caldrail

It assumes the poor animals would continue moving in the required direction. I would have thought the tortured animals would have stopped running in a very short distance, being in severe discomfort to put it mildly. Scullard may have been a brilliant historian but he was no expert in animal behaviour.

It's a funny thing about storms. I mean, if it rains, there's every chance you'll get wet. No matter how careful you are with watching weather reports or how many folklore rhymes you recall, wet weather is out to get you. I speak from bitter experience. But storms? Almost invariably you're indoors when they announce their presence. Niw I find this peculiar. There's no obvious warning in many cases other than heavy looking clouds, yet like virtually all the other animals, wild or domestic, you just seem to know that a storm is about to unleash rain, thunder, and llightning in no particular order. It must be that electricity in the air, that sense of buolding tension, that feeling that if you stay outdoors something bad will happen. Yet despite this useful instinct, some @ people a year still get hit by lightning. Some people never learn. With rumours of storms crossing the country last night I made sure I sat down and watched the weather report on television. Yes, I know, they never quite get it right until it's about to actually happen, but unlike @ a year, I haven't so far gotten myself zapped by 13,000 volts. Imagine my disappointment when the screen animation showed some feeble spots of pale blue evaporating over my home town. No storms then? Typical. Now I'm going to have to re-schedule my entire day. The Best Bits From Tuesday I have a strange optimism about tuesdays. After the average monday, it can only get better. I like to believe that for fear the rest of the week will be just as bad. After all, my AOL horoscope says a friend will create problems for me all week. Not really sure what friend they're talking about, but hey, if it's written in the stars... Anyhow, I ambled down the hill for my daily dose of internetting at the library. Sideshow J, our jovial and strange-haired coordinator at the work club, shot past me on a bike and refused to stop. Very important man is Sideshow J, and he had business to attend to. Hmmm.... That doesn't appear to have caused me problems. I reached the traffic island, the last stop before entering the hallowed gates of Swindons brave new library, when I heard a familiar sound. You know how it is when you hear something in the background and react without thinking? Of course the sound was an original 60's series Star Trek communicator warble, which some idiot decided to use for his mobile phone ring tone. I actually stopped and looked around. Hopefully no-one noticed what a trekkie-phile I am. Sadly the delights of internetting have to wait untiil I've done my chores. Trawling through the ads for jobs here and there I click on 'apply' in rapid progression. Is it just me, or is the job market getting silly? Administrator wanted. Must have lifetime experience of office enviroment, able to leap tall cabinets in a single bound, must be faster than a speeding memo, and obviously only graduates will be considered. And that's for a three month contract only. Sheesh. Click on 'apply'. Yes, I know, I don't even come close to their requirements, but the job centre will have me turned into a refugee from a Charles Dickens novel if I don't make the effort It's getting like that everywhere now. Employers and angencies are asking for stupid qualifications and qualities. It wasn't just me of course. A chap in the next cubicle was trying to find work as a security guard. There was a time when security work was easy to find. They couldn't get anyone to apply at all, such was the low pay and terrible conditions they offered. Now, with government regulations introduced, only the highest calibre square jawed hero may be even considered for permission to apply. And of course you need SIA certification. Unfortunately the chap was being assisted by a librarian whose knowledge of security work is not extensive, and he mentioned that a CIA card was required. Really? Wow, that's cool. Where do you get one of those? Five minutes later a stranger with an american accent approached him asking questions about using the computers. I kid you not. And The Storms? Nope. Not a flash or rumble anywhere. I can only conclude that this was a CIA plot to prevent Cliff Richard singing at Wimbledon.

I shall take your advice about the dreaded ginger tom. Here in the rainforests of Darkest Wiltshire, it prowls the yard, hoping to claim a late night reveller unawares, or worse still, giving the local urban foxes something else to shriek about.

