caldrail

It is interesting that there seems to be a rash of decapitations in the York area around that time. Part of the 'gladiator' theory was that the east european remains were doing that as a result of their native customs, as opposed to good old Roman ones. The report suggets violent lives. Now while the 'gladiator' theory might be the case, we might also have soldiers? To be punished in this way would ten suggest some stern discipline around that time. Or perhaps, if we want to speculate, a legion mutiny that got hushed up?

Was this part of that controversial "gladiator pit" find?

Last night I succumbed to temptation. For those expecting a steamy account of wild passionate sex I have to say I share your disappointment, but that's the problem with middle age. You 'll see what I mean when you get there. No, the attraction last night was Swindon Ghostfest 2010: Haunted Swindon, a presentation about the most popular local hauntings from Paranormal Site Investigations, who are best described as a supernatural Time Team. We had a nice cosy evening, sat around in the upstairs lounge of the central library in dim lighting, discovering that Swindon is one of Englands most haunted towns. It was over all too quickly. It was interesting to learn that many ghosts are in fact nothing more than folklore, evolving from stroies told by parents to frighten their youngsters into not going where they shouldn't, later to frighten the parents of future generations who hear the tales and assume that the incredible coincidences they experience are things wot go bump in the night. By the way. Avoid black dogs. Little tip there. Back On The Beat With the event over I was stuck for something to do for the rest of the night. I decided, with a flash of inspirational originality, to go for the cheap indian takeaway round the corner. They of course smiled and waved hello as I entered, never having seen me before during the last twenty years of patronising this particular establishment. As I sat there waiting I watched the young ladies strolling past on the pavement outside. I think that must be something to do with indian spices. They do strange things to my taps and showerhead. But during this moment of middle aged fantasy I heard a band warming up next door in the gay bar. Can you imagine anything worse than playing a gay gig? After several hundred gigs with Red Jasper alone, I'm pretty sure I never played one. We got pretty desperate for gigs at one stage, but never, ever, did we sink that low. Although we did encounter one strange guy hanging round the back of a Manchester venue once. We all got a hug. No pressure. It was obvious when the band were starting their performance. I have to say, although it was a nice groove, it was a little ropey. Typical local band I suppose. Then a female vocalist started singing and suddenly the band woke up a little. That caught my attention. A young lady capable of inspiring musicians to greater efforts. I was almost tempted to take a look. Still, on consideration, walking into my local gay bar is not something I plan on, curry or not. With my purchase in hand, I walked home as the band launched into a much more impressive second number. That's the spirit lads.

There is some interesting variations. Whilst the europeans regarded monsters as inherently inimical to their god fearing civilisation, the chinese represented their monsters as creatures you could forge a relationship with, albeit a somewhat ambiguous one. The middle east seems to have concentrated on the creatures characteristics, it's ability work magic or to have hidden wisdom, or even it's symbolic place in the cosmos, which almost forms a bridge between east and west ideas of monsters. The greco-roman monsters I notice are obstacles. Whilst they don't threaten civilisation, being basically dumb animals, they represent achievements or obstacles in heroic tales, and the useful ones are gifts from the gods, marking out the hero as special by virtue of his temprorary ownership of some mystical beast (notice how Suetonius highlights a horse Caesar had when he was young, a creature with strange hoofs like hands, marking Caesar as favoured og the gods and thus destined for great things).

You know what? I'm getting a bit fed up with people asking me for money. It's happening more and more, usually from total strangers. It does annoy me somewhat. There's such a thing as being generous, but giving away cash to all and sundry does not strike me as a financially sound policy. You might have guessed that this sort of thing has happened again. You're right, it did. In a sort of impatient and irritated mood already I was striding across the Granville Street car park. It's nothing special, just the site of a former housing block leveled and tarmaced. A busy stop for shoppers, seeing as it's so close to the shops, and also a handy shortcut for me when I want to go shopping. "Excuse me mate" Said a midland accent off to one side. Huh? What? A burly chap leaned around the ticket machine and asked "Have yer got any change?" Of all the things he could have asked me right now. This is an area infested by teenage beggars. I get asked for cash almost every time I pass through here. No, I replied, I haven't got any, sorry. And I continued on my way even more irritated than when I started. Just to make my day complete, the man took umbrage that his request for money had been refused. I'd like to report what he said, but this is a family show. Anyway, it wasn't pleasant, and clearly he wanted to throw his weight around. Maybe I impuned his midland macho manhood in some way without realising. I've no doubt he thought I was being arrogant, but then, his behaviour amounted to verbal abuse. Threatening behaviour? Demanding money with menaces? Demanding Belief With Menaces I know a guy who decided that christianity was a bad idea. Christians have a problem with people like that. They regard former associates, never mind how little belief they had in such ritual and piety, as essentially their property. Seriously, they do. It amounts to slavery in everything but name. As religions go, it has a very nasty underside. There's a number of things christians do to bring their escaped slave back onto the farm. Usually they try to convince them that Jesus cares. Or that God listens. For the casual escaped slave, that's probably enough, but then they're going to be just as wishy washy and agnostic as they always were. It's just they tick the correct box again, so that's all right. Some people are more determined to find a more suitable belief system. Even though our country allows us the freedom of worship, christians can't accept that anything else is as relevant or emotionally satisfying to the individual. I know this because I've had the lecture myself more than once. The more zealous and fundamentalist the christian gets, the more medieval their mindset becomes. Or perhaps it's the other way around, that they were that ignorant already, thus their religion fills the empty space in their brain. Who knows? It's impossible to talk to people like that because they are more or less brainwashed. Slaves to their religion without personalities of their own. To them freedom of thought is akin to serving the devil. Their concept of the world is literally that black and white. Unless you're obedient and know your place in their covert pecking order, you must be an evil influence. That is unfortunately the sort of mindset that got people drowned or burned at the stake in former times. The horrifying thing is that such intolerance continues today. That chap who decided to rebel against his overseers? His eyebrows shaved and shaped to slant upward, like Mr Spock, or better still, to suggest satanic influence. The front of his hair trimmed down so that his hair style would suggest horns from some angles. The back of his hair cut in random lengths. His goods exchanged for something less desirable, less functional. Diificulties in the workplace, problems in their personal lives. Anything that reduces a sense of empowerment, security, or self-esteem. The christians would claim that it was a stigmata, the sign of evil, a curse of those who worship dark things. Rubbish. It's spiteful, malicious, bullying behaviour. Worship our god or suffer the consequences. So what happened to all this love and brotherhood the christians like to promote? Sorry mate, only if you sign up. And any backsliders get 'the treatment'. This sort of thing is happening, today, in my home town. I've no doubt it goes on everywhere on the quiet. For that matter, I've no doubt that some other religions indulge in such shenanigans, something I notice is beloved of african culture. At least the moslems tell you you're going to get blown up. It makes no difference. The gentleman who has chosen to free himself of christianity knows why all these obstacles and changes are happening. It's no use telling him that God is wreaking vengeance. He knows that these people are acting on their own base motives, trying to enslave errant members of the faith either to ensure monetary gain or simply no more than the satisfaction human beings derive from cruel behaviour. It's no use telling him the devil is responsible. There is no evil entity perverting our lives. We make our own evil. And human beings tend to be quite good at it. For that matter, there's no use telling him how superior christianity is. He already knows it isn't.

