caldrail

Happy birthday too Neph

I'm reminded of an old Dave Allen joke. It's a bit politically incorrect, but what the hey... An englishman, an arab, and a jew are sat on a bus. A fly buzzes around the englishman and he shoos it away muttering about the standard of cleanliness on middle eastern public transport. The fly heads over to the arab. He watches it intently, then grabs the thing, chewing on it and enjoying the extra protein. Another fly buzzes around the jew. He watches it intently, then grabs the thing before turning to the arab and asking "You want to buy a fly?"

Yes, that often ends in a fight too, doesn't it?

Yeah, I know what you mean about flies. Every year in summer I open the front window and they're queueing up outside to be let in. I ought to charge admission.

Nah, you're safe. The British only react in a negative way when you use the phrase 'Jehovahs Witness'. At which point we throw tantrums, abuse, and buckets of water at our unwelcome guests, or perhaps just a polite "Go away" if you don't want to get into the newspapers.

I admit I have no understanding of cat behaviour at all. They remain a complete mystery to me. I do prefer dogs. "Feed me or die". How simple is that to understand? Come 'ere Rover... I SAID.. COME HERE!... Got a titbit for you... Nice little biscuit...

You might think from reading this blog that things aren't quite going my way. Correct. However, it isn't all that bad, and sometimes I end up with a few quid left my pocket to indulge my passion for takeways. This week didn't quite leave me enough for my favourite curry. So it's a bag of chips then? Do I really want to go up the hill at the back of my house and barter for the wrong meal in that chinese fish and chip shop? As far as I can tell, they have no comprehension of customer service or the english language. No, not this time, today I will stroll a little further to one of the other fish and chip shops in the area. The one I chose turned out to be a frantically busy fast food outlet. Those young ladies behind the counter work non-stop in very warm conditions. I'm not one of their regular customers, just an occaisional visitor, and I noted a look of wariness on the woman who took my order. What? Do I look like Jack The Ripper or something? Maybe I was sweating too much? It was very warm inside that takeaway with the pile of food gradually mounting on the hot plates as the little chinese gentleman cooked more at breakneck speed. It's no good, I had to stand outside. Although this was a back street area the road junction next to the shop remained busy. Possibly because people were coming home from work at that time of day, or possibly because the locals had found this route to be a useful shortcut. Either way my attention was finally drawn to a menacing black BMW. Not because menacing black BMW's usually attract my attention, but because the menacing gang of youths inside the vehicle were looking at me a little bit menacingly as the car slowed to a halt in the road. Uh oh. This looks dodgy. I gave them a stare back, a sort of disapproving 'What Do You Want?' kind of glare. All of a sudden they accelerated away. What? Do I look like a mafia hitman or something? Now here's something even stranger. The girls behind the counter looked far more comfortable as the handed me my chosen meal - exactly as I ordered it - and even the little chinaman bade me a cheery farewell from behind the stacks of food he was preparing in advance. What? Do I look like a knight in shining armour or something? Cars That Don't Stop The bus stop along Rejents Circus in Swindon is sometimes used as an unofficial overtaking lane. Trafic on the three lane road next to it have to go over speed bumps you see, whereas busses aren't impreded by such obstacles. It's all a bit dodgy really and the biggest suprise is that a police car hasn't set off in hot pursuit every time this happens. As I was walking beside the library the other day I heard the sound of a hot hatch preparing for a mad dash. Yep, there he goes, accelerating hard down the bus stop to undertake the cars negotiating the obstacle course designed to slow them down. Not so unusual you might think. I often see youngsters doing that. At the end of the stop, which opens to a dual carriageway leading out of Regents Circus, he swerved right across two lanes of traffic to carry on round. Dodgy... Very dodgy... Obviously doesn't want his chips to get cold. What's He Up To? Every day I pass the front of the Old College site. It's fenced off now of course, withsprouting trees and blackberry bushes between the low brick wall and the tall white plywood fencing behind it. I've even seen people doing a spot of blackberry picking earlier this year, and that's something you don't usually see in urban areas. More something you do during idyllic walks in the countryside on sunny days. But hey, that's Swindon for you. Naturally I'm curious as to what extent nature has reclaimed the site since it was abandoned. I know about the bats but entering the premises isn't recommended. Still, I resolved to climb onto the brick wall, look over the wooden fence, and grab a few photographs. There we go... It's a bit windy mind you... The curved stone top of the wall doesn't make your footing too secure either... Heck, I'm getting too old for this sort of thing... I wasn't disappointed. A miniature forest is growing on what was once a grass bank, with even more trees growing out of the brickwork A passing car blew his horn at me as I leaned forward. Relax, look, here's my camera. What? Do I look like a down and out? Makeover of the Week Clearly my appearance is suspiciously close to 'Dregs Of Society' standard. It isn't the first time I've been accused of illegal activity. A long time ago a shopkeeper was determined to prove I was a shoplifter. To this day another points at me and calls me a thief. Oh just go away you nobhead. I once had the police tempt me with a bogus old lady and her easily grabbed shopping. Spotted that one. Old ladies don't have the faces of a twenty year old no matter how much they shuffle. Where's the police? Oh, over there, lurking in a doorway in plain clothes. Enough is enough. I get the message. So I spent this morning wandering around a shopping mall checking out the latest fashions and finding cheap clothes I can actually afford. Sweatshirts are hard to find these days. I popped into one store and approached a young woman, asking her if she had any in stock. She stared at me me with that sort of 'Help - I'm out of my depth' look on her face. Just goes to show what effect new clothes have on a woman. Even if they're still in the shopping bag.

