caldrail

1.) What was the role of a slave in ancient Rome? What rights did they have? The role of a slave was to perform as required by the owner. It really was that simple. The value of a slave wasn't just measured by a price tag alone. Some slaves had expert skills, others were trusted servants. Some slaves might be set up in business for their owners profit, and probably with a view to manumission later. On the other hand, an unlucky slave was condemned to hard labour or worse. A man could sleep with a female slave as he wished, but women were not supposed to do so with male slaves, even though it's obvious they did from time to time. There were harsh penalties imposed for treachery. Should a slave kill his master, it was expected that all the slaves of that household would be executed, a policy designed to inhibit conspiracies. Also, even if you were freed by your master, you were stained by having been a slave, and could never seek public office again. Since they were not citizens nor even human, slaves were not allowed to marry. Some owners allowed them to cohabit and any children were the masters property, rather like breeding animals. Strictly speaking, slaves had no rights. They were, by definition, not human beings. In fact, they were sometimes referred to as 'Talking Tools'. However, the maltreatment of slaves became a humanitarian issue as the Principate arrived, and bit by bit, the worst excesses of owners were curbed by law, such as the selling of slaves to a ludum, or the dumping of sick slaves to die. In effect, the slaves were protected not by giving them rights (you didn't want slaves quoting rules), but by denying them to their owners. It should be pointed out that slavery was not always foisted upon the individual. In some cases, a person volunteered for slavery to avoid debt, or even improve their career prospects if they had suitable skills, experience, and could find the right owner. One of Claudius's administrators did exactly that. There's a lot more to this subject, but that's just my two cents for now. 2.) What percentage of the population in Rome were slaves? Nobody actually knows, because there's no accurate survivng census. However, information that has been recovered suggests that many homes, even some of the poorer ones, had one or two slaves. Only a minority of wealthy owners had hundreds of slaves to call upon. PS - I've just remembered an oddity of Roman law. A slave could not own property because anything of his belonged to his master, but I note there was nothing in law to prevent a slave from owning another slave.

No, not yet, I still don't drive an Aston Martin and so far John Cleese hasn't popped out of the floor to demonstrate an invisible BMW.

Another day, another visit to the doctor. It was an early start on a damp and dismal day in rainy old Swindon, the traffic thrashing around in a sort of 'late for work' way. When the doctor called for me he asked "What can I do for you today?" It was tempting to reply that I didn't know. Hey, I was asked to book this appointment. Come on Doctor, get your act together. Not that it would have made any difference. Apparently I'm going to be turned into a cyborg for 24 hours shortly. No, really. They're going to fit me with some sort of monitor. I wonder what it does? Alert the Police if I go outdoors? Check for body odour and bad fashion? Whether I'm breaking the speed limit? Or have they finally cottoned on that I might be from another planet? Keeping It Real Repent Sinners, and delete thy Confession app from thine iPod! The Pope says it isn't a genuine substitute for a real confession. I agree completely, but then, real confessions aren't exactly credible, are they? Come on, Mr Pope, who are you trying to kid? Send them a text telling sinners to type out twelve Hail Mary's. Advert of the Week Goes to Lloyds TSB. You have to laugh. Apparently if you overdraw your account you get until closing time the same day to sort it out. Or what? Are they going to send the boys round? I'll know I'm in trouble when Michael Caine turns up at the door. Another Quote From The Caldrail Archives I'm a morning person. Afternoons are there for me to recover from doing things

