caldrail

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)

Migratory? Hey, now there's an idea. We could export our unwanted badgers to a country we don't like. The birds have no nationality and can't be traced. What a fantastic foreign policy idea! Doc, you've made my career as a politician.

It's gonna be seventies night in LA

It turns out that I'm among the first recruits for the Work Programme. If anyone wants to know what being a guinea pig is like, I might be able to tell you. Already I've set a record by being the first claimant to have done his initial assessment twice, though I have to confess, that's because the first one was mislaid. "Things always go wrong when you're around." Observed one other claimant, a chap I remember seeing here and there over the last couple of years. He was one of my fellow forklift trainees so I suppose he does have some insight. Oh all, right, I admit it. As with all things official, there followed a health and safety orientation. Someone was obviously paying attention. I notice they didn't have any oxygen masks hanging from the ceiling but then again the programme centre isn't the fastest way to travel to exotic holiday destinations. That's the trouble with health and safety orientations. Your mind is always elsewhere. "Has everyone understood?" Our trainer asked. Questions? No-one told me there were going to be questions. Is this going to be on the test? She continued "What do you do if there's an accident?" Umm... Well... I guess you scream, hold the injury, and rock gently back and forth with your eyes closed. How did I do? Big Metal World Whilst this was going on, the office boss hovered around his minions like a frantic bumble bee. Someone asked him something and he whinged that he'd been on the go since seven that morning, driving here and there. Get a better car, I suggested helpfully. No-one should drive a car and feel it's a chore. "Oh I like driving." He wearily responded, perhaps a little puzzled as to why a claimant was engaging a superior being in conversation. What car do you drive? "BMW." He announced. Well there you are. He's not driving a car to express his personality, or feed his petrol habit, or even thrill at the razor sharp handling and throttle response. It's all about the badge. He's driving a BMW saloon because he wants a badge of office, to express his oneness with the Ancient Order Of Management, and be known to all throughout the land as He Who Must Be Admired. The man has no individuality at all. Owners Operation Manual Haynes have been selling books on car maintenance for yonks plus ages. What an innovation that was at the time. Drivers freed from the tyranny of the roadside ornament, shown the arcane secrets of making a car start, and defying the sharp intake of breath from the garage mechanic. As I sat in the library, I spotted a Haynes manual on the shelf. No suprise there - there's loads of them, mostly for makes and models that rusted away long ago when their owners chose foolishly chose not to purchase a Haynes manual. But this went from the sublime to the ridiculous. It was a manual for the RMS Titanic. I must admit, I've never considered what a labour of love it must be to operate a transatlantic cruise liner. I mean, it's too big for a roadside recovery truck isn't it? Now anyone can maintain and drive their cruise liner secure in the knowledge they know what they're doing. Is such a large vehicle a little bit showy? I mean, we moan and complain about all terrain trucks filling the roads when the the kids need transport to school, or when something extremely expensive blasts past us on motorways in the superstar lane. But sailing into your garage with a fog horn guaranteed to be heard in the next town isn't exactly being inconspicuous is it? Look on the bright side. Although the turning circle is a little generous, and parking might prove difficult if not prohibitively expensive, there is literally tons of luggage space, and so many cup holders you really could invite your mates for a party. Ride quality is univerally recognised as the best there ever was.. Even better no-one's yet thought to put speed cameras on the ocean. Trouble is, there aren't many Titanics out there. Not to worry. I happen to know there's one still on the market. One careless owner, needs new chassis, some rust. Perfect restoration project.

Trusty Polybius rides to the rescue. Am I mistaken, or is Polybius describing a long marquee for each century? That's definitely an indication that the contubernium was a post Marian innovation, an attempt to continue the barrack room into the field, since we know later tents were only designed to shelter an eight man group.

