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Strictly speaking there was a romano-british farmyard at the bottom of the hill where I live, so I pass it every day. Sadly someone built Swindon on top of it. That said, the area is due for redevelopment soon so with luck some archaeology might turn up.

As if invasions of jellyfish weren't enough. Last night I caught a program on television where some ex-special forces guy zips into chainmail to film vicious gangs of humboldt squid. Apparently these horrible little monsters are spreading like wildfire because they can. We haven't helped of course. I mean, we're always to blame, aren't we? Apparently our fishing habits have caught all the predators that eat squid, so now the little horrors don't have any competitors. They are actually remarkable creatures. They can survive in low-oxygen waters deep beneath the surface. They have some of the fastest growing babies in nature. Although unproven, they seem to have some form of sign language (they can flash colour at each other), and certainly stalk their victims intelligently. Not only that, but this species has the thickest nerve fibres of any creature on Earth. Now if only we could get squids and jellyfish to go to war against each other, mankind will be safe to paddle in the water between shark attacks. Mad Dogs And Englishmen As if getting stung to death by jellyfish, ripped apart by squid, or swallowed in several large pieces by shark wasn't bad enough, I see that half of britons are willing to risk getting sunburnt for the pleasure of cancer inducing suntans. We just don't learn, do we? Only mad dogs and englishmen go out in the mid-day sun it seems. Or then again... Out In The Mid-Day Sun You have to laugh. Now the US mission in Iraq has come to end and everyone is cheerily going home, they still have fifty thousand advisors there to train the iraqi army. One to one tuition? But maybe there's method to this madness. After all, when the squids finally learn how to eat navy seals in chainmail, America is gong to need every ally it can get. We'll be too busy getting suntanned on the beach. Todays Activity Wot a nice day. The sun is shining, the air is warm, the mood is pleasant, and it's nearly lunchtime. See ya later dudes.

You think I take Deadliest Warrior seriously? No I don't, but my worry is that some people will, and so the urban myths about these stereotypes are inflated. That means people like us may well have to convince the believers that their fantasies aren't real. Or don't you take history seriously?

A lovely sunny morning. It really is. Mind you, despite the sunshine, when I left the house earlier today it was very chilly, clouds of breath marking my progress, and if it hadn't been for my steady pace, I would have felt the cold very quickly. Today was upposed to be the day I started my forklifting course. Some people people might not appreciate how momentous this opportunity is. I sepent nearly two decades in warehousing and no-one would train me on forklifts. That's what you get for driving sports cars in a devil-may-care fashion I guess. Previously, my attempts to get a forklift license via the Job Centre have met with failure, because I was too highly qualified. Apparently only dimwits drive forklifts. Any school certificate that says anything other than mentally deficient truant immediately disqualified you. Things have changed. Now that I've been unemployed for two years I must qualify as a hopeless dimwit after all, because I was interviewed for a course ealier this year. End of August, they told me, though you might get a slot sooner. Unfortunately the phone call from the trainers conflicted with a job interview or two, so I had no choice but to leave it until now. No letter? No phone call? What's going on? I rang the number on my original interview letter to find out whether the course was going ahead and where to attend. The lady responsible was on holiday, but I got a partial address, and managed over the weekend to figure out where I was supposed to go. Except it was shut. I turned up, ready to go, eight o'clock this morning, kicking my heels and proving to be an object of curiosity for the workmen across the road loading one of their lorries. After fifteen minutes it was all a bit obvious. I was in the wrong place. Brilliant. Was it something I said? What do people have to do to get a forklift license around here? Hurt Feelings Walking back home yesterday a car passed me. A white Eunos Cabriolet, with the same bodykit as mine, as low slung as mine had been, and the same twelve pounder napoleonic cannon exhaust. A part of me wonders if that was actually the chassis I originally drove away from the dealer with, and that the rusting wreck parked in the yard was in fact a substitute as I once thought it might be, but that's merely suspicion. For all I know, that other car is nothing to do with me or my car ownership woes. But it hurt, nonetheless, watching it waft by with a subdued growl.

This is without doubt the worst program on television. No seriously, it's martial arts fantasy, not history, and any pretensions to scientific analysis are a little dubious to say the least. The sensationalist style is designed to wow the viewer with details of capable and vicious the warriors were, but notice how stereotypical they present them as, and if you look closely, the program is describing expert one on one combats, not the sort of melee the real men fought, and it assumes all of them were equally capable. In other words, it takes these historical stereotypes and both exaggerates their capabilities and places them out of context. For kids only. And adults? Remember to tell your kids to study history. You never know, they might learn something.

