caldrail

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.

Earlier today I saw a young woman ambling from shop to shop, dressed in her chosen summer wear, totally at a loss to comprehend why it wasn't baking hot under a blue sky. It was as if rainfall was an alien experience to her. So either she's a seductress from another planet sent here to spawn a new super-race with us lowly earth-beings, or she's suffering the same limited memory span that most of us do. Yes, dear, sometimes it rains. Even in Swindon. As it happens I think the rain is long overdue. Sunny weather is great as long as it isn't too hot, but Britain was never designed to be tropical. We keep getting warnings about low water levels in reservoirs so any rain at all is a good thing, unless you happen to be living in one of the areas suffering flash floods because of it, which I imagine might well adjust opinions somewhat. Thing is though - Whenever we get these sudden rainy days I invariably have to go somewhere and end up thoroughly drenched. Today is different. I've gone about my business and remained mildly damp. Perhaps this is a lucky day? Now I've never considered myself particularly lucky. After all, I've never won more than forty pounds on the National Lottery since it started. Then I start to realise that I'm not missing any body parts. Neither have I ever suffered a bad car accident. Neither have I been savaged by a dog, sat in an airliner about to be used as a missile, kidnapped by somalian pirates, or abducted by a UFO. Hi babe. Are you from Venus? Wanna share a Mars Bar? No? Oh well. Guess it isn't my lucky day after all. Too Sexy For My Planet Perhaps I should have checked my horoscope for the day. It says I shouldn't put myself down. Yes, I agree, that alien seductress has no idea what she's passed on. Or perhaps she does? Let's be positive. Perhaps I should have realised I'm too sexy for my planet? If only my horoscope had warned me... It is a funny thing though. We blokes are supposed to make the first move by law. Failure to make the effort reduces your manliness to the point of verbal abuse from the male population of your area, even though most of them haven't done anything either and desperately want to avoid the same treatment. I've encountered this so many times in the past. If a woman gives off the signals, then it's mandatory to make at least some attempt to spawn a new super-race. Failing to notice is no excuse. Of course a gentleman shouldn't tell. I usually remain silent about my love life though in my case that's enlightened self-interest. Husbands and boyfriends are notorious for violence when outraged. But, even in my poverty stricken middle age mediocrity, there are still contenders for that coveted scratch on the bedpost. Contender No1 - This is the one I've known for longest, though so far we meet infrequently. She's a busy lady, always doing something interesting that you hadn't expected, and I'll be honest, she is jolly attractive. I suspect she isn't difficult to please, but difficult to keep interested nonetheless. Contender No2 - This young lady sets off car alarms as she walks past. Don't get me wrong, she's got style, class, and is wonderfully understated. She's also the most intelligent of them and I think she's already cottoned on to what I'm after. Chances are she's already reading this right now. Contender No3 - A recent entry to this competition. Not especially pretty but plenty of character. She smoulders, she really does. In a way this one is like plastic explosives. Safe to handle provided you don't detonate her. There's something primeval about playing with fire, isn't there? It's the thrill factor. Contender No4 - Of the four, the most obviously sweet and innocent. I don't think under normal circumstances she would bother with me at all, but we keep catching each others eyes. So far it hasn't provoked a socially awkward situation. As a bloke, the pressure is on to provoke one. There you have it. The horoscope said I shouldn't put myself down, so I've given the world a little insight into the steamy sex secrets of Rushey Platt. Now you know I'm not gay. Okay? Now if only that mouthy idiot in the newsagent would learn to read, he'd know too. Oh. I forgot. Contender No5. Alien seductress who doesn't like Mars Bars. But like The Apprentice, there can only be one winner. Lady - you're dumped. Pleasure Cruise of the Week Last night I heard the news that a pleasure cruiser docked at Southampton was raided by police, who found a record breaking

There's an Italy? I thought they went bust?

Some domestic cats do revert to feral activity very easily. As a young child I remember our family cat was like that. Always on the prowl. There was one cat however that learned people were generous with milk and titbits if it playfully rubbed itself up their legs. Man that cat was cute, and it knew it. Eventually we found out it was doing that with the households in the area and that we weren't especially blessed with its scrounging ways. What a hussy.

