caldrail

There's a lot of nuclear weapons out there. That probably won't suprise anyone, but so far, according to a documentary I saw last night, there are at least 23,000 warheads out there and probably more unaccounted for. America, Russia, Britain, France, Israel, China, India, Pakistan, and North Korea are countries known to have them. South Africa briefly built three before deciding such weapons weren't desirable, opting out of the big league by disassembling them. It's a chilling thought isn't it? Of course the documentary made a meal of it, scaring their viewers with advice from ex-CIA agents about the difficulties of stopping nuclear proliferation on the black market. There's nothing new in this threat of random destruction. I grew up during the Cold War with both sides ready to launch within minutes of the other making the wrong move. it so nearly happened. The 1961 Cuba missile crisis for instance, when both sides stared each other in the face. There was a moment in the 70's when a technical fault convinced senior russian officers that a first strike was in progress against them. A lowly lieutenant managed to restore commonsense before the soviets mistakenly responded in full. During the 90's the soviets wwere advised of a mundane missile launch off Norway by the Americans, and because the message hadn't reached the Kremlin, senior officers marched into Boris Yeltsins office asking for permission to respond. As it happened, this was a day when Yeltsin wasn't drunk. Finally, a failure of a small microchip caused the Americans to prepare for a retaliation strike. Mutally assured destruction was within minutes of actually happening. As if improvied explosive devices in afghanistan weren't enough of a worry. Al Qaeda have stated their intention to kill four million americans to 'even the score'. We used to say in the 80's how mad this all was. Where's the Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament now? CND made a huge fuss back then, but why aren't they telling rogue countries and religious nutcases that nuclear weapons aren't as good as woolly hats and songs around a camp fire? Big Collisions I've seen the latest Hubble photographs of a pair of galaxies about to collide - or rather, about to collide 450 million years ago, because that's how long the light has taken to reach us. The same thing will happen to our galaxy eventually since Andromeda is speeding toward us. Don't hold your breath though. Might be a few billion years before both galaxies begin to coalesce. Nevertheless, that gives us time to organise efforts to prevent this calamity. So stock up on tents, gas stoves, woolly clothes, and join the Campaign for Galactic Avoidance. Stop this madness now! Protest of the Week Talking about daft protests, it seems the civil rights brigade have decided that sentences handed out to rioters in the wake of disorder in Britain more than a week ago are too severe. It seems these poor helpless rioters are being given draconian sentences for a little bit of fun here and there. Yes. I know. Hanging's too good for them. I've heard the expected calls for National Service to be brought back, and even some suggestions of adopting the american 'three strikes and you're out' rules, which is ordinarily unthinkable in kind caring britain. You know what? I don't care what happens to these louts and looters. They can moan about how bad society is toward them, but if they can't get on with society and observe its laws, what in the name of all that's sensible do they expect? I don't suppose Australia is still open for business, is it? Can you imagine Mad Max in british yoof style? Look, those survivalists have got petrol! Wicked! Lets joyride our stolen cars around their camp!

I haven't come across this interesting anecdote before. Trajan's column shows troops in conventional lorica segmentata although I have to admit that you must allow some artistic license from the masons who carved the reliefs. I don't know if the Roman armour was especially vulnerable to dacian weaponry. There's no obvious reason for that. However, we are told by the Romans that in imperial times a legionary swung his sword as much as thrusted with it. Now whilst the gladius was a little shorter by Trajans day, this mode of fighting would still require a looser formation, or the legionaries are going to be smacking their colleagues as well. A swing requires room which the traditional close order drill does not allow for. If the story is true, then possibly the dacian falx was better able to cope with Roman armour not because of any particular inherent weakness in design, but rather that the employment of the armour was exposed by open order fighting and therefore did not protect the soldier in the same way as a tight formation would allow. However - I would hazard a guess that Roman style chainmail was not that much more protective than banded metal plates overall. There might be other reasons.

"Ahhh... Caldrail... We meet again." Miss R always smiles when it's time for me to be interviewed. There's always a plastic ruler on her desk. "We've got you a vacancy to apply for." It's hard to be enthusiastic. Not because I have to find work, but because I've already found 25 suitable vacancies under my own steam since we last spoke. I have to smile and accept it though. Applying for this extra one is mandatory under the new rules. I read the information sheet and as it happens, the job was more or less something I could do without much worry. There's no problem with that. "Have you given any thought to what you want to do?" She asked me. Now there's a question. I know the government is keen on getting unemployed people back to work, but worrying about career prospects at my age seems a little futile. I might only have another twenty years. "You might might die tomorrow." She corrected me. Heck. I hadn't figured on my lifespan being that short. Found dead with ruler marks all over me? I can see the headlines now. There'll be paperback books printed for decades discussing the mystery plastic ruler death of Swindon 2011. I held the information sheet up. Shall I wait another day before applying for this? Big Brother Rules Just when you thought it was safe to back to the television we find another series of Big Brother is coming our way. They've built a new house for the new series and brought in some presenter to replace that other woman. Can't remember her name. She did some beauty product advertising. I think I might have better things to do than watch idiots try to recreate human social behaviour from scratch. I can see that sort of thing outside my front window any day of the week. Thanks, Jeremy! Top gear is proving a fertile source of controversy. A mole at the BBC has suggested that professional drivers do all their filming with the presenters doing the chatty bits inside the cockpit seperately. In the news is Jeremy Clarkson's dismissal of those accusations and understandably he's a tad irate about the idea that the presenters can't drive. Interestingly though Mr Clarkson has laid down a challenge, saying that if anyone doesn't believe that he drives Lamborghini's at 207mph then they can come along and see for themselves. Bring a sickbag, he writes. Yeah? Really? All right then. Mr Clarkson can't drive Lamborghini's. There. Accusation made. I await my invitation to Dunsfold. Hey, I don't make the rules. Or do I? The Rule Of Caldrail Sometimes people think I take myself too seriously. Clearly they haven't read this blog then. Thing is though I'm finding life a bit spooky. In the wake of the riots Britain suffered a week ago, politicians keep on suggesting policies suggested by me. That leads me to some shocking conclusions. Firstly that politicians in our country are so desperate for ideas that they're using my blog as source of ideas, and secondly, that I'm almost running the country from the back seat. So, in order to prove this hypothesis, I hereby suggest to the government of the United Kingdom that schools take on a community role in shaping the behaviour of our young people. Now sit back and wait for an announcement at a press conference by a senior politician.... Any moment now....