Today is Bank Holiday Monday. I can tell that because everyone is wandering about aimlessly. Small kids weave about main roads on bicycles shouting insults at drivers and pedestrians to prove their stature among their tribe. Ethnic inhabitants lean against the walls outside small shops with strange names, and a few of them hurl insults at passers-by, just for something to do. I wandered around the old British Rail Social Club grounds this morning, just for something to do. It's fast disappearing. The sports field is now a meadow of thick grass and thorny bushes. Huge tumbles of foliage sprouting out of the tarmac car park. Piles of brick, rubble, and wood where buildings once stood. Metal posts and chicken wire fences marking out disused tennis courts. I took a few photographs and marvelled at how quickly nature reclaims the places we build on. You might wonder why we're all so bored. There was a time when the Bank Holiday was an event. They always showed a James Bond movie for the adults, something cartoon for the kids. Now I flick through the channels and half of them are showing episodes of the same program, back to back. I mean, they're just not trying any more. Anyone would think they've gone on holiday. What Else? I've done aimless wandering. I've done the shopping. What else is there to do today? Had I known, I could have popped down to Wroughton for a demonstration of English martial arts. The organisers insist there is such a thing, though I must admit I'd never realised that morris dancing was so violent. Actually, I tell a lie, there is a demonstration of broadsword fighting going on too. Now if I could only find that mouthy little rascal who shouted at me this morning, they could put on live action beheadings. Let's see how justice was administered in the Middle Ages. On the other hand, I see some people are resorting to some very strange things to pass the time. Like that woman cuaght on cctv dropping a cat into a wheelie bin, which apparently she thought was a fun thing to do. Then there's that french guy who has become the worlds best at air guitar for the second year running. One wonders if maybe his time would be better spent actually learning to play one for real, but maybe that was too boring for him. There are some good guitar players out there already, so I guess that put him off a little. There was a time when I used to get into a sports car and head off down to the airfield for an hour of magnificence in their flying machines. Not any more. Don't get me wrong, that sort of thing never bored me at all. I think it's just that other people got bored listening to me talking about it. You know what? Being ordinary is soooo dull.

