caldrail

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.

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