How could any sane mortal resist a weekend of sword & sorcery on television? Furry underwear and long hair. Incredibly pathetic villains and the violent comedians who thwart their evil schemes. A part of me has some masochistic enjoyment of the genre. The rest of me cringes at the sheer awfulness of the films that portray these invented worlds. Okay, there are one or two that aren't so bad. Armie's Conan The Barbarian retains a sort of immature exuberance. I still watch Red Sonja for it's visual uniqueness and triumph of energy over talent. Actually, in both films, it's the humour they get right. Having struggled with Kevin Sorbo's easy going one-liners in Kull The Conqueror, almost like James Bond with a long sword, it really was a pleasant suprise to watch Brigitte Nielson submit to Arnie (oh come on, we all knew she was going to...) My regard for those films probably results from an involvement in role playing games since I was a teenager. Sadly Brigitte Nielsen didn't submit to any of us and of I were honest, didn't turn up to a session at all, never mind in furry swimwear. Yes. I too played Dungeons & Dragons. Shame on anyone who hasn't. All The Table's A Stage I sort of stumbled across role playing games when I saw some odds and ends my friends left lying around. What's that? D&D? For some reason or other I found myself running games as a referee from the start. Erm... What am I supposed to do?...Without understanding anything about the finer art of saving throws and armour class, I clumsily began by describing that first chamber among many. I ended up building entire worlds. Only a select handful of people have ever visited Goddomir, the fantasy world I put together. As a referee I had the luxury of acting the part of everyone the players encountered. Of course it's been a long time since I've taken to that informal stage around the table and played these characters to an audience. They've become long lost friends in a way. I remember them well. Okay, I'm done. Believe This Some people seem to think that D&D or other similar games are some sort of secret demon worshipping cult. Pardon me? A bunch of friends gather for an evening of dealing deadly retribution to evil, greed, and self aggrandisement. Certainly no worse than christianity, is it? Also on the 'hard tio believe' list was the news that a hypersonic test plane crashed into the pacific. Apparently this modest little racer does 22 times the speed of airliners, although in this case, only when pointed vertically downward. Claiming we can get to Australia in an hour aboard a passenger carrying version leaves me with a bit of a worry. Clearly half the delay in getting to foreign destinations is getting stuck in holding patterns whilst the queue of arriving airliners waits for a turn on the runway. Not any more. Back to the drawing board guys. Also going back to the drawing board are Walkers Crisps, who have dropped footballer Gary Lineker from their advertising. In the beginning his unquenchable hunger and greed for Walkers Crisps was almost amusing, but once he sang on television, I knew it would all end in tears. After pushing Lionel Richie through a plate glass window too. Perhaps the only reason to board a hypersonic jet would be to snatch a crisp from Gary Lineker and make your escape. Now there's no need to plunge headlong into the pacific. He's been ditched in an effort to save mankind after sixteen years playing Gary The Unavoidable. Sixteen years? No way! Finally our revered leader is rallying troops for the counterattack on teenage gangs. Not before time I have to say, though there are other targets that should be considered, such as the rotten little scoundrel who's been trying to burgle my flat. You can see his nicotine stains on the front door where he's been pressing his weight against it. I know that you see, because despite the attempted diagnosis of my doctor, I don't smoke. An englishmans home is his castle. The temptation to draw swords and defend it is pretty strong right now. What about that, Mr Cameron? Are you going to get tough with the looters that aren't rioting?

it is interesting. The Romans and their imperialism is unfashionable, partly because we now stress the disregard for eco-systems and the bloodier side of Roman culture, whereas a hundred years ago or more we thought highly of classical culture and stressed the civic and literary side of things. We're more concerned with the impact of society on our surroundings and so we judge the Romans by the same light. Then of course we're recently re-evaluated celtic culture in the wake of neo-paganism, and thuis 'rediscovery' has been catered to by improvements in archaeology, media, and the desire to find alternative roots. There were swings and roundabouts with each cultural migration. The Romans had a rapacious exploitative streak (there you go, I'm bashing the Romans), but for me one of the most enlightening sources is part of a letter sent by Cicero. From my brother's letter I gather surprising indications of C

There's a curious thing about that - on television, the student is whooping and telling everyone how fantastic it is. In reality, he's silent, because as a neophyte the business of flying keeps him too busy. In the last series of The Apprentice, the winners of a round were given flying lessons and I remember one of the women was screaming like she was on a fairground ride. Boy, did that instructor struggle to grin. One point about getting lessons. Flying clubs vary in their policy and some will attempt from the start to sign you up for a full course of 50 hours flying right there and then. Others are more open to negotiation and willing to give a one-off instructional flight. What none of them will do is give a joyride, because that's commercial flying which they're not licensed or qualified for. But them the whole point is to fly for real isn't it?