A few miles south of where I live is the site of a battle fought in AD556. The Anglo-Saxon Chronicle tells us that "Cynric and Ceawlin fought with Britons at Beranburgh". Some time ago I wrote an article about the creation of Wessex. When I came to write that piece, I discovered that a book I'd found at our local library was no longer there. Despite long searches, the desperately needed volume had vanished. To this day it still hasn't been found. With hindsight, I was discovering for myself the dilemma the dark age chroniclers were faced with. In attempting to set down for posterity the history of their time, they had little to go on. They too were missing the vital data. It isn't possible therefore to describe the battle in any detail. No-one is entirely sure where it was fought. No-one knows who won it. Barbury Castle Despite the name, you won't find medieval ruins here. Barbury was an iron Age fort built around 600BC, one of many that sprang up along the Ridgeway, an old cross-country trail that runs below the fort. It was occupied by local britons during the Roman period and it sems the Romans never bothered with it. As we sometimes find in Roman Britain, the Iron Age lived on right beside them. At some point in the Dark Ages, the settlement was turned into a cemetary. American soldiers quartered nearby had begun to bulldoze the ramparts sometime around 1942-43, presumably intending to use the site for similar reasons to the original inhabitants. In doing so, they uncovered skeletons, and Barbury's existence as an ancient monument had begun. You can find Barbury Castle a few miles south of Wroughton in Wiltshire. It's located on the north edge of a ridge on the Marlborough Downs, overlooking the plateau where Wroughton Airfield and the Science Museum Annexe are today. The ditches and ramparts are readily visible from some distance, and were once much taller than they are today, never mind the wooden palisades that were placed on them in their heyday. It's also possible to see more than just the fort itself. A series of iron age field boundaries are visible on the hillside to the east, the remains of a wealthy landowners farm. The hillsides on the north, south, and west edges are very steep, as I can personally attest to. These days it's a country park with excellent views of the surrounding area, easily accessible by car. What The Name Reveals Barbury is of course the name by which the place is known today. In the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle, it's given as 'Beranburgh'. Other sources give it as 'Beranbyrig', and a document from 1252 mentions the fort as 'Berebyre'. 'Burgh' is an old english word for an enclosed space which comfortably describes the fort. 'Byrig' means something similar. 'Bere' would suggest barley cultivation and there was once a small medieval village located in the valley south of the fort, but 'Beran' infers that the site was named 'Bera's Fort' at some point, and Bera is held to be a Saxon warlord. Our Dark Age Battle Until a couple of decades ago, the battle site used to be marked on Ordnance Survey maps, so sure were historians of where this battle had been fought. That's no longer true. The nature of events surrounding this battle have become more mysterious and complex as archaeology uncovers more of our past. Two sites have been favoured. First is the traditional site just southwest of Wroughton Airfield, on the sloping plateau below the castle. The other is on the high gound between the castle and Smeathes Ridge, very close to the fort itself. One thing must be made very clear. Whoever defended Barbury fought outside the the fort. There is no sign that Barbury Castle was ever attacked. It was a refuge, as it had always been, a place for the population to shelter from the fighting whilst the warriors gathered outside to do bloody battle with their attackers. It was the same story with the earlier confrontation at Old Sarum. The Saxons were known to have little inclination or ability in siege warfare. In order to emphasise how difficult it was for Saxons to attack hill forts, we need to realise that their armies were small. The idea of a battle conjures in our minds massed racks of thousands very easily. The dark age chroniclers list any number of confrontations, and if the casualties they list are anything close to the truth, then the death rate was horrendous. In fact it's likely the numbers are exaggerated, especially since the chroniclers of the eighth and ninth centuries had little recourse but to set down the heroic stories the Saxons remembered their deeds by. This means our armies are much smaller than we might imagine. Some of these battles may well have been fought with as little as a few dozen men each. Nonetheless the dark age battlefield was not a healthy place to be. Some estimates place the average chance of survival as close to even. Captured troops were routinely slaughtered whilst leaders were more usually on the receiving end of some very brutal and cruel treatment. Saxon armies at this time were developing larger round shields, becoming more and more reliant on shield walls and formations, rather than the looser raiding style of combat prevalent in the struggles of the late 5th century. Spears were not thrown in volleys, but independently, the warrior running ahead of his peers in order to throw rather like a javelin,and with swords being expensive items, spears were still much more common than axes at this time. Although we have unreliable accounts of Romano-British soldiers from the wars of Ambrosius Aurelianus and Germanus of Auxerre in previous generations, it doesn't necessarily follow that the Britons who fought at Barbury were the same, and given the years of peace they had enjoyed, it isn't difficult to think they were ill-equipped to fight the Saxons. Conquest Or Rebellion The most elusive quality about Dark Age history, especially that as we move from the Sub-Roman period to the Saxon Settlement, is that the closer you study it, the less you can be sure of. In conventional chronology, such as obtained from the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle, the West Saxons arrived on the south Hampshire coast in 495 led by Cerdic and his son Cynric. This was a period which according to Gildas, a 6th century british monk who wrote a sermon called De Excidio Britainnae (The Ruin of Britain), was toward the end of decades of violent struggle. We learn that a battle unconnected with the West Saxons was fought at Mons Badonicus which brought forty years of peace, but already, the Saxons were preparing to restart their territorial expansion. German tribes weren't unknown in Britain. Considerable numbers had been enlisted by the Romans to defend Britain and one source describes the Saxons as 'good citizens'. When the pay ran out, these settlers broke into rebellion, and more germanic mercenaries were invited into Britain to help put down the trouble. Despite its limitations, however, the Chronicle provides a picture of the invasion and conquest of Wessex by Saxons who extended their control northwards from the south coast of Hampshire to embrace the entire region. It is however, unwise to assume, as some writers have done, that the battles, which tend to occur in a northward progression, were necessarily fought at a frontier or that they represent the rate of advance from southern Hampshire into Wiltshire and beyond. Victoria History of the Counties - Wiltshire -Vol 2 Archaeological evidence shows that germanic settlements existed along the upper and mid Thames valley as early as the late 4th century. In some cases, the remains exist alongside Roman burials suggesting that they were indeed settlers under Roman patronage. These were immigrant populations in considerable numbers who dominated these central regions. Further, these settlers don't appear to have mixed with the local populations very readily. When the Saxons rose in rebellion against the Romano-British from around 440, there was more resistance than foreign merenaries. Gildas describes resistance led by Ambrosius Aurelianus, possibly with a stronghold at Amesbury, said to be a man of noble Roman family. His successor may have been the elusive Arthur, but at any rate, the victory of Mons Badonicus around the turn of the 6th century brought the troubles in the south of England to an end. At least, that's what Gildas tells us. There some people who believe the date given for his De Excidio Brittanae is much later than it really was. Instead of an estimated origin of around 540, some believe the sermon was written as much as fifty years earlier, thus making Ambrosius Aurelianus the true victor of of the Saxon Rebellion within a realistic time frame. Whilst there are some questions to be asked about the events he describes, Gildas does discuss 'tyrants' known to have been alive during the accepted period . It is tempting to think therefore that the Battle of Mons Badonicus was against the Thames Valley Saxons, rather than those of Aesc and Aella, and that the threat of conquest was therefore from the northeast. It's as well to point out at this time that the old Roman provinces had long since vanished. The Roman presence was organised from urban centres and connected to a government in mainland Italy. Once the Britons had broken away from the Roman Empire, as they had done by the late 440's, there was effectively no central government, and what was left of the former Roman administration had collapsed, although Roman titles of office continued to be used as honorifics, suggesting some level of co-operation against threats. Dumnomnia, comprising the distant southwest of Britain in Devon and Cornwall, had always been treated with some respect by the Romans. That part of the British Isles was never subject to warfare and the occupying forces were light. It would appear that Dumnonia evolved from areas that had willingly co-operated or come to some arrangement with the Romans. In the more central south west, areas had broken into petty kingdoms, whose names are not certain but suggested as Caer Celemion, with a capital at Calleva Atrebatum ("Woodland Town of the Atrebates" or Silchester), Caer Gwinntuic whose capital was Venta Belgarum ("Market of the Belgae" or Winchester), and Caer Glui, with a capital at Glevum ("Bright" - exact meaning unknown, or Gloucester). The borders would have been ill-defined and subject to controversy. There is still some controversy because we don't know with any certainty what political divisions exited. This was not an era of organised government. It must be pointed out that these capitals were the regional government centres set up by the Romans to administer the British tribes. In the Migration Period, these cities were in decline. Without the economy the Romans brought with them, these urban centres were impossible to maintain, reduced to abandonment sooner or later. Gildas refers to the ruins found by the Saxons, and we're also told that these germanic warriors largely avoided them. In all probability disease had something to do with that decision as much as the impression they had been built by giants, and one wonders if this awe was the origin of Geoffery of Monmouths 12th century account of Britain having been inhabited by giants in prehistory. Wiltshire, the county where both the battles of Searobyrig (Old Sarum, 552) and Beranbyrig (Barbury, 556) were fought, was divided between Caer Gwinntuic in the south, Caer Celemion in the northeast, and a section in the northwest dominated by the Hwicce, a tribe who later expanded their territory before Wessex conquered them and whose name has been linked to the Gewisse. In other words, the seperation between Saxon and Briton in the south of England was not as clear cut as elsewhere. Archaeologically the area around Barbury connects with the Saxons of the Thames Valley, and although Saxon remains are plentiful, they're also diverse, scattered, and not especially illustrative of great events. There is however a Saxon cemetary at West Overton, some miles south of Barbury, which includes remains that date from the 5th century, well before the battle. We therefore have Saxons living in Wiltshire long before the Battle of Beranburgh happened. Worse still, the West Saxon leaders have british names, not germanic. By association the Gewisse, as the Venerable Bede calls the West Saxons, have involvement with the Romano-British. This is despite some DNA evidence that suggests a form of apartheid into the Dark Age, with Saxon settlers in the Thames Valley living apart from their Romano-British neighbours. Instead of a campaign of conquest as is usually written of, it might be more accurate to think of this as a campaign of domination. Buried in this curious war is a tale of politics, petty rebellion, and armed struggle. What a great shame then that all we know is that a young Caewlin, later to become one of the Bretwalda's ("Britain Ruler") listed in those Dark Age chronicles, began his military career at Beranburgh. It's hard not to think the victory was his. Or that this was indeed part of a conquest of immigrant warriors. Perhaps, with knowledge that the West Saxons had strong links to the native Britons, we are in fact looking at the new rulers putting down a rebellion. Even if the mysterious Bera was a Briton, a man resisting the rule of his new masters - Even if the britons actually won that fight, seeing as the Chronicle does not trumpet Saxon victory - Barbury became a graveyard.