Looking out the window this morning I see a vista of clear blue sky. After yesterdays squalls and blustery winds it's a welcome change. Years ago, on a day like this, I would phone the flying club and ask if there was an available aeroplane. There is? Brilliant, I'll be there in an hour. There wasn't much to it. I arrive, park up, and pop by the control tower to check for weather information. Oh yes. You never take british weather for granted. It's suprised me more than once. Also there was the endless notices to airmen, photocopied lists of do's and don'ts which might apply to flights in my area. Thruxton was unusual in that they bothered to map out the directives on the wall, so that you didn't have read through page after page of dull government agency text. Only the relevant ones for my flight were of any interest. That done, it was down to the office to sign out my reserved aeroplane. Stroll across the race track (I only had to dash across to avoid a racing car once), and toward the gate to the infield. On one occaision a kit car was parked out there and I gave it a casual perusal as I past by. The owner was not a tolerant man. I heard a very loud and abrupt "HEY!" to warn me that proximity to his beloved creation was going to end in something very inconvenient. I was only looking. Good grief, if you drive an unusual car, surely you expect a certain amount of interest from passers-by? Still, I don't blame him for being protective. Now I cross the grass apron amongst the ranks of stationary aircraft. Most are club aeroplanes, small two seater american trainers, such as the Piper Tomahawk I'd booked. To be honest, whilst they flew well enough and were the cheapest available, they were quite dull machines. I much preferred the rare Beagle Pup when I got the chance. Now that was a suprisingly spirited aeroplane, a definite favourite of mine. On that day I hadn't the choice. Approaching the aeroplane on a warm day provides a sense of anticipation. There's a host of things you need to see to before you take off, so I set about stowing my bag, doing a walk-around to check the aircraft exterior for function and condition, then at last climb in and set about my pre-flight checks. The heat! If you've never sat in an idle light aircraft in the sun, my advice is don't unless you have to. Those large curves of plexiglass trap all the sunshine and boy oh boy is it warm in there! I always used to ask my passenger to hold a door open when I was taxiing, to get some propellor draft into the cockpit. But today I'm flying alone. So I have to put up with it. Well, everything seems to be working, and I have enough fuel for my intended hour of local flying, aimlessly enjoying the that sincere pleasure of being up there. Starting the engine is a bit of an art. Some engines fire up eagerly, others are sullenly stubborn, and all require a little coaxing with a number of levers and plungers designed in the 1920's. Usually there was no problem. With a loud shout to warn anyone lurking near the propellor out of sight, the engine fires up and the twin blades vanish into a circular blur. Aircraft are noisty little things. Just as well my headphones ward off the worst of it. Without them, you end up battered by the insistent roar. The normal routine is to radio the tower and inform them of my intentions. They pretty well know what I'm up to, and the clipped reply sounds very bored of the same old information. A little odd that. There's no-one else out here. I have the field to myself. A few years ago this field was buzzing and communication a frantic experience. Now we're all getting a bit lazy as the economy, regulations, and other reasons witherdown the activity I expect at Thruxton. With the brakes off the Tomahawk accelerates readily. Turn using the rudder, avoid fast taxying despite the impatience of an intruder to my little world, a larger Robin four seater, whose brash pilot clearly has better things to do than wait politely for me to trundle out, and I make my way to the far side of the field and the appropriate end of the runway. My rival asks for permission to turn off the taxiway and rush down the runway to take off first. To be honest, everyone, including me, are keen to let him. There's a sense in flying that rushing around is bad for you. It probably is, but he roars away and leaves me to bumble along the grass in peace. At the runway end, time for those last vital checks. Satisified everything is working the way aeronautical science demands, I radio the tower again and announce my departure. To be honest, although the tower is termed an 'advice service' only, he's in charge when it comes to traffic around the field. Not only politeness, it's good practice. But there's no problem, no-one around to obstruct my take-off, and he lets me go. Turning on the runway is always an odd experience. So much wider than you expect. Thruxton is an olsd WW2 airfield, where P47's and glider tugs operated from in support of D-Day, but the runway is in fact only a portion of what it used to be. The other end is now the concrete part of the apron by the tower. Line up on the centreline. A quick mental check that everything is in order. That runway disappears into the distance, but trust me, it's not as long as it looks. I confess, this is the moment I feel the thrill. Push the throttle lever forward, all the way, and that rumble you'd gotten used to this last ten minutes erupts into an angry bellow as you sense that propellor turning ever faster. Quickly the Tomahawk gains speed. They don't take off as readily as Cessna's, so a little back pressure on the yoke is called for, and in any case, it's good practice to keep the weight off that nosewheel. The aeroplane wants to veer. The rudder feels sensitive and keeping the aeroplane straight is occupying my attention. You can feel a relentless increase in speed. At the same time it feels impressively rapid yet agonisingly slow. A new sensation appears. The aeroplane is wallowing just a little, feeling lighter, and the pit of your stomach registers that first hesitant rise as the wheels begin to lose their grip on the runway. We're flying! With the speed increasing more rapidly, ease back the yoke, adopt the climb attitude, and away she goes. The ground is falling away.I would enjoy this a lot more if I didn't have to stay alert for the possibility of engine problems. The take-off is the most safety-critical part of the flight. Despite my wariness, there's no problem, and the little plane gains height above southern England lazily, not coping so easily with the thinner warm air outside. The draughty cockpit feels cooler, comfortable, and now I must deal with the protocol of flying near the ground within an airfield's territory, trimming and raising flaps, looking about for other aeroplanes, keeping to the circuit, and announcing my departure from the area. Strictly speaking, I should change radio frequencies and tell someone else what I'm up to. The miltary airfield down the road for instance, who control the airspace around Thruxton. Truth is I don't want to. Although the air is a little hazy, perhaps a little bumpy as I fly through thermals, it just feels great to be up here alone for a while at the controls of this obedient little machine. Oh yes. That was why I flew. More On How It Was There's a book at the library which I've leafed through this morning. Probably the reason why I'm waxing lyrical about flying. It's a collection of reminiscenses of World War One veterans, flyers with the RFC and RNAS. Now of course they were flying in wartime, in aeroplames made of very combustible material, without parachutes, in aeroplanes that were barely more capable than the first to fly ever. You know what? For all the danger, I notice that they all enjoyed it too.