"Does anyone know anything about the Work Programme?" Asked the lady giving us our induction to what is a two year course aimed to return long term unemployed like me to the workplace. Well there' been some horror stories circulating. "Like what?" That we will have to do 38 hours a week on our job searching. "Oh no!" She chuckled, "That would be like a full time job wouldn't it?" Exactly my thoughts. Well so far the programme seems very easy going, but I did hear hints that it could get much more stringent later. Sounds like we're bing eased gently into our New Model Army of Jobseekers. The square-bashing will pick up later. I wonder if we'll be issued uniforms? There's no point moaning. We're all in it now. Who do you think that you're kidding Mr Manager If you you think we're sat on bums We are the boys who will make your staff look lame We are the boys who will make you think again So... Who do you think that you're kidding Mr Manager If you think that job's not ours Well what did you expect? A song from Dame Vera Lynn? There'll be bluebirds over, the local job centre, tomorrow, just you wait and see.... No. We'll search in the hills. And in the valleys. We'll apply on the beaches. We will never surrender. Wel we can't can we? Our money gets stopped if we do. Quite A Thought Thirty years. It never really occured to me before a feature documentary on television last night covered the last flight of the space shuttle Atlantis. There was one guy who's been fitting heat tiles to the shuttles for nearly all his working life. Thirty years. I was barely out of school when they started firing up those oversize fireworks. I remember flipping through dozens of instrument panels in Space Shuttle Simulator and wondering what on earth all this stuff was about. How long will it be before anything else so significant to our efforts to conquer space rises from the countless ideas mooted around? It was interesting that the head of shuttle flights said that a future space vehicle of this kind will need to simpler and more reliable. Our space rockets don't look much, but their complexity is mind boggling. So are the risks they're built to defy. Famine? You Mean... That Famine? Fifty years. That's almost how long parts of africa has been living off international aid. In other words, they've been on benefits since 1963. The UN are moving toward getting people to raise crops, sorgum for instance, a hardy wheat that grows in arid confitions. Africans can make porridge from it. Food handouts ae therefore being reduced. Unfortunately for this brave new world the sorgum fields are afflicted with a disease that ruins the crops. Might be a while before this East African famine crisis gets resolved. And yet, despite this continual history of hardship in the area, we still see the media portraying it as if this was a disaster that happened yesterday. I guess it sounds more dramatic that way. Not Just Amy Winehouse Everyone who could get near the internet has already posted their thoughts and tributes so there's no point my adding to the huge response to her untimely death. Especially since I never listened to her music. My loss I guess. Well sadly she lost her health to such a degree that her body gave up on her. That said, it wasn't really all that shocking, was it? Hands up anyone who really didn't know in their heart that she was destined to be a tragic figure. It's easy in these cases to get philosophical. To talk about how fragile life can be. How fleeting the human experience is. Some of the people I knew in the music business are no longer with us. Good people. Talented people. Who remembers them? And As For Top Gear... I made a bit of a criticism of last weeks program. No, not this time, last nights show was better. Who could possibly be dissatisified with a trio of seventies moustaches? Richard Hammond succeeding in looking debonair against all odds, James May looking like that middle manager who now has to go home and tell his wife he's been made redundant, and Jeremy Clarkson looking like he dates old women for cash. Brilliant. But it gets better because I too had a moustache in the seventies. Yes. It's true. I am an Interceptor (cue title sequence).

In Blighty we don't usually see amrican versions of our own shows, both because the media in America is so all-pervasive, but also because no-one in britain buys them. What we have seen is a little perlexing to us. Okay, we sort of recognise who the main characters are supposed to be, but they're translated into a different stereotype and to be honsest, since much of British humour is based on absurdities concerning our way of life, the jokes from american perspective just don't work. That doesn't mean american comedy isn't funny - we fall off our seats with some imported shows, but these are home grown shows that are internally consistent. Perhaps one exception might be Shameless. I haven't seen the US version, but the trailers were as deadpan as British humour and I think that's why it might work for us too.

Oh my. Thanks. By strange coincidence the sun is shining today. it's well hot. Very, very hot... (gasp)... (wheeze)... Why is this hill steeper all of a sudden... Man, am I sweating...

Except drunkards, obviously

generally speaking the Romans didn't like to discuss rebellions other than they happened and the perpertrators got some harsh justice for their trouble. The only detailed rebellion is from Taxcitus (that I know of) thus I chose it as an example of a mutiny that bad enough to deserve a write up. The impression I get is that in peace time the legions of that period were prone to labour relations problems. Caesar himself does record how easily a Roman legion could crumble in the face of determined aggression. however, this book http://www.jstor.org/pss/263434 might be of ineterst and at least the page lists serious rebellions in the available text if you don't want to purchase the whole thing. It's a starting point.

The widely accepted date for the beginning of the 'consular' legions is 300BC. Before that the romans employed forces organised according to greek/etruscan lines.

It is interesting. Studies have shown that the majority of women in viking colonies in Iceland and Greenland were british.

A falcon? African or european?

