caldrail

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.

I think it's rendere me unemployable

Discipline has to be created - it doesn't automatically exist - thusn much depends on leadership, which will only affect the performance of a legion while the talented commander is present. After all, for the weaknesses and failings of late Roman legions, Sebastianus did manage to begin a successful campaign against the goths using the very form of warfare that the late imperial legion had been trimmed down for. This is one point that generally escapes the casual observer. The legion of the late empire was about one sixth of the size of its forebears. There may have been more legions at that time, but they were smaller and more diverse in character. Specialisation was appearing. Marcellinus makes an intereesting reference to legionaries armed with hammers for instance. In many respects, the sort of army we see in the middle ages was already evolving along with the rise of armoured cavalrymen. The situation had changed for Rome. The days when their legions were a force of conquerors had long since passed. They had become a security force, adapted to dealing with raiders - and in fact, a parallel of the modern day reduction from WW2 and its huge continental battles to smaller task forces against irregular enemies. Much of the old 'substance' (as Vegetius describes it) had eroded because there was little incentive to maintain it. Set piece battles were becoming rare and much of the expertise in handling such affairs had gone. Also we should note that Valens asked for Sebastianus to take command of his armies because his old guard commanders had failed to impress him. Valens was facing a confrontation with Persia don't foregt - that was a serious situation. There were increasing rumours of the huns and thir lightning raids, such that Sebastianus' predecessor had built a wall to try and obstruct their cavalry in eastern europe (which of course they rode around - sound familiar?) With regard to engineering we should realise that the average legionary was just as much a manual labourer as he had always been. Typically the legionary knew very little about civil works, other than any trade he had previously learned, and the 'skill' level derives from individuals who did know something, so it would appear Julian had the right men on his team.

I notice the control unit for Evil Robot was missing from the customer services desk at the museum. Well, although I've got better things to do than remove his restraining bolt, if he fires up I've got no way to bring him under control. Luckily this was the quiet shift so the risk to the general public was minimal. Personally I was more in danger of dropping dead from boredom. We had a visit from none other than DW, our intrepid online journalist. It's always good to hear from him because you discover who's who in the local area. There's a Top Gear photographer who knows our boss. We have a lady from the BBC who runs that large screen televison mounted on the side of a car park in Wharf Green. She'd strolled past the museum on her way to an important meeting and DW spotted her. He called her up on his mobile immediately for that all important chat. He is a chatty fellow as it happens. Apparently he's been the victim of a slur campaign from disgruntled critics whose sour posts on his news site got deleted. The outraged idiots have been making fools of themselves trying to mount some sort of hate campaign against him. They invited the world to sign up to protest and act against DW's censorship. All nine of them. After that I witnessed an extraordinary re-enactment of his last intercourse with his admittedly gorgeous girlfriend. It was my own fault. When he started bragging about great sex I asked him if he could remember where his left hand was. Mr J's New Coffee table Our dance fanatic and all round organiser Mr J made a suprise visit. He's been a bit scarce just of late with his dance activites, but I guess now that a couple of night clubs are closing in the town, he's running out of venues to strut his stuff. Not to worry. Now that he plans to spend more time at home he's invested in furniture. For the princely sum of

Better yet, it should be pointed that Boudicca was leading the largest army ever assembled in Britain at that time. No-one on her side had any idea how to manage a force that large properly in a set piece battle. Full marks to her for obvious command potential, but the Romans had a distinct advantage there despite being hevily outnumbered.

Take thy Kooker-Kleen and get scrubbing OfClayton! Lest thy missus see the decadence of thy lifestyle and disapprove mightily.

A pitched battle was fairly inevitable. Boudicca's forces had gathered strength once her popularity at winning victories against the Romans won waverers around. So large in fact that she had an identifiable superiority in numbers. Remember that Boudicca was of royal status and had been wronged. Although her husband had opted to become a client to keep the Romans sweet, he had in fact reneged on that contract by leaving half his kingdom to his wife and daughters. Once the Roman agents had moved in, taken what they believed to be theirs (and their slaves raping Boudicca's daughters, plus lashing Boudicca herself - a queen no less!), there was a sense of injustice and once she had proved herself a capable war leader, there was no need for any more incentive to crush these Roman upstarts completely. Unfortunately the Romans were up to the job and beat back the britons decisively, pushing the defeated warriors into the crowd of wives and families the britons had set up as an audience to the slaughter. British belligerence needs to be understood. There was little reason or logic to it. If one side felt slighted or saw an advantage, it was naztural to do something, and expected that men should wield swords in battle if called upon to do so. Their way of life is starkly recorded in the archaeological record with an appalling record of injuries survived. Yet the chaos of the early iron age was giving way to larger scale organisation. The move from isolated tribes/gangs to kingdoms was very much in place, possibly aided and inspired by the arrival of the relatively civilised belgae. In any case, the Romans probably had a hand in forcing the issue. They much preferred to be the aggressors anyway, and since their strategy in dealing with barbarians was to fight formal battles (something at which they were somewhat better prepared in those days) we can see, much like in other cases such as Spartacus, the Druids, the Varus Expedition, the Caledonian Campaign etc, the idea was to force the enemy to meet them head on instead of allowing them to continue harassing and ambushing. There was plenty of scrubland in Britain at the time, plus woodland clearance had been a feature of the Iron Age. I do agree that the forest remaining would have been a dark and imposing place, but realise that the Romans weren't willing to let themselves get caught in such defiles. In any case, the use of missiles was commonplace on the ancient battlefield and if you were prepared to turn up and fight, the chances were you already accepted the risk of receiving such assaults, thus the prospect of facing spears, stones, and arrows was not in itself fearful - although the results of that assault might clearly affect morale (or in extreme cases, decimate your forces) Tactical command? Who exactly do you think Boudicca was leading? They were not a professional organised army, but groups of warriors led by chieftans and respected warriors. Tactical command in these cases is very limited, and in any case, I doubt the britons were much into tactics anyway. Too complicated. There's the enemy. Let's attack them now! Consistent with Roman tactics in Britain at the time, bearing in mind the campaign to finish off druidic influence which had just been fought. I doubt that would actually affect any 'military sense' as such, but it was one tactic to force the Britons into a confrontation. The Romans were well aware that religion was an organisational factor in british life. They were taking their 'wise men' out of circulation - but also bear in mind there was a real religious motive here. By destroying these sacred sites the Romans sent a message that the british gods were not helping them, that Roman strength was defying the british gods, and that the Britons could expect similar harsh treatment for their rebellion.