How much do you take for granted? It's an interesting question. We all bcome comfortable with our daily routines certainly, but the extent to which we assume we understand our world is astonishing. Let me explain. Fifty years ago a British astronomer said that spaceflight was impossible. A hundred years before that, powered flight was impossible, or that travelling more than thirty miles an hour would kill you. A few centuries earlier, we all knew the Earth was the centre of the universe and all stars and planets revolved around us. A couple of centuries before that, we all knew you would fall of the edge of the world if you sailed too far. Any earlier than that and everything was an act of some divine entity. At each stage our world was fixed, certain, and unbelievably wrong. Now mathematicians are telling us that our rules of arithmetic might be wrong. I must admit, I was pretty certain my maths teacher was right, and that our ways of doing sums worked brilliantly. He always made it look so easy on the blackboard, but with all the sacred cows that have been butchered over the last two thousand years, who knows? Perhaps in another century schoolkids will scratch their heads at the clunky and old fashioned method of counting beans we use today. It seems then that rules are only fundamental untl you prove that they're not. At The Check-Out Supermarkets are fast becoming places to socialise. Some host singles nights for crying out loud. On your own? Come and shop this monday evening. Dance the night away to muzak in the aisles.... More often you get a pile of volunteers waiting at the end of the check-out who leap upon your purchased goods with a view to competitive plastic bag filling. They ask you first of course, so you've only yourself to blame when some twelve year old enthusiastically crushes tonights dinner. Yesterday was now exception. A group of young girls waited and asked me whther I'd like my bags packed. Since the goods were crushable, I decided to risk it. A few quick instructions and lo and behold, they got it right. Who says the education system doesn't work? I've met three shoolgirls who speak english. I asked them what all this assistance was in aid of. They told me they were involved in a cultural exchange with India, though I have to say quite why that means they needed to volunteer for bag packing at the supermarket is beyond me. That said, I wonder if these kids realise how lucky they are? Cultural exchanges with schools elsewhere in the world? Nothing like that ever happened when I was young. Then again, even with all these things laid on, extraordinary opportunities for character development at a young age, why is it so many of them paint graffiti near my home? Ride bicycles in a manner liable to frighten pedestrians? Smoke, drink, bonk, steal, shout taunts and insults, and wear ridiculous fashions? I suppose our generation is to blame. We're responsible for teaching these kids how to be mature sensible adults and useful members of the community. So I apologise profusely to those three shoolkids, who will now grow up bitter and twisted because I showed them the wrong way to bag shopping. Aww man, I feel really bad about that. I think I need to drown my sorrows with a pint of cider...

