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My mobile phone beeped. That's almost a social event for me, and whilst most texts are usually reminders of phone services or the occaisional marketing ploy, I still give it a read. Just in case. Remember that you're due to attend a course the message said. Eh? What course? Why wasn't I informed? You see, with the current 'One strike and you're destitute' regime absence could cost me my payments. So naturally I'm a little annoyed by this bureaucratic oversight. Thanks for telling me guys. Not that it's their fault. The Department of Work and Pensions is notorious for not accepting culpability in any way whatsoever. They are simply never wrong, even when they are. In The Mood There's some droning music audible in the library right now. It's that sort of mystical mood music with a persistent basso chord in the background and occaisional twangs on an ethnic instrument. The town hall clock is also banging out the hour as I write, creating a strange medley of sound. Oh no. Someones started singing. Now some others are shouting at him to shut up. Typical day in the library then. It's very annoying. But then most things that happen in a library are annoying. That bloke to my right is chewing gum. That's annoying. So is the other blokes haircut on my left. The whispered vocal accompaniement to a song played over a headphone is very annoying, as the listener jerks on his seat as if he's suffering repeated mild electric shocks, or the child downstairs intent on letting everyone know how upset he is, and so on. This is proving to be an annoying day. It could snow later, too. More Cold Stuff last night was the coldest I've experienced for some time. The advice on the internet was to wrap up warm rather than rely on central heating. With energy prices going up faster than North Korean artillery shells, it's worth heeding. Nonetheless, despite being warm under the heaps of duvets and layers, it wasn't possible to feel comfortable. I don't get it. How do eskimo's tolerate even worse conditions than this? They even live in houses made of ice for crying out loud. Are they born with layers of blubber? If I grow some fat, I suffer media criticism, endless advice from knowledgeable people with serious sounding professions, and eventually fatal heart conditions. And I'd still probably feel cold.

It was inevitable. Even Swindon, a town usually immune from the hazards of winter, could not escape the onslaught of our current freeze... Truth be told we've only had a light snow fall, nothing like the experience of London and the Northeast. Trouble is this snow is the very fine variety that compacts readily and leaves icy conditions the next day. I see council workmen out and about spreading grit. Now that my road is closed for some weeks with a darn great pit in the middle of it, I wonder if the council are going to grit the pavement up the hill? I wouldn't want to have to clear it myself again. Who Let The Dog Out? As I opened the back window to take the picture above, I heard two lads having a sort of disagreement. neither could apparently decide who was responsible. For what, I wonder? The answer was Rover, a deliriously happy young rottweiller that bounded up and down the snow laden yard in sheer joy of discovering this fun white stuff that covered his otherwise dull old walkie trail. The two lads could not get the dog to come back. it ran here, ran there, tail wagging, exulting in the naughtiness and sheer excitement of it all. Meanwhile the two owners still couldn't decide who was to blame for the dog getting out of control and continued their rite of male dominance as they gave up trying to control the dog completely and decided to trudge home again. A Grim Vision The other night I had a bad dream. I was looking up into a blue sky and saw an airliner contrail. I noticed a sudden disturbance, as if the aeroplane was flying unsteadily. Then the aircraft, a large one like a jumbo or a 380, entered a flat spin and lost height rapidly. In my dream I watched as the airliner came perilously close to disaster, the airframe nodding lazily as the pilots tried and failed to break the spin and recover the aeroplane to normal controlled flight. My dream turned to horror. It went down into the town below, lost behind the mass of urban buildings, marked only by an expanding black cloud that marked the devastation. Dreams like that are vivid. They remain in your conciousness long after the usual ramblings of the mind are long forgotten. A part of you wonders if it wasn't some sort of prophecy. I sincerely hope not. That said, in the last few days an aeroplane has come down. One crash-landed near Swindon with eight people on board. It seems a grim irony that the pilot was airlifted to hospital. Ooops! Walking home from West Swindon the other day I passed under the railway bridge. Some years ago engineers fitted bumpers, big girders either side of the bridge in black and yellow chevrons, to ward off tall lorry impacts. It's difficult not to notice it. There was a large rusty blemish on the bottom edge. Oh? Has someone failed to notice the bumper and drove their vehicle into it? Swindon is notorious for large vehicles colliding with bridges, and so it turned out to be, the errant driver having been fined for carelessness.

I am so dull...

If you seek power, at some point you must break cover and make that attempt. perhaps Antony had reached the point where his confidence had overcome the risks involved in openly building toward that end? He may not have wanted a war with Octavian, but it seems he was willing to risk it.