I presume the mosaic is imperial in origin>? There's a difference in the animal trade between mid republic and early empire. It goes from one where animals are deliberately targeted, trapped, or traded by happy coincidence, to one where an established logistical network was supplying animals whether a performance was scheduled or not. In later times, people trapped animals and sold them because they knew there was a market. One legion even boasted of ursarii, soldiers that trapped bears for a lucrative income, obviously with official patronage from their officers. At Ostia, the pavements have animals marked on them, telling customers where agents for those partioular beats could be found, and zoo's were assembled near Rome to house animals before they were required. In the latter case we have an organised network that would no doubt have benefitted from Roman expertise in logistics, thus the costs would have varied and in some ways have been cheaper than 60BC for that very reason, although as the supply of animals has to extend further and further as populations are depleted, the costs inevitably rise again. This is one reason for the decline in animal hunts for the arena.

That depends. Typically barbarian tribes in western europe used intimidation as a primary tactic, yelling, rushing forward swinging a sword with wild abandon, and melees tended toward masses of both sides standing apart with little actions going on here and there as the barbarians surged forward again when the braver souls decided to go for it. The Romans of course would try to maintain formation and silence. As such, an intent to 'break' the enemy formation wasn't the point. Breaking his morale certainly was. The barbarians wanted you to run away for your lives. I doubt they actually preferred a slaughter - that wasn't the way they thought. Eastern tribes, whether mounted or on foot, preferred to wither their opponent down to size before making any confrontation face to face. That is of course a general observation and you will find exceptions in behaviour.

Events were held in any public space depending on the scale of it. The supply of beasts is not necessarily clear cut. Although we see a variety of beats mentioned in sources, this was usually when the animals were first pushed in front of the public. Some of the species we regard as staples of the arena hunts weren't introduced until after 60BC. Since many of these creatures were supplied from very distant llands, the hiring of trappers would have been done via proxy. Also, since it was never certain what animals were available, event organisers must have been obliged to take what they could get. Remember that shipping the animals to Rome would have involved the loss of some of them, either through poor treatment, the shock and deprivation of captivity, or simply because a ship was lost at sea. It's believed that one vessel was sunk because the elephants they were carrying got upset and broke loose. Therefore anyone paying for the importation of animals was taking a risk, and since the regular supply of species was a feature of early imperial Rome, there were no guanrantees of getting what you asked for in 60BC. The phrase bestiarius means 'animal man'. Strictly speaking this was a class of fighter who tackled animals in the arena one on one, thus he was regarded as a lowly competitor because he wasn't honoured with fighting another man, though his courage at facing an irate animal head on, sometimes without weaponry, was certainly worthy of entertainment. There is a claim that one bestiariius was able to defeat bears by thrusting his arm into their throats (?!!!!!). I do see repeated mentions of bestiarii in other guises, such as animal handlers. I think the troubkle there is that the latin phrase is less specific than we usually think of and in fact covers a number of arena vocations dealing with animals. That would infer that a fighter of animals wasn't worthy of a specific vocational title, as opposed to the better regarded venator who 'hunted' animals in the arena from a position of mastery over them. Since the Roman sources aren't detailed in describing the handling of animals for the arena, it's hard to tell. Currently I prefer to think that bestarii referred to 'animal experts' whether they actually fought them or herded them - I suspect that was the sense the Romans used the word as well.

I always encourage people to try it at least once. Not everyone gets a buzz out of it, as I don't with sailing, but none of my passengers ever got out at the end of a flight and said they hadn't gotten anything from the experience.

There is a link, although one more subtle than the direct sponsorship of games as we observe in the development of munerae. Chariot racing was quite an old Roman pastime. There's some confusion between this and horse-back racing, especially when dealing with legends of Rome's origins. Anyway, the chariot races were a popular adjunct to certain festivals that took place every year. These festivals grew in scope and number during the 3rd century BC, and certainly by the 1st century BC, there are established rivalries between chariot racing factions. This is where politcs comes in. Whereas chariot races weren't normally staged by direct sponsorship, having an even stronger religious theme than gladiatorial contests, the powerful politicians might gain kudos by their support of a certain faction, a practice that continued into imperial times.

The germans did develope some stealth technology with u-boats, such as rubber honeycomb coating to offset sonar reflections, and so forth. Nothing hugely amazing but given how effective the allies anti-submarine warfare was from the mid-war onward, any hope of slipping past was worth trying. Regarding the Ho-229. The stealth qualities were coincidental, since the aircraft was based on experimental gliders built before WW2 by the same designers. As a flying platform, I would hazard a guess that directional stability was a problem, and quite how you'd recover from a spin is beyond me. Regarding the Bf-109. That was a private venture by Willy Messerschmitt and intended to propel his aviation company into the big contract league by providing Germany's next front-line fighter. He brought together several advances in aerodynamics and also used experience with the Bf108 Taifun, a four seat low wing monoplane that had performed well in prewar aerial contests. Since Germany in 1936 was becoming an aggressor state, there was no requirement for a 'defence fighter', although the later models were adapted for this role as the war turned. There's a lot of bunkum said about German military research in the closing period of the war. Most of these aeroplane designs were no more than fanciful sketches, ideas, or suggestions. What we notice is that radical redesign usually occured once an idea was put into a wind tunnel. It is true that aircraft designers of the late war were an imaginative lot, but we must also note that despite some intriguing technological systems that were tested or put into service, the Germans struggled to make them a success.

I did wonder if that point was going to come up. I agree our modern virtual violence is essentially reconstructed, rather like some choreographed ballet, and I also agree that gladiators fought for real with sharp pointy things, and that monuments do list a number od deceased gladiators who found that out. However, let's make clear a distinction here. They weren't trying to hurt each other per se, but fighting to please their master and achioeve that elusive victory. It wasn't warfare, it was competition. Admittedly it could get pretty deadly out there but bear in ind the rules they fought by, the close attebntion of the referee, and the demands of the audience. These are things that don't apply to warfare.