Hey, Doc's Diner is open at last! Let me check the prices... Let's see... Flight to Los Angeles tomorrow... Return train tickets to London.... I'll need to think of an excuse to explain why I'm late signing on the dole... What the...??? Grabbing a bite to eat at Doc's place is going to cost me

Across the country, six million cars are parking themselves in traffic jams on their way to somewhere more expensive than usual. Yes, it's another Bank Holiday Weekend. For those of you who don't understand British culture, it's our way of imitating lemmings. Traditionally the weather always rains on holiday weekends. It's as if the sum effect of all those car exhausts isn't carbon dioxide at all, but water, as the rainclouds make our intended holidays as miserable as possible - unless you happen to be at a music festival that is. It really is a fine day out there. Yesterday tried to be, the sun fighting a life or death struggle with blanketing cloud and succeeding by evening. There was a noticeable change in the air last night as the sun emerged into a pale blue sky, low on the horizon, and lighting everything in golden tones. You could literally smell the warm air. I know this sounds odd, but everyone seemed happy. The neighbours weren't arguing. Houses in the neighbourhodd with open windows and music turned down to a moderate level. Car drivers behaving politely toward pedestrians and letting us cross the road. Or is that because all the idiots are away on holiday? Chilling Out The good weather on this Bank Holiday Weekend seems to be effecting other people too. Miners in Chile are trapped underground and may be there until christmas before rescuers can dig a tunnel to get them out. Yet on the news, they were happy, upbeat, and telling everyone not to worry. I hope they get out okay. After all, the Bank Holiday Weekend doesn't last forever.

I think the problem with Roman mathematics is that we're accustomed to a different system. They lived with theirs, so it was more intuitive to them, abacus or not. Also I suspect they didn't bother with clever stuff like division or multiplication (you might want to buy an educated slave to handle that onerous problem for you) in the way we do. Our numeric system makes that easy. We apply that system to everything so it guides our manner of doing business. They would have done the same with Roman numerals, and not suprisingly, I scratch my head along with everyone else. As an interesting aside, it turns out that the rules of arithmetic in our modern day are not necessarily perfect or even correct. Apparently some mathematicians have discovered there may be flaws in the system. Like what? It all seems to work as far as I can see. Perhaps that's how the Romans viewed their own system too. What's wrong with it?