I like the creative end of computer use. Graphics, 3D modelling, and to be honest, I'm a comnplete ferro-equinologist as well as a keen hiker when I get the time to head for the hills. Now that flying for real is beyond my finances (ever so slightly) I do a lot of sim-flying. Not the same, not even close, but what else can I do? Sadly no more Star Trek. It's off the television for the first time in twenty years and now I'm left no excuse but to fill my hours plotting to impose my new solo album on the unsuspecting public.

At last I can sit down and relax. This morning began as the day continued, fighting the good fight and righting wrongs, mostly those concerned with letters arriving a month or two late. Although I expected no end of hassle, for once the public were less bloody minded and some even smiled cheerily as they dealt with my catalogue of problems. Maybe it's the warmth of the library, the top public floor with computers in every corner, but I'm feeling a little drowsy. As usually happens in the afternoon I had to wait an hour for an available slot and sat there reading science magazines, I was nodding off a few times. Another One Bites The Dust I suppose it's inevitable, but the legion of music performers from the era of popular music beginning in the 60's are getting older, and they're starting to disappear, one by one. I hear today that Gary Moore has bitten the dust. That saddens me of course, not just because he will never perform live again, but also as symbolic of this attrition that will surely increase as times go by. Are the younger musical celebs going to induce this kind of nostalgic regret for their passing? Not from me. Most of them I haven't heard of, and most of what they did isn't anywhere near as ground-breaking as the old rockers used to be. When you think about it, what a fantastic period for music we've been living through. Stamping Out The Music At the other end of the scale, I see the police might be given powers to confiscate iPods of troublesome youths. That has my full backing. teach kids the basics again. Reading, Writing, 'Rithmetic, and Rock music. Hey, I never had my iPod confiscated by the police. You might argue that's partly because they weren't invented when I was young, and that being a complete techno-luddite, I still don't own one. Then again, maybe that's because I still prefer music performed the way it should be. In The News As I stroll down the hill every morning to go about my lawful and non-iPod business, I pass by a newsagent on the corner. They have newspapers laid out along the bottom shelf in such a way that I can give the headlines a quick survey. There's one tabloid that has, for the last two months, put nothing else on their front page than the thrills and spills of Jordan's turbulent private life. Maybe they ought to call it the Jordan Times. Or maybe News of the Jordan? Whatever. So far the news in that paper is so interesting that I haven't bought a copy. Why would I bother? The headline tells you everything you need to know, and probably more than that. Who is she, anyway? Anybody know? I guess I'll soon discover which newspapers people are reading right now.

On the contrary. For instance, christianity has always used the concept that an imminent end-of-things is possible within the current lifespan. Some sects accentuate that aspect of theior belief more than others, but it's there, enshrined in their texts. For the Romans, the idea that they were succesful and powerful mitigated against any doubts concerning survival. After the defeat of Carthage and their removal from the power struggle, what did the Romans have to fear? The victory in the Punic Wars really did mark a watershed in Roman self-esteem. That usual quote of "The gods have given Rome an empire without frontiers, or without end" really does sum up that attitude. Size matters. Aside from the occaisional internal problem, there was a sense among Romans that they weren't likely to be touched by catastrophe, and in any case, the Romans usually regarded such things as acts of the gods and inherently exceptional.

I think we need to be careful about judging living standards because their prices aren't necessarily equivalent to ours, and in any case, the average common labourer lived in circumstances that the modern day authorities would regard with horror, irrespective of what they could afford. I don't actually believe most of them were all that well off at all. Rents were always high, lodging often jerry-built and rat-infested, with no running water, toilet, or cooking facilities. Since we don't have enough detail about their lifestyles, it's hard to judge accurately to what extent we could define them as comfortable. Also, there must have been a lot of variation. Some individuals have a talent for making money, others don't. In any case, we do know that large numbers were inceasingly drawn toward volunteering for the arena. It wasn't just the potential fame that persuaded them.