Once I've finished my chores for the day the world is my oyster. A small one if I'm honest, but that's the trouble with living on benefits. So with an afternoon to kill, what should I do? Something creative? Prose, artwork, or music? You have to be in that mood. Play computer games? I just don't feel the inclination. Yes, you guessed it, I decided to watch television. Why, I don't know, I just sort of felt that way. Finally I settled on a channel called Quest. They occaisionally show some interesting programmes you wouldn't normally find elsewhere (You might want to guess why) but who could resist a program called A Plane Is Born? Not me. My passion for aeroplanes knows no limits and once aroused, I sat back in my seat, opened a can of drink, and vegetated for all I'm worth. The program follows a presenter's efforts to learn to fly and build his own aeroplane from a kit. Now that takes me back to those heady days in the nineties when flying was a reality for me. In my younger days I wanted to build my own aeroplane and I even naively designed one, at least as far as I was able to before I learned engineering at college. I watched the presenter cope with his first flying lessons. Does he know anything else to say except "Amazing!"? Foir me learning to fly was not a new experience. I'd flown in aeroplanes as an air cadet, including hands on control, mostly in De Havilland Chipmunks but also Slingsby Venture motor gliders. At a time when the dominant lads at school thought they were cool riding their very first noisy little moped, I was buzzing overhead in a military trainer. So for me learning to fly began with dusting off those teenage cobwebs. I learned to fly in a Cessna 150, an aeroplane lacking glamour and excitement, but one that was sturdy and even dependable most of the time. I don't ever remember saying "Amazing!" myself though I did smile in between getting told off for doing something dumb..Make no mistake, flying an aeroplane is a busy activity and not until you accumulate skill and experience does it all become second nature. I never did get the point of building an aeroplane. Membership of the Popular Flying Association, essential for correct inspection and certification of your project, taught me what I might be letting myself in for. Truth was, I could never afford it and had nowhere to complete my dream aeroplane. So I rented Cessna 150's instead. However, I did get to say "Amazing!". For that, I spent a total of five and a half hours flying a Beagle Pup Series 2, with the larger 150hp engine. Sweet. And after flying mostly bog basic trainers, it was pretty amazing. There you go. My Worst Ever Flying Nightmare It wasn't always amazing. Flying can sometimes throw problems at you that you didn't expect, and however difficult or frustrating it gets, you have no choiuce but to deal with it. Once, it was a nightmare. This happened when I was an air cadet on a gliding course at South Cerney. It was a no-win situation. I was being tested to destruction. That was my first experience ever of a stern military style instructor and I was gradually losing reach of my objective, a long glide back to the field, and worse still, my confidence that I could have done it without that withering disapproval from the right hand seat. That was the last time I flew motor gliders. My Bestest Ever Flying Experience Sometimes, when I didn't have to worry about whether an air traffic controller wanted to kill me, or worry about whether the British weather was plotting to kill me, or whether my flying was going to kill me, I got this feeling of... Well... I'm not sure how to describe it. There's an elation that you're flying, defying gravity, completely in charge of your own destiny, at liberty to travel anywhere you want, and despite the engine and propellor making a right old racket in front of you, you feel completely at ease. Peaceful. Content. Nothing, not even completing your stamp collection, relaxing after great sex with an attractive woman, or showing the world how a sports car should be driven, nothing else in the entire world makes you feel like that. Amazing.

Some of them practised day in and day out. Others had things to do like move rocks from here to there, or write out another list of assets held in the fort. Some (up to half the legion if Vindolanda was typical) were away from the fort off-duty at any given time. They had no record of success outside of the arena except as bodyguards perhaps, but then, it was largely confidence and reputation that prevented violence against their owners. To be more accurate, gladiators have absolutely no record of military sucess whatsoever. Those of you have immediately thought of Spartacus might like to realise that the gladiators among them (actually a small proportion after the initial brigandage from Vesuvius) failed to make any noteworthy impression on the Roman writers, and indeed, ended up dead. Also, I would like to poimnt out that the connection with real-world tribes and fighting styles wasn't put in the arena without a measure of theatre thrown in. Look at martial arts films today. Real fights of that nature just don't resemble film and television recreations at all. The Romans were no different. Arms, armour, and styles were based on originals, not replicating them.

Dampness is the order of the day. Gone is the warm sunshine of yesterday, when I took a stroll through Lawns Wood. Getting out and about means you sometimes encounter unusual sights, and yesterday was no exception. Firstly I came across a fashion shoot in progress. You don't see that in Swindon very often. Young ladies in the latest summer styles waited patiently as the photographers and commercial directors relayed endless instructions on poise, expression, movement, and what to do about idiots grinning on the sidelines. Okay, I get the hint. A bit later I was heading back toward the stone arches that open onto Swindon streets. Walking up the cobbled path of what was once the tradesmen's entrance of Goddard Manor, I passed a woman with two dogs. That, I have to say, isn't unusual at Lawns. it's a popular place to walk dogs. One of the two dogs looked at me as it trotted by. There was a strange glint in its eye. That dog was out for mischief. having stared back at the dog, it chose not to bother me, but turned instead on its companion, a rather suprised larger dog, and an outbreak of growling ensued. "Stop it, Dracula!" The owner shouted, hauling hard on the lead. "Stop it!" Dracula? Incredible. What a name for a dog. So if anyone wants to know the whereabouts of the worlds most famous vampire, he's curerently walking incognito in the form of a naughty mongrel owned by Mrs Smith of Acacia Avenue, Swindon. I wasn't harmed in the writing of this blog entry. Must have used too much garlic in my dinner. Iconic Rescue In the news today I saw a piece about a photograph showing a hair raising escape of a woman from a first floor flat as the furniture store underneath her home is set alight by rioters. The woman walked away unscathed, apparently, in no small measure due to the policeman who caught her. The photographer has been put forward as a recipient of a Pulitzer Prize for the dramatic photograph. It is a very extraordinary moment captured by camera, but a part of me can't help being more impressed with the recuers than the photographer. After all, the woman who shot the picture risked her life for that very purpose. How was that going to help those in danger? Survival Of The Nerdiest Also in the news today is the revelation that a gang of hackers are planning to destroy Facebook, that ubiquitous social networking site that surrounds us all and binds the universe together. To be honest I find it hard to care. Facebook might keep people communicating, but let's be honest, what's the point of several hundred 'friends' you've never met and don't actually know you? As for the hackers, it's not for any great moral crusade as they claim. They're just doing it for the buzz. I suspect if it wasn't for their skill in hacking these people would be just a bunch of useless wasters anyway. I mean, if they were worth anything, why aren't they a success in life rather than the anonymous vacuum of the internet? It is in fact an illustration of specialisation and habitat colonisation that we find in biology. A minor species has found a niche they can thrive in. Keeps them off the street I suppose. But evolution requires that thriving creatures become prey for others. That's what happens when you flaunt destructive behaviour and shout about it.