Oh hello, what's this? A new television channel? That heralds another quest to reprogram my litle black box and reveal the latest source of boredom dellivered in high definition digital bliss. We often say how odd it is that with hundreds of new channels to watch, there's hundreds less to be interested in. As to what channel is now included in my daily browsing session, I can't say, because I haven't found it yet. I did stumble on that dating channel again. Shall I? Shan't I? Oh go on then. Have a peruse. Let's see... Women seeking men... Aha. Here we go. Cardiff.... Cardiff.... Cardiff... Maybe it's just me, but there seems to be a pattern here. For some reason Cardiff appears to be the loneliest place in southwest Britain. I wonder why? Was that new television channel an interactive Lonely Sheep Channel? Come to think of it, why hasn't some current-affairs program cottoned on to the emotional desert that is South Wales? By now some guy in a suit should be standing in front of a camera with a microphone, giving us the shock headline on evening news. Perhaps the problem is that we're all getting used to bad news. Take council cuts. Only eighteen people in Swindon responded to an initiative aimed at obtaining feedback and public opinion about forthcoming cuts in services, a figure so low it made the headlines of the local paper. What did they expect? Ever since the government were voted in they've been telling us that cuts are necessary and how tough it's going to be for all of us. The problem is this is Wiltshire, not Wales, so all we can expect is an interactive Lonely Cow Channel. My Very Own Big Brother Romance is in the air. Not for me of course, I'm the old fogey upstairs, but outside in the back yard the worlds love affairs are being presented as nightly plays. Shakespeare said that all the world's a stage, and we're all actors upon it. He wasn't wrong. One of my neighbours is a somewhat highly strung young lady. Almost every other day, she rages at her impressively resilient boyfriend. Doors are slammed, ears are bent, bottoms are savaged, and it goes on for hours. That's not an exaggeration. It isn't just the drama of domestic politics. A few nights ago someone blew a kiss loudly enough for me to hear in my semi-comatosed state. I have no idea who the receipient was. If it was me, you'd think the young lady concerned would think of ringing my doorbell. Or would that cause an argument? But nice of her anyway. Again, the next night, the ever-turbulent course of love made itself known. "I hate you... I hate you... I hate you..." said some female android outside in the yard, programmed by nature to ensure her message was received despite any neanderthal tendencies in her preferred boyfriends. Why on earth I'd want to sit through endless hours of Big Brother when I can get the same entertainment on my own doorstep I'll never know. Mating Call Rrrr-rrrr-rrrr-eee-eee-eee-rrr-rrr-rrr-eee-eee-eee Ah yes. The roar and squeals of the Wiltshire Rainforest after dark. The mating call of the Lesser Spotted Joyrider. Round and round he went last night, gyrating in circles in the yard behind my home, displaying his captured prey in an effort to secure mating rights among the pack, and who knows, impress the disappointed girl I heard the other night? Rrr-rrrr-rrrr-eee-eee-eee-crunch..... Oh dear. No sex for you then. Urges According to my stars, my life is about to go through changes. What? Again? I thought I'd finished with that sort of stuff when I was a teenager. This time the prediction is that I will rediscover love. I might even fall in love with the idea of love, they tell me. To be honest, I'd actually like to rediscover sex instead, but beggars can't be choosers. That said, so far I haven't felt any urge whatsoever to buy flowers for the nearest pretty girl. There's a more powerful urge that gets in the way before that and makes me walk with some discomfort. In my experience young women are often embarrasingly observant at times like these and sure enough the two attractive young ladies passed me by in hysterics. Nope. Still no urge to buy flowers...

Once again I trudge despondently into my local Job Centre. The security guard spotted me crossing the foyer and asked "You know your way, Sir?" Funnily enough, I do. The office catacombs upstairs are well explored by veteran jobseekers like me. I nodded, and he went back to sleep. Once there I was prevented from going to sleep myself by a crafty claims advisor, whose machiavellian tactic was to wear a flourescent yellow jumper. I don't know if such apparel is legal in Job Centres, but at least he won't be run over by reversing trucks. As part of my daily routine, the claims advisor does a search of his vacancy database and points out the various opportunities for me. With various redevelopment projects waiting in the wings I wasn't suprised to see a lot of building vacancies. Come to think of it, the old college site is due for demolition later this year. I had noticed a ladder being lifted against the abandoned building today. Quite why they need to clean the windows is beyond me. Most of the glass is already well ventilated by now. But I digress. There's a yellow jumper destroying my eyesight, and I must focus attention on the multicoloured screen displaying lots and lots of jobs I'm not qualified for. Like a Spanish Translator for instance. I was drawn to this vacancy because the pay was given as

You would never know it was August. It's as dull and chilly as late Autumn. Not only that, with our recent strong winds, some trees are convinced that Summer is over and are shedding brown leaves everywhere. You feel like shouting "No! Stop it!" but you just know the trees aren't going to listen to some gesticulating and noisy ape descendant. 'C' That? Remember the Sinclair C5? Those of you who can't, it was a sort of sports model mobility buggy. available in any colour as long as it's white. Except they were never entirely mobile. Not really a success for a vehicle intended to redefine urban transportation. When these came out years and years ago, I only saw one man brave enough to drive it on the public road. On my way to work there was a traffic jam, and the vehicle causing it was a man who was without doubt the advance guard of the eco-car movement. If only he could have advanced faster. Within a few days he'd given up, his morale crushed by lines of amused and irate motorists, not to mention his first encounter with rainfall. That really was the last time I ever saw one in action. Not any more. Last night some youngster was pedalling one around the area. A new generation has discovered the joys of green... I mean, white, motoring. Despite all the criticism our education system has received over the last twenty years, this young man has realised that obstructing the free flow of irritable motorists is a dumb idea, and prefers to send pedestrians flying in all directions as if he was riding an aerodynamic three wheeled skateboard. We used to blame Clive Sinclair. Now we could blame Bart Simpson. On the other hand, we might just as well blame the ecological movement for making people think the C5 was a good idea after all. Then again, the young driver might quickly discover he hasn't addressed the second major flaw in the C5 design. Riding On The Pavement Maybe it was high spirits. Maybe he was just showing off to his friends. Maybe he was jealous of my new