That's it. I've had enough. After a few years of not writing any computer programs at all, I've discovered how much I've forgotten. There's a command phrase I need and I can't remember what it is. It's a strange irony that help files are no help whasoever when you don't know what you're looking for. After spending a fruitless hour in a quest for digital enlightenment, I decide that I've had enough. Switch the darn thing off and get something to eat before I starve. So I stomp despondently into the kitchen and start a quest among the shelves for culinary enlightenment, only to discover I've been a little negligent about buying food. Starvation looks like a distinct possibility. On the other hand, I still have a few quid in my pocket, an increasingly rare event these days. As it happens I nearly had more. A day or two before I bought a burger down the road and ended up totally confused by the vendors inability with english and his insistence that I still owed him money when I thought he owed me some. All a little bit embarrasing but it seems I was at fault, although it absent-mindedness rather than . At least I wasn't arrested or chased up the hill with a machete. However, I had just enough for an indian takeaway. Not an expensive one of course, but it's still possible to buy a reasonably priced curry if you use cash. So having made my decision I turned from the kitchen, stomped despondently down the stairs and.... Huh?... Is that a bunch of letters in my postbox? Yes, it is. A darn great pile of them. All of them weeks overdue and one postmarked 30th November. Apparently I'm in danger of losing my benefits if I don't reply to a letter sent a month ago. My credit card has been stopped for no logical reason whatsoever. I was even offered a job interview by an employer and I was blissfully unaware. You know, the sort of thing that you laugh at when it happens to someone else. Something tells me I might receive a threat from the Job Centre to stop my benefits if I don't reply to a letter arriving two months late. Question is, who's guilty of late delivery? My Indian Takeaway Hmmm... Yeah... Tastes good.... (belch)... Wonder if I remembered to buy some toilet paper? This could get even more embarrasing... Health Update Some letters manage to get through. Having bravely allowed a nurse to stab me, my blood has been tested and I'm told not to worry. But please turn up again at a later date and get stabbed again. Brilliant. Im entrusting my health to a colony of vampires.

No, they didn't, and quite the reverse. The Romans began to believe they had a divine purpose in dominating the world before the reign of augustus. However, Polybius did discuss this sort of political aging back in 150BC and he does say that all empires fall by the wayside eventually. He describes the evolution of a society which compares very favourably with modern political science. Although Polybius comes across as a more enlightened commentator in that respect, even he believed that Rome was destined for great things in the future (which in a sense it was)

True, and in my area, the course of a Roman road heading from Durocornovium to Cunetio (Swindon to Marlborough) is clearly visible not only in the road that follows the same path, but the minor road that continues the course over the ridge just north of the Kennet Valley, which can be seen from a long way off.

I've done it! I've made to the end of the week! Doesn't sound like a particularly brilliant achievement, but with my bedroom temperatures reduced almost to Ice Age conditions, I was starting to worry about becoming extinct. After all, the neanderthals, who were better adpated to the cold than we are, failed miserably to survive their frigid bedrooms at all. Talking about them, there a new theory why they died off. I've always put it down to old age and poor sex education, but apparently my theories are wildly incorrect, as the equally incorrect theories mention causes as diverse as disease, lack of social skills, arid/frozen conditions during a glaciation, and the nastiness of Homo Sapiens. So basically the neanderthals died out through lack of party invites. I know how they feel.. Erm... Felt. Now the theory has emerged that neanderthals couldn't run very fast, having shorter legs and less capable ankles. That might explain the insignificant sales of sportswear in that period. Hey, I do my homework. Slightly Windy It's howling a gale out there. hardened sea dogs will no doubt scoff and tell me it's a mere breeze, but blustery it most certainly is. With the wind is a sort of fine spray of rain, leaving the pedestrian refreshed after a hard slog up the pavement facing the oncoming gusts without dampening their spirits. Good, bracing Swindon weather. Wish you were here. Global Rollercoaster With the debate and lecturing about Global Warming, I notice a sudden blossoming of television programs exploring climate change and in particular, expanding our understanding of changes throughout human prehistory. it seems that occaisionally we suffer 'Heinrich Events', the last of which caused a drop in average temperature of ten degrees in as many years. And it swung the other way when the ice receded. And we're worried about an average 1 degree rise? We still have another two to go.

Yeah... Funny that...