Okay let's see, what can I write for the blog this friday? I've done hikes, injuries, insults, urban foxes, job searching, and finally resorted to lame gags about badger culling. Luckily for me, I didn't have to think too hard about anything else because the museums resident journalist, DW, made his appearance. I first met DW when he was running a modelling agency which he assures us with a big grin was earning him truck loads of cash. After organising one event at a local night club with a number of celebrity guests of which even I had heard of, he sold the business, and refuses to talk about that cash anymore. Now he's a journalist for a community website. For some reason the conversation got around to the fairer sex. It usually does when DW is nearby. Today he was moaning because his girlfriend has just proclaimed her undying love for him. In true journalist style, DW refuses to acknowledge that love makes the world go round. Only money has that physical property. Nonetheless, I think DW is living in a world bereft of human kindness. He hugged our resident evil robot and attempted to hold hands with it. DW, you need a girlfriend. Talking About The Fairer Sex Our boss warned us to expect Miss M at eleven. She's a recent addition to the museum crew. I've seen her around once or twice but she got one of the interesting jobs downstairs, leaving me and the rest of the trolls to snare members of the public. Caught one today trying to sneak in without paying. By half past, my fellow troll manning the front desk concluded that Miss M "Isn't turning up", at which point she duly walked through the door as a brilliantly well-timed demonstration on the art of being fashionably late. Of course I found the whole thing very amusing and she rolled her eyes. Talking About Particle Colliders After Miss M went off to join the museum elite to create new interesting displays, the conversation got around to the CERN particle collider. It's that big circular facility buried under Switzerland that scientists spent millions to play sub-atomic marbles with. My fellow troll told me that the japanese built something similar twenty years in order to find a cure for cancer. Pardon? Curing cancer with a particle accelerator? That's like conducting life saving surgery with a machine gun. Case Of The Missing Eunos - Chapter 3 The latest update of my investigation concerns a woman who was one of the four individuals who asked if I wanted to sell the car. She was in fact the only one whose name I knew. Hi babe. My car got nicked recently. "Your car was stolen?" Yes. "The white one?" Yes. "Oh... I thought you'd sold it." No, it vanished. "Oh." Well it seems the police didn't interview her despite my mentioning her name as a possible line of enquiry. Oh yeah... I forgot... I have to investigate this crime myself. Usually in these circumstances the private detective (that's me) starts a relationship with the woman on the basis that whilst she might be responsible for 90% of car thefts in the area, she's also a perfect soul partner, and until we've done the sex scene I cannot exclude her from my enquiries. I had no idea searching for a lost car was such fun. Can't wait for the car chase.

That's brilliant. I don't think we we fully appreciate the scale of antiquities theft and fraud and I like to see that for once, the criminal fraternity have done the decent thing and added to our archaeological record. Even if they probably hadn't a clue what it was.

Starting the day in a good mood I went about my business. Everyone seems to be in a good mood too. Happy smiling shop assistants, and warm if cloudy weather. It just feels like it's going to be a good day. Or at least, it would be if I hadn't cracked a rib during my collision with the supermarket car park. It only hurts when I laugh. "Step into a recruitment office if you want to play soldiers" Growled a voice as I bounded joyfully up the stairs at the library. Oh great. Another clown. That's put a damper on my day. As it happens I know that voice and he ought to know better than advise members of the public in such a sneering manner. Play soldiers? I haven't done that since I left the Air Cadets. That was way back in... Erm... Ages ago. Decades even. Oh, I see, another sanctimonious upstart doesn't like my habit of wearing military surplus trousers. I don't care. They're available tio anyone on the high street, they're comfortable, useful even, and well suited to my hikes in the countryside. Hiking is about getting out and enjoying the countryside. It doesn't involve special operations behind enemy lines. As I waited for the woman on my booked computer to stop making her face up, I glanced out the window and spotted a guy in head to toe autumn tree bark cammo gear, driving a military surplus land rover equipped for an invasion of Normandy. I see him driving around now and then. I wonder if he gets any hassle? Why on Earth would I want to step into a recruitment office anyway? According to the news, the British Army is getting rid of 19,000 troops over the next few years, plus I'm nearly fifty, suffering middle age health issues, and I discovered yesterday that I'm not as agile as a teenager. As it happens I made a promise to someone as a child that I would never join the army. My grandfather had gone ashore at Gallipoli in World War One to assist in bayonet charges on turkish positions, and later went to the muddy hell of Verdun, France. I remember asking innocently what he'd done in the war, or something to that effect. He didn't relate any tales of derring do, or patriotic pride in doing his bit. Instead he made me aware of what war was. The simple fact was that he didn't want me to suffer the same experiences as he'd done in his younger days. He was a good man. I'll keep faith with him. Worse still for my male ego is the realisation that I was never born to be a warrior anyway. My calling was elsewhere. What's the point of playing soldiers when you're never going to be any good at it? You have to be true to yourself and I see no good purpose in allowing myself to be forced into a life I will never be happy with. That was always the problemn with my father, who wanted me to be soldier, just like him. He was, is, and always will be a petty corporal. If I can blame anyone for lifelong interest in things military, I can lay it at his feet. The army puts adverts on television to the effect that they spot talent and encourage it. Maybe so, but that message clearly never occurred to him, nor for that matter has it reached their casual recruiting agent at the library. But all of that doesn't matter. As always happens when someone wants to apply peer pressure, he spoke to my back. In my book, that's not courageous, admirable, or worth my attention. You stupid, stupid man. Oh the pain... The pain... Birds To The Rescue! The local newspaper tells me that eagle eyed shoppers have noticed birds of prey patrolling the library. I noticed them too this morning. A pair of handlers strolled around the building with a pair of very large Harris Hawks impatiently waiting for another chance to decimate the local pidgeon population. It seems pidgeons are a big problem. Their droppings filled five large sacks during the clean up operation lately, and I understand they spread more diseaes than rats. Given the government are now tackling badgers for the same reasons, I wonder what birds they'll be using? Huge south american condors probably. That'll be a sight.