I was watching Psychic TV last night. Whilst it is a shameless way of extracting peoples money via phone calls, I was struck by the sense of helplessness of the people leaving voicemails for the psychic team to sort out. I mean, one woman phones in saying she's two months from losing her home. Okay, the psychic sympathised and so on, which is polite if nothing else, but then she brings up a 'Sun' tarot card which apparently means strength. It wasn't any form of insight or prophecy at all, it was just a form of counselling.

Curious thing isn't it? I agree that a young death has a sense of pointlessness, but notice that we find it regrettable that someone dies young without some dramatic gesture in life. He didn't die fighting or risking his life to stretch the boundaries of human achievement, so that we feel saddened in a way that wouldn't happen if we could place some value or honour to his end. The reason I'm underlining this is because I see the same thing in the Roman sources, only in their case, young deaths are far more common, so they do emphasise these sentiments so much more, although one should take care not to make too many parallels because the Romans were far more concerned with victory, about winning, rather than our victorian-esque desire to take part whatever the consequence.

I saw this program and whilst it's interesting as far as it goes, it just doesn't go into any detail or extends our understanding of Roman Britain. You're left with a sort of 'archaeology report' that simply tells you a site has been found (here it is), what they think it might be (map of the area), and they've found this interesting object (small object and archaeologist to explain the significance). I don't mind watching programs like this, it's always handy to know that a certain site has been found where no-one previously suspected one would exist, but in the wake of Time Team who do this sort of thing rather better I can't help feeling a little shortchanged.