This morning I had to report at the programme centre for another course on how to do what I've been doing for two years already, just in case I was getting rusty or I'd forgotten how. Another day spent learning the deeper mysteries of seeking employment. The lady at the help desk in the foyer looked a bit confused when I tiold her who I was. "Is that your name or your title?" She asked somewhat carefully. That's my title dear. She carried on looking confused. I've come to the conclusion that not looking exactly like Nigel Havers is seriously harming my street credibility. To be fair, the courses aren't so bad. There's a sociable atmosphere even between the mix of complete strangers (and sometimes completly strangle people) and you get a free lunch. Literally. Nothing like a prepackaged sandwich and packet of crisps to make the day go by. They did ask us whether anyone had any dietary requirements. The urge to say "Three course meal absolutley necessary" was immense. In the News On my way to the programme centre I passed through Wharf Green, a public space beside the shopping mall in town. There's a huge television bolted to the side of the multi-storey car park so passers-by can see the weather report on television, a useful civic asset when they could be suffering from inclement weather without realising. I did a double take when I spotted 'Swindon' on the scrolling headlines at the bottom of the screen. Swindon? In the news? It's gotta be bad... It is. A father and son team have been loan sharking. And some people thought my blog was bad for Swindons image. Also I notice a better railway link is planned between Swindon and Gloucestershire. There's already a railway line that goes there, used mostly by rickety old diesel multiple units, though a part of me wonders why a swish new rail link is necessary. It isn't as if anyone wants to go to Gloucester either. Or maybe they do? maybe there's strong public pressure to open public transport to a world outside of Swindon. The locals can cope with the M4 corridor, we've had that since the 1970's, but Gloucester? Children will stare in wonder at fanciful maps with 'Here be dragons' and long lost towns named Gloucester. Of course we Swindoners know Gloucester is a myth. How can it be real, when the world is flat and ends on the borders of town, except London and Bristol, faraway places reached by the M4 corridor if you own a set of mules and a floppy leather stetson. Or maybe... Just maybe... There is a world outside Swindon? Wierd Or What? Over the last hundred years or so the universe has gotten steadily wierder. Now apart from me, there's been all sorts of discoveries in physics that have turned our conception of the universe from invasions of martians to vibrating multi-planar exotic shapes of collosal and dynamic sizes. And we still don't know why it happened in the first place, although God and a few others of his supernatural kind have tried to take the credit for it. Their worshippers have fought wars over it. Now I read that data gathered by scientific observation indicates that the universe is not consistent. Apparently the laws of physics might vary according to where you are inside it. Now isn't that wierd? Who knows? One day I might wake up and be able to leap tall buildings in a single bound. Better hurry up though, I'm not getting any younger.

Okay. I admit it. It's raining. Having moaned about our weathermen predicting wet and windy days for weeks, it finally happened this morning. That said, it isn't the downpour we'd been promised (Don't you just know I'm going to regret writing that?). You could call it a damp squib. Rumbles In The Night I was kept marginally awake last night by the rumble of a large diesel engine somewhere in the vicinity of my home. That means either of two things. Firstly it might be that white lorry that parks up the hill behind the commercial premises. He arrives in the evenings usually so a very late night appearance is unusual. Alternatively, the firestarter has been at it again and a fire engine was on scene to put out the flames. I must be honest, I hadn't noticed any orange glow or smokey smell, but at that time of night, it's a wonder I noticed anything. You know what? I just thought of something. It's Swindon Ghostfest 2010. Of course. The Headless Lorry Driver of Old Town has struck again, haunting the back roads of Eacott Hill with his incorpereal truck, frighening little children with the dreadful rumble of a diesel engine. All Quiet On The Second Floor It must be raining out there. The library is almost deserted and the lady on the helpdesk is reading a newspaper. The chap opposite me is talking into his mobile phone and getting away with it. Oops, no he isn't, a senior librarian just heard him. That's another ghost then.