The study of history is a misleading pursuit. It really is. Sooner or later you reach the point when you begin to believe you know something about it. Sooner or later, something crops up that reminds you that you don't. browsing through the records of the Wiltshire Archaeological Society Magazine from the late 1930's, I hit upon an article about Marlborough Castle. According to the tentative plan, it was essentially a motte and bailey built from stone and round towers. I never knew the town had a fortification. It isn't there now. Marlborough is known to me. it's onlyten or twelve miles south of where I live and on my longer hikes I've walked through there. Cunetio, a fortified roman town, lies on the south bank of the Kennet River just to the east. Merlin is supposed to buried here. The nearby forest is no less historic. Roman potteries litter the forest of Savernake to the immediate south. Henry the 8th sent a man to Savernake to find out how big it actually was. A memorial column commerates the return to sanity of mad King George. "Mary" had her name carved in a tree in 1938. A man from Chicago carved his a few months before D-Day as he worked among the vast munition stores there, keeping the buildup to invasion safe from prying German reconnaisance. On the face of it, I have a smattering of knowledge about this area. Or so I thought. yet in the description of the castle, it says the place was surrendered to the french in 1216. What the...?? I was on the case. Names and places were dug up from the libraries collections, and connections made. What an interesting tale there is. Marlborough was one of fifteen royal castles of King John's reign. Not only a castle, but also one of his wine cellars. An audit of 1201 lists his wine stocks at 700 tuns, great casks of 252 gallons each, spread among the royal castles. Marlborough was clearly an important defensive position. During Johns unsuccesful rebellion in 1194, the redoubtable Hubert De Burgh had persuaded it to surrender to Johns forces in a few days Hugh De Neville was established as the castle constable and chief forester of Savernake. John's man. Eventually the barons had enough of the kings rule. The Magna Carta was forced upon the king, and although he signed it, clearly he was not intending to honour the document. Pope Innocent tried to annul the Magna Carta, claiming it denied John his rights and honour, but it was too late. The barons rebelled. On the face of it, the rebellion was not certain of victory. They had little support. A council of twenty-five barons gave the aggressive Alexander II of Scotland, who hated John, swathes of northern England as rightfully his. Worse still, the french king, Louis, landed 1200 knights in Kent with supporting arms on the basis that his claim to the english throne rested on proving that the Magna Carta had fortfeited Johns own. A chaotic civil war ensued. Arms and armour had changed little since the Norman invasion, with perhaps only the intrudction of the great helm for knights as anything significant. However, the english longbow was already proving a valuable military asset. A thousand partisan archers harried the french invaders in southeast england. Also, the crossbow had established itself as the sniper rifle of its day, especially when dealing in assaults and sieges where the slow rate of fire from protected points was not a disadvantage. John obviously had in mind to defend his royal castles. We know he ordered 10,000 quarrels (crossbow bolts) of various sizes to be sent to Marlborough. As it transpired, the french invasion pushed into southern england and conquered important castles like Arundel. At Marlborough, Hugh De Neville surrendered to the french. Worse still, he remained the constable. He had committed treason. A turncoat. According to the rolls of Savernake, the french occupation 'wasted an entire bailiwick', and made a princely

I'm not by nature a couch potato, but let's face it, every so often the urge to sit slack-jawed in front of a television gets the better of us. By saturday night, I too was in couch potato mode. Even the energy drink I was sipping from made no difference. I just couldn't be bothered. The trouble with television on a saturday night is that it seems to be designed for people who have embarrasingly low IQ scores or lack the skills to socialise. It's almost as if media companies don't want people to sit in on a saturday night, because they then have to pay staff to maintain services who would rather be out socialising than catering for couch potatoes. Hey, I pay for thuis service, you know? Enough of my griping. Eventually I settled on watching the news channel. That was about the only thing worth watching. A general tells us that the campaign in Libya has achievable goals... Glad to hear that. It's rather an expensive way to give pilots some target practice. Then there's news of more trouble in Syria.... It's a wonder we're not bombing them too. Oh... I forgot... Defence cuts. Then we got to the weather report. heat wave? What heat wave? The cheery fellow pointed at the map to red circles with absurdly high temperatures. What on earth is going on? Sunday morning I found out. Leaving the house mid-morning I walked into a wall of hot air. It was baking hot out there. This morning is no different. Baking hot out there still. However, the news is that this sudden burst of tropical temperatures is about to come crashing to an end with thunderstorms predicted for tonight and tomorrow. I 'll bet the weatherman is smiling about that too. Man Fights Lion I've just watched a video of a man getting into a cage and attempting to take on a fully grown male lion in a large cage, while members of the public look on. He went in with shield and staff, poking the lion, who was clearly more interested in a siesta than ripping this idiot apart. Nonetheless, the prodding did upset the lion a tad. Well it would, wouldn't it? As it happens the irritated lion tried to paw the mans stave away and stayed in the corner where it wanted a kip. I have to say, as beast fights go, the Romans were somewhat better at it. But then again, they didn't have to contend with animal rights groups. Fact is though this was more of a political stunt, and if I were honest, treating a lion in this manner isn't really what I want to see. Do I think highly of the man for braving the threat of an angry wild cat, a ferocious heavyweight lion? No, not really. After all, following the video of an infant giggling by a glass window as a lionness tried to attack him from the other side, it all seems very much part of the human condition. That said, the urge to grab a sword and take on the local ginger tom doesn't manifest itself either.