No. They didn't try to romanize populations, they simply encouraged them to behave as they did both for practicailty and ego. The native populations continued right alongside, though in fairness, some provinces were more willing to assume Roman culture than others. Britain is the case in point. A lot of literature simply regards Roman-occupied Britain as nothing more than Rome elsewhere. Not the case. If you look more closely at the subject you discover that the southeast was the most roman-influenced, and the north and west extremes the least. Hative housing styles are known to have survived into the dark ages for instance in southwestern england, and I know from my own neck of the woods that farmers were still making roundhouses in the 3rd and 4th centuries. It is true however that the Romans respected local religious beliefs (usually) and brought these deities into their own system even if only on a local scale. That was a matter of political control as much as spiritual respect. In any case, the Romans showed far more pride in looking down on provincials than educating them. Trajan, in his first senate speech, reduced the patricians present to hysterics with his spanish accent. The 'romanization' effect is a poor concept in general. It assumes that the Romans demanded everyone become as they were. Not so. The Romans left that to the wisdom of those who wanted to get along with them and pay their taxes. This effect may well have been less pronounced in the 6th century since Rome was no longer the centre of a mighty empire. Having said that, I seem to recall that Gratian was heavily criticised for his habit of dressing as a goth in the 4th century.

Poor woman. Lets vote for her so she her disability is proven not to be an obstacle to a long, productive, and meaningful political life. Okay, lets not...

I woke to the alarm clock this morning as I suspected I might. That's the price you pay for staying up late. I now have half an hour to get dressed and down to the job centre to sign on. Inertia is a terrible obstacle first thing, amplified by the frigid temperatures that only a siberian would scoff at. No, it's no good, I have to get out of bed. Having fallen listlessly sideways onto the carpet, I was suddenly aware that I was risking hypothermia unless I moved. Move I did. In fact, I was very lucky, because having gotten dressed randomly in a state of shivering stupor I was lucky to present anything close to a cohorent appearance. Maybe nearly fifty years of practice helped? Opening the curtains at the front of the house revealed the sandbags strewn across the road where some irate drunkard had left them. A road sign marking the diversion for traffic had gone missing. Not that anyone needs it. There's a placarded barrier across the road further down where they're digging the sewer up. Once out the door I was stunned by how piercing the air was on this grey and dismal morning. How can it get colder? How is it possible Britain is suddenly this freezing? This is an era of global warming for crying out loud. Maybe the young woman at the job centre had the right idea. She came in with the most outlandish pink furry boots ever, the sort you'd expect to prepare from the recently hunted corpse of a transvestite mammoth. A Philosophical Discussion Most of the conversations you hear in our library are pretty mundane. A woman tells her bored offspring to stay bored, a couple whisper about where to go on holiday together and fail completely to agree, an asian bloke making business deals over his mobile, a customer completely baffled by modern technology and seeking assistance from an equally baffled librarian, or that old woman who thinks everyone should know what she thinks. And so on... Today was different. A chap I once discussed philosophy with was there again, this time lecturing his colleague on the validity of God. His colleague listened politely, pronouncing it as an interesting point, and remaining unwilling to betray his lack of intellect by attempting to discuss it with the philosopher, who for his part wouldn't let anyone else get a word in and kept glancing at me in fear that I would get involved. I have to say that whilst he witters on about how logic dictates this or that, he does base his opinions on some astounding assumptions, such as... Ahh, but you're only reading politely too, aren't you? Test of the Week As part of my jobsearch I had to complete an online personality test today, to discover who I am and what I might be good at, and other deep philosophical questions urgently required in the fight for employment survival. Apparently I tend towatd behavioural rather than non-behavioural. I know some people who could tell you different. But in fairness the personality profile was around two-thirds corrct, or at least, that close to my own self-image, which, I'm assured by the local wildlife, is nowhere close to reality. At least I have the intelligence not to try to steal a car that's been disused for two years and shows physical evidence of vandalism. But the idiot tried last night nonetheless. He got quite upset that his chosen ride proved to be somewhat more static than he expected, but there you go. Must have been cold walking home last night. Overall my test scores were pretty good. I'm numerate, literate, and creative. Now, really, that's official. I've taken the test. But is that all I am? These questions and more will be answered same time, same office, next year.