Trust me Ghost, being 47 is no big deal. It merely confirms what people thought about you last year and nothing new is going to happen. I do like your attitude with regard to growing up. I myself wish no better retirement than to grow old disgracefully. As for a mid life crisis, I think I've come out of that episode as a mid life disaster area. Most people think something along those lines. My advice is not to worry about it. Enjoy the tour of Provence (Wish I could be there, actually, I'm somewhat envious) and be grateful that I'm too unemployed to take part. Our fellow UNRVers needed a couple of years off to recover from the last outing! Well, must dash, I have a vacancy to apply for. It probably says middle aged crisis victims with identified second childhood syndrome need not apply in the small print, but since when did that stop me?

The weathermen keep threatening downpours, they keep on showing amber triangles on the television news, but every day just lately (apart from one exception) starts out fine and sunny. Like today for instance, though that has meant I had to pull the blinds down at the library so that I can actually see what's on the computor monitor. Pull the blinds down? Lucky for me Dragon Lady wasn't on duty, especially since I'm sat ten feet in front of the helpdesk. That did however provide me with a grandstand view of one elderly woman who needed help. Apparently she's on some university course or other, and required detailed information about some specific flower or other. I do sympathise to some extent. In general the staff of my local library do a great job helping you find information, and they've done me favours more than once, including a search for a mislaid book that bordered on a quest of heroic proportions. The poor bemused librarian manning the desk tried her best. She really did. But the customer was insistent and kept repeating her demand for information. It's very important, she told the librarian again and again. Meanwhile the queue of library goers seeking a little help of their own began to grow. Most needed some guidance on how to use the bookin g system. Some needed to understand why they only had two minutes available. Some wanted to chat to the librarian if I were honest, especially the older customers for whom library access is a whole world of social contact (including me, I have to say - Ohmygawd - I'm getting old), but no, this lady needed to know the correct rationalisation of genus and sub-species for her particular flower, and no-one, not even the queue of frustrated geriatric socialites, was going to stop her. The Season For Frights and Fireworks This week is Ghostfest Swindon 2010. Not sure why exactly, probably something to do with Halloween (just a guess), but the library are staging events related to Swindons rich history of hauntings. There see? I told you the library was a social experience. A part of me wonders if all this ghostly stuff is exaggerated. There's an odd sort of local pride in English communities to educate the rest of the unhaunted world that their particular town has more wayward spirits than anyone else. Swindon is no different. We're also approaching the time when we celebrate Guy Fawkes failure to blow up the Houses of Parliament. Seems a bit strange in this day and age that we do that for what was a terrorist strike in Tudor times. By a Spanish sympathiser no less. Doomed to failure then. Too busy with his siesta to assassinate the English government. I have to say there's a few politicians who deserve a keg of gunpowder up their backsides today, some of whom are lighting the fuse underneath my benefit payments. For most of us, it's just a chance to stand in the cold evening air and make lots of noise setting off fireworks without being arrested.

The Romans seem curiously evn-handed about Britain. On the one hand, they talk about the wealth of natural resources, and yet they also seemed disappointed it wasn't wealthier. Of course that underlines the avaricious nature of Roman expansion. Whilst the Romans talk about divine right and destiny, they had more down to earth reasons for invading new provinces, such as security, retribution, resources, and of course, money. But besides the hairy population and damp muddy grass, what the irish lacked was cities. urban development was at the heart of Roman culture and drew them on like moths to a candle. Regardless of forests, mines, and wild animals, or indeed the practicalities of conquest, without cities to conquer and develop as new outlets of the Roman franchise, they saw no market for their services in Ireland. It has also occured to me that we should address the myth of 'Romanisation' of Britain in this period. Although the southeast quarter was sympathetic and adopted Roman culture to a large extent, the indigineous culture became more prevalent the further away from that region you went. The Romans never fully tamed Britain (even though they usually maintained peace) and if that was the case, why would they invest in conquest even further afield? Surely that was inviting disaster in stretching Roman forces over more and more unstable territory? It's all very well Agricola telling us the Ireland was ripe for conquest - he might even have been right - but the cultural victory is won over generations and not so easy to achieve.