How many people actually read their horoscopes? You see them everywhere, books, newspapers, and websites. All of them giving a paragraph of advice for the day. As of this morning I'm beginning to wish I'd read mine. At least that way I would have known what was about to happen. "Face it, you're desperate!" Yelled a woman in a spasm of irritation ealier today. There I was, dozing comfortably on a sunday morning, and out of the blue I'm woken by some woman somewhere. I have no idea who she was yelling at, but since people have a habit of yelling outside my home, it's a fair bet it was intended for me. Desperate? Really? In what way? Okay, I could do with a bigger income and the government are threatening to remove the pittance I get if I don't find a job, but usually when you're described as 'desperate' it's about sex. Or more accurately, the lack of it. Or more accurately still, the extent to which your attempts at getting any are considered feeble and embarrasing. I struggle to understand why this criticism applies to me. At my age, sex is a bonus, not a necessity, and in all honesty the ravages of aging mean that I'll probably be just as embarrasing if I attempt it. Pornography doesn't float my boat and never has. Despite all those adverts for dating websites, I still haven't tried one, partly because I have better things to do on the internet such as finding a job or writing this blog entry. I freely admit I like to flirt. Why not? Flirting doesn't hurt anyone. Yet I can't help wondering whether that woman who yelled at me did so because I haven't flirted or embarrased myself with her. She did sound a bit on the jealous side. Furious denials will do you no good, dear. When you stop to consider what Mankind has achieved over the millenia, it's quite astonishing. We've gone from a primitive ape descendant on the brink of extinction to a global species that now feels guilty about all the other species it's brought to the brink of extinction. We can arrive anywhere on the earths surface within 48 hours. We can talk to someone on the other side of the globe. We can even put people the surface of the moon for a short while too. How about that? Yet we still can't get our love lives right. Advice From The Stars Let's not be too niggardly. Perhaps the woman who yelled this morning was only trying to help. I know, I'll get some advice from my trusty horoscope. After all, how can the movement of stars and planets in the night sky possibly be wrong? It tells me my world is advancing at an ever increasing rate. If I were brutally honest, it isn't. I'm no closer to driving a ferrari than I ever was. However, I'm also informed that my goals are clear cut and that I have all the confidence and vitality to achieve them. That's good news. Many blokes of my age suffer erectile disfunctions or female migrains. However, it's not all good news. It's a shame the stars don't mention where I'm going to get the money to finance my ambitions from. Also my goals will take me away from the limelight and develope my creative and other talents in silence and solitude. Oh brilliant. Well I'm sorry to disappoint the lady but the stars have spoken. At least sex isn't entirely beyond my reach. Come on guys, we've all done it, right? But look on the bright side. The stars say I'll be perfecting my skills and style. Come on girls, it's worth the wait, right? Quietly Does It There's another fox on the block. Saw him trotting down the road the other night. This one is smaller and lacks the grey fur of his noisy predecessor. He lacks the need for constant screeching in the small hours too. Obviously this fox, despite his modest size, clearly has no trouble with his sex life and for that matter doesn't seem too troubled with human beings getting in his way. Probably because he doesn't yell at people.

Unlikely. Islam might seem like a monolithic faith to us westerners, but it isn't - they have no unified organisation at all and note there is no equivalent of a christian pope. Given the events of the last few months it ought to be obvious how disunited (and exploited) Islam actually is. There have been individuals since the rise of fundamentalism that have tried to galvanise islamic populations to 'jihad' against their chosen enemy but note also that by and large the majority of moslems aren't interested in an anti-western 'Islamade' however much they may sympathise with the grievances that inspired it. The problem cases are usually extremist minorities.

Among the many housekeeping duties at the museum is getting rid of the rubbish. I never cease to be amazed at the pile that collects every week and before assumptions are made, it's the staff who are the worst offenders by far. Yesterday it was my turn to get rid of the rubbish. I had no choice. A delivery driver strode in bearing documents and asked for assistance in getting his delivery off the truck and into the premises, which given our location wasn't unreasonable. I left the desk in the hands of a colleague and went down to the truck waiting at the roadside to see a wooden pallet with a tall load. This was no mere parcel. Of course wiith my extensive experience in warehousing getting the pallet to the museum proved no great obstacle. The driver got my signature (keep that, mate, it'll be worth something one day) and that, as I well know, means the driver exits stage left. Our enormous delivery is now in the hands of those who ordered it. It's up them to get the heavyweight cabinet downstairs. Good luck. Anyhow, we had all the packaging to get rid of, so instead of simply filling a dustbin as I usually do, I had to go out the back door and find the skip in the service area. What a revelation! It's like a cold war bunker down there, a segmented concrete tunnel with air shafts here and there. Now if only I could find the right blue door to get back in the museum.... Nope, not that one... Ooops, sorry mate.... Our Surreal And Pleasant Land Have you ever had a dream that was so vivid you remember it? It's been a long time since I've had dreams of that sort but last night I made a surreal journey into an otherworldly factory. It's strange how it sticks in the mind. Obviously I'm thinking about it now because I'm writing this paragraph on it. I have a fascination for ruins and gloomy industrial buildings. Not sure why. Maybe it has something to do with distant early childhood memories of those last run-down days of steam railways in London. Steam and dripping water. Soot and grime. Shadows and dust. Who knows? Perhaps it has something to do with Swindon, which has any number of forgotten tunnels and brick caverns forgotten beneath our feet, almost as if there's some sort of folk memory of dark cellars behind the cupboard in some Narnia-esque townscape. My dream was no more than a rambling exploration of some imaginary place. Probably just as well, because it certainly wouldn't be my dream factory to work in. Now that Britain is no longer the 'Workshop of the World' it used to be, far fewer people experience dark satanic mills. In the library I often see heritage and archeological magazines that depict an industrial landscape that in many cases no longer exists. I saw a photograph of an extensive mine complex, festooned with brick edifice and iron gantry. Now it's a green field, a place where animnals graze and crops are harvested, with almost no sign of the grimey industry that once provided work for the local population. Was this a case of an eyesore returned to classic english pastoral bliss, or simply the passing of a dark satanic mill? On the one hand we sigh and enjoy the slightly artifical rural english park we've come to expect of our green and pleasant land. On the other we conveniently forget that those very same smoking chimneys provided work for a population that seems to be ever more inclined toward laziness, as a recent news article reveals. I woke this morning to sunny weather, a brief respite before Hurricane Katia arrives in the next few days. I really didn't feel like getting out of bed today.