There are certainties in life. Day turns t night. Summer turns to winter. Bills arrive through the postbox. Nothing to watch on television. Luckily life isn't always that dull. Like yesterday. What a strange kind of evening. To begin with the weather was fabulous. Another very warm day requiring liberal use of electric fans and cold drinks from the refridgerator. Despite this, the weathermen urged caution, because as the wise man knows, your typical briton has a memory span of three days and can't remember what the weather was before that. I glanced out the front window and beheld a bank of ugly dark clouds hanging almost motionless above Swindon. From the back of the house a different vista appeared. The hazy sky was almost clear of any cloud whatsoever. Bright sunlight warmed the scene, and also sparkled off the rain that fell from the edge of the raincloud. Rainfall is usually a horrible experience. This was positively pleasant. You know what? Stuff the budget. I'm off for a takeaway. I decided to head up the hill for chicken and chips. I was in the mood for that. What I didn't expect among the pile of discarded domestic refuse that often litters the alleyway beside my home was a television, a big flat screen television leant against the soft furnishings and bedclothes. The local beggars seem to be doing okay. Shame they've got nothing to watch. I imagine the disappointment of discovering the lack of visual inspiration on the box inspired the owner to throw it away to begin with. Oh how I chuckled. Will I never learn? Because the worst was yet to come... Chicken And Chips Please After a stroll up the hill I arrived breathless at the takeaway. Ever since that old couple went off to retirement in Hong Kong you never see the same faces in there. It's almost as if the shop has become a training ground for chinese vendors of fish and chips. "Yes please?" The lady asked. They always smile. I suspect it has nothing to do with politeness, but I'll give them the benefit of the doubt. Chicken and chips please. "You want chicken chow mein?" No. Not really. Chicken and chips. Good. That's sorted that. I sat down to wait which I have to admit can happen in any chinese takeaway if you're unlucky. "Thank you Sir." She called. Oh goodeee... My food's ready, except... What on earth is she serving me? A flat container in a plastic bag? Since when did chicken and chips get served like that? Has she sat on it? I looked gingerly inside and realised my piping hot chicken chow mein awaited my pleasure. No, no, no, I wanted chicken and chips. "Chow mein?" Chiiiiiikennnn... Annnnnd.... Chiiiiips.... Remember to shout louder. Their english isn't so good. She pointed at a menu to a set meal. Oh good grief no, what is going on here? Chicken and chips is simple. Just a normal bag of chips. Add a quarter of roast chicken. Every other fish and chip shop in the country can cope with an order like that. No, not the set meal version. How difficult does this have to be? One of her colleagues nodded and correctly confirmed what it was I wanted. Do I mind waiting? Why? Has she got a customer service lecture booked? No, I guess not... "Thank you Sir" She called again with another smile. What on earth is she offering me this time? Whatever it was, it didn't look like remotely like a mouth watering chip shop fest. It wasn't. It was set meal No.93. Chicken, chips (half portion), and peas. As I left I heard her colleague say "He won't be coming back." You know what? That option is definitely being considered. It would help if they understood what their customers wanted. What a rubbish takeaway that place has become. Oh dear. I seem to have told the whole world about it too.

The Romans appear to be very ambivalent about recording their usurpers. Some have very scanty claim to fame - and some might even be fictional given the accuracy of some sources - whereas others are deliberately exaggerated for the purpioses of historical narrative. We often see a personal bias in recording peoples lives, such as with Tacitus. Don't forget the Roman practice of damnatio, stricken from the record, forgotten. Perhaps Uranius is one of the recipients of such exclusion?

maybe you bought the wrong cat? For hunting food, I recommend a bigger stripey one. You'll get fewer burglaries too.

probably. No-one in England knows any spanish. We learned a long time ago that shouting louder saves you all the effort of learning