Now and again you see some motorist doing something dumb. Commercial Road is one hazard area. It's a one way street and sure enough sooner or later someone doesn't spot the signs and proceeds against the flow of traffic totally bemused at the agression and 'lunacy' of other drivers. Just lately it seems Regent Circus is becoming a hazard too. Not because of any chabges, it still remains a busy ring road like it has been for decades, but there's something peculiar. At the bottom of the hill the traffic lights seem to get out of sync, so cars entering Regent Circus from the hill then have to play russian roulette with cars coming from their blind right side (and which have right of way, incidentially, green light or not). That's a technical error rather than driver error of course. On the same ring road an increasing number of people are taking short cuts through the bus stop, accelerating madly to gain a two-car-length advantage before the lanes merge again. usually there's a chorus of loud horn blasts when that happens. Now I see people joining the ring road from Commercial Road without stopping. White lines? Traffic lights? Pfah! No such obstruction comes within the remit of the Swindon driver. Cue another chorus of loud horn blasts. Sometimes it's just bad manners. A couple of weeks ago I was walking beside a main road and observed a line of cars at a side road waiting to join traffic when the opportunity presented itself. It's a busy road, a main trunk route through town, and trying to slip past the oncoming traffic on the right and into the left hand lane requires patience. The old guy at the head of the queue had all the patience required. Clearly he was capable of waiting all day, if need be, and I suspect the little hatchback he was driving didn't exactly have have the performance to nip across a gap even if the driver saw his chance. Behind him, the younger man in a massive 4x4 waited, waited, then stopped waiting. He simply went round, shaking his head, and no doubt feeling very pleased with his time-saving manoever. What is it that the Highway Code tells us? Show patience for other road users? If I were honest, I'm not entirely angelic behind the wheel. Usually I follow the rules, and I'm definitely more patient than some. Always slowing down for horses and so forth. Normally I quote an example of Herge's Adventures of Caldrail at times like this, but offhand, I can't think of one, which kind of makes me suspect I do nip around old age pensioners rather more often than I'm concious of. Ding! I Remember Now The light bulb has come on. Many years ago, not long after I bought my first Toyota MR2 sports car, I was proceeding along a road and found myself slowed down by a pair of pensioners in their little japanese 5-door buggymobile. I was in a good modd. I wasn't in any great hurry. So I thought I'd wait until the big roundabout at the end of the road. Chances are the pensioers would take the left hand lane and I could zip past. Sure enough, they did. So I sped past on the inside bend and discovered why you need to take care pressing the accelerator on a curving road in rear wheel drive cars. Wooah!... All very dramatic, very embarrasing, but thankfully control was not lost completely and no harm done. Ahem. Meanwhile, Back At The Muddy Lane The alleyway running away from the yard near where I live is not what you'd call salubrious. it's overgrown, filled with rubbish, and is a known haunt of drug-dealers and fire-starters. Funny thing is though, under the trees growing out of the Old College site is a patch of muddy ground where drug deals normally take place between the local teenagers from up the hill. No matter what happens, it's always muddy there. Someone has had enough. They can take no more. So they laid an old wooden fence on the mud for people to walk over (mind the post). Great. Brilliant. Now assuming I don't trip over the post at some point I walk the length of the alley without getting mud all over my slightly less than white trainers. You just know someone is going to set fire to it soon.

The local paper said it all. In the arts pages our local music correspondent tells us that "There is no original music in Swindon for saturday night". So what's new? Back in the days when I was working in local bands original music was as difficult to sell as today. In Swindon, it seemed as if no-one wanted to hear anything other than the same old chart hits they knew and loved. We had a cover-band called Locomotion (who are still going, I think) that cleaned up nicely from playing covers. There was another band called Whatever You Want who specialised in rising to the challenge of audiences requests for popular songs. These days cover-bands have mutated into tribute-bands, that perform the music of particular artists and even emulate behaviour and appearance as opposed to simply playing a mix of songs audiences might like. Imitation is supposed to be the sincerest form of flattery. In music, it's the only form of survival of the talentless. I remember how hard it was to get an audience to appreciate something different. Red Jasper in its early days tried several times to make an impression in Swindon and failed miserably on each occaision. The same happened when I played for Planet Earth, a band formed by a singer-songwriter friend. Even Bardiche, a melodic heavy rock band I was part of in the eighties, who played songs pretty much of a similar form to the succesful bands of the day, made no lasting impression beyond a few metal-starved teenagers. Originality counted for nothing. Unless something in the music latched onto Swindons need for something familiar, you were going to get nowhere. The local agents didn't help. They were of course plugging bands who brought in cash, so it stands to reason the succesful cover-bands got the gigs, while bands playiong unfamiliar original compositions struggled to persuiade venue owners to let them play - I once got grilled by a pub landlord who was most put out that I had approached him to book a gig. Why didn't he just say no, like everyone else? Or perhaps he'd just gotten fed up of saying that? Blast From The Past I don't buy a lot of music to be homnest. Partly that's for financial reasons of course, but also because the majority of acts really don't interest me now. I kind of feel sometimes that I've heard it all before. Every new band seems to be following well worn paths no matter how original the media claim they might be. So I wandered into the local HMV store with a few quid in my pocket and idly browsed through the endless ranks of anonymous CDs. Hang on... What's that? Rock The Nation by Montrose? Woohoo! I've wanted a copy of that release for literally a long time. It remains one of my favourite albums. Bad Motor Scooter revealing just how cretinous and ghastly Born To Be Wild by Steppenwolf really was. And of course, how could I possibly live without the thumping soundtrack of Rock Candy? I first heard that track on a Friday Rock Show way back in 1980 or thereabouts and I still enjoy listening to it. Not bad for a seventies band. New Is Not All Bad How many of you remember Soft Cell and their tooting Tainted Love? Most of you I suspect. The popularity of that song is typical of what we see in Swindon. Play that and you're guaranteed of an audience response. But isn't that a little fraudulent? After all, if the song is getting applause because you copied it rather than wrote it, who is the better performing artist? So instead lets look at Muse. Don't get me wrong, I hate them, utterly. Those quasi-operatic vocals meander randomly in some sort of contest with a pack of wolves recently released in Scotland. But - and I am serious about this - When they recorded Undiclosed Desires they seriously did put Soft Cell in their place. I almost forgive them for being an awful band. At least they are doing something original. And sometimes, just sometimes, they get it right. Cue applause from Caldrail.