That's been the most common theory for a long time. The trouble with these dramatic reconstructions is that they're made by filmmakers, not the experts they consult. According to an article in New Scientist, one other reason for our survival in the difficult 'genesis' era was that we were willing to breed with other hominids. Face it, jokes aside, human beings like sex and ain't all that fussy when there's little choice. The result was a hybrid strain that inherited improved resistance to disease. There is some evidence that we also interbred with neanderthals too. When the next episode features them, I'll be interested to see whether the program mentions that, or simply tells us we were winners in some sort of primitive conquest. You see, the problem is that we tend to look at the migrations and expansion of human beings almost in the same light as a modern invasion. Of course it wasn't. There was no overall coordination whatsoever, as small groups moved into fresh territory independently in search of resources. Also, the program doesn't emphasise that human beings failed to 'conquer' new territory more than once. There were possibly more than eight migrations to ice age Britain before they were able to survive there permanently. That was nothing to do with inter-species competition, simply a climatic battle.

Last week at the programme centre a chap asked me to help him with his jobsearch. His concernwas that the job centre was getting a little impatient with him. My concern was that he was asking me to do his applications for him. You see, I don't mind helping people. it's just that I prefer to help people who try to help themselves. If he'd actually shown any willingness to pull his weight, I would have backed him to the hilt. As it happens, he had no intention of doing anything at all. Nonetheless I told him I was not going to make his job applications for him, so I sat there there for three hours guiding him through the typing of his CV. Now he's complaining that his benefits have been halved. Why am I not suprised? Because between the last session at the centre a week ago he had done absolutely nothing toward completing his CV. Again he came in and asked for my help. When it became obvious I wasn't going to do everything for him, he sat there looking helpless until he caught the attention of a willing assistant. You know what? I find it difficult to have any sympathy for him. Stop it! Over the last decade I've had plenty of experience of job searching. The techniques, especially those concerned with websites and emails, an increasingly prevalent means of finding employees, are a matter of practise. Even my mentor at the programme centre had said I was fully capable of this activity. At least I impressed someone. After a search and a few applications to likely looking vacancies, I sat back. Because of my education and experience, sometimes the staff at the programme centre ask me to help out and assist those struggling to cope with modern electronic devices designed to make Bill Gates richer. So I started browsing a certain site while I waited for the first desperate plea for assistance. As a child I always wanted to be one of Gerry Andersons Thunderbirds, rushing in with fantastic vehicles and saving the day before everything blew up spectacularly. Well, maybe a computer sin't quite Thunderbird 7, but I do help where possible. Unfortunately one of the programme centre staff was checking on my computor use. That happens. I suppose they get lots of kids using Facebook to communicate with other members of their tribe, downloading explicit images, or all sorts of shenanigans. The first I knew was when an irate lady stormed across the office and yelled at me to stop using that site or I'll be reported and thrown off the premises. A quiet word would have sufficed. No matter. I've done what I came for. So I logged off and went about my lawful business out there in the real world. Did someone want me to help them? Sorry about that. Say It Loud BFL was prowling the library foyer this morning as we waited for the doors to open. She does this, seeking out people to converse with. You might ask what was wrong with being sociable, but it's just that she doesn't come across as being sincere. With a voice loud enough for everyone else to listen in on the conversation and enjoy her opinions, she settled on one poor lad who was sat quietly reading a book. Some might accuse me of being a bit of a hypocrite here. Okay, she was ttrying to be the cnetre of attention like she always does, but let's be honest, I'm not above similar tactics in daily life. After all, I'm writing this blog entry. read all about me, everyone, and discover Caldrail for yourselves! I suppose it's part of my nature. When you consider my connections with performing arts and my inability to stay out of the limelight, it's obvious I'm afflicted with that insidious need for attention. yet despite that, there's something insincere about BFL. She attracts attention by deliberate design rather than any inherent character flaw. She makes loud pronouncements about what she thinks. No debate, no exchange of ideas, and in actual fact, no real conversation. She just wants to tell everyone what she thinks. Oh at last. The security guard is opening the doors and we can all all go inside and set about our business. In peace and quiet. I don't know who invented libraries, but what a great idea.