I'm not going to get drawn into comparisons of cultures that would never have met (that will get the thread thrown into Tartarus anyway) Roman swordplay developed over the years. With the arrival of the polybian legion we see a strong motive to maintain a close order, thrusting style of combat. The Romans were very strict on this because it maximised their defense (and morale in combat, incidentially, which is correctly identified as a potential weakness of the Roman forces). The slightly lef-shaped gladius of this time had a wickedly long point designed for this scenario. In the post-marian reform era these ideas were carried over and became standard practice for every infantryman. However, when the shape of the sword gradually becomes straight and less pointed, we also note that legionaries swung their swords as much as thrusted them. That requires space to achieve without harming your colleagues, indicating that despite the legendary formation and discipline of imperial legions, the men were likely to fight open order too. This is an odd observation, because we note that according to Roman sources, republican legions of the post-marian era were sometimes in a poor state of readiness for battle, and the early battle of the Spartacus Rebellion would seem to confirm this. At the very same time the legions concentrated their forces in close order bypolicy, they were apparently less able to benefit from it. Also we receive clues from Josephus in particular that tell us something about Roman capability. Certainly he's responsible for the quote "Their battles were bloody drills, amnd their drills were bloodless battles", yet he also describes how lazy, indifferent, and even careless the legionaries could be. There are some interesting developments later. The gladius becomes shorter during the imperial period, and more suited to gladiatorial style fighting. It isn't clear who was influencing who, yet we do know that legionaries did sometimes receive instruction from gladiators concerning fighting tricks. In other words, the stern discipline and standard practice of old was gradually eroding as soldiers were taught a more fluid hybrid style of swordplay. Eventually the gladius became too short for comfort. Obnce the standard of training witherd in the 4th century, an instinctual need to keep the enemy further away attracted the widespread use of the cavalry spatha, a longer bladed weapon, indicating that the old thrusting style of combat had all but disappeared, and Vegetius does tell of us that the legions of his day were no longer of the same substance as they had once been. We should also note the Roman expertise in raids and small scale warfare from that point on, requiring a more informal method of confrontations, and also the poor performance in set-piece battles of the late imperial period. The significance of all of this is that we do see the legions benefitting from group combat. Their successes against informal units of gladiators at various times, whose fighters were trained to individual combat and had no unit discipline, make this very clear. The Romans themselves regarded their discipline and style as major contributors to their success against the barbarian. What we have to realise is that unlike many other ethnic styles and eras, the Roman legionary was not trained as a duellist. That is a fundamental point. We see the Romans describe how a soldier than rushed forward by accident intent on fighting would quickly retreat back to his unit embarrased at the laughter of his colleagues. Everything about legionary policy had been for centuries a matter of presenting solid resoistance to the enemy, and although the Romans did encourage individual valour by the use of a kind of medal, it was more likely to be the centurion who won them, since he was the de facto primary warrior and leader of his warband.

If it wasn't for the television news, I wouldn't know that riots had happened in London or anywhere else. Since the violence began it's been something contained in a little box, something I only witness from the comfort of my sofa. I thought nothing of taking a stroll through town yesterday afternoon. I mean, riots always happen to other people, don't they? I have to say it was a lovely day. Sunshine, a cool breeze, people wandering with all the time in the world. Yet something was a little odd. Couldn't put my finger on it. Just an odd atmosphere. My curiosity was soon answered. By coincidence I bumped into DW, our intrepid reporter for online news, and he clued me in. Shops were ready for trouble with shutters half closed. Apparently. Policemen were crowding into the town centre, here, thee, and everywhere. Undercover cops I take it? I only spotted three uniforms, all sat enjoying the sunshine at Wharf Green. In all seriousness that pervading mood was wariness. Some displayed it more than others, but I realised there was a town full of shoppers wondering if a riot was going to break out in Swindon. Of course I never saw any trouble. That only happens on television, doesn't it? Oh No You Don't! We know things are serious when we see reports of vigilante's on british streets. That's an ugly development. Traditionally the police don't like citizens taking justice into their own hands, for good reason, but given something like 800 rioters have been arrested so far it will be interesting to see whether the outraged citizens trying to protect homes and businesses get treated with the usuall firm hand. What bothers is the lack of robust action from the police during the riots themselves. The main reason vigilabte's are gathering is simply because of that. Even some organisations like the English Defence League are jumping on the vigilante bandwagon, and I notice the police are claiming that they have a political mandate to get tough.A suspicious mind might wonder if someone is hoping to achieve a political advantage from not ordering a police reaction amid calls for another look at cuts in police numbers. Sounds shocking doesn't it?