Germanic tribes were raiders by cultural preference - they always had been, a very typical situation for aggressive european cultures, and we have accounts from Julius Caesar of Germans arriving two to a horse (suggesting a speedy attack) and dropping the passenger off to fight on foot. They set a larger number of gauls to flight by throwing stones. By the late empire the Germans had become more organised. Technically the phrase 'German' is a Roman invention, because it means an amalgam of tribes the Romans considered 'genuine celts'. This is of course a ntaural development. Having encountered Roman organisation for themselves, and with some tribesmen having Roman military experience, there would be a tendency for that diluted experience to make itself felt. Also, the increasing cooperation of tribes (leading toward thwe "Barbarian Conspiracy") illustrates a change in balance. We can see the increasing division and apathy of Rome against a rising sense of germanic identity inspired by Roman attitudes, and a sense of weariness in constantly meddling in germanic affairs to set one tribe against another as the Romans did in the past, on the principle 'divide and rule'. Hadrian after all set a trend by setting Rome apart from the barbarian lands beyond - his focus was internal, to create a Rome fit for arts and whatever else he thought was desirable Roman culture, without the intrusion of foreign influences. It is also true that the later germanic raids were inspired not for some desire to destroy Rome as rampaging barbarians, but to snatch their slice of the action, or in other words, greed. To the germanic tribes, Rome was still a wealthy place full of transportable luxury goods. I'm not sure if financial inflation caused this increase in desire (as the germans might have struggled to pay the prices asked for, and we know from later sources how rapacious the merchants of the day could be) but certainly there was a change from 'Keep the Romans out' attitude to one of 'Raid the Roman wallet'.

How can it get this cold without getting frosty? Yes, it's another sunny morning with blue skies, and very chilly. I've had to put on a jacket for crying out loud. I've also noticed an increase in the number of hats worn by visitors to the library. Of course you'd expect a number of baseball caps anyway. Even I wear those occaisionally, usually when the weather is raining. There was a time when youngsters wore the things at all sorts of silly angles, no doubt to communicate their rebellion against parents and authority figures in general, but that trend seems to have declined. All the baseball caps in view are being worn in regulation style, the way the makers intended. However there's a couple of flat caps, the traditional headwear of the country gent, now reduced to a fashion accessory for the fashionably challeneged. For the fashion failures, there's a young kiddie wearing a trilby. A trilby? I thought those went out of fashion twenty years ago. And yes, he wears it pushed back, to demonstrate his hyperactive cool. If he reclines in the seat any further, I swear it will fall off his head completely. Nasty Stuff Where does all this asbestos come from? Here in Swindon we regularly find public buildings closed while the hateful stuff is removed. I don't actually want to sound too flippant about it. After all, my uncle died a lingering and agonising death from years of contact with asbestos, and that's something I wouldn't wish on anyone. The latest report in the local paper is that a shocking seventy percent of our schools have the material on site. That does mean, incidentially, that I was exposed to it as a child. Not a nice thing to consider, though thankfully I haven't yet shown any sign of suffering ill effects. Actually I should mention the standard of journalism in our local paper is not encouraging. Asbestos Here: The newly built Swindon Academy contains asbestos because the material was present on the site. What? Did no-one bother to check before they built the place? The local council have employed people specifically to remove it from buildings, so clearly they're aware of the threat. Nonetheless, it keeps turning up. The Wyvern Theatre was closed recently while workmen cleaned the place up. I applied for a job as an asbestos remover a little while afterward. What happened to the poor guy I was supposed to replace? Financial Advice My stars for today reveal that I should worry about the balance of my finances. And that after I forgot an interview at the bank. Having said that, why do I need to spend money calling an astrologers pre-recorded message about how to avoid debt and disaster? I've seen any number of news reports stressing how much I won't get in benefits in the near future. I think I already know how balanced my finances are going to be.

The quality of Roman legions had declined considerably in the 4th century according to sources. however, to place the fall of the empire purely in the hands of a failure in defence policy isn't so much stating the obvious, but rather seeing the collapse as something attributed to a convenient cause. The policy of appeasement toward the goths was something of a necessity. Whilst it might have had disadvantages, the prospect of gothic hordes rampaging around the countryside was not appealing to Theodosius - and the Romans had already experienced what that might be like. It also meant he could call upon the barbarians for reinforcements. There seems to be more of a problem with money. The West was much reduced in financial strength since Constantines reign, and the period was known for their leaders to expend cash purely to look the part. You could argue that was always the case, but whereas emperors of former times had bribed the public to improve their popularity, the later emperors spent money to prove their credibility. Also, the increasing bureaucracy of Roman society was siphoning off money remorselessly, not to mention stifling it with increased sinecures and petty officials throwing their weight around. I'm not saying that politics and defence had no part in the decline ('Fall' is too catastrophic a word, and really belongs to christian criticism of the Romans as fundamentally decadent and immoral madmen who desrved their fate), but rather that the decline resulted from a series of factors. The empire was bloated, inefficient, leaking money, vulnerable, and as always, prone to internal strife.