Sorry to disappoint you all, but there aren't any camels in my bed. Far from it, I'm warm, comfy, and indulging in a spot of Sunday laziness which I don't often fall prey to. Why waste a day? Sunday is no different. However, the instinct to wake up and go about my daily business is quite strong. Russian scientists would point and tell me that's learned behaviour. They're almost certainly right. Look how dogs uncannily know what the time is despite being intectually incapable of using a clock. Luckily I'm not that canine, thus I can thrust aside my primeval instinct and ingrained ritual for a lay-in. Ahhh yes. This is is cosy.... For some reason I'm not feeling as comfortable anymore. Darn. Those Russian scientists will be smirking any minute now.... The Great Indoors It's no good. I'm going to have to get up. ind you, Britain is suffering an early cold snap and this morning is supposed to be as cold as Britain usually gets in winter. In order to test the water, so speak, I thrust my toes out from under the duvet. Cold! Very cold! In these situations I've always found that diving in headfirst is the best way. To do otherwise just prolongs the agony of low temperatures. Three... Two... One... Go! Gah! Extremely cold! Quick, where's my tee shirt?... I put it here the other day! Where is it? Cold.... I'm starting to shiver.... Oh to heck with it. I throw any old clothes on in a desperate attempt to stave off the freezing enviroment. With seconds to spare before I started to suffer colds, flu's, and frostbite, I managed to envelope myself in heaps of clothes, even if I now look like a penniless tramp. Erm... Also Very Cold Walking down the hill toward the library I see the road has been cordoned off and a lone workman busy with a pneumatic drill, a brave soul pushing his heavy equipment into the ground and clearly suffering from the cold as much as I was. Strange to see the hill devoid of traffic. Also From A Cold Place Excuse me? North Korea a potential ally? Is Sarah Palin serious? Maybe things look different across the Atlantic but here in Blighty we're sometimes bemused by American politics, or more usually completely baffled. I'm not anti-american at all but is there some sort of disease that afflicts politicians over there?

To me it illustrates the persistence of gothic culture despite the trappings of Roman lifestyles. The Romans themselves used to sneer and jibe the provincials for their attempts to emulate them - Tacitus is quite contemptuous of the Britons for that very reason - and unless you're born to that culture, emulation must have seemed laughable to those socially-concious Romans for whom society was second nature. It also illustrates indirectly the reasons why barbarian tribes were attacking Rome in the late empire, or at least one reason for that pressure on the west. It wasn't a war of conquest as such, although the various barbarian tribes would have eagerly done so had they thought it possible, but rather to loot and plunder Roman settlements. Of course once they did occupy Rome, as in the case of the Ostrogoths, they adopted Roman dress and customs to some degree because they wanted to rule. In order to rule they needed to be part of the system. That doesn't mean they gave up being Ostrogoths, just that they addeed a Romanesque layer to give 'Roman' authority to their social status.

Almost daybreak. I'm sort of drowsy, in a warm bed, and very unwilling to brave the chilly temperatures of the bedroom even with the heating on. So I dozed for a bit longer. Plenty of time. Not any more. Almost 9;30, and if I leave it too late, there'll be a two hour wait to grab a computer at the library. My life is full of these little problems. Quick! Out of bed - Cold! - and take a peak out of the window to confirm the weather conditions I'll have to cope with this morning. Oh no! This can't be happening! The yard out back is sort of covered in white powdery stuff. Yes, there's no mistake, snow has fallen overnight. How do we cope with snow? I sort of vaguely remember what happened last year but that's a distant fading memory and the trauma has blocked out that part of my nightmarish recollections of winter. Oh hang on, I've got an SAS survival manual somewhere in the house. Maybe that'll help? No, it doesn't. The volume contains all sorts of handy hints about eating jungle vegetation, stying warm, and avoiding enemy patrols, but nothing about coping with winter in Swindon. What sort of survival manual is this? Unless I plan to eat weeds by the fence out back for lunch, drag a duvet with mwe to the library, and stay well clear of traffic wardens, I have no choice but to challenge the conditions alone and unaided. As it happens, the snow has so far been very light, a mere dusting of the stuff, and I successfully avoided marauding polar bears and moslem insurgents to reach th library. Certainly is warm in here. Sleepy As I sit here typing this stuff out, there's a guy in the next cubicle chewing gum. Now he's not being noisy or deliberately annoying, but his robotic movement of the lower jaw is having a hypnotic effect on me. Good grief. Who knows what someone could do to me if I was hypnotised. I'm feeling sleepy.... Deep sleepy... I knew I should have dragged that duvet with me. Never sneer at an SAS survival manual.

