? All I wanted was another plastic bag. The random discovery that I still had a few coins left meant that my takeaway food experience was not a lost paradise. Armed with my little cache of treasure I almost rushed out the door. Anything to break my diet of chicken roll sandwiches. Sadly my cheap chicken burger disintegrated. Noooo!!!! Finally, to cap it all, the energy company sent me a letter telling me that they think that it's economically desirable to raise my payments now that I've almost reduced my gas usage to zero. Seriously, that really has happened. Pay more for less. It's the western democratic free market way. As you might expect I immediately made that irate phone call. How things have changed! A decade ago the gas companies just laughed and made lame excuses. Now they're only too keen to stop you buying gas from someone else. Aww man, this is going to hurt... Thank you David Cameron. I said it, okay? Let's move on. Investigations And Conclusions My woes are nothing. The greek prime minister has finally decided that he's not impressing anyone, Michael Jackson's doctor has been found guilty of his death, no-one's bothered to check where our immigrants have gotten to, and a terrible accident on the M5 motorway is being blamed on smoke from firework night party. Worst of all, civilisation is threatened by the discovery that a kilogram weight isn't behaving itself. Scientists have discovered that the kilogram standard, a piece of metal kept in sealed and secure conditions, has changed mass, though oddly no-one seems able to decide whether it got lighter or heavier. I mean, if these scientists can detect a change of several microgrammes, why can't they figure out which way the change has gone? I also hear that an asteroid is swooping past Earth closer than the Moon's orbit. Although the interplanetary rock is as big as an aircraft carrier, you'll need a telescope to see it. Scientists tell us that the asteroid will pass by harmlessly. Is that to the left or right? Or don't they know?

Gunpowder treason not forgotten? In many cases, it was never taught in the first place. Most youngsters only know it as 'Fireworks Night', so I guess in a way Guy Fawkes has, as they say, been consigned to the history books.

"Cannot display this site"?

Here in Blighty we've just had Guy Fawkes Night. Or more usually because history in schools isn't really taught any more, Firework Night. It seems odd to me that we celebrate a failed terrorist attempt to blow up the Houses of Parliament, but there you go. There's a shop down the road from me that caters for fancy dress and parties. I've not been in there, but there's always a fascinating window display and with Halloween, all sorts of rubber monstrosities appear. I especially like the old wizard. One day I'll pop in and ask if I can buy him. However, the arrival of Guy Fawkes Night meant that fireworks were on sale. Back when I was a kid there were television campaigns to get you to buy entire arsenals of gunpowder filled cardboard tubes. 'Standard Fireworks' pretty much seemed to have had the market to themselves. These days such adverts are not allowed. I'm suprised you can still buy fireworks at all. Imagine my suprise then when the local fancy dress shop advertised 'Buy One Get One Free' not only across their windows, but on a placard out in the street. They're almost giving the things away. So what happened to Fireworks Night? I hardly heard a bang. Pep It Up Guys I see the Vatican had finally realised that church services are considered a bit dull. That's an understatement. However the catholic church was always an organisation that takes itself a bit seriously. I find it a bit hard to imagine the Pope making one of his appearances at the window of the Vatican in true James Brown style, or the local vicar leading a christian rock band to the point where old ladies queue up to dive off the stage into the crowd. So The Blues Brothers were prophets after all? Nope. Still not interested in becoming a christian. It's been two thousand years people - can you not get it right yet? Made It Back Congratulations to the Russian team for simulating a 500 day manned mission to Mars. I'm not sure why I want to congratualte them for serving a sixteen month jail sentence in a science laboratory, but everyone else is, and I guess if rehabilitating prisoners means making them do useful things like getting fired into long space voyages, well so be it.