I forgot to answer your question. The most telling indication of what kind of leader Caesar was comes from his own hand. Early in The Gallic Wars, caeaar gathers all his centurions and tels them in no uncertain terms that their job is to lead their men, not to discuss strategy, which he clearly regards as his own prerogative as a Roman noble.

That's a black and white view of the range of capable commanders. In reality it's about shades of grey. I seriously doubt that anyone, irrespective of talent, is capable of leading an army with 100% effectiveness if they have no education or experience of what to do. The again, as we all know, all the education and experience in the world is no little value if the person concerned has no ability whatsoever. Further to that is the question of individual initiative vs team support. Does a general assume sole responsibility and direction, or does he rely on talented junior officers for council and assistance?

Shameless and opportunistic? I think the young lad behaves with stout Roman ethics. He should nonetheless remember to conquer the other side of the bank. We need more revenue from those hairy barbarians who seem perfectly capable of sponsoring good, honest, hard-swimming Roman historians. I put it to the senate that our standard should be carried across the water by this young man of fine physical virtue, and erected as a permanent declaration of achievement by our foremost athlete. I now hand the floor to any other senators who wish to make a statement, and wish the courageous Wotwotius every success. Not that he has any choice of course. We Romans know how to deal with swimmers that don't make it to the other side

Before I dropped in on the library this morning, I strolled down to the newsagent to pick up a copy of the local paper. Not only that, I intend to pay for it too. Unlike many of the people who fill the stories in print this week. There seems to be a lot of theft going on at the moment. Police are looking for one supermarket thief whose grainy security camera image looks worryingly like me on a rainy day, and caught some villains escaping from a raid on another outlet one night. The amazing thing is that the police claim their criminal activity profiling lprepared them for the eventuality. They were waiting, so it seems. Obviouskly why no-one was looking when my car vanished. The best piece was about a guy who offered a group of soldiers a lift. They gratefully accepted and waited while the bloke attempted to start the car, which turned out not to be his, and a bemused owner returned to find seven equally bemused servicemen sat in his car. Our gallant soldiers quickly apprehended the car thief. Quite right too lads. Well done. I vote for military law in Swindon. Dogs Life On the front page though is the sad advertisement for three abandoned dogs who are to be put down imminently. So if you can provide three dogs with loving homes, rush to the phone now, or Loopy, Dolly, and Daisy get it. it's a dog's life. Pay Up Gentlemen The news that a former debt collector has decided to adopt a new career as a pub landlord is interesting. I guess the revellers at his establishment won't be getting any free pints. I can imagine some bloke sat at home watching tv with the wife and kids gets an unexpected knock on the door, an insistent 'answer or else' rapid thumping. "Excuse me? Mr Smith? You drank a pint of lager at the Fox & Hounds last night and neglected to pay for it. That's three pounds or we take the television set." He might be the only publican able to make a profit in Swindon's depressed social scene. For the record, I didn't drink there a couple of months ago and please could I have my car back.

Oh I got the professional publicity photo's and an icon of a sticky-out tongue when she mentioned her mother and father had been killed in a civil war. It's all a bit glib. You weren't far off geographically. And I thought she chose me for my wit, creativity, debonair looks, fashionably shabby hair and clothing, and a certain niche in society? My dreams are shattered. Seems the young lady either wants money or a life in england and isn't too fussy who provides it. Sadly I have no authority or influence with the Foreign Office, HM Customs & Excise, the Judiciary, and even my bank manager doesn't like me anymore. And she reckons she has problems?