One of the great bugbears of life is getting old. When you're young, you tend to sneer and roll your eyes, for the experience of age is something beyond you. Well, my hair began to go grey when I was a teenager so that never really made any impact on me. It all seemed normal and part of everyday life. I never got self-concious about it at all, even after enduring endless jibes about hair colour products for men. It seems however that I've recently attracted an unfortunate medical condition I could do without. Not officially diagnosed yet, just the symptoms reported and a prescription of pills to ward off a potential disaster. Nothing to do with sex either, so I can't boast about it, but rather I'm now in a certain percentage of the population at risk of such things as we get older. Therefore I'm a little philosophical today. My mind is on successes and failures in the past, though in fairness I'm not at the stage of writing out the top ten things to do that I should have have done twenty years ago had I realised I was going to get older. I actually found muyself in a pharmacy waiting for the young ladies to fetch the packets of pills necessary to ease my suffering. I chatted to them about the cold weather and we had a chuckle or two - Oh ye gods! - I've turned into an old codger! Young At Heart Last night I found I was running out of bread. No matter, all I need do is trudge up the hill to the seven-eleven store and scavenge one left over from the days trading. No sooner had I stepped out the door than I passed a young lady going about her lawful business. Have you ever caught someone's eyes in a moment and felt you knew that person? Yep, that's what happened. It's a curious feeling. You can say what you want about biology, pheromones, and cultural stereotypes, but she was perfect. She just was, and I knew she felt the same way in that brief encounter by the roadside. If only I was tenty years younger. I like to imagine she wishes I was too. Not to worry, it was fun while it lasted.

Got it. It appears that Geoffery of Monmouth was a bit fast and loose with history (as if we didn't know that) and the connection with Artorius Castus is only a literary one. In other words, Geoffery is giving Arthur credit for Artorius's deeds, a feature of Arthurian expansion since the beginning. The two men are identiofiably seperate. Arthur is primarily concerned with the defence of Britain, Artorius concerned with military adventures on the continent two or three centuries before.

The amber triangles are proudly displayed on the weather report again. This time it's not heavy rain and the attendant risk of flooding, but the arrival of this years first snowfall, which shouldn't affect Wiltshire as yet. Nonetheless the temperatures are plummetting. This morning was no exception. I've resorted to gloves for the first this year. Even my claims advisor mentioned how cold it was. Hey, that was almost conversational. Yesterday had one advantage. It was a bright sunny day, abeit a chilly one. Since it wasn't going to be a busy day - something I decided rather than tread the same old weary routine - I went for a stroll through the environs of the local area. Just for the exercise. Like you do. As it turned out I made one major mistake. I was walking in a sort of anti-clockwise direction, which meant the low afternoon sun was always in my eyes. It might be approaching winter, but that sun can be very bright. What struck me was the changes in Rodbourne. I used to live in that area when I was younger. The row of shops along the main road gave the place a sort of village atmosphere. When the developers built the bypass to link with the Outlet Centre in the old rail works buildings, traders complained it would harm passing trade. Especially since the plan was to block the road through Rodbourne at one end. They eventually listened and left the road open, but after a decade it seems the effect is starting to make itself felt anyway. Shops are mysteriously mutating into private homes. In a sense it's a good thing because the former shabbiness is being swept away. On the other hand, maybe two or three shops are still trading as they were when I was young. The rest are either offering different services or gone completely. Somehow it all seems as if the area is losing a community atmosphere and becoming a dormitory for the rest of Swindon. The Protest Continues More student protests? Whilst there is something to protest about, I suspect there's an element of youthful defiance turning this affair into a sort of game. Police baiting has risks that go with the sport, as some youngsters are finding out. But is this behaviour really going to help? If you want lower tuition fees, then eventually a peaceful settlement is going to be necessary. What governbment is going to surrender it's credibility by surrendering to large gatherings of deliquent students (or those purporting to be students)? Down She Goes British forces have apparently sunk a Somali pirate vessel. About time too. The lesson from history is that unless you deal with piracy ruthlessly it will persist. Whilst we want to be gentlemanly and civilised in our approach to maintaining order on the high seas, is that really going to suppress this sort of activity? As the Somali learn their craft, become more professional and adept at avoiding naval interdiction, the situation see-saws back to where you started. Unless you sink them. That's the cold hard logic of this particular game.