Some of you might have forgotten something. Can you remember what that was? No? Not to worry, I forgot too. Yes, it was Bad Memory Day. Now that the point is made, I can confirm I made two significant contributions to that important event in our calendar. The first memory lapse occured while I was at the library, quietly typing the previous blog entry and trawling through the various job websites for something to apply for. About an hour late, I suddenly realised I was supposed to have presented myself to the bank for a review of my finances. Something tells me the bank manager isn't going to be impressed. In fairness, the bank forgot which branch I bank at and got that wrong, so they also took part in Bad Memory Day by making it impossible for me to turn up at the right place on time. The second memory lapse was concerning the inspection of my home by the letting agent. I had thought it was the day before, so totally unaware the lady and her clipboard was approaching the front door, I was entirely esconsed in a guitar playing session, wrapped in black cables and headphones, utterly focused on my clumsy fingering and imginative attempts to create the perfect guitar solo. The doorbell? Who's that? Now as any experienced musician will tell you, a hasty withdrawal from a recording studio is an impossible task without falling flat on your face or dragging expensive instruments in your wake. However, that sort of calamity is for lesser mortals. As a musician with decades of experience, I was able to perform the houdini-esque task of escaping the clutches of those malignant cables without harm. There was of course an embarrasing confusion as the letting agent expected to be expected, and I was totally unexpecting. She pulled a copy of the letter and pointed at it. "There you are, it said so in the letter." She told me, rapidly coming to the conclusion I was trying some dodge to prevent access. Of course I wasn't. I let her in and despite the musical chaos upstairs, she seemed happy enough. Apparently letting agents aren't concerned with how tidy tenants are, but that we aren't demolishing the premises in the process of being untidy. Phew. Cold Memories At the moment the BBC news is entirely given over to Ministers of Parliament baiting each other as more budget cuts are announced and explained. It's all very well watching Ed Milliband make such a clumsy attempt to embarrass the prime Minister, but the real emphasis was on George Osborne explaining whp gets their money stopped, but then we all knew that already. Instead, lets pop over to Russia Today, and get some world news. Even they discuss Wayne Rooney's desire to escapoe the clutches of Manchester United. Is that really an item of world interest? It seems so. Time and again I come across people from all over the world following our football teams. I was hoping for something better though. Something more real than the fantasy world premiere league players inhabit. Ahh, now what's this? An interview? I found it fascinating watching a Russian politician whose name I can neither remember nor pronounce properly. He was discussing the relations with Europe, and he made the point that Russia is a new country with new policies, and he found it frustrating that they couldn't shake off the Cold War legacy. That is the problem, isn't it? And it isn't just the suspicious West continuing as it alsways has. Public attitudes persist regardless of policy statements by politicians. In fariness, the Russians have been pushing for a new European defence policy. That does make sense. If we accept the Cold War is over, then the NATO Vs Warsaw Pact mindset really doesn't belong there. But has the Cold War ended? Yes, sure, the Berlin Wall has come down. The ideological brush wars have wound down, though I do note that islamic fundamentalism has risen to fill that void, something that Russia herself has suffered from and which might help east and west come to terms after fifty years of sabre-rattling.. Nonetheless, Russia is still a powerful nation. It is still capable of striking out, as inhabitants of Chechnya and Georgia will tell you. As someone who lived through the Cold War, thankfully untouched by it, it pleases me no end that Russia wants a new start. The problem is, I know the old Russia. The country at the wrong end of countless spy thrillers in television, film, and pulp fiction. Also, there's a part of me that remains wary of accepting the Russian initiatives at face value. I still remember the Cold War.

Or the Romans were boasting. They did that often enough, and history is written by the victors after all. Shame we don't have much from the Carthaginians on this subject, but then, the Romans made sure of it.

Jobsearching is getting a bit frustrating. I've just been to the Job Centre to page through their vacancy database and found two new vacancies in the last seven days, for a town the size of Swindon. Both are self employed vacancies requiring own transport, so that rules me out. With politicians breathing down our necks, the need for paperwork to prove we're all good little jobseekers is getting a bit much. I've been given another pair of forms asking for details of weeks of activity. The boss of the Job Centre tells me there's no intention of trying to catch people out. Who's he trying to kid? That's exactly what the form is designed for and I've harangued him about that once already. Bureaucracies do love red tape though. They thrive on it. So I guess I'll just have to write out another list of activity like I did last time. No dishonesty of course. Wouldn't want to get caught out, now would I? Inspection Day Every so often the letting agent asks to inspect the property just to make sure it's all being looked after. There's no big deal to it. Some person turns up with a clipboard, makes a few ticks in the boxes provided, and leaves as soon as they can drag themselves away from my rivetting conversation about Roman history. Yesterday was inspection day. By coincidence I'd spoken to the letting agent on another matter and I knew they were due to turn up any time after lunch. Except they didn't. Which meant I sat there twiddling my thumbs wasting an afternoon I could have spent on more productive activity. Looking for a job maybe? On The Bright Side The sun is shining. Blue skies with barely a cloud to spoil them. The temptation to enjoy this good weather is enormous. After all, it gets me out and about, meeting people, fresh air and exercise. Who knows? Maybe I'll find a job today.