Life is full of coincidences. last night, whilst busy working on some computer stuff, I brought up the television on one side of the screen. To my horror, Channel One is no longer broadcasting. Oh no! Life without Star Trek? Repeats of the various series have been shown by Channel One and its previous owner, Virgin, for two decades almost continuously. The world will never be the same. So what else is there? I flicked through the various channels and eventually gave up, dropping the remote onto the desk, shaking my head, and leaving the screen showing Grand Designs, in whci a couple optimistically set about creating their own dream boat-house from scrap material. As a rule, the program doesn't interest me. Somehow the people who build their dream house find money out of thin air, are multi-tasking geniuses, and always arrive at the end with a happy smile. not these two. Slowly but surely my attention was drawn to their inept efforts at boat reconstruction, not to mention planning and permissions. They ended up with nowhere to moor their creation, no-one to finish it, and as far as I could tell, no home at all. Imagine my suprise as the very same boat-house cropped up in the internet news today, having slipped its moorings in a vandalised state. What a small world. Sleepless In Swindon After a long absence the urban foxes are back. Last night I woken by one distressed fox screeching its little furry nuts off. If you've never heard urban foxes, let me tell you the sound they make is unbelievable, straight out of a horror film, piercing the stillness of the night. On the other hand, if a fox is at large and making noise, that means there's no car thief trying to figure out why my car won't work. So there you have it. If you want your kept safe, keep urban foxes in the area. As soon as it goes quiet and you fall asleep, you know your car is either being stolen or vandalised. The perfect car alarm. More On Crime For those of you trying to catch up with lost sleep, the Home Office have recently unleashed a new website that details reports of crime around Britain. From that you can see whcih streets are risky. The data got into the local paper this morning as the headline warns us that "Swindon road is the dodgiest in the county". For a moment I took that to mean Swindon Road, just around the corner. That would explain a few things. Sadly that was wrong, and the guilty streets are elsewhere, though in one or two cases, not that far away. The police have told us that the information is not an accurate reflection of the reality concerning crime. Pardon? Politicians not giving out correct statistics? Whatever next? Why Do They Do It? Why oh why do women lean forward to talk to us blokes at every opportunity? My eyes are immediately drawn to the usually obscured display of their cleavage and that does very strange things to my anatomy, such as causing me to contort my face into a silly grin. I think she was telling me something very important. I have no idea what it was. My mind was... Well... Preoccupied. Just keep on talking, dear. That's right. I wonder what it was I just agreed to? Oh never mind, I'm sure it will work out okay.

In my childhood there was an annual pilgrimage to Northumbria, where one side of my family originates from. Inevitably that meant a visit to Cullercotes and Whitley Bay. Any excuse to get down to the seaside. it's a very british obsession. One year we stumbled across a puppet show performed in the traditional fashion by a couple of guys in a claustrophic box stood on the sand. Funny thing was, I found myself wrapped up in the antics of the puppet characters. He's behind you! Why doesn't he listen? By chance I came across a documentary on Russia Today concerning the dramatic arts now allowed among prisoners of a Russian prison. It looked very starnge with a hall full of shaven haired convicts staring at the antics of puppets performed by fellow inmates. Well, it keeps them off the streets, doesn't it? I note every thief and murderer simply sat there transfixed, no matter how childish this entertainment might seem to our jaded western sensibilities. One suspects the alternative is to step this way and return to the cells. The amusing bit was a pair of women convicts. One a murderess, the other a robber, playing male and female characters in Romeo & Juliet (in Russian, of course. Even they wouldn't be able to understand the tudor english of William Shakespeare). To them, there was nothing odd, since gender segregation meant they had little choice to play all the male parts among themselves, but did I spot an attempt by the journalist to suggest the merest possibility of a hint of a suspicion of a possibility that there might, just possibly, be a subtle overtone of... No, surely not... Yes, lesbianism? The prisoners kept a straight face and did not stress the point. More Puppets At Play Punch & Judy shows throughout the evening, every evening. Hear them squabble. Fun for all the family. Or not, if you're trying to get some sleep while its going on. Oh, and we seem to have a nocturnal woodpecker in the neighbourhood. All part of life in the rainforests of Darkest Wiltshire. DIY Doctor of the Week This prestigious accolade goes to me. As part of my diagnosis for whatever ailment is causing me grief, I've been asked to monitor my blood pressure daily with a borrowed gizmo that tries to squeeze my arm off. There must be a trick to this, because it refuses utterly to return anything remotely reasonable. Now I know why I have an unquenchable love of fast cars. Apparently I have the heart of a racing pidgeon. Oh such fun...