Yesterday channel is rather like Discovery, except they avpoid 'shark week' and instead show programs about Nazi's. Sometimes though you do get a decent documentary. I remember seeing one on the Flying Tigers in China that was something I didn't know much about (That's a group of american aviators in World War Two, not some rare breed of aerial carnivore, in case you wondered the Chinese were sniffing suspicious substances). On the bright side, Yesterday is showing the Colditz series. I remember watchin g that back when it came out in the seventies. It's all about the POW's and their attempts to escape the old castle from under the noses of their German guards. It's a darker tale than I remember it, maybe because I'm older and understand the subtleties more, and despite the occaisional inconsistency it's still nonetheless an excellent portrayal. The nostalgia of watching an old favourite from my formative years is one thing, and let's be honest, what blue blooded Englishman can resist a tale about daring-do in the Second World War? We base our entire culture on victory over the Hun. There is a curious analogy to my Wednesday mornings however. You see, every Wednesday morning I go down to the Job Centre as I should on every other day. Wednesdays are Staff Meeting Days, so the throng of impatient claimants gather in the foyer to wait for the sharp-suited security guards to stop trying to get a response from the other floors on their walkie-talkies, and darn well let us in. I mean, what's the point of having a 9:00 slot when they don't let you in for another hour? Occaisionally a brave soul enquires at the desk whether they can go through and obtain a comfy seat. The ladies at the helpdesk quickly destroy that initiative. Sometimes a braver soul attempts to sneak past the guards, or even attempt to bluff their way in. It's all rather like Stalag Luft Job Centre, but in reverse. We sneak, leap, and tunnel our way in every Wednesdays to sign on and get our money. The way the government are talking, barbed wire, searchlight, and machinegun posts will be fitted as soon as they can find the money to buy them. They are bailing out Irelands ailing economy too, you know. Funny that. One moment the country hasn't got any money and savings must be made, the next we're paying Ireland because they've run out too. Closed For Business I saw the temporary road sign a few days ago, but a letter was posted through my door telling me that my street is to be closed. Huh? Not profitable enough? No, apparently the sewer is blocked and it's causing all sorts of problems, like subsidence, roadworks, and diversions. Naturally this problem needs to be fixed. But quite how the drunken population of late night revellers are going to cope with lines of bollards, signs, and gaping holes is anyones guess. I look forward to seeing some of their work.

Antoninus Pius was well regarded by the Romans largely because he gave them what they wanted and didn't make waves. Like Claudius, it appears he ordered some military adventures to give his reign military credibility - almost an essential qualification for Roman acceptance - by pushing the british frontier to the wall of his name. He was however not a military man, and never left Italy during his rule.

It isn't just possible, it's part of the archaeological record. Some legions in the reign of Tiberius used them, and if I remember right, some republican legions did too. I'll check the sources on that.

Oh no! I've been so wrapped up in an interview this morning I've forgotten to do any job searching! Heresy! I'll be rendered destitute if the Job Centre finds that out (Please don't tell anyone). With that minor disaster in mind I popped straight down to the library for a frantic internet browse of the job sites. The library is often crowded at lunchtime, and sure enough, not a free screen to be had. I'll have to book one. None of the computers have got a two hour slot available for the next three hours, so it'll have to be an even more frantic search in half the time. Which computer?... Decisions... Decisions... Oh, I'll book this one. It's a quiet spot by a window. I got down there and found the desk cluttered with a pile of personal possession belonging to someone else. Have I got the right computer? Yes, my name is showing on the screen. I'll just move all this rubbish to one side so I can get on... "Excuse me!" Called an irate lady from the helpdesk. "I'm going to use that computer." Oh no you're not, I replied, and continued to shovel her belongings aside. How can one person carry so much garbage? What's it all for? No, don't ask, it's none of my business. "Don't touch my stuff!" She yelled. I took no notice. I've booked a computer and she can darn well accept I'm going to clear the desk. She rushed over and repeated her annoyed command. I simply advised her that that all I was doing was moving the 'stuff' to one side. Having no choice but to accept my boorish dominance of the desk, she grumbled and gathered the mountain of 'stuff', moving back to the helpdesk where Dragon Lady awaited her complaint. Of course Dragon Lady swept her argument aside like the true scottish lady that she is. Good for you, dear. But she still made a caustic joke at my expense as she walked past on another customers errand. Thanks for that. Can I get on with my job search now? Save The Tiger The television advert makes it all very clear. From around a hundred thousand tigers living in the wild a century ago, we're now down to four thousand, and they're still dwindling. It's a great shame, of course, and in spirit I support the efforts to preserve the wonderful beast. I had to laught though. The advert, in an effort to get the public to part with cash to help save the tigers, offered a cute cuddly tiger toy. Pardon? What's cuddly about a tiger? It's a dangerous carnivore twice my weight and strength. It could rip me to pieces if it wanted. What a silly thing to offer. As if I wanted a cuddly toy at all. I'd far rather have the real tiger as a pet, then at least burglars would be eaten. Hiow about that for saving a tiger? A good home, free food, and it helps law and order at the same time. You Started It! I just caught the news that North Korea has been shelling an island belonging to their democratic neighbour. Well, after supplying their armed forces with twelve thousand artillery pieces to threaten the border with the south, I suppose it was only a matter of time before North Korea decided to try them out. It's all a stunt though. Prod the south and claim you're defending yourself? Just another tactic to sustain the fantasy world of the dictatorship. The trouble is, all this sabre rattling is costing lives, and if my instincts are proven correct, there's going to be a much bigger casualty list before they're finished.