Yesterday was warm. Very warm. We brits aren't used to that level of warmness. Even hardened package holidaymakers were breathing out heavily and wiping sweat from their brow as they dragged their kids from one place to another. I had no choice but to drag myself. They do say that only mad dogs and englishmen go out in the mid day sun. Guilty. As I left the library after lunchtime to head for the shops, I crossed the triangular space where our centotaph stands. Standing in the shade of the trees was a small crowd of asians, doing nothing more than chatting to themselves and avoiding any need to sweat whatsoever, which is odd, because they were waiting for work to appear at the agencies that have their offices to one side. Predictably, the ordinary english blokes all venture forth in baggy shorts and adopt a sort of holiday demeanour, or at least, without the drunkness. Young adults wander around town dragging their 'dangerous dog' puppies with them as symbols of their... Erm... Somethingness. I do find it strange though that women in Britain always seem to tie their hair back in weather like this. They all wear sunglasses and all of them look completely identical, give or take a few pounds. It isn't like the beaches of Miami I saw portrayed on television, where every woman is young, individually pretty, wearing a tight swimsuit, and displays permed hair in wavy bucketloads that must have cost them a second mortgage or a night on the casting couch. It might not suprise you that I don't adopt the latest fashion. Mostly that's because I don't know what it is and wouldn't care less if I did. Some years ago I had to do one of those online character tests to see what my perfect career path would be. The end result of countless psychological profiling was that I was always destined to be a hat designer. Hat designer? Yesterday Miss R commented that despite my misgivings hat design relies on form and substance. Three dimensional awareness and.... Oh stop it. I have as much fashion sense as a french snail. The good news is that I have another psychological test to complete. The programme centre has decided that now I've been unemployed for more than three years, it's time to find out what I really ought to be doing to earn my money. With a bit of luck it'll suggest something fun, action packed, or interesting. Like the competitive world of hat design for instance. Is the government hiring spies in Swindon this year? What I would give to drive an Aston Martin with machine guns right now. When You're Ready... As soon as I opened the web page I recognised the test immediately. I did all this stuff back in november. It's all about ordering statements and choices in order of priority. From that the system can determine what sort of person I am. I'm amazed it doesn't ask for my star sign. Well, it's either this or a social gathering with Miss R. Which is the lesser evil? Very quickly I rediscover the numerative skills section. Accountants would love these questions. If country A uses 5,500MW of power derived from windpower which is expected to rise by 1.2% next year, and that windpower is 5% of the total generated power, determine the required rise in windpower for country C if that nation must generate twice the total power of country A and currently creates 3.8% of their total energy output from windpower.. What? I don't understand the question. My brain is old and tired, incapable of solving deep mystical problems concerning international eco-friendly power distribution. There are twenty questions like this and I've probably only got another twenty years to live. There's a whole list of these questions for personality, literacy, spacial awareness, and some other stuff which could only be of use for those applying for jobs with NASA. Apparently I have one and a half hours to finish it. What is this, an astronaut application form? Buy A Chevvy Incredible. I've just seen a television advert for Chevrolet cars. In Britain? I didn't know our roads were straight enough. Doing My Bit Watching disabled ex-soldiers prepare themselves for an attempt on the Paris-Dakar rally brought mixed emotions to me. It's impossible not to be impressed by the determination of these guys to make new lives for themselves. It's impossible not be saddened by the sheer futility and waste of able bodied men ripped apart by hidden explosives. The strange thing was how useless I felt. Not out of any sense of being unable to wreak vengeance against the people who did that to them. Nor was it any misplaced sense of guilt that I wasn't there when it happened. It's that they're already beyond my help simply because of their own efforts. Pride can be a powerful motivation and too much help causes more damage than it alleviates. So where do I help a man brought low by a twist of fate? Some years ago I was standing at a bar enjoying the mood of the evening. The pub was packed out, the music loud, the bar staff frantically keeping their customers happy. A chap came in on a wheelchair. His was a lost cause. None of the bar staff could see him and I remember that sullen 'Why am I here?' look on his face. No. He had every right to enjoy a night out. I caught the attention of a barmaid and made sure he got the drink he wanted. It turned out he was a victim of a motorcycle accident, but we didn't dwell on misfortune. He genuinely brightened up with someone to talk to. It wasn't a huge gesture was it? Nothing heroic, nothing worthy of medals at Buckingham Palace or biography on the best seller list. But he went away happy. His sister thanked me for that a bit later. I'm proud to say I only did what I could.

The problem with 15th century armour was that it was affected by cultural trends. On the one hand, tourneys were common, since nobles were keen to show off and please their local population with fine martial displays, but also because the professional tournament was well established. Further, the increasingn ifluence of arthuiran mythos created a desire among the nobility to identify themselves with such tales and almost 'live the dream'. Certainly chivalry was becoming less of an ideal and more of an 'Knights In Shining Armour For Dummies'. We have then a commercial need for display armour, either for the tourney or simply to impress visitors. I daresay some less well informed warriors wore decorative armour in the field in order to make the same impression upon their soldiers as the peasants back home, but the existence of a heavier decorated set of armour does not necessarily mean that a knight actually wore it into battle.