Television makers do like stressing the importance of the event they are describing. It makes for good television. Personally I haven't anything to add, given I've never heard of the battle before (I wonder if that's a clue to the significance?... Maybe, maybe not), but my first impression is to question why the documentary believes this battle to be so important. My good friend Professor Wikipedia has this to say about significance... Plataea and Mycale have great significance in Ancient history as the battles which decisively ended the second Persian invasion of Greece, thereby swinging the balance of the Greco-Persian Wars in favour of the Greeks.[87] The Battle of Marathon showed that the Persians could be defeated, and the Battle of Salamis saved Greece from immediate conquest, but it was Plataea and Mycale which effectively ended that threat.[87] However, neither of these battles is nearly as well-known as Thermopylae, Salamis or Marathon.[88] The reason for this discrepancy is not entirely clear; it might however be a result of the circumstances in which the battle was fought. The fame of Thermopylae certainly lies in the doomed heroism of the Greeks in the face of overwhelming numbers;[89] and Marathon and Salamis perhaps because they were both fought against the odds, and in dire strategic situations. Conversely, the Battles of Plataea and Mycale were both fought from a relative position of Greek strength, and against lesser odds; the Greeks in fact sought out battle on both occasions.[23][87] Militarily, the major lesson of both Plataea and Mycale (since both were fought on land) was to re-emphasise the superiority of the hoplite over the more-lightly armed Persian infantry, as had first been demonstrated at Marathon.[84] Taking on this lesson, after the Greco-Persian Wars the Persian empire started recruiting and relying on Greek mercenaries.[90] One such mercenary expedition, the "Anabasis of the 10,000" as narrated by Xenophon, further proved to the Greeks that the Persians were militarily vulnerable even well within their own territory, and paved the way for the destruction of the Persian Empire by Alexander the Great some decades later. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Battle_of_Plataea

Today I got stabbed. The nurse pulled a huge metal needle from her bag of tricks and annoucned she was going to. I know the needle is actually a tiny little prod, but looking at the end of it wavering close by, it looks like one end of the Channel Tunnel. And she's going to push that into my arm? Yes, she is. The happy ending is that I've survived my close encounter with the medical profession. It's interesting that the subject of health care is a big issue in Britain (again) as our coalition government tackle reform in the NHS. They say they want a fitter, leaner, more efficient NHS. So has every politician seeking votes over the last five decades. Okay, I know we all see horror stories about anti-social behaviour in hospitals and the mistakes, if not outright evil deeds, that a minority of medical staff commit, but my own experience is that the profession does a pretty good job overall. Having said that, my experience is limited, because I don't fuss and demand treatment or bleat on about rights. A few aches and pains are just part of life as far as I'm concerned, and it's only recently I've decided my condition warrants a closer look at. So does the doctor apparently, since I now have to book a hospital appointment. Unfortunately the old crumbling hospital was closed years ago, and a new one built on the edge of the known universe, five or six miles away in the countryside. Maybe I'm being fussy, but was that really an efficient place to build a hospital? Cats In The Wilds OF England For most of my life I've seen occaisional reports of big cats living wild in England. Someone spots the shy animal and it gets into the papers. Usually the culprits were reckoned to be owners of exotic pets, who released their animals into the wild either because dangerous animal legislation in recent years made them illegal, or because they just couldn't afford the food bill. That's not actually right. Usually the culprit was an excess of alcohol and poor perceptual skills, so like UFO's and other wierd phenomena, it all gets written off as a hoax. Not any more. At long last a former policeman has spotted one. I mean, policemen are never wrong, are they? Personally, as much as I admire big cats and their ability in television adverts to make us buy a staid ordinary car, I have no desire to bump into one on one my hikes into the countryside. Luckily the big cats seem equally intent on avoiding me.

I think we forget how closely linked we are to the ecological structures of this planet, and if you take a purely animalistic view, then societies comnform to a cultural survival of the fittest, which does fit neatly with our history as a species. Those cultures that suit circumstances and are able to fend off rivals do well, others wither or get conquered, and as Polybius noted back in 150BC or thereabouts, all things die of old age, including nation states. So in that respect, the enviroment is all important. It drives humanity to expand or colonise. It forces them to consider social changes. It determines whether their population can eat and drink, or wipe them out in a natural disaster. Certainly the decision making process of society plays a part as the direct and knock-on effects become apparent, but then so it does with animals in the natural world. Does the carnivore wait for a chance to scavenge a meal, or rush in roaring and teeth barred hoping to scatter rivals away? Does the animal choose to be sneaky or aggressive? These are survival choices that determine who succeeds or not. Are we really any different?

Is historical comparison worthwhile? It can be, provided we learn something from it. The problem I've always noticed with comparisons, and the military sphere is by far the worst offender, is that people assume the world is exactly the same today as it was then, or want it to be essentially the same, because they understand the modern world implicitly and therefore if the Romans were just like us, then understanding would be a breeze. They slot names and numbers into neat constructs that bear more resemblance to the modern day than to anything that happened two thousand years ago. The issue then is context. Whatever aspect of Roman society you want to compare, you must illustrate it with respect to their viewpoint, their culture, and their world in the larger scale. That requires more work and consideration. I've ranted at people endlessly about the Roman military and why they didn't just click their fingers and invent a modern-esque army. That doesn't mean I'm right, but I have given the matter a lot of thought and believe passionately that our assumptions about things Roman distort the lessons we should be learning.