The problem is we see the goths as a coherent tribe with a single leader. This wasn't the case. They were made up of a variety of factions, including non-goths among them (Goths welcomed anyone who wanted to partake in their warrior lifestyle), and there a number of them that comprised a sort of ambiguous upper class, Fritigern and Athanaric being only two of them. Their fortunes waxed and waned according to circumstance. It just so happened Fritigern had his hands on the reigns at Adrianople - partially, I suspect, for his escape of the mass assassination attempt earlier and his subsequent victory over the hastily mobilised Thracian Army.

The Romans began in their earliest days with leaf-shaped shields. Oval shields were used from the early republic right until the end of the western empire a thousand years later. It was the most convenient compromise between utility and protection. Rectangular shields became popular during the height of imperial power, representing the use of close order heavy infantry. However, hexagonal shields were sometimes used, such as during Tiberius's reign. There was always a mix of shield shapes - it was never completely standard.

Whether Commodus wasn't quite as bad as protrayed in the historical sources is not going to excuse his deeds, because he certaibnly wasn't a good man. However, he was the son of Marcus Aurelius, who needed to ensure the progression of rule was assured. By making Commodus co-emperor for a few years before his death, he was able to groom his successor and tried to make him an able ruler, plus it also dissuaded others from attempting a coup when Marcus Aurelius died. A throne without an assigned heir would be a recipe for disaster. It has been said of some emperors that they deliberately made a bad man their heir, so that they would be remembered fondly. Whether that's actually true I can't say - it certainly says much about the attitude of the Roman public for thinking that - but then it might simply be that Marcus Aurelius wanted his son to 'grow up and lead a good life' as fathers do. In that he failed, but then, the temptations of power, wealth, and luxury are not easily dealt with. However, your question was why he didn't promote a more able man, instead of his own son. Perhaps that would invite political and violent contests for power. On the other hand, as emperor, Marcus Aurelius was surrounded by people claiming to be able and worthy, thus he might have chosen his son on the basis of 'better the devil you know'.

How things change. Years ago, in more affluent times, I could drive into town and quickly find a parking space while I popped down to the shops. Pay for a spot in the council car park? I think not. The situation changed with the resident parking schemes. Fed up with visitors like me clogging up the streets - though in fairness it was the long stay parking of commuters from outside the town who were the worst offenders - Swindon was divided up into zones and if you didn't pay the fee, you got the ticket for parking there. That was all very well, but what happened shortly after was that council officials sought out every possible non-taxable parking spot and daubed double yellow lines on it, which made it a breach of the law to park there. Now I see that some local councillors are pressing to create new parking spaces in town. At the moment they're fussing over details of the scheme. Expiry dates, days, times, places, all are being minutely examined for the least possible obstruction to the daily lives of the residents concerned, which I find a bit odd because obstruction to parking is the whole point of the scheme. Now I Know I now have proof that wishful thinking can work. The old Mecca bingo hall, previously a cinema, had been abandoned for some time. Passing the premises on a daily basis I often thought it was a waste of a good theatre. If only someone would turn it into a music venue. A proper dedicated music venue, something that Swindon lacks, despite regular big names appearing at the Wyvern Theatre or the Oasis Sports Hall. To my suprise, someone has done exactly that. Now called Meca, it's going to open as a 2000 seat venue for music. We are most pleased, entrepenours, continue with your decorating. One of the other changes in Swindon that's been mooted over the years is a pedestrian crossing on Kingshill. Most of you won't know it, but it's the western exit from Old Town and quite a steep road, especially at the top. Back when I was a schoolkid and took the bus home to Rodbourne, it was a popular form of entertainment for those kids riding bicycles to race the bus down the hill. Time after time one of the 'bad lads' would earn cheers from the top deck as he nervously swept past the bus peddling frantically in the face of commonsense. One day, we had Animal driving the bus. Now he was cut from a different cloth to most bus drivers. I think he was a frustrated racing driver. At any rate, spotting the youth on a bike preparing for mad dash past the vehicle as it ponderously and noisily wound it's way down the hill, his competitive spirit kicked in. He was not going to beaten. So Animal gunned the throttle and the double decker bus careered down the hill with an astonished bike rider in it's wake. Hardly a safe thing to do, was it? Well, that was back in the seventies, when such malarkey was common if not officially approved. So now, in our current post-nanny state, we have residents pressing for a crossing along the road, making it safe for children and old people to avoid being mown down by the contestants in the 2010 Double Decker Bus Grand Prix (which of course doesn't happen any more, following the introduction of speed cameras and a nrew hard line attitude from policeman about motoring offences). I know it's all safer and better for everyone, but in a funny way, I miss the freedom we once had.