What's going on out there? This is a big old planet, however small Ryanair makes it seem. Time then to switch to Auntie Beeb, Britains most watched news channel, and check out world affairs unfolding from the comfort of my comfy chair. More huffing and puffing about the US debt crisis. Apparently politicians are under pressure to find a solution, which is pretty much what ours do for a living, so obviously crises aren't as common across the Pond. Come on guys, sort yourselves out, we want something interesting to see. What else? Well, more huffing and puffing from british politicans over the question of health funding, a very fertile subject of debate and scandal going back decades. Come on guys, sort it out. Or do politicans deliberately leave things unsorted to justify their jobs? Certainly hasn't helped them in Syria where government crackdowns have probably killed 130 people or more. Is that it? Pretty much. There were a few time fillers like the news that UK drivers applying online for licenses must state whether they wish to become organ donors, or a wall mosaic buried in Rome since the time of Nero has been uncovered. Is it just me or is the british television news a tad boring? They seem utterly unable to find anything interesting and instead focus endlessly on yet more revelations, however minor, of the same old scandal that's been covered for a week or more. It feels as if our television news is planned ahead of time rather than reacting to events around the world with enthusiastic journalism. Time then to switch over to Russia Today. I do this occaisionally because I find it helps to see news from a different perspective, and in any case, I like to see somethiing different than our dour repititious analyses of debates and scandals. And what a difference! I watched a fascinating piece about how Russia is planning to get rid of many legal requirements regarding private flying in the former Soviet Union. The reporter showed a mass of files required to operate aeroplanes over there. Even transcripts of conversations between mechanics and pilots are required to be recorded, even if they happen to be the same guy. Hilarious. Quite an eye opener too, in case anyone is currently getting fed up with JAA rules for flying in Britain. Also in Russia is news of devastation caused by tornado's. It isn't the just the US that suffers these problems. Mount Etna is erupting again and raising concerns. Serbians are blocking NATO convoys for some reason. Another bomb blast in Southern Afghanistan. A shocking report that SS veterans are gathering in Estonia to celebrate their nazi past. Oh, and there's a debt problem in the US. Join the queue. Greece is way ahead of you. I know. RT has reported on it. The most incredible report was about Belgium, considered by the british to be the most boring country ever recognised. But no! It's in danger of splitting apart. They've had no effective national goverment for fourteen months. France has already prepared the way to accept Wallonia as its 28th province. Astonishing that something like that would happen in this day and age, and a possible harbinger of further seperatism that could affect even the United Kingdom. Do you see what I mean? Colour, variety, and some incisive enquiry into what is going on out there. We're all conditioned to believe that the Auntie Beeb is incontestable, and given Russia's penchant for selective reporting in past decades, there will always be a suspicion that not everything is quite what they say it is. But at least I feel there is a world out there having watched it. The Beeb seem to have forgotten it. Mission Impossible My mission, should I chose to accept it, is to attend an interview with Miss R at the Programme Centre. She's suspected of being part of a gang of work programmers preying on innocent jobseekers. Worse still, she's believed to be a trained dancer and is wanted in connection with offers of social engagements. As it happens, we've met before, and yes - she did invite me along to a social gathering. I have to admit I was pleasantly suprised. Not only has she learned to cope with her former clumsiness, she's improved her image to the point where her offers of social gatherings start to sound interesting. Yes - she did invite me along to a social gathering. Hey... Does anyone know what this burning fuse is attached to? This could be tricky... Well, I'm not worried too much, because I know my affairs are too lowly for the BBC to fit into their busy news schedule. If I can just escape the notice of Russian journalists.... So this is all top secret. Careless talk costs lives. Oh who am I trying to kid? The Russians read everything of ours for decades.

There's no evidence the Romans used drill halls at all. Everything points to drills being conducted out of doors, and if the weather is inclement, tough (should have bribed the centurion or learnt how to read). The Romans were practical types and coping with bad weather would be handy for campaigning. We know the Romans liked, at least in theory, to perform regular drills and route marches, especially during a conflict or afterward until the laziness crept in.