Swindon gets a lot of stick. It rains, it's boring, it's a no-go area for the fashionable. yet even one of our foremost critics, BBC's very own Top Gear, sometimes destroy cars just up the road from our undesirable borough (and show some magnificent views of Barbury Castle in the last episode. Come on guys, show some culture). So far however I have failed utterly to go hiking and walk past Wroughton airfield while they're filming. It's only a matter of time, chaps. Joking aside, there are serious matters to contend with. Swindonians are not happy. Councillors are are knocking on doors asking residents if they agree with yellow lines, those hateful road markings that tell drivers they will be mauled by traffic wardens if they attempt to park their cars. That of course assumes the road doesn't have any potholes in it, which might force you to park your car unexpectedly. Swindon is slowly collapsing into the ground so it seems. There's now an action group that, and I quote, "pushing the council to take action on those potholes forgotten by everyone else". Wow. They mean business. No pothole is safe. But potholes are freaks of nature, the result of weather and geology, not to mention dodgy road maintenance. It seems manhole covers are being stolen. Swindon's neanderthal population have learned that they can catch innocent people for their cooking pots that way, and even better, earn a few quid from scrap metal. In fairness, that's not a new problem. I understand that Hungary had to close railway lines not only because of governmental desires to make everyone use buses, but because certain citizens were knicking rails for scrap. That's happened in Britain too. Not far from Swindon either, one of the great railway towns of a bygone era. But lastly, and most scandalously, it's man's best friend that is causing problems for Swindon. That's the furry barking kind of best friend, by the way, in case you misunderstood. Dog mess is everywhere and dogs are responsible. What, like that started happening yesterday? Now come on, councillors, there are laws about dog faesces on the pavement and it's about time dogs were made to understand it isn't acceptable. No! Bad dogs! Naughty dogs! No more walkies for you! Winter of the Week I don't get it. Why is it so cold. Okay, I know it's the time of year when cold temperatures aren't so unusual, but this is the modern globally warmed era. The governments of the world are telling us that this sort of cold winter is a thing of the past. Why won't winter listen?And when is the government going to penalise winter for taking no notice of their eco-concious pronouncements? it's a scandal. It really is.

There's plenty of suffering in the modern world too. Also, I think we need to be a little cautious in analysing ailments from records left by roman writers, especially from one who liked to add a lot of colour to his descriptions. We have a heightened awareness of aches and pains due to our comfortable lifestyles, plus the knowledge of what actually causes them, whereas even the greek physicians of the time were, for all their skill at healing, were relatively unaware.

Every week I attend a work club. You remember the film Full Monty? yep, that's us, a disparate group of individuals all sat for an afternoon plugging away despondently at our job search and ready for any high jinks to pass the time of day. The chap who runs the club has obviously gotten bored of the shy silence that normally pervades our sessions. No-one seems keen to talk to each other, although last week we had a competition to find the stupidest vacancies online. I managed to find a chinese city five miles from Swindon that goes by the name of Wu-Hu. I'm not making it up. Another guy found a vacancy for building formula one grand prix cars. Experience not necessary (!!!!) In order to enliven proceedings, yesterday afternoon he decided to get everyone present to nominate our favourite music track which he would play off the internet for our edification and delight. I chose Stargazer (Rainbow). Not an obvious choice, and at in excess of seven minutes in length, I did wonder if it was going to go down like Casanovas's underwear. Oddly enough, our diverse group of unemployed claimants seemed to enjoy it. The young foreign lady with the engineering qualifications couldn't make up her mind. It was becoming a running joke every time she scrubbed her choice off the list and wrote another one. As her mood changed from utterly depressed to happy smiling party girl, so her choice of music changed with it. And I can't remember the song she chose. Oh yes - I 've just remembered. I believe in Miracles (Hot Chocolate). Inspired choice. The shy elderly chap was a suprise. He could barely speak a sentence without umming and ahhing, but chose Born in the USA (Bruce Springsteen). beneath that frustated and genteel old man lies the heart of a rock n roll rebel, obviously. Our afro-carribean friend in the corner came up with the sort of RnB track you'd expect, but in fairness, it was one of the more musical tracks and had a great chorus. No, I haven't a clue what it was. By the end of the afternoon we were all happy claimants, raring to take on the world in our quest for gainful employment. I suppose it was inevitable someone would suggest we all did a Full Monty, rather like the film, and yes, it was me. I am shameless. Political Discussion of the Week The other interesting thing yesterday was an in-depth discussion of politics. Normally that subject induces an arguement and bitter appraisals, but in this case, the recent riots and uprisings in Tunisia and Egypt proved an interesting counterpoint to how British society dealt with such unrest. My point is that an uprising wouldn't happen here. I remember chatting to an american who worked in Britain for some strange reason, and he reckoned we needed a revolution. Probably why he doesn't live the States anymore. Anyway, I pointed out that although democracy is theoretically designed for the populace to have a say in government, a complete deomocracy would therefore turn its leaders into little more than slaves. Since it's human nature for a minority to dominate the tribe, politicians aren't going to accept this because they want to rule, not to be ruled. Of course our system means theefore that if the public do get bored or upset by a government, their chances of survivng the ballot box diminish, so there's a safety valve in british society that some of the more authoritarian and obstinate governements of the world don't have, preferring to use force and covert measures to survive in office. then again, as we agreed, the effect of modern media is destabilising some of these states. Whereas in the past a villager had little contact outside his own restricted horizons, now he can communicate with anyone else on the worlds surface, thus ideas and sentiments are exchanged. he no longer feels as powerless. That, for a tyrannical regime, is dangerous, because recent events - and indeed, historical ones - have shown how tenuous a governments grip on the public can be. yes, a chance to exercise the brain cells and debate something somewhat more meaningful than the breakdown of a celebrity's marriage, or the mudslinging departure of a soap actor. Now we've done that, can we do the Full Monty now?