Artorius Castus has been suggested as the origin of the King Arthur myth for no better reason than to inject some historical credibility to the tales. It's because people generally want the legend to be real. It isn't. Whilst I'm not decrying anything Artorius Castus did, the interesting fact remains that Arthur, as a name, becomes a popular name after 500. There isn't any mention of anyone with name beforehand that I'm aware of, and several nobles are named Arthur in the next couple of generations. Had Gildas not made an ambiguous reference to the 'real' Arthur, then I might have regarded Artorius might have been a source of the legend. We cannot dismiss the contemporary nature of the Arthurian mythos. Assuming the association with the battle of Mons Badonicus is correct, then we have a fixed period in which to place the man. If a roman commander had been the origin, why was the legend of Arthur not accounted for earlier? Why did it take two centuries for the man to be promoted to legend? It's a part of human nature that a legend is spawned in their own lifetime. Geoffery of Monmouth wanted to impress his patron lord and thus gave Arthur a royal title to boost the credentials of the list of previous kings, which was what his history book was about. Noticeably, contemporary historians (yes, the middle ages had historians too) made it known they regarded Geoffery as a complete fantasist - and if you read his history of the kings of Britain, you'll see why.

The theory abbout sarmatian knights is to lend some credibility to arthurian tales. Unfortunately, whilst an interesting theory, there isn't any hard evidence for the existence of these men in sub-roman Britain, nor do the sources from that period mention any foreign horsemen at all, nor do they suggest an elite corps. In fact, the only tangilble mention of Arthur is via Gildas, who refers to one of the welsh tyrants as having been the 'Bears Charioteer' in his youth, a connection with the name Arthur which has a root meaning 'Bear'. Arthur was by no means a king. That was the literary invention of Geoffery of Monmouth (though he might have got the idea elsewhere, his is the first mention of royalty in the 12th century). In fact, we have a man who was regarded as something of a loose cannon, if a respected one, and one gets the impression he was a somewhat ruthless warrior. "Although he was no Arthur" says one dark age writer about another man. Some people regard Arthurs existence as fictional completely, preferring to ascribe his victories to Ambrosius Aurelianus, a respectable romano-britain we have direct mentions of. The problem here is that given the dates we believe the last battle at Mons Badonicus was fought, Ambrosius was a very old man indeed, and unlikely to have commanded, though we must accept that he was a victorious leader of sub-romano-british defence against picts, scots, and saxon raiders. Part of the problem is the battles listed by Nennius have no confirmed location. We have little more than names, and we distinctly lack evidence of location. Even his most famous victory, Mons Badonicus, has been placed in almost every region of Britain, the two most likely appearing to be near Bath or Swindon. We do have some descriptions of dark age british armies however, via the welsh poets of later centuries. Although cavalry existed, they were hardly knights in shining armour, and are described as riding without helmets. I did a post on Mons Badonicus which goes into more detail... http://www.unrv.com/forum/index.php?showtopic=10750&st=0&p=102417&hl=+mons%20+badonicus&fromsearch=1entry102417 Arthur was an obscure figure to begin with, kept alive in the popular imagination by song and poetry, and prose. During the early dark ages when celtic culture reasserted itself for a while, Arthur was made the hero of the older traditional tales from the Iron Age, which had survived as an oral tradition throughout the Roman occupation, which makes him far more of a mythological figure than the somewhat less cultured person we find hints of. Worse still is the chivalric fiction of medieval times, inventing and reinforcing the connection with christianity (Including the 'Holy Grail' and the 'Lance', which turn out to be no more than literary props in medieval romances) and creating this concept of the Knights of the Round Table. Were there any sarmatian knights in Britain connected with arthurian battles? Apparently not. Although this theory received some media attention, there is little if any evidence to confirm it. Germanus of Auxerre was the last Roman leader to lead troops in the British Isles and he operated no later than c.440, some 30-60 years before Arthurs tim (and that might be incorrect too, as he fought the Saxons and crushed the Pelagian Heresy in 429 with only some dubious mentions of another visit to Britain in 440).