All good entertainment I see. Thing is though, you were cheated. Since gladiators were bare chested - what happened with the gladiatrix pair?

Yesterday I was called upon to attend another internet session at the programme centre. Nothing unusual there except of late I've had to sit and wait before they open the room. I mean, don't they know I'm Lord Caldrail and must not be delayed? Apparently not. I had to send them a letter reminding them that I wasn't plain old Mister Caldrail anymore. People do struggle to remember that I notice, unless they intend making light of it like those two single mums I passed in the street. Yes, ladies, sometimes people do call themselves Lord. Sometimes we get rewarded for doing so,. It's called 'perks of the job'. Back to the plot. As I sat down a young lady decided to start a conversation with me for no apparent reason. I have to say it's unlikely, as sexy as I am, that she actually fancied me and although it's increasingly common for plebian women to express their mirth at my assumed status, she was genuinely polite and friendly. I soon learned she had been unemployed longer than me despite her youth. It turns out she was born the day before Halloween. Not sure what the significance of that fact was, but I understand her brother was born on April Fools Day. If anyone can figure out what all this means, please let me know. Just remind me what this was all about. Reminder Of The Week Remember to feed your dog everyone. Apparently one guy forgot to feed his for two weeks and was probably eaten by them when he returned home. Personally I think it was a revenge attack for their doggy friends finding their way into a curry, but who am I to say? Clearly hungry dogs are not to messed with. They are, after all, domestic wolves. I know how rational this idea is. Our dog had to be starved for a day before going to the vet, and made a desperate grab for some chocolate I carelessly had in my hand when it rushed in through the door afterward. Trust me. never come between pets and their food. You will lose. Mind you, there was one time when the folks were on holiday and left the dog with me. As this wasn't my usual chore I completely forgot to feed him. Realising this mistake in the late evening, I went off to the kitchen and started preparing his bowl of brown goo that dogs have a love/hate relationship with. I heard his footfalls on the kitchen floor behind me. The dog stared at me with a hilarious look of mystified innocence as if to say "But you don't feed me..." Phew. Close call there.