Sex, violence, and financial wobbles - In no particular order. That's pretty much the news every night and yesterday was no different. With Greece failing to please the rest of the world share prices have tumbled. What? Again? People have been dealing in shares since big curly wigs were a fashion statement. You would think by now we'd have learned that shares were a risky investment. Much like cheating at cricket for instance. However, the wobbles of the Eurozone are not the last word in financial disasters according to certain experts. I'm not sure the greeks agree, but the government is determined to persuade us that their gameplan to recover from the last recession continues without hindrance. Talking about hindrance, I notice that anti-capitalist protestors are busy. Blockading St Pauls Cathedral and embarrasing senior churchmen. Now they're now setting up camp outside the next G20 conference. Whilst it gives them something to do it doesn't keep them off the streets, does it? Yet the idiocy of it is incredible. I agree these bureaucrats aren't always as public spirited as they like to claim, but who generates the wealth for these protestors dole payments? Time then for me to help the ailing economy and buy something from the shops. There was a time when buying things was hardly a consideration. These days I must weigh up the value of the goods I want and decide if the proce is affordable. Ohh to heck with it. I'll buy it anyway. On the way down to the local high street I noticed cars were queuing up at a road junction. As I turned the corner I saw why. A police car had blocked the road whilst they bundled three youths into the back. I imagine that has caused a wobble in the local drug supply. Do the anti-capitalist protestors realise how much money some of these drug dealers make from trading pills and powder? More to the point, I wonder how many of them do business with our back street alchemists? Sorry Madam Sometimes however you're not allowed to purchase the goods you want. Take the case of a 92 year old lady who was refused a bottle of whisky because she couldn't prove she was over 18. That certainly proves you're as young as you feel. Spit And Polish Today I decided to clean the cooker. For me that's like wandering into the jungles of New Guinea and asking the natives what they fancy for lunch. Nonetheless the cooker must be cleaned. It must be said the effectiveness of modern cleaning materials is much better than I remember. With a few squirts of Kooker-Kleen and a vigourous wipe with a rag, the forlorn apparatus is once again white and shiney even if I'm not. And I did it all myself, unlike Snow White, who needed an entire horde of cartoon animals to finish her household chores for her. But then she wasn't covered in grime afterward. I'm not entirely domesticated you know.

Without a work ethic in the labouring classes, such avoidance is a fairly normal behavioural trait. However when dealing with the Roman legions we should realise that martial virtue was well regarded by the Romans. Military service was an essential qualification for a political career. They tolerated violence in society far more than we do. But more than that, the professional legionary era between Marius and Constantine reflects an idea that military service wasn't just desirable but focused on manual activity - though as we're all aware this was something of an ideal. Troops were required to assist in civil engineering or even construct assets for their own ends. Soldiers on the march built a palisade and ditch to surround their evening camp. If required, siegeworks were created on a scale that the medieval period often couldn't match. With a view to reducing dependence on supply lines and baggage trains, the Roman soldier was expected to carry everything on his back (though in reality draft animals were often used and appropriated by the legionaries from the civilians who owned them)

Did they specifically mention Adrianople? It is generally accepted that the troops at Adrianople were of good quality, and that is why their loss was so devastating. The troops that were hastily recruited afterwards were inferior, and those may be the ones that Vegetius was describing. Zosimus does. His account of the Adrianople campaign spars no prisoners. Vegetius was being more generic. He says that the "Substance" of the Roman legions had gone, and although he doesn't refer to a specific campaign, his work dates from that period. In any case, I'm not sure why you believe that the troops of this time are generally accepted as good quality. They certainly weren't in the late 4th century. Sebiastianus has to hand pick a corps of raiders and train them himself. The majority of legionaries were unwilling to march at all - Valens spent some time exorting his men to get off their backsides before he marched against the Goths from Constantinople. In fact, it was the new recruits that Sebastianus apparently relied on because they were young and keen. The older men had learned how to dodge duty.

There seems to be point in rulership after which everyone just accepts you're a nutter and sort of grows attached to the old bugger no matter how daft he is. The problems arise if the dictator isn't benign. Eventually it causes hatred. As for Italy, I simply do not understand their politics. Who does? I hear that one town mayor has declared independence and printed his currency which he one day hopes will be used alongside the Euro. He might just get his chance the way things are going.

American cider? That's unheard of in Blighty. We've recently had tv ads for Cidre (note the spelling) which is Stella Artoia's version for cool trendy people who can't spell or bear the thought of drinking the same stuff as a down and out. Doomed to failure. Firstly it's cider by any other name, secondly it's french, which means every blue blooded englishman is autiomatically suspicious and thirdly, it'll cost too much. The beggars won't be able to afford it.