Every so often I see news footage of some disaster or conflict that results in people abandoning homes to live in tented shanties. Like most things reported by television, it's all very terrible and you know people are suffering, but the filmed sequences never really prepare you for the reality of it. After all, when you're watching these things, the chances are you're comfortable in a warm secure house with no particular worries except how to afford the bills. Just of late there's been a series of adverts asking for donations to feed starving africans. The images of listless and almost lifeless infants are something to stir pity, whilst the adverts as a whole attempts to stir guilt about our prosperity. A few quid every month and this woman can feed her kids. It's all very humane of course, but the problem with paying money to good causes is that it never seems to help, and in any case, if those infants survive, they breed kids of their own and the problem multiplies the next generation. That's a hard message isn't it? Unfortunately we're not exempt from the Rabbit and Fox diagram we studied as kids at school. If we can't find food, we starve. If we eat, we have have children. it's the same around the world. Much is made of green issues. Pollution, deforestation, species reduction, and so forth. Truth is, there are too many humans. Do you really want to do something about that to make life better for the lucky few? That's a harder message still. Recently I received a message from a lady who asked to get to know me. I'm always a bit wary of internet friendships, and the sites like Facebook never really draw my attention. It all seems very ethereal and meaningless. For some people, merely a popularity contest. Hardly real friendships in many cases. Still, you never know. Lonelieness is a plague in our modern anonymous society, and I do understand how that can affect people. So I replied on face value, a brief message to let the lady know she wasn't being rebuffed mercilessly. Today I received another email from her. A young african woman, very attractive, posing against a palm tree and explaining her difficult circumstances. I must admit, it looks very much like a honey trap. If the young woman is being honest and her life really is that difficult, then my heart goes out to her. On the other hand, it begins to look rather more like a blatant attempt to survive in somewhat wealthier circumstances than west africa can offer her. Boy, is she going to be disappointed. Survival of the Fittest There seems to be a new cat on the block. There it is. Black, white, and ginger splotches, easy to spot when it's prowling around the asphalt areas but no doubt all but invisible in shadows beneath foliage in winter and autumn. I've seen it out in the yard, patrolling its territory and looking for birds and vermin to play with. Once, as I opened the back window, it looked back at me from thirty yards away very suspiciously and kept an eye on me as it wandered toward a secluded part of the buildings on the street further away. What was it expecting? For me to leap onto the back roof, jump down into the yard, and chase it? Obviously that's all part of survival in the rainforests of Darlest Wiltshire. Might have to raise my game then. Where can I book a class in gymnastics? Survival of the Fastest There's been a few wonderful cars spotted driving through Swindon. Just the other day a silver Noble rumbled past with that slightly sharp exhaust note, a subdued hint of the screaming performance the car had available. This morning an old model Lotus Esprit was sat in the Old College car park, still resplendent in black and gold paint, a hangover from the glory days of Lotus's Forumal One days. Itmight be a seventies wedge design, harsh edges and lacking refinement, but it sure looks good. Great to see old sports cars are still surviving out there despite the best efforts of manufacturers, salesmen, politicians, and policemen. I wouldn't leave it there mate. Sports cars vanish in this area. I wonder if that cat knows anything about my missing Eunos? Hmmm....