I woke bleary eyed after the Star Trek marathon on television this weekend. No, before you ask, I didn't have anything better to do. I've been pretty critical of the films by and large, so you have to wonder why I bothered. Put simply, there were one or two I've never seen and it's been a while since I saw the others. The major thing that struck me was the obvious. The early films try to create a sense of magic which just doesn't work. It's as if just having the old team from USS Enterprise up there on the big screen was going to be enough. Perhaps back then it was. Nonetheless I can't help feeling the film was intended to wow us with special effects rather than provide a plot. I've always said the first film was nothing more than a light show, and it was intriguing to learn that the special effects were cobbled together at the last moment when production when horribly wrong. What interested me more than anything was the last film, Nemesis, which I'd not seen before. The only film that never made any profit and yet the only film that felt like it was more than an advertisement for the series. The only one that I enjoyed as a film in its own right as opposed to another chance to see the old crew. Why was it a failure? A Certain Breed "They were bred in india." Said the owner. Dalmatians? Surely they come from Dalmatia? I've just looked up the breed on the web and sure enough the Balkans are listed as the region of origin. True to form, the dog was constantly trotting back and forth in a quest to find something to sniff. The description is right, they are energetic dogs. But then, I have personal experience of them. Our family owned one for a while before we got tireed of tearing our hair out and sold the animal on to a new unsuspecting owner. It was a horror. It ripped and tore anything made of paper, it refused utterly to get down from a sofa or a bed, and really just did its own thing regardless of how many times a red-faced owner shouted "Sit!" That was the only dog we owned that none of us cared to remember fondly. No, I haven't a clue what happened to it after. Coughs and Ring Tones There's a guy sat at the computer across the other side of a pillar from me. Every ten seconds he makes a sort of regular grunt/humming noise. No, I mean it, he really is that annoying. "(Cough) Hmm hmm hmm hmm hmm hmm hmm hmm hmm hmm..." Not an especially interesting rythmn if I were honest, and the lack of melody is even more pronounced than chart hits. "(Cough) Hmm hmm hmm hmm hmm hmm hmm hmm hmm hmm..." Aaargh! This is getting really distracting! "(Cough) Hmm hmm hmm hmm hmm hmm hmm hmm hmm hmm..." Luckily for him someone elses mobile phone went off. In the silence of the library, the chart hit was played by the tinny little speaker loud enough to be heard by everyone, including Dragon Lady, who's on the help desk this morning. I saw her eyes rise from her work and narrow menacingly. "(Cough) Hmm hmm hmm hmm hmm hmm hmm hmm hmm hmm..."

The modern image of the wizard is well established. An older man, long white beard, a flowing robe, and of course, a pointy hat. What wizard would be seen without one? Beyond the delights of escapist fantasy we don't tend to think of the wizard as a historical character. Is there some basis for this tradition? The modern wizard descends to us through Arthurian tradition, a genre of literature that has progressed from tales around the fireside in the Dark Ages, magnified by the medieval world into an epic of chivalry, and by strange irony recast in Dark Age tones by the success of authors like JRR Tolkien. In fact, the word "wizard" does actually mean something. It's a medieval phrase, meaning "Wise'ard", or person whose opinions are considered worth listening to. On the face of it, you might assume that the phrase could apply to anyone with a decent thing or two to say, but this description is based on an earlier trend in history. In the Arthurian mythos, Merlin is depicted as a typical spellcaster more often than not, the standard by which wizards are described, and in a sense, partly a prototype of Gandalf, JRR Tolkiens ubiqitous magician in Lord of the Rings. however, if you read earlier versions of Arthurian tales, Merlin is specifically described as a Druid. This tallies with the 'wise man' ideal, as Druids were judges over the tribal societies of the Dark Ages on the principle that 'Knowledge is Power'. Further, the richness of the Arthurian myths also reflects the adoption of much earlier storytelling traditions that were recast with Arthur and his associates as the contemporary heroes. Such stories emerged in the Iron Ages, the time when Druidism, so the Romans tell us, evolved in Britain after the spread of Halstatt Gauls across Europe and into Asia Minor. The emergence of the wizard in fiction is therefore a cultural legacy of the Druids, whose power over celtic tribes was enough to bother the Romans such that they ordered their citizens not to worship their gods, and later, banned them completely and destroyed their refuge on Mona (The Island of Anglesey) in ad60. One wonders if their antipathy toward the celtic judges wasn't just one of political necessity in a time of conquest, but also because they influenced the Gauls during the sack of Rome in 387BC. The story is not complete however. Whereas the 'hedge wizard', a rural hermit and well meaning mentor and supporter of the hero's cause, is something suggesting a co-operative relationship with society, there is also a tradition of the evil magician, a tyrant, an man subduing civilisation to his corrupt manner. Whereas the druids oversaw the sacrifices made by gaulish tribes and interpreted the death throes of their victims as a means of divination, this was a civic and religious ceremony rather than an evil act, at least in their eyes. However, since the wizard is changed from druid to generic spellcaster in the middle ages, we sense the influnce of christianity who saw the use of such divination and magic as unholy. Combine that with the advanced moslem literature, art, medicine, and science encountered in the Holy Lands during the crusades, the possibility that wizards might not be benign judges but instead people who consorted with demons to learn their craft, takes on the same patina as witchcraft in their eyes. Something to be rooted out as evil and undesirable in society. Not for nothing was Gandalf's main adversary another wizard, the malicious and conniving Saruman. The modern wizard is therefore a polyglot of cultural influence. He represents power or wisdom to suit the storyteller, for both aspects can be found in his past. In one sense, we can merely enjoy the tales and laugh at their antics. But doesn't that rather miss the point?