There's no avoiding it. The interview was booked. On the one hand the company offices were only thirty minutes walk away. On the other, there was no footpath all the way there. Luckily the weather had brightened since the morning, when it threatened once or twice to rain, and I made my way in pleasant if blustery conditions along the towpaths and grass verges to the isolated business park. Once in the area, it seemed as if the whole park was deserted. No-one else was around. Nothing stirred, apart from a few flags at a car dealership. Oh sure there were cars left here and there in the parking spaces provided, but even they were mostly empty. Finally I arrived at the premises. A woman was smoking in a designated area nearby and she hid herself as I approached. No-one else was around. Nothing stirred. Odd. No matter. I got them to open the doors and discovered the reception was empty. No-ne else was around. Nothing stirred. Even odder. Eventually a woman passed to and fro. I asked if this was indeed the reception area. You never know, I might be hopelessly lost in some strange alternate time and space. Happens in Star Trek all the time. She confirmed that I was standing in the reception area before she scuttled off in case she made the place look lived in. Eventually a manager emerged from the stygian gloom behind the inner doors and led me to my interrogation. I hadn't realised how long it's been since I had a proper face to face interview. Most of the time I get asked questions over the telephone. Earlier yesterday I turned up for a mandatory interview at the programme centre and was told "Fill in this form and you can go." Jobseeking can be a lonely life. But at least I'm not rioting about it. Down With... Whatever... The scenes of devastation in our country's capital are astonishing. Unbelievable. But there it is, on prime time news, helicopter shots of burning buildings and street battles raging. We brits aren't used to this level of violence. Apart from the professional agitators who enjoy this sort of thing as a jolly weekend wheeze, the disaffected youths responsible are said to be moaning because they've got nothing to do. Is that supposed to be an excuse for rioting? Okay, if they've got nothing to do, get all these hooligans to sweep away the damage and replace everything they destroyed. That should keep them busy. My guess is they wouldn't be happy in that occupation. Nor would they be happy with anything else society provides for them to do. So how do you solve this problem? Well, I did a few weeks of a sociology course at school, so I'm probably not that much more clued up than anyone else, but it seems to me that the only productive course of action is to get rid of teenagers. I don't mean death squads roaming city streets like some countries do, but stop all this rubbish about street culture. Pull these overgrown children back into the ranks of society, because we're nurturing an alernative state within our own that seeks to rid itself of the law it despises and create an urban society with its own rules, based on the pecking order of thugs and criminals. Now - Some might say that makes me a hypocrite, seeing as I speak for non-conformism. Wait a moment. I might be criticised, mocked, and insulted for being different, but the reason I 'get away with it' is because I don't fight society. I obey the rules as much as anyone else. I wonder if those people defying the rules are really expecting to get everything they want? I certainly hope they get what they deserve. Do You See What I See? Last night I watched Horizon, a science documentary series that covers all kind of subjects. This one was about whether a person sees the same way as another. Is a colour you recognise exactly the same as that perceived by the next person? An illusionist tells us that colour isn't there. There is no intrinsic quality of light that actually is colour, it's our brain that uses 'colour' to recognise different wavelengths of light. We learn to recognise colour as infants. We also learn to categorise it. We learn what to call those categories. It's possible, as demonstrated by experiments with an african tribe, that if we learn to associate language with colour differently, so our colour perception developes differently. Our ability to see colour is linked to our ability to describe it. Fascinating stuff. No wonder I can't convince the police my car was stolen. They just can't see it. Hunters On The Prowl There was I wondering where the Society of Jesus had gotten to. Spotted a couple of them in the library the other day plotting world conversion. I guess it must be the heathen hunting season. Poor lads. All they want for christmas is to be raptured. It isn't a lot to ask is it? Vanishing in an instant leaving behind all material goods like clothes and namebadges as they enter the Great Nudist Colony In The Sky. Don't worry. I got away unscathed. With all my clothes intact.

With a sigh I switched my computor off yesterday afternoon. Nothing to do with recalcitrant programs, impossibly tough game levels, or yet more analysis of the Tottenham Riots. It was the approach of the thunderstorm. In my experience, thunder and lightning invariably causes a blip in the electricity supply when it hits the pylons that criss-cross our local area, and that can spoil your whole day when your data vanishes into digital smoke. So I retreated to my favourite seat with a good book. Sure enough the daylight dimmed ominously, and distant rumbles were audible over the traffic rushing up and down the hill. Then the rain began. A heavy downpour that sent pedestrians running for any available cover. hardly anyone expected rainfall and in the summer clothes they were drenched in seconds. Not me. This time I'm safely esconsed indoors. Just as well too, because all of a sudden was a bright flash. usually in Britain we get "cloudstrikes", where bursts of lightning travel in the sky and merely light up the clouds briefly. That wasn't anything of the sort. We were getting ground strikes, and that means a serious stormcloud was overhead. The thunder rattled the window next to me. I thought I might try and get a photo out the back window of the house. Why not? It might be an interesting experiemnt to photograph heavy rain and who knows? Maybe I'll catch a lightning fork by good fortune. Where's my camera?... Oh, there it is. Batteries are still good... Right. Open the window and... Oh ye gods! The rain pelted through the narrow gap I'd opened. It was like being on a ship in an atlantic squall where a sailor foolishly opens a porthole and gets a faceful of seawater for his trouble. Quick, close the window... Close the window... Phew. Please excuse me while I go and dry myself off. Brake Brake Brake! After the storm passed I sat watching the Touring Car racing at Snetterton. It goes on all afternoon with various races in different classes. Much more interesting than the Formula One Circus. Here we get cars jostling for space in a frantic rush to sneak past the other guy. it's raw, down to earth racing, and I love it. I was watching the Ginetta Juniors race. Teenagers learning how to drive performance cars in competition. They race every bit as savagely as their seniors, and not without some skill and talent either. Then a drama unfolded. A bunch of cars approached a sharp bend at speed. The lead car suddenly locked its brakes with smoke and tires squealing, then spun off gently as it tried to enter the curve. Hilariously the two commentators began to get excited and ask each other what happend. What went wrong there? They came out with all kinds of theories, but to me, it was blindlingly obvious. The lead car had approached on the inside to cut off the others, braked late to try and stay in front, realising at the last minute he was running out of room, and with wheels locked turned too sharply into the bend with too much speed carried forward and no grip. Result? The car flicked round and carried on its merry across the track sideways.. No... Backwards... No, sideways again... He should have slowed down and accepted he was going to contest that corner with the other cars, or as an alternative, go wider and hope the extra speed would keep him ahead of any car trying to cut inside him. But I guess he's probably figured that out for himself at his leisure as a stream of cars whizz past him. Could I do any better? Well, I don't actually know, but if my gaming experience is anything to go by, I'd probably be sat on the grass in a thunderous mood too.