You know, just lately someone asked me about my title and what all that stuff was about. I told him why I went for it, what it means to me, and so forth. That made me think. It's been a while since I've honoured clear thinking, common sense, and right of all human beings to look askance at convention, but you've earned it. So then... Henceforth, Docolove, thou art an honourary citizen of the Imndependent Peanut Republic of Rushey Platt. Congratulations.

Sunday is well named. It really is a nice day out there. This morning I couldn't resist taking a break down by the lake at Queens Park. With water levels so low, the gravel beach also exposes larger stones that make convenient seats. A flock of bemused pidgeons strut by in random directions, heads titling, trying to figure out what breed of bird I might be. Give it up guys. Your brain is too small. The geese and swans never even stirred. They all remained curled up a few yards away. I guess they know me by sight. Also by the fact I never throw them any bread, though one female duck plodded cautiously toward me on the off chance she might be wrong. Only when the asian crowd left their temples and wandered through the park in noisy family groups did anything happen. All of a sudden the geese were awake, moving slowly here and there, stretching their wings, like combatants preparing for the great fight for food they expected to erupt any minute. Among them were grey and white seabirds, black coots and moorhens, dull flecked ducks, and of course, the inevitable pidgeons in their monotone urban cammouflage. The swans remained snoozing. Why should they worry? If bread starts appearing, they're big enough to see off their competitors. It was quite a peaceful scene. Apart that is from asian kids chasing the birds away with impetuous bravado, the insistent buzz of a passing light aeroplane, and a distant peel of church bells. What could be more british? My mother contends stubbornly that Britain is a christian country, but then, she hasn't realised that the 1950's are now considered a historical period. If only she could see how many exotic faiths now use the local church. Or would she? One of the reasons my mother refuses point blank to accept I'm a spiritualist, other than her fond desire to subject me to holy slavery, is that I don't attend a spiritualist church. It's an interesting viewpoint. For her, religion is everything. It orders her life and provides a weekly security blanket. For me, it's insufferably grey, conformist, and reduces belief to a chore. She thrives on duty. A structured world with no suprises. I was watching one of those Great Railway Journeys programs on television. In it, the black presenter leaves London and heads for 'Arkadia', ostensibly in Greece, but as he realises along the way, it is in fact an inner place, a peace of mind, a sense of belonging, something that long travel tends to remind a person of. I had to chuckle because I realised that my own virtual realm, the Inopendent Republic of Rushey Platt, is nothing different. A middle england all of my own. Not just some silly fantasy, but a connection with a world that I can, at times, reach out and touch. Less of a state, more of a state of mind. I can alrmost hear people making disparaging comments about my state of mind, or indeed my state of being, but I'm not bothered. Why would I want to be trapped in their grubby little reality? I passed a chap earlier, dressed in some kind of civic work uniform, pacing along the car park behind the main shopping thoroughfare. With his mobile phone pressed against his ear he said "How do I get out of here?... Swindon, I mean..." We're Here To Help You We used to get a lot of missionaries from the Society of Jesus wandering around town. They'd approach in pairs and spiritually mug you for your soul. I wonder why we don't see them around now? Have they been locked up for crimes against rationality at last? Most of the time they sim ply say hello, or more accurately, "Hi there", because they were invariably american. On one occaision the missionary had the cheek to begin his sales pitch with "You look like a guy who needs help". Thanks mate. America is that way. It's a long walk. Remember to pack your swimming truinks. On one occaision a missionary managed to get me into conversation mode. No mean feat for a man bearing a badge with Jesus on it. He wore that badge like it gave him permission to get past the security guards at Heaven Inc. Alarmed at discovering I played for another team (even if I'm the only player), he tried to find a weakness in my religious armour. "So what what exactly do you hold sacred?" He asked. Well... I looked around for a stage prop. Aha! That pebble will do. You see this? It's a small rock made of compressed sand. Maybe a few million years old, maybe older, who knows? I could claim that this rock is sacred. That it represents something important to me. But hey, it's just a pebble, and with that I tossed it over my shoulder. He looked confused. Isn't it interesting that these paid up members of the Jesus fan club interpret the world around them only in terms they define for themselves. We humans do like our little worlds.