The library was quiet, far quieter than the usual subliminal murmur of curses, mobile phone conversations, and urgent discussions between young couples. Instead, an air of subdued boredom hung in the air. Not that it bothered me of course. I was too busy communicating with the outside world via the internet. At least I think it's the outside world. What a wierd thing it would be to discover all my virtual friends are actually figments of a computer program. Wow. That would be like being in The Prisoner for real. Except instead of white bouncy balls herding me back to confinement I've got claims advisors. Anyhow, back to the library. By now I'm done communicating. Time to set about the next part of my day and today, I decide to pop back home for lunch before another visit to the programme centre and communal despair at the job club. Log off... Return the book I was reading to the shelf.... And now.... A ladies voice cut through the silence . "Thanks for freeing up a computor for us" Pardon? What cheek! I get the same restrictions as everyone else who uses library computors. The librarian on duty raised her head and locked her laser rangefinder on the woman responsible for that outburst. Time to clear the area before hostilities break out. It could get messy. Lunch At last I seem to be mastering the intricacies of my microwave. I actually managed to reheat a dinner from the fridge and keep it edible. I should put that on my CV. Experienced microwave engineer. That almost qualifies me for a job in catering. Then again, why would I want to be shouted at for a living? That's like joining the army and I'm getting a bit old for that sort of thing. Well, my lunch is well and truly munched, so feeling satisfied with a tasty and edible feast, I can now pop down the programme centre without the need to march in step. After Lunch The government cuts have hit home. We used to have an office devoted to job club activities. Now it's a no-holds barred first-come-ffirst-served fight for survival and the chance to log onto a computer that actually works. One doesn't have a video card that likes Windows. Another doesn't have a keyboard. One tells us that it wants to be another computer, and I notice the staff have locked out the computers that work so they can carry on working. I'm not deterred. By sheer persistence I've found a computer that does work and by the simple expedient of being first through the door, I get to log on and jobsearch to my hearts content. Or at least I would do if the other jobseekers weren't so illerate with computers. The whole point of a job club is communal assistance, so as the resident expert on using the things, various people lift their heads over the monitor with pleading eyes and beg me to help them. One chap realised that making an online job application actually required some effort. He stopped and stared at me before asking "This is going to take a long time." Yep. Sometimes it does. Especially if you haven't prepared a CV file beforehand. "Wouldn't it be easier if you type my CV out for me?" I can see this is going to be a difficult relationship.

This probably wasn't an isolated incident. For spectators to enjoy a combat, it must have gone on for some time. A short bout would have been very disappointing, and then again, the Romans liked to see fair play in munera, the entire reason that referees were present. The typical gladiators armour confirms this, being designed to ward off injuries but not fatal thrusts into the torso. No cuts above the eyebrows would stop the fight! Nonetheless, an injury that prevented further fighting was a disaster for the victim, for he was therefore compelled either to lose or more commonly, to raise his hand/finger in surrender. You could probably imagine how the gladiator felt when his opponent was allowed to recover and continue, but then again, that was an expected part of the regime. It certainly wouldn't suprise the man and only if the judgement was clearly a bad call would he feel aggrieved. Such opinions were not allowed to cause controversy. A gladiator had sworn obedience unto death - that was his lot - and in any case, we are told by sources that even in failure, a gladiator will die with honour, allowing the fatal blow rather than suffer some ignomious and inevitable fate. There does seem to be a streak of fatalism in this genre of fighting. Good friends in the same familia will readily fight and ultimately kill the other if called upon to do so. The inscription at Pompeii that tells "Take heed from my fate and show no mercy" warns others that either your former opponent could live to fight you another day, or that deliberately sparing your opponent might incur the wrath of the games editor who could easily command you to face a fresh opponent until he's satisfied that your performance or fate is sufficient. In any case, the epitaph is always from those who buried the dead man. Friends and families who saw something they disagree with. In the same way that a referee in football is booed because the fans observed an event from a different light, the gladiatorial referee may have taken a different view than the aggrieved mourners.

1. I would assume then that travel from one city to the next could be dicey. The risks were little different from the early empire, unless you travelled into an area where there was hostilities. 2. I assume this did not preclude travel, but traveling in groups would be saver. Travelling in groups was indeed a safer proposition. There was always a risk of enslavement by rural traffickers, banditry, con-men, and so forth. 3. I imagine that life in the lesser villages was more hazardous than life in a walled city. That would depend on the settlement and generally the hazards of urban life exceeded those of rural areas. There's an anonymity about urban life that concealed criminal activity and violence in the way that was impossible in villages. 4. I would also imagine that merchants, loaded down with valuables would not want to travel from one city to the next without accompaniment (other merchants, armed guards, hired guards) Possibly, but since we know merchants travelled frequently with valuable goods, this clearly was a necessary evil. Bear in mind that secure compartments on wagons and boats were not unknown, and that merchants carried a variety of goods at the same time. It was unusual (and something to draw attention to yourself) by carriage of single item goods.

According to the latest New Scientist which I browsed through this morning by sheer coincidence, it appears that african proto-humans interbred with homnid populations en-route. Proof that humans were never fussy about what they had sex with, but also an indicator that mankind is not a pure-blood strain, that local evolution produced similar species where conditions were compatible, and that our evolution was actually assisted by this interbreeding by the genetic inheritance of disease resistance.