My trainers are damp. There's a sort of cold wet feel to them. Yes, you're right, I got soaked. Yesterday I ventured out to find a certain seminar venue and with the weather looking like drizzly showers, I decided it might be wise to take a baseball cap with me. Oh, yes, and a rain resistance jacket. You never know. These survival items really should be made compulsory for everyone risking their lives in exploring the rainforests of Darkest Wiltshire. It started drizzling not long after I set out. Nothing unexpected, so I carried on. Not to be outdone, the weather decided it was time for an all out effort. The heavens opened, as they say. It really did pour down. Gradually I got more and more uncomfortable. My jacket was indeed rain resistant but not rainproof. Water was seeping through and I found myself with a soaking wet tee shirt under my weather protection. Raindrops collected off the brim of my sodden cap, my nose, and bizarrely, my right ear. Cold water was dripping past my genitals. You cannot even begin to understand how uncomfortable that can be. It was like being two months old all over again. My clothes are still almost as soaked as they were yesterday afternoon. And my trainers are still damp. But this time, my mobile phone survived intact. At least the jacket kept something dry. Space Or Bust Stephen Hawking is in the news again. This time he's telling the world that we need to get off this planet and into space if we want to survive as a species, and that the next two hundred years will be crucial. Erm.... Really? Firstly human beings aren't adapted for life in space. Our bodies are sensitive to the enviroment in such a way that we physically atrophy out there. I suppose he means we should seek out new M class worlds to dump our rubbish on, but that sort of Star Trek fantasy doesn't really work does it? The variety of planets even in our own system doesn't encourage the thought that we'll find another planet remotely suitable to stop and have sex. There's only a narrow range of enviroments we can realistically survive in. His answer I suspect would be the old science fiction school of colonisation. The imagination runs riot with pictures of some happy family content in their stylish colony base, sat somewhere on a planet that would otherwise popison us in ten seconds flat. Some might argue we could change the enviroment. Terraform the world, and make more like home. So far, our attempts at changing the enviroment here on earth has resulted in the Toyota Prius. Not really a success is it? Be honest, is the Toyota Prius amphibious? Someone really didn't think it through, did they? Which brings me back to Professor Hawkings optimistic Dan Dare future. To say that our future is guaranteed if we travel in space or last the next two hundred years is a little naive. Human beings are not guaranteed survival. We are a species adapted to a range of conditions present here on earth. It wouldn't take much to render mankind extinct, and we nearly ended up that way around one hundred thousand years ago. Some researchers believe the last few humans were eking out a living in South Africa back then. What Professor Hawkings fails to address is that specialisation in biological terms can make survival easier, provided the correct conditions exist. If the enviroment changes, the specialised creatures are the first to volunteer for the fossil record. Modern technological civilisation is very comfy. Survival is usually without much effort. But as our global civilisation becomes increasingly complex and co-dependent, we increasngly risk a sudden disaster we can't cope with. What if our planet suffers a change we can't handle? It's happened before. Somehow, I doubt the Toyota Prius will save western civilisation, nor get us into space, nor save us from space aliens hell bent on destroying Mankind. But hey, my father bought a second one. The earth feels safer already. Who needs spaceships going where no-one has gone before? Well... Me. It fills a vacant spot in my dreary afternoon television schedule.