The major difference between modern and historic enviromental movements is the origin of the initial complaint. In previous eras it's almost certainly the discomfort and inconvenience of a wealthy and influential person. I'm thinking of the Lord of Lydiard House who made a great deal of fuss when the railworks were built in Swindon because the the company hooter was waking him up of a morning. So he began a campaign to have the hooter silenced and after legal action (and bending many important ears) the company received a noise abatement instruction. As a result the workers began an irreverent campaign of letters and poems to inform the good gentleman what the working class thought of his desire for a hootless Swindon. In any case, the GWR simply built another hooter next to the old one that wasn;'t covered by the ruling. Not only that, but take the case of Lord Goddard who in the 1870's was part of the committee for building the Swindon, Marlborough, & Andover Railway. A fine project leading to a much needed north/south route across the west contry linking Swindon to the industrial midlands and the maritime south coast. Unfortunately it wasn't quite so fine when the good gentleman discovered a railway station was going to appear at the bottom of his garden, on his land no less! The railway then had to be routed under Swindon hill with a tunnel that flooded and collpased dangerously before work was suspended for lack of funds, leading to another route around the town. Arguably the rise of the Roman villa and the landscaped gardens also suffers from this older perspective. Whilst the landscape is made prettier and more impressive to look at, this parkland was for show. It was meant to underline the owners wealth and status that he could afford such beautiful surroundings. Behind the villa, out of sight from the road, was a working farm employing hordes of hard working slaves that didn't quite fit the rural idyll. The same can be said for other instances. Nero's new Rome for instance, following the great fire of ad68. It is true that at his insistence the streets were to be made wider and less prone to spreading fires, but clearly it was also done with an eye for beautification, a typical Roman ploy to generate public goodwill by civil benefice, especially sinec Nero was grabbing money from anyone he could find to pay for it. However, the prize has to go to Augustus, who bribed the Roman public with civic development (and games too, he certainly made sure everyone knew how spectacular his sponsored events were). Finding Rome in brick and leaving it in marble may have made the city a more pleasant enviroment (despite the usual objections to urban life before modern sanitation) but it wasn't there to make life more pleasant for the public. It was there to impress them.

Today I think I shall struggle a little to find something to write about. So far the biggest event of the day was some guy having a loud conversation on his mobile phone whilst sat by the next computor to me. Hardly world shaking stuff. Dying A Death What on earth is all this fuss about Magrahi for? If the court was correct and he was guilty of causing the Lockerbie Bombing, then frankly I have no sympathy for him at all. So what if he's dying of cancer? There are people around the world dying needlessly for all sorts of reasons, and I suspect a great many of them are more deserving of life. Unfortunately his hand in the loss of a jumbo jet over Scotland and everyone aboard makes him something of a notorious figure. I notice though that the sudden support for rebel movements in Libya came after this man was released on humanitarian grounds. Okay. he's free. Now let him die. That will probably sound a bit harsh to some people. That's the problem with justice. None of those people he killed can be compensated or brought back, so how can such a man be justly dealt with? One obvious answer is through legal proceedings, which has already occured, but that alone doesn't necessarily make it right. After killing 243 passengers, 16 crew, and 11 people in the town where the debris fell, an act that was deliberate and premeditated, how does a few years in prison ever really be considered just punishment? Fate has intervened and now he's suffering. Nope. Not bothered at all. Where's Waldo? After the long commercial success of Where's Waldo? or his british clone, Where's Wally?, how long is it going to be before someone creates a Where's Gaddafi? book? Come to think of it, Where's Saddam? or Where's Bin Laden? were popular news items for ages.Where's Hitler? has sold copies in various forms ever since 1945. Hmmm... That sets me thinking... What about Where's The Stolen White Eunos Cabriolet?. Might have some commercial poosibilities. It's a fair bet someone made money on my lost car by now (a little clue for the police there, in case they're struggling to solve the mystery).

I suspect Carausius wasn't just keen to create some form of patriotic spirit toward Rome, but rather that it was essential for his survival. Whilst many often regard the later empire in Britain as essentially Roman, that ignores the continued existence of the Iron Age next door, and we should note that although many britons looked back fondly at imperial times, Gildas tells that by the end of the empire the British were Roman in name only, paying only lip service to Roman law. In order to retain Roman authority therefore the propaganda was a matter of political survival.

There's all sorts of reasons. Dirt or sand can be carried by wind over the centuries, floods can deposit silt, foliage decays and forms new layers of soil, volcanic debris can quickly bury a site, earthquakes or tectonic movement can raise of lower land level, and over time, debris from beyond the atmosphere can settle (tons of it arrives in small doses every day).

Interesting idea about rating books by dead gladiators. however, strictly speaking, we should rate books by palm leaves. The Romans never counted how many 'kills' they made, only the number of victories or dismissals. In other words, the death of the opponent was not the actual objective although we often see it that way. What the Romans saw was no advantage in gloating over the dead, partly for religious reasons in that you didn't want to upset the departed spirits, but also out of civilised sentiments. One extraordinary aspect of this is that despite the gladiators being either temporary or permanent slaves, they also retained this honourable mindset.