Yes it but bothers me. What if I get held by ignorant villagers who want to burn me at the stake for technomancy and joblessness? In the films such victims get saved by eclipses. What chance have I got? Take a deep breath and try to blow the flames out?

Times they are a-changing again. I'm to be placed on a two year program designed to get me back into work. A part of me is a bit dismissive. It is after all just about politicians trying to cover their backsides and look as if they're doing something to reduce unemployment, and you have to wonder what this course will do that hasn't already been offered by the others I've been on. The trouble is that this government is talking tough over things like the dole queue. I'm well aware how many claimants are sitting on their backsides by their own design, but those unlucky enough to suffer unemployment by circumstance risk shabby treatment. Also the agencies that have recently won contracts to supply jobseeking assistance are going to be paid by results. That means that whichever way you look at it, there will be increased pressure and stress on those seeking work. Some would applaud that idea. Usually that's the section of society with safe secure jobs who naturally deel aggrieved that their labour is paying for other peoples living. It certainly isn't from those of us who have to wade through the minefield of governmental bureaucracy and retribution. Oh yes. And once gain I now have to fill in those stupid forms regularly that ask why I haven't applied for any jobs. More Hard Lines Our wonderful Prime Minister has declared that deliberately absent fathers should be treated as social outcasts the same way as drubnken drivers. That doesn't suprise me. I said something like a decade ago that Britain would increasingly return to victorian values. Those who live up to societies ideals get treated reasonably, and those who don't are shunned, despised, reduced to the periphery of our communities. There's good and bad aspects to this of course. It's all very well punishing a class of society that influential individuals disapprove of, but it also inevitably means that those forced by circumstance into that class will also receive poor treatment unfairly. And it's a short step to witchhunts and persecution. Anyway, I recommend to those fathers pushed out of marriage and forced away from their kids to avoid drowning their sorrows. Get a taxi home. And don't lose your job. Or else. Less Fun Time Statistics just released reveal that 17 million britons will not be going on holiday this year. That's 2.7 million up on last year. I wonder if they remembered to include me on that statistic? Unless of course the statatistician regards us unemployed people as being on holiday by default. But then, who would want a holiday in a country where tourists are regarded as lazy good-for-nothings, asked to attend courses designed to help them leave the country, get fined for not trying to leave, and required to fill in forms regularly that demand to know why they haven't tried to leave?

The 'germanisation' (don't you just hate that word?) of Britain began during the empire. The stationing of germanic troops for security in the british provinces was not unique in the late empire but certainly it should be remembered that Britain was not 'Romanized' either. The celtic iron age was present alongside the Roman occupation throughout and although diluted by the insidious nature of Roman commerce and industry, we can still see native housing built in later centuries plus we also note the re-occupation of hill forts. Those saxons present in Britain during imperial times were described as good citizens, but not as Romans. It has been noted that some populations of germanic tribes, such as the Thames Valley Saxons, apparently practised a form of apartheid. They did not interbreed with locals nor seem to have socialised with them. On the other hand, the dominance of this germanic culture was purell local in scope. The west saxons, whose kingdom would later dominate England prior to the viking settlement, took a different by intermarriage and adoption. They were no less aggressive than other saxons but at least some cultural blending took place, or we would not see Weesex kings with british names. It's hard to see how Britain could fail to become more germanic. Roman style religions had passed largely into history and the arrival of irish christianity supplanted the major faiths worshipped in the sub-Roman world. The influx of pagan germanic tribes in that period pushed aside anything left. Indeed, the invasions and colonisations of continental tribes does seem to have sidelined native celtic culture, either in a real sense by refugees moving to remote regions to remain free, or by simple acceptance that pagan Germans were in charge and demanded certain observances. However, we cannot ignore the cultural influence of the church. On the one hand, we have Gildas moaning about the behaviour of the warlords of his day, and with the arrival of the Augustine Mission in the late 6th century the return of Roman Christianity was made converting saxons to continetal ideas of religious conformity, which seem somewhat looser and more expedient than the austere nature of irish christianity. That the saxons wrshipped God in their own style (under Roman aegis) does underline the 'germanisation' of Britain. Language of course reveals much. So much of english is derived from germanic languages, along with later norse and norman influence, whilst the abstraction of latin remained an inheritance of Roman christianity, largely confined to the educated classes of which there were few in the ages follwoing the departure of Roman legions and the eventual seccesion of Britain from the Roman Empire.