The warning had gone out last night that clear skies meant colder temperatures. No frost yet, but the drop was significant and it felt distinctly chilly as I strolled down the hill for my daily dose of thrills and spills at the library. No, really, I had a ringside seat as the librarian ejected a bunch of youngsters from their chosen computers and told them to log on downstairs in the munchkin area. I tell you, it was a tense dramatic moment the likes of which we haven't seen since Maggie Thatcher upset the miners. Someone's mobile phone has just started ringing. I don't fancy his survival chances much. Mind you, the clear blue skies have gone. I've been here an hour and already the clouds have built up a grey and white blanket across the sky. The only splash of colour as I look out over the busy road junction outside is that new resteraunt over the chinese takeaway. Purple walls. Purple?. What were they thinking? Todays Tarot Never done this online before, but just for a laugh, I'll select my tarot cards and have the website give me the low down on what might happen today! Today, you

And, I suspect, the reason tabloids - even in Roman times - were popular was because people love all this wierd and wonderful gossip. It's more of the 'Here be Dragons' syndrome. They knew a landmass was there and filled it with fantasy to sound knowledgeable. Whereas the medieval mind thought of Dragons and Dog-heads, the Roman thought of barbarians beyond his wildest imaginings and the more revolting and unrestrained the rumour, the better. Strabo was onto a good there. Who was going to prove him wrong?

Nothing to worry about. Just sign up as a christian. The End-Timers reckon all worshippers are going to teleport to heaven any day now. That should save you a few bills. Can't take it with you, you know

DING! If I'm not mistaken, that was the doorbell. There I was, snoozing happily under my nice warm duvet, and someone has to go and spoil it by ringing the doorbell. It might be important, you never know, though a part of was wondering whether someone had broken my car again. I've reached the point where I don't care too much. Okay, let's find out what's going on. It dawned on me that doing so meant getting out of bed. This had better be good. Switch the hallway light on so the visitor knows I'm about to emerge from the grim darkness that is my home. Put some trousers on. Right, I'm prepared, let's see what they want. As it turned out a bouncy council employee with a remarkable resemblance to Bill Oddie wanted to let me know that they were cleaning up the area. Washing the walls, getting rid of grafitti, repainting the wooden fence along the Old College site, and so forth. Sorry for the inconvenience mate. It was nice of him to tell me that, but why did he bother? They don't usually... Aha. Here it comes, a sort of preganant silence as he thought how to phrase it properly. This has got to be about my car. "Is that your car back there?" He asked. The white one? Yes it is. "You... Wouldn't be thinking of seling it would you?" Ho ho ho. The man has no idea of the grief he's going to get if he does purchase my shabby automotive companion. Apparently his wife wants a nice little sports car and the man called on the off chance I might be willing to part with it. He and one of the mechanics had been chatting about it, and I thought I heard the door closing earlier. Well I managed to convince him he was buying a white elephant, and a costly one at that. That's the trouble with nice little sports cars. They really are substitute girlfriends in every respect except they don't bulge for several months then drop brand new chassis out the boot. Mine is old, disabled, unloved and uncared for, getting a little rusty around the edges, and no longer as sexy as she was. But you can't help feeling an attachment for the old girl. No Longer As It Was I was walking back from a visit to the Job Centre this morning and as usual, the Wyvern Theatre loomed up on the nearby skyline. It isn't what you'd call a striking building, being constructed of the same muddy brown brick as the commercial outlets on the left, and the multi-story car park on the right. You might call it a bit dowdy. Councillors must have thought so too. Recently they gave the building a makeover. A wrap-around turquoise panel mounting rows of neon lights for instance. I thought how utterly cheap and nasty it looks now. The blue panel is stained like an old tee-shirt, and those vertical lights are just horrendous. The Americans are often criticised for their neon glitz in urban centres, but if the Wyvern Theatre is anything to go by, Las Vegas is positively well turned out.

Today I thought I would stretch my legs south of the motorway, something I haven't done in ages, and having realised how short of breath I was getting striding up the hill where I live, I could do with the exercise. It's been a dull, claggy morning, just on the point of starting to rain but not quite getting there. It's also that uncomfortable temperature. Too cold for lightweight clothes, to sweaty for something warm. I hate that. Luckily my sweatshirt was the perfect compromise. To my horror I discovered that a concrete bridge over the motorway, intended as a farm crossing although little used now that the area north has been redeveloped, has been declared a weak bridge. Oh joy. Does that mean I'm going to fall thirty feet to a horrible death? Not sure. It's been a while since I weighed myself but I think I might be less than twenty six tons mean gross weight just yet, so I'll risk it. Nothing like working up a sweat, eh? I wish I could show dozens of photographs marking my progress around the Wiltshire countryside. Trouble is, I tend to take photo's that aren't that interesting to begin with, and on a day like this, there's little to see anyway. Pop Goes The Shotgun I followed a bridleway I've never been down before. For those who don't know, a bridleway is a sort of track or minor road open for public access, but not considered part of the road network, so mostly used by horses, 4x4's, or nutters with rucksacks like me. As it happened, it went past a local shooting school. We don't have too many of those any more. Shooting as a sport went into decline in recent decades after a series of random shooting sprees. It survives here though, and I heard some customers blasting clay discs out of the air. No, that's not quite right - I heard some some customers blasting hopelessly at thin air while the clay discs spun into a hedge safe and sound. Keeps them happy for a few hours I guess. The sound was odd though. After years of hearing Hollywood gunfights, where was that expected cannon-like blast? All I could hear was sort feeble firework bang and an odd popping sound. Is that all you get? Sympathy of the Week On my way back into town I must of looked like a right shabby individual. Tired, sweaty, grubby military surplus, hair all damp and straggly. That said, there was no excuise for that young man sat in the passenger seat of a passing van to scream very loudly as they passed by. If you're reading this, young man, yes, you certainly made me jump right out of my skin. Ha ha ha. But, erm... Why did you make such a high pitched scream? Have your testicles not dropped yet? Awww man, real sorry to hear that. Never mind, I'll keep that a secret.