From our ever helpful source of all things, Wikipedia... http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Decurion

My daily routine of late has been simple. Wake up, slide clumsily out of bed, limp across to the window, and look out on yet another bright blue sky. Another fine, sunny day. Not too hot, just comfortable, at least as long you avoid strenuous activity. That's not difficult when you're unemployed. Today though was different. A dreary grey morning with an ever present sense that drizzle is about to break out. To make things worse, today I'm scheduled to help out at the museum, and as we all know, friday mornings are the graveyard shift. Maybe I'll get a chance to snooze? What the?... What's going on? A veritable horde of museum goers gathered at the gates with battering rams and catapults, determined to lay siege to the museum if we didn't open in time. Worse still, the lady with the key hadn't switched anything on. Frantically I ran around the museum flicking switches and selecting film shows. Almost opening time... Come on, come on, you stupid video display... Work!... No, not that film, the other one... Oh no, seconds to go.... Quick, back to the front doors.... No wait, I haven't set up the till yet! Help! I'm under pressure! Having demonstrated my ability to cope with the fast moving high pressure enviroment of cutting edge museum opening procedures, I relaxed briefly before the hordes flooded through the door in a desperate bid for admissions and purchases. One adult? Certainly... Two concessions and one child... One at a time please!... Yes we sell those... No we haven't any bags. Come on, it's a tiny trinket, think of the enviroment.... Stop pushing at the back, I saw you!... Finally the dust cleared. I lay there, a broken man, among the splinters of the smashed front desk. But do not think I was defeated. No. For I held that barrier, alone, unaided, bruised... Fun Of The Fair Among our many visitors today was DW, media journalist extraordinaire. He's been on the case covering community events with videos for his website. One of them was staged recently at Liddington. Spitfire fly by's, musical acts on stage, roundabouts and rides, all the usual fun of the fair. DW was restraining his amusement when he asked if I was interested in watching the video. Oh go on then. Initially we tried looking up the viseo on his website. No video. He was disappointed., but not defeated, for DW has wisely invested in one of those new phone devices that does everything a computer does if you use enough swear words. Within seconds he had his videos listed in the palm of his hand. They wouldn't load either. Within minutes he'd found another way to access the videos which I imagine has something to do with holding the phone in the correct orientation. Whatever the reason, his report on the fair began to play. I was pleasantly suprised at how professional it looked. Who filmed this? "My camera team." DW replied. "He's a youngster who does this for me. But he films too high." High? Looks perfectly framed to me. "Nah, he needs to lower the angle a bit." What? And make sure your crotch enters the shot? DW chuckled. As he well knows, it's sex that sells, and he's not that much of a pretty face. As I began to realise the event was attended by a passing spitfire pilot, a couple of girls looking a bit mystified on stage, and a roundabout operator who went off to get a bag of chips, DW could hardly stop himself from laughing. As I watched, a chocolate wrapper blew lazily across the empty grass space between the fairground rides. Another roving report brought to you by DW. Now back to the studio...

Isn't 'heavy armour' a misnomer? Knights were more practical than reputation suggests, and it's the chivalric fantasy that took hold in the late medieval period that's responsible. One of the tests of knighthood that had been in place a long time before was the ability of a fully armoured man to vault onto a horse unaided. The sort of crane that's sometimes visualised isn't likely to have been used outside of a tourney and even then for men who couldn't get aboard with or without armour of any kind. Is armour restrictive? Up to a point, yet we know people fought for long periods. There is a tale of one battle where the local hero, William Marshal, had gone missing. His men feared for the worst. They were relieved to find him the next day at a blacksmits shop having his distorted helmet removed. There are also some other aspects to this. French knights in the 14th century particularly enjoyed a fashion for flowing ribbion of coloured cloth to be attached at various points to armour, such as under the armpit and so forth. I don't remember which battle this was, but at one engagement these decorations got caught up in thick mud during the fighting and rendered these armoured men helpless and vulnerable.

If a cavalry unit is in transit, then you would in all likeliehood find a cavalry commander. I've checked out Ospreys title on the Roman Navy and among the plethora of rank and vocational titles listed, decurion isn't. We can infer then that cavalry were not part of the standard shipboard complement, and since the Roman rationale for 'marines' was to place army ranks among them (for obvious reasons), it isn't likely at all. There are some people who assume that a decurion was an officer rank junior to the centurion mind you, so the mention of the rank might actually have been such a mistake.