Ladies, Gentelemen, and Swindon Residents, I have gathered you here on the Blog Express to inform you that something terrible has happened. First, let us look at the clues. Clue No1 - We've run out of August. Clue No2 - All the librarians are telling us how much they enjoyed their summer holiday. Clue No3 - An increasingly blustery wind. Clue No4 - Weather forecasts predicting heavy rain on a regular basis. Clue No5 - Slightly shorter days and less urge to get out of bed. Clue No6 - Brown leaves on the ground, or at least they are when the wind stops blustering. Clue No7 - A sudden absence of children. Clue No8 - Water dribbling down the windows in huge bucketloads. You see? The facts are incontestable. We are into September, leading to a possible Autumn at any moment. One of you already knows this. That person is the guilty party, and will soon be uncovered. The Alleyway Uncovered One of Swindon's ancient monuments, the long lost alleyway, has been uncovered and restored to its former glory. It really does make quite a change to be able to see along its length from my back window. All due credit to local residents for taking the time and trouble to clear away the jungle and all the remnants of former civilisations left lying along it, but sadly, they didn't find my stolen Eunos cabriolet. Ostrich Alert We in the west sometimes find eastern europe as colorful or even bizarre in some cases. Michael Palin delighted in pointing at oddities in his series about europe, popping here and there to film some arcane gathering in the mountains or heavy metal singers married to princesses, and so forth. We regularly get odd news items about Russia's Vladimir Putin, the ex-KGB man who turned underwater martial arts archaeologist besides running the country. Russia has outdone itself. I see a news item telling the russian people to watch out for a dangerous albino ostrich. Obviously a KGB experiment from the Cold War Era that has gone horribly wrong. That said, a few years ago (before my cars were vandalised or stolen) I popped down to a local wildlife park and wandered around enjoying the sight of exotic animals like anyone else would. It's a shame that these animals are contained in secure accomodation, but I guess leopards let loose might be a bit more dangerous than a few urban foxes. And it must be said, with animals in the wild under pressure, at least these zoos and parks help keep species alive. Then I got to the ostrich field. Immediately one bird, a massive flightless bruiser of an ostrich, took an instant dislike to me and waited for the fence to go away so it could chase me. See what I mean? Sometimes fences aren't so bad. Luckily for me this ostrich wasn't a super-intelligent highly trained KGB agent, so it merely made loud noises and looked very scary. And The Guilty Party Is? Well actually I'm not sure. It is remotely possible that the escaped russian ostrich has infiltrated a weather control station in the arctic circle and is currently holding the world to ransom for huge sums of money and a mountain top palace to protect it from the floods it intends to release on mankind. I am obliged of course to suggest that the CIA are responsible. Obviously it's some insidious plot with no clear or sensible motive, but generally speaking, the CIA accusers aren't clear or sensible either. Then again, it might be an attempt by the british government to persuade foreign nationals that illegal immigration to Britain is not going to be the warm hearted and bountiful experience they thought it would be. When you consider the dusty war-torn places they leave behind, it's no wonder our weather does its best each year to dissuade them. You see, that's why we have weather reports. Everyone knows it rains in England. Where's the need to be told about it? So my advice is watch out for albino ostriches claiming to be umbrella salesmen sneaking into the country. After all, they have reinforcements waiting at a wildlife park near where I live. At last we discover the real truth of 2012. Forget aliens, natural catastrophes, astronomical events, or the wrath of god. Next year ostriches take over the world. I would welcome my new feathered masters on the grounds they could hardly do worse than our democratically elected leaders but unfortunately they don't seem to like me very much.

All of which means we're getting into the detail and complexity of his character as described by our sources. Humanity is an interesting aspect of Roman culture because it's so ambguous. On the one hand, displays of civilisation like civic benefice or manumission were applauded (and exploited to the point of legal restrictions), whereas a slave was 'not human', a 'talking tool', where entertainment was as I mentioned before heavily reliant on bloodsports or at least in the case ofg chariot racing, prone to extreme risk of death or injury. The problem here of course is that we have modern ideals of humanity that we often unconciously apply to ancient civilisations that simply didn't think that way. At any rate, if we can say that the phrase 'humane' is potentially misapplied, then the question revolves around how ruthless Caesar was at achieving his political or military ambition.