The use of "Fire!" is derived from the use gunpowder weapons in the english language. For that reason, "Shoot!" is more appropriate, but I doubt many people reading informally would worry themselves of a minor detail, since the use of both words from our perspective is identical. Another phrase used in english with older connotations would be "Loose!" (since the archer lets go of an arrow and therefore 'loosens' his grip).

Late last night I got bored with my struggles with computers that know more about information technology that I do. Technical stuff gets a bit dull when you get nowhere with it. Instead, I decided to chill out with a video game and discovered getting trashed by pixellated space aliens is no more interesting than arguing with my computer. For a while I listened to the radio instead. An hour or two of classic rock, an hour or two of back to back adverts for stuff you'll never buy, and an hour or two of some DJ wittering on about stuff you'll never listen to. Maybe it was just my mood but somehow the radio didn't keep my attention. As for television, what's the point? Saturday night on the box is an exercise in futility. There were people yelling in the street outside. Not sure what they're shouting about. Not sure they knew either. Not sure they're any more interesting than your average DJ. Mind you, there's a lot of people who think shouting makes you more knowledgeable. They always know better than you. You can tell because you can't get a word in edgeways. Time to take a breather. I opened the back window and watched the night sky for a while. If anything attracted my attention it was all those fast moving lights crossing the sky. Not meteorites, whose trail winks out after a brief and speedy display. I doubt they were satellites, space stations, or even UFO's desperately trying to overfly Swindon without being shouted at by our local know-all's. It was peculiar watching these lights transit the darkened sky without making a sound. One passed over the house, quite low, an intense trio of amber or red lights making it look like a bright ball of fire, and that too passed silently overhead. Amazing isn't it? Aeroplanes obey noise regulations at night, going about their aerial business for fear of upsetting the people of Swindon. You'd think we'd get upset about all that shouting in the street. But then, as we've learned, loud people know better. On The Wild Side I heard the news that a wiltshire lad got mauled to death by a polar bear in Norway. A tragedy certainly, one I hope the family will come to terms with, but this incident raises an interesting point. The fact this was a prime time television news story suggests that very few people get mauled by polar bears. It's almost as if we ought to be shocked that it happened. After all, as much as we like to think it's our planet, I suspect the polar bears have other ideas, and those lads were exploring their home turf. I wonder if our survival skills are blunted by our own modern naivety? Are we less aware, less cautious, less able to spot danger before it happens? Chest Beating 101 The other evening I was walking home and caught up with a group of revellers. They were pretty typical for revellers. Two lads, towering over me, each conforming to specification. One was doing all the talking, the other listened. Two girls followed on to assure the general public these lads weren't gay. As I was walking quicker than they were I began to pass by on one side. Now these lads weren't exactly seven stone weaklings, but they both drew back as if I was radioactive. Come on guys. Act like adults. No-one's interested in bumming you, least of all me. Did they really think I was going to do something like that, in broad daylight, against two burly lads on a busy street, against the law and all my sexual preferences? I knew they were going to start making dismissive comments. The bald headed berk couldn't resist it. He was after all shouting. Who am I to argue with a shoutey person? I'm sure this shouting impresses the girls. Of course if I make any response that causes them to lose face in front of their female companions, they bunch their fists and shout louder. Am I worried? The law applies to them too, and in case, it's no use shouting that they're not scared of me, because I know what scares them. Loadsa Dosh! "You've got plenty of cash" I was told by outraged individuals who see my unemployed lifestyle as somehow more luxurious than theirs. Yeah? Really? I'll let you in on a secret. Benefits are means tested. Therefore, if I had plenty of cash, the government would stop paying me. Recently there was a woman at the programme centre who tried to convince she was hard done by because she spent all day working to keep up mortgages and domestic bills. "You're bills are paid for" She said. No. They aren't. I'm still liable for rent or everything else. It's just that since my income is zilch the government kindly assist me financially. I still have to pay domestic bills of course. And I'm obliged to look for employment so that the government can stop paying me. If I sit there in luxury, it's a fair bet I'll receive a stern notice telling me I won't get any more financial assistance. In any case, chances are she lumbered herself with huge bills because she could. Loadsa money? The thing is, most people spend what they get as soon as possible, so they have nothing left. They don't plan or budget their finances and wonder why I look comfortably undistrubed by the economic woes of our wobbling country. I doubt many people would care much for my lifestyle. It's a lot more restricted than they realise. I used to have a similar problem in the workplace. People always complained I got the cushy jobs, yet when the managers caved in and let some of them do the same job - oh dear - isn't as cushy as you thought, is it? The fact is I only get so much money a month. If I spend more, I lose money, and get into debt. So I work to a budget. Simple. My suggestion is that all these shoutey people should go off and join the Labour Party as politicians. That lot thought they had lots of money to spend too.