There are those who say I don't write enough about sex. Certainly they want more gossip about my girlfriends, but unfortunately, since becoming long term unemployed I can no longer afford them, and in any case, women aren't usually turned on by flirtacious old fogies unless they also happen to be filfthy rich. Despite continued investigations by the Department of Work & Pensions, it appears I'm just another poverty stricken claimant. However, I shall not be daunted. Here then is the scandalous truth of what goes on behind the scenes at respectable museums... Last night the museum crew gathered for our secret meeting to plot this years conspiracy against those members of the public who think museums are dull uninteresting places that cost too much to visit. I did suggest making a ring of exhibits and 'sacrificing' young maidens at the dead of night to the baleful god of entry fees, and although the boss heartily approved of my pagan initiatives, we did forsee a number of issues that might arise. Such is the extent of biscuit addiction among our members that radical action has been planned. My boss has admitted to singing in a public place. I think someone called it karaoke or something, one those japanese imports that society doesn't need, like yet another small economical box-shaped car designed fior chic urban living. "Don't know why I did that" He told me. Could I suggest that alcohol was to blame? "You think so?" You learn these things in life. "Maybe you're right. At one point, they tell me, I committed strange acts upon other people." Exactly how much alcohol did you drink? "Lots. But the sex was only simulated." The best kind. No arrests, expensive by-products, and the museums reputation for being boring is preserved. I can imagine by now that readers of more austere and devout religious beliefs are probably frothing at the mouth, pointing their fingers, and dragging hordes of colleagues to view the evidence of decadancy in british culture. Fear not. No bunnies or chocolate biscuits were harmed in the making of this story. Bunnies? Talking about bunnies, one suggestion was made to introduce animals into the equation. What could attract families to paying an entry fee more than fluffy bunnies to oggle and pet? I looked around and told the young lady who suggested the brilliant idea that I look at her with new found respect. She declined the offer to loll across the front desk in a bid to attract new visitors. Probably a good thing. We'd never get any work done. As it happens, I did know of something more attractive than fluffy bunnies. "I was hoping you'd volunteer." Replied the boss, remembering my suggestion that we could stage a 'Love Your Computer' event on Valentines Night for nerds without girlfriends. No no no. A few days back I was strolling past a farm and there were these baby shetland ponies. I mean, there is nothing, and I mean, absolutely positively completely without shadow of a doubt nothing more cute than a baby shetland pony. "Couldn't you have obtained one or two for the museum?" Asked my boss, clearly disappointed at my lack of initiative. Well, probably, but having lots of shotgun pellets inserted into my backside at fifty yards is not one of my ambitions. Question Hands up anyone who thinks working in a museum is dull and boring? You do? Okay, go back to the top of this blog entry and start reading again... The Democratic Way When we sent aircraft to bomb targets in Libya, the government assured everyone that this was in order to forestall attacks on civilians by forces loyal to Colonel Gaddafi. There was no intent to get involved in regime change, they told us. Gunboat diplomacy is seen as unfashionably imperialist these days and with moslem nations very senstitive to the military initiatives of the Geat Satans little brother, it's obviously very wise to inform the world that we're not gangsters or minions of evil, but instead responsible humanitarian aid workers with laser guided bombs. Please don't think I'm knocking the armed services. They do a great job with all the wrong equipment. Let's be honest, the Gaddafi regime doesn't score very highly as a group of publicly spirited all round nice guys, do they? There will always be a case for saying we shouldn't intervene. That it's none of our business. However, if I was a civilian being attacked by my own government forces, I guess I'd be pretty happy to see infidels blowing them up. Now I hear on the news that only the new National Council is recognised by the United Kingdom as the legitimate government of Libya. Diplomats of the former regime are sent home, and demonstrators gather outside the embassy to replace the green flag with that of the National Council. I couldn't help laughing. No, we're not changing the regime, we're simply choosing to talk to the other one from this point forward. It's the democratic way.

Here's the wiki link http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Roman_navy (plus links to other sittes) for a starter. I'll check some other sources when I get the chance but so far decurions don't seem to be involved.