A few times already I've mentioned those amateur video programs on television, where members of the public send in clips of animals and people doing stupid things or suffering minor accidents. As much as we can laugh at idiots from the comfort of our own home, I've always had doubts about the wisdom of presenting physical injury as funny. A couple of days ago I found out that someone had died while riding a bike. Apparently he lost control and hit a brick wall. The witnesses, who were children playing in the park where he crashed, contacted the emergency services but sadly the gentleman died in hospital. On the face of it this was another tragic accident. Nonetheless, it was also a ridiculous way to die, or so it seemed to us as we began to make gags over it. We guffawed in disbelief that this could happen in the first place. We chuckled at the thought of kids approaching his battered body asking "You all right mate?". And so on. Yes, okay, that makes me a bit of a hypocrite. However in my defence I wasn't presenting this information as public entertainment nor was I profitting from it. It must be said the kids who witnessed the accident acted properly. One person described them as very brave. Public spirited yes, but brave? I mean, did they have to face a pack of hungry tigers to reach a phone? Was the bicycle in danger of exploding at any minute? Sorry. Couldn't help it. Demolition Not Allowed The old college site is still there. According to the last word I'd seen on the subject, demolition should have started already. It's looking pretty shabby now. Nature has almost reclaimed the tarmac inside the boundary fence with a miniature forest. The windows are missing, boarded up, or smashed. Wall panels have been removed on the sixties tower block extension too. Quite an eyesore. This morning I bumped into RL, a retired librarian who researches buildings in the Swindon area, a pleasant old chap that I stop and chat to whenever possible. He tells me that the demolition is postponed. Of course I groaned and rolled my eyes, but it wasn't the usual prevarication and economic woes that have stalled the new shopping mall development there. Nope. They've just found bats nesting in there. Since bats are protected species in Britain, we aren't allowed to knock their nesting sites down. So now the ruin next door is inhabited by creatures of the night. Cute and harmless ones, of course, but in my imagination only solitary heroes with Big Flippin' Guns would dare go in there. You know what I mean. Game Of The Week It's taken nineteen years, but finally citizens of Germany are allowed to play Doom on their computers for the first time. I discovered Doom by accident and immediately got into it - my first ever taste of first person shooter games. My father sneered and said "Nah. All you do is run around shooting things." Yes. Yes you do. That's what the game is about. I used to create levels and textures for the game, totally absorbed by the illusion of risk. My girlfireind called to see me on one occaision and that was the first time she'd encountered Doom. "What are you doing?" She asked, curious as to the picture of damp dungeons on the screen. So I explained and offered her a chance to experience my current favourite PC game. Slowly she advanced toward the big double hydraulic doors in one corner of the room. The piggy snorts of monsters the other side of the wall were audible. The doors slid open as she approached and for a moment she was close to panic. When no threat emerged, she began to lean forward on her seat. Erm... What are you doing? "I'm trying to look round the corner." She replied, going red faced as I fell on the floor clutching my ribs in a hopeless attempt to stifle my amusement. Finally the Germans get to enjoy the same old game, though I suspect many of them already have below the radar.

Yet despite those sentiments, Caesar was a man who sought military glory (and plunder of course - the two were inseperable) and was known for his willingness to fight in the front line with his men. He was also a patrician in a society that valued military prowess, applauded conquest, enjoyed bloodsports for entertainment, and tolertaed a level of violence in everyday life that is to us unacceptable. He would have been a child of his time surely? For him the exercise of violence or the threat of it wasn't so alien. I agree he wasn't a psychopathic dictator that we're accustomed to in the modern era, and let's be honest, the Romans had a few of those over the centuries, but since Caesar was the same man who regularly humiliated and ultimately executed Vercingetorix without any apparent concern, can we really ascribe humane character and aspirations to him?

Are you suggesting that the great god of weather is not going to bless our british festival of winning medals? His priests on television will point at their sacred maps and proclaim an unusually cold snap. Or do you have doubts? Or do you speak out against the weather god, unbeliever! PS - Must keep pile of stones handy.