Even though I take a dim view of the Bible's supposed authority as a historical record, I would like to point it that it was entirely feasible for the hebrew slaves to 'escape' even if technically within Egypt's empire. The reason is that although Egypt may have claimed swathes of territory as part of its realm, much of that was wilderness, probably patrolled half heartedly if at all, and often remote enough to establish communities out of contact with Egypts heirarchy. There are of course practical concerns about providing enough food and water for the escapees at short notice, but then we do see migrations of peoples mentioned in ancient times who faced exactly the same problems and coped.

Every so often we museum folk like to do something different. Some people might argue that museums are inherently dangerous with hazards that include customers, tyrannosaurus rex skeletons, or egyptian pharoahs with chips on their shoulders and enough bandages to cope. I would have to admit our little museum is a little less well stocked with such horrors. Today we had Robot Day. Over the years there have been all manner of commercial robots available to the public. Some are clothed in false fur and look like cartoon birds. Others look like angular dogs, baby sauropods, or science fiction warriors. What could we possibly do with such robots? Firstly we managed to make a recording of the largest collection of furry bird-like robots ever gathered in captivity. The cacophony of these artifically communal bird-droids had to be heard to be believed. We risked our hearing, never mind our sanity, to make that recording. These are the services to Mankind that our museum provides. Of course we had to stage a three way fight to the finish between three robot dogs. Wow. Watch those dogs bump each other. No quarter asked for, none given. (No actual dogs, customers, or museum staff were harmed in the making of this entertainment). But, when it's all said and done, Evil Robot stole the show. He has a charisma all of his own, plus a neat soundtrack when he does his automated dance routine, and plenty of one liners that make it obvious this was a robot that could destroy civilisation as we know it. Two of our younger visitors were immediately pounced upon. Try as hard as they might, they could not switch Evil Robot off. So they asked us if we could help. Eventually we had to drag Evil Robot away and make him stand in the corner. The remote control was placed well out reach on the desk. Nevertheless, Evil Robot is not completely obedient. His warped programming still allows him to act if he manages to overcome his restraining bolt. So, at the moment he gained self-volition, we were all startled by a loud electronic groan. As we watched, Evil Robot stretched his arms out, and fell forward on his face. He is such a show off. Easy Does It... Woah! Barely has Top Gear talked about Rowan Atkinson's high mileage McLaren F1 than he goes and crashes it. If nothing else it demonstrates the demands these cars place on their drivers, although in fairness I don't know what caused the accident, and let's be honest, he's an experienced capable driver who's very familiar with his favourite toy. There are people who believe such cars are inherently dangerous. I'm not one of them, though I do recognise that additional training would be advisable before purchase. Sadly not everyone is a Stig, or even a lowly Formula One Driver, and it ought to be realised that faster reactions are needed for faster cars even when you don't drive at faster speeds. Remember - it's the sports car that always gets the blame, something Ive been aware of since I started enjoying the more modest performance cars that I could afford. There was once an occaision when I had to drive to work after a snowfall, a distance of nine miles between Swindon and Cricklade. Those of you who are living in regions accustomed to slippery conditions might not understand, but we brits do not have any ability to deal with winter at all. We just don't understand the concept of snow and ice on our roads. For me it was a daunting prospect. Nine miles on untreated roads early in the morning, handling at least one very steep hill, and some country lanes known for poor drainage. That in a mildly warm Toyota MR2 with rear wheel drive. This could be fun, or this could be expensive. Come on Caldrail, where's your Battle of Britain spirit? Right. Let's go. I crossed Swindon without problem. Driving gently solves most problems in such cars. Then I reached Blunsdon Hill. I could of taken the back road and risked worse conditions, but I took the dual carriageway, and that led to Blunsdon Hill, which in slippery conditions resembles an olympic ski-jump. Only when the road began to gracefully droop ahead of me was my peril obvious. That was the most hair raising drive of my life. In low gear, foot off the throttle, foot off the brake, the road markings buried under fresh snow, and some guy in a Ford Sierra determined to save fuel economy by following on close behind on the theory that if I could make it, so could he. Needless to say I made it to Cricklade minus a few years of my life. I drove up the carriageway exit and came to a roundabout, a particularly british winter challenge that required a sharp turn. I let the car coast forward. Gradually the snow dragged on the wheels and I knew sooner or later I was going to have to add a touch of power to progress up the very shallow slope leading into Cricklade. Too early. Just a mere smidgeon of throttle, barely a shetland pony-power, and round I went, a graceful slide that followed the curve of the junction so well I ought to have told everyone I meant to do that. Naturally the Ford Sierra driver, who worked at the same place as me, glanced over his shoulder to make sure I wasn't trapped in a mangled burning wreck, then he carried merrily on his way. The funny thing is that a higher power sports car would have trundled round that bend without needing throttle, thus proceeding in a safe and composed manner rather than my embarrasing gyrations. But wait a moment - despite losing control on a slipery bend, something I only did the once - I didn't damage the car, the local area, or anyones reputation. When I spoke to the Ford Sierra driver and whinged about my near-accident, he looked astonished. "I thought you meant to do that" He said. Praise indeed. But I'll bet Mr Atkinson had no intention of crashing his McLaren either.

That's interesting, because I heard one disgruntled believer in the Gay Caldrail Theory mutter "Never read such a load o' crap in all my life" as he stomped past my home, clearly distraught that his carefully constructed world view has been sabotaged by events in the straight community. Mind you, don't hold your breath. I can't afford many Mars Bars.