Today we discuss the subject of fantasy. I don't mean pictures of naked women in silly positions (though I imagine the people who like those sort of images rely on fantasy more often than not) nor getting dressed in medieval style clothes and running round ruined castles with rubber swords. No, I have other things in mind. In the wake of the shocking explosions in Norway, the media have been keen to show photographs of the perpetrator dressed like an all action special agent. It does illustrate his personality - even the psychiatrist reckons he's nuts - a sort of inner need to be something he wasn't. A fantasy in other words, one that went hand in hand with his extreme opinions and fertilised his acts of violence. At times I've been accused of being a fantasist. There are still some people, even now, whpo refuse to accept I once flew light aeroplanes or that Red Jasper existed as a hard workin' rock band. In the former case I have my licenses and log book. So that's real. In the second, it's my painful duty to tell you that yes, Red Jasper did exist, and we did subject most of Britain to our own brand or overly loud, overly fast, and over-rated folk-rock. Evidence? Some album sleeves and perhaps a few photographs lurking here and there. The camera never lies, does it? Some might question the difference between photo's of a saddo posing for his own satisfaction, or someone caught on camera doing what he actually did. however pointless or optimistic his efforts may have been. There is a difference between fantasy and reality there. The problem comes when we can't tell the difference. When we no longer realise that our own conception of the world around us is defined by our own desires. When we seek to recreate that fantasy by manipulating others to satisfy those desires with or without their consent. They say clothes maketh the man. I don't really believe that. My penchant for military surplus trousers doesn't make me a soldier nor does it inspire me to act like one. Nor do I wax lyrical about wot I did in the war. You see? I'm not really a fantasist, am I? I'm still an ex-rock superstar though. Well, almost. Case Of The Missing Eunos - Chapter 4 Crime drama on television tends to follw a familiar pattern. The hero of the tale, the downtrodden private detective, has a broken family life. Yep, I sort of qualify there. The next issue is that he must - and I mean must - drive a ridiculously unique car. Yep, I qualify there too, although in this case the car is the basis of the plot because it got nicked. Have I mentioned that? The story now goes into an intense all action phase. Obviously I can't have shoot-outs with the villains because only film stars are allowed to use guns without fear of arrest or career-killing enquiry, and so far, Hollywood superstardom has eluded me. Darn. Instead I had a very... erm... genteel confrontation with one of my suspects. He seemed to think he'd gotten away with something after giving me a fusilade of "I wasn't there... I had flu that day... You can ask anyone...". What I learned was... a) What a complete con-merchant he is. That I may have been conned. c) That since the crime desk officer told me to investigate the theft of my car myself, he has to all intents and purposes empowered me as a special constable. I am Deputy Caldrail. Hey, if I'm going to indulge in a fantasy, at least let's make it useful to society, eh? Question of the Week Why, I was recently asked, am I so keen on sports cars? Forget all that stuff about testosterone and adrenalin pumping power, handling, and impossible looks, the real truth is that I drove a Nissan Cherry 5-door hatchback for eight years. Face it, in my place, wouldn't you want a bit of excitement? Clearly you have never owned a Nissan Cherry. I want lots of automotive excitement. Please, let me have this fantasy, just once...

I've checked out Polybius' Histories Book 6. The camps are composed of individual tents it seems. One thing that did strike me was the detail he went into. A legion, even in militia days, was very regimented and there was a precise order to the camp. Not just where a tent was, but which direction it faced. The overriding principle will not suprise anyone - the Romans are seeking efficiency through order, and they design the layout to allow quick and easy assembly of men in emergency. More suprisingly, Polybius infers the layout reduces harm from enemy attack. Really? Hard to see how that works, but he knew more about that period than I do. Sadly Polybius does not peak inside the tents in any detail.

A larger tent might be a modular effort laced together or simply open sided tents butted end to end. Regarding the division of sleeping arrangements, if the account of a long tent is correct, it underlines my 'warband' idea in that a century is sheltered together. We do have indications from that era that centuries were seperated not only by organisation, but by preference and custom as well. Does Polybius mention contubernae in his organisation overview? It would seem an odd oversight for him not to mention how troops were banded together to create 'close friends' instead of the familia of a century which fits with Roman thinking. However, I don't necessarily argue that contubernae have a pre-Marian origin, since many ideas in that reform had already been field tested. Nonetheless, until further information comes to light, it represents a change from group affiliation to team affiliation in an era which saw legionaries transition from a militia 'brotherhood' to professional 'soldiers' (as described by Augustus)