You ain't kiddin'. Dave has saved me from despair many times. Channel One shows all the old Star Trek except the original, Dave shows all the old Top Gear. More 4 shows all the old Time Team. My life is complete.

The message I picked up from that program was the widening gap between those that understand science and practice it's strange dark rituals, and the public who are largely ignorant and form protest groups at the sheer mention of anything scientific going on. In other words, it's a modern manifestation of superstition. The public get it into their heads that something potentially evil is going on and head straight there in a ugly crowd holding burning torches ready to set these works of the bad guys alight. Funny really. Mary Shelley had the subject pretty well covered a century and a half ago. You could argue her misguided scientist was acting beyond approval, whereas moden scientists are regulated by governments to avoid inflicting the public with square headed inarticulate zombies, but once the public get suspicious and smell a rat....

I've decided that television is an insidious device created for the sole purpose of keeping people off the streets. As you probably guessed, I was kept off the streets last night. probably no bad thing mind you, as Swindon streets are certainly no better than anyone elses. This morning I watched a team of hi-vis clothing walking the pavements measuring distances with little wheely things. At first it occured to me that our local council might have realised the streets exist and that they need to take care of them at last, but then again, it might have something to do with our forthcoming retail development at the Old College site. Alternatively, it might simply be a precursor to some bold new means of extracting cash from drivers. Anyway, it's cold out there. Not exactly siberian weather, not even frosty, just that uncomfortable chill that cuts to the bone. My home is all that much warmer mind you, but at least I have the television to keep me company in those long evenings that really fly by. Some of you might be asking why I don't go out somewhere and have fun. I would love the opportunity to do so. Unfortunately such social pleasures invariably cost money, and since the government have decided that I'm allowed enough to eat, drink, and shiver, I'll have to make do with my digital friend for now. That said, it's ridiculous. With freeview I have loads and loads of channels, and the remarkable thing is I spend more time flicking through them trying to find something remotely interesting than actually taking any interest in the latest cheap product, british policemen telling us how they caught a few teenagers driving badly, or the endless accounts of every detail of nazi horror in world war two. So bad has it now that a bunch of comedians have gotten together to do a current affairs program. If that weren't ironic enough, last night they lambasted news reporting. Guys, I'm not joking, either start taking journalism a bit more seriously or tell some jokes. Funny ones. Please. Thousands Missing Out There's a headline in the news right now. Thousands of britons are apparently missing out on radiotherapy treatment that might cure their cancer. When I first saw that headline, I assumed it was a public outcry against our beloved NHS, never an organised renowned for efficiency. Wrong! It's the experts again. They're telling us that we all need this treatment which apparently is the medical equivalent of hiring an assassin to kill your enemies. So why are these anonymous learned people telling us that 52% of british people could benefit from this 'radical' treatment? Because they want to benefit from increased funding. Death rays don't come cheap you know. Government Announcement of the Week Lately there's been some news about our ailing economy, which has shrunk by a small degree. I'm not exactly clued up on the inner mysteries of finance but I assume that's not good news. However, let's not be saddened or worried by this development, as our Prime Minister has announced that Britains economic recovery plan is already yielding success. I guess having comedians present a current afffairs program makes senes, because we also seem to have comedians running the country.