Caldrail, I also would like to know your sources for your earlier statment regarding deforestation. As far as the Bronze Age is concerned in every reference book I have read rather than linking this to the effects of climate change it usually attributes it to the spread of farming for which there is good archaeological evidence. Regarding a possible drop in population in Ireland on this issue the 'History Planet' blog quoting from Barry Cunliffe has some interesting suggestions regarding this though note the comments about woodland regeneration in the five centuries after about 600BCE. The climate change was unconnected with forest clearance, although the deforestation by bronze Age Irish must have impacted on their lives. After a long period of maritime climate, the enviroment was entering a drier phase that didn't favour forests as much. What we have then is a combination of factors. As I stated, information is not readily available on the shelves, but information can be gleaned from... Prehistoric Britain Timothy Darvill (Routledge) Britain BC Francis Pryor (Harper Collins) Wikipedia has the following info http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Prehistoric_Ireland if you're not fussy (which I suppose you justifiably are in tis case, having challenged my sources ) Another page that illustrates the peroid is http://www.triskelle.eu/history/bronzeage.php?index=060.010.030

Hunger knows no bounds. With the cash I had left I couldn't resist steak & cheese burrito on my way home. Yes, I know, my finances are now forever ruined, but the delights of takeaway food were too much to ignore. So I ordered my early evening meal and waited for the chap behind the counter to stop mashing the ingredients. To my left the approach of a pair of lads was becoming obvious. Sometimes you just know a stranger is about to accost you, and the burlier of the two ambled slowly toward me on a parabolic curve having decided to approach me with caution. "Excuse me, mate, is this the way to the bus station?" He asked in politer terms than I expected. Sorry, but no, it's over there, back the way you've just come. "Oh." He said as he digested the bad news before turning to the takeaway chef and repeating the question. He got the same answer. Satisfied we weren't pulling his leg, he yelled at his friend "Told you! I told you it was that way. The bus station is that way!" His skeletal friend in a woolly hat shrugged and said "Yeah, I know, but I want to go this way, through town." "We're not going that way" The burly lad insisted. "The bus station is that way." And so the two weary travellers turned back the way they'd come and on toward the fabled bus station, Some distance down the street the burly lad asked someone else where the bus station was. For some reason the pair changed direction again and were walking back. By good fortune the burrito was ready and I made my escape. Completely Armless I have entered a strange space time anomaly in which I slowly metamorphose into Charlie Chaplin. My jacket has started disassembling itself. Ever the optimist, I thought I might try sewing the sleeve back on. It wasn't entirely seperated and thus it seemed possible to complete this repair job without too much fuss. Sadly my sewing skills were not up to the job. Possibly you guessed that might have been the case. So I'm left with a choice of freezing to death or going bankrupt. Which is more survivable? Oh stuff it. I'll buy that jacket, over there. Hmmmmm... Warmth..... More On That Wedding That wedding is still in the news. Now the Prime Minister is suggesting an extra bank holiday to mark the occaision. I agree. That would be great. Now all I need is a job so I can have the day off. What a master stroke. Please the public and motivate the unemployed in one stroke. There. Who says I'm always nasty to politicians. Also, since I've now confirmed myself as a government sympathiser (against my better judgement), can I have my title officially recognised? The last lot did that all the time. More On That Boyle Much to everyone's suprise, including mine, that Boyle woman has achieved more sales on her second album than expected. So much so that she's come third to the Beatles and The Monkee's for transatlantic success. Thing is though, for all her talent at singing, she doesn't compose. She doesn't sing her own material. In my book that will always make her second best, however good the sales team are at promoting her recordings.