Remember to take a shovel.

has anyone considered that it might not have any significance at all? Rather that it might have been merely a fashionable decorative item?

After the assassination of Claigula the Praetorians took the in iniative and chose Claudius as a figurehead Caesar to ensure their lucrative employment continued. In fact, the senate were generally not in a mood to allow another Caesar, and only the risk of violence brought them to the conclusion (rather quickly as it turned out) that Claudius was going to have to be accepted. At this stage it was by no means assured that the Caesars would continue. Augustus had survived and eventually won the senate over, but Tiberius had not presented an equally capable image and lets not forget that during his reign many senators were disposed of by Sejanus, a regime that was hardly liable to endear itself to the wealthy politicians of Rome. Caligula was brought in with most assuming he was going to be a breath of fresh air. The young Caesar was very popular with the masses and indeed remained so despite the suetonian malarkey. It was Caligula's attitude toward the senators that sealed his fate. Partly Caligula was a young man with little self restraint, excessive personal power, a seriously nasty sense of humour, but also he was regarding the senate as an obstacle to his rule. The story that Caligula wanted his horse Incitatus made a senator was a direct reference to this. Even this horse could do a better job than you idiot politicians. Clearly the assassination of Claigula was unexpected. The senators who had any ideas of ascending to the throne weren't in any position to make their move, having been forced to remain careful about speech and deed, and with the Praetorians effectively forcing the seante to accept Claudius (who was very keen, once convinced to become Caesar by the Praetorians, to cement his rule with acts of political benefice and a military invasion of Britain), the chance of any serious senatorial coup, either personal or republican, had been lost.

To say that the museum is a quiet place to work is something of an understatement. All morning the public pass this way and that, going about their mundane business, many totally unaware that a museum exists right under their nose. On the other hand, I suspect many regard museums as boring places that they and their friends wouldn't dream of frequenting for fear their lives would be destroyed by the humiliation. Pfah! What do they know? In fact, today was quite an exciting day for us volunteers. The BBC came in to film a news item (it gets aired on BBC Oxford tonight) and I even got to hold a microphone while the tv journalist recorded his introduction spot..I am now an experienced BBC sound recordist. I should put that on my CV. Why not? It's not as if anyone is going to notice. Rain, Rain, Go Away Okay, who switched the rain off? last night I saw a weather map with a big blue patch spreading across south western england. It's going to rain, they said. Yeah? Here in Swindon the sun is almost winning the battle to dominate todays weather. Why am I whinging? It's a matter of principle. Here I am, all dressed up to cope with dreary wet weather, and the BBC go and cancel the rain due to a news team recording a sequence at the museum. Can't have tv journalists getting all soaked. At least I now see where all our license fees go to. Grey Hari, Go Away Scientists have discovered a cure for grey hair it seems. As a sufferer of this blight for many decades it comes as a shock to discover that it's a disease. I thought hair turned grey sooner or later, though admittedly, in my case it was very sooner. I started going grey when I was 13. One of my grandfathers was completely grey by the time he was 17, so I can only assume I suffer from a hereditary disease. Damn my slightly non-conformist genes! Why is grey hair regarded in such a bad light? Because it makes us look old and past it? Or is it some instinctive thing, where younger people seek to oust the older less capable members of the tribe from eating food or bonking females? Despite the best efforts of television advertising, and no shortage of jibes from colleagues, I've never felt the slightest compuction to dye it. If that's the colour nature has decided my hair shall be, so be it. Remember, grey haired people are no different. I had a dream... Where grey haired people are equal in society... Where grey haired people aren't forced to buy cosmetics in order to lead fulfilling social lives... I had a dream... Okay. I've woken up now. But I can't afford hair dye, and in any case, I'm rather attached to what's left of my grey hair. At least I still have some.

You still waiting too? I don't get it. How come television astronomers always have a clear view of these things? Do I have to bribe Patrick Moore or something?