What for? I mean, Wetherspoons aren't going to sell any. As soon as you order it you'll be frog-marched off the premises.

Having been so impressed with that new footbridge across the railway line, today I decided to head out for a hike in country. Get some fresh air, exercise, and a few cool pictures of no possible use to anyone. Of course I did the requisite job search at the library first. Always see to your chores. There we go. A bunch of cool pictures taken and time to head off into the hills. I did make a half hearted attempt to photograph a passing train, just for the heck of it you understand, but I wasn't in the best place so I abandoned the attempt. Not a problem. Fives minutes later an orange helicopter flew low and slow along the railway. Didn't realise photographing trains was actually illegal. How do those magazines get away with it? And the americans think railfanning is under threat in their country. We get pounced on by helicopter gunships. Back On Form I see in the news that someone is planning to make the entire town of Swindon a 20mph zone. That'll make it the safest town in the world won't it? Stolen cars will stand no chance of getting away at those speeds. Even helicopters fly in fear of speed cameras these days it seems. The thought does occur to me however that traffic jams won't get any better even with all these schemes being put in place manage traffic through the town. I mean, they're still arriving at 60mph aren't they? Never mind. At least Swindon is still on form. Back in the slow lane. Vice Girls Another news headline on the local billboards is that vice girls are back. Vice Girls? Are they a pop act? I mean, like the Spice Girls but sexy? Oh... I see... Ahem. Well you can sort of tell I don't indulge in that sort of service. I imagine it's only going to get easier for them too. After all, the helicopter gunships are currently busy chasing me away from railways. Condemned Sadly it appears that bovine tuberculosis is being spread by badgers so the badgers must go. As someone who enjoys the rare sight of wildlife going about its wildness, naturally that saddens me. It's easy for me to say that. I don't live in the country, and I don't have to deal with diseases that afflict farming. I remember walking past Wroughton Airfield once and seeing a badger impaled on a stick, left by the roadside for someone to see. There's a hardline attitude toward wildlife in some quarters, something I think our american friends particularly would understand. Where does expedience end and cruelty begin? I don't have an answer for that. It's no use complaining that our lads haven't enough helicopters in Afghanistan. We've got to keep our own green zones free of fundamentalist badgers and railway photographers. Ooops.. Oh No! Not Again! Every so often I make a complete pigs ear of making a simple ordinary everday action and look a complete idiot. Most of us do sooner or later, though I tend to when I'm sober. And today is no different. I crossed a road in town at the lights and intended to cut across the supermarket car park as a shortcut home. One quick leap onto the low brick wall, and... Having just arrived back in town from a ten mile hike I inadvertantly let my trailing foot drop. So I tripped, big time. In full view of the shoppers and drivers of vehicles on the road too. Hey, just another gig, yeah? I'd like to thank the driver of a passing lorry for looking to see if I was hurt. No-one else worried. They glanced over their shoulder while I screamed and fell headlong onto the pavement before continuing about their lawful business. At least the driver slowed down a bit. Cheers mate.