Yesterday began with a bright sunny day. Don' t you just feel a lift when that happens? A bright new day, just waiting to be enjoyed. I set out that morning in a good mod. Especially useful since the Job Centre had sent me on one of those "How to find a job" courses. Strolling into town the familiar sound of an RAF Hercules transport droned overhead. I've watched those aeroplanes flying over Swindon on their way into Lyneham airbase for forty years or so. It felt a bit poignant, because soon Lyneham will close and the Hercules will fly elsewhere. Into the history books if what I hear about military spending cuts is correct. Finally, the Cold War era is coming to an end, and with it, the last vestige of twentieth century power. It genuinely feels saddening that Britain will fade as a world power. My own battle to find a job continues, so after I sat in the pleasant sunshine for a while watching the big screen television on the side of a multistory car park at Wharf Green, wondering at the incredibly dull testimony of Mia Farrow in some strange court trial, I reported for duty at the programme centre. Back On The Farm These courses are always fairly similar. It feels like a return to infant school, and by her own admission, the tutor wants to be a primary school teacher. We were the usual collection of flotsam and jetsam of the unemployed population, although sensibly the youngsters were next door, and to our suprise no waifs and strays turned up late. Mr S was a plump afro-carribean guy, a man for whom haste and stress were alien concepts. Incredibly chilled out does not even begin to describe his personality. He spent the entire six hour session draped over a chair oblivious to the world around him. Even when we were asked as an exercise to review the worst CV ever written, he thought our rejection was harsh. "Give the guy a break, he wants to work." He said. You're all heart S. But we like your cool. FR turned up. We're old friends and even played alongside each other on stage in the past. Inevitably we got talking about music, and commended Mr S to discard Rap and Hip-Hop for the predictable delights of classic rock. It was unnerving to discover he knew more about it than I did. Backing Away By the time we got to our first break, I was desperate for a widdle. The toilets were shared with the other room where the youngsters laughed and threw paper darts as a means of improving their employment chances. I'll assume you all know the ritual involved in relieving your bladder. Ask an adult if you don't know how. I noticed some giggles from behind a closed cubicle door. I guessed that someone was enjoying some reading matter. Given how young he sounded, and how funny he thought the prose was, you have to wonder if he wasn't looking at the pictures instead. Finally he burst out the cubicle grinning. And then I realised another kiddie was in there with him. I see. Well I hope you two had a good time. Ahem. Wrong Kind Of Thief On The Rails Silly goings on in toilets are typical of the British. We love toilet humour. Cubicles have long been temples of working class wisdom. We also have a long tradition of assuming things are ours if they ain't nailed down. I saw a news report when I was sat in the sun at Wharf Green that morning said that some skallywags had disrupted railway services in Wiltshire by nicking metal from the lines. These days, it seems, nailing it down isn't enough. Bang As sunsets go, that was nice. Orange and grey clouds, a dark band on the horizon fringed in bright yellow, almost as if the clouds were on fire. Sigh. Oh well, time to watch the evening news and catch up with the daily report of how everyone is blowing the other side up. Later there's film about the battle for Stalingrad. Lots of explosions there too. Mind you, talking about bangs, Enemy At The Gates has what I believe to be one of the best love scenes ever filmed. Seriously. In most films that bother the hero and his girl romp around on a bed from various angles and it all looks exactly what it is - fake sex. As if people actually do it like that. In the Stalingrad film, the hero and his girl covertly have it away lying amongst rows of exhausted soldiers and trying not to get caught. Brilliant. Well acted and believable.

I sat down at the computer yesterday with good intentions. I had this to do, I had that to get on with. Sadly my headache had other ideas. As much as I wanted to be productive, that nasty litle pain in my head wouldn't let me concentrate. I almost wrote that headaches are a pain in the butt. Maybe I won't do that. This was of course the library, which means there's always other people there, and these days the public have no idea what a library is. The plump lady on my right was moaning about something she was doing and thankfully gave up and left. At last. Silence. It was not to be. A large gentleman of african extraction thumped down on my left. He proceeded to search a plastic bag for something.... No, still hasn't found it... Still searching... At this point I was about ready to shout at him. He put the bag down and the library returned to the steady chatter of computer keyboards and mobile phone ring-tones. Then I discovered what that chap was looking for. He opened a bag of sweets designed in the Cold War to poison most of mainland Russia. The smell was extraordinary. Can you guess what happened next? Squelch... Squelch... Chomp... Squelch.... Take a deep breath Calfrail. He had in fact spotted my irritation and sensibly stopped squelching. So he plugged his headphones in and called up his favourite rapper mp3's, which were audible at twelve miles in a sort of tinny and completely unmusical way. I glanced across and to my relief he turned the volume down. Always a sensible move with rap music. Completely off is better. Ahhhhh... At last. Okay, let's get back to the job in hand. Concentrate... Freed from the distraction of other life forms my headache returned as the primary reason I was sitting there staring mindlessly at the screen. Oh no.... He's reaching into his bag of sweets. Squelch... Squelch... Chomp... Squelch.... I could stand no more. Without further ado I logged off and went over to the booking screen to find another vacant computer. There's one, downstairs. Ten seconds later I was logged on downstairs and ... Another chap plonked himself down in the next booth and began searching a plastic bag for something... Wobblies Sometimes my neighbours argue. To be honest, I haven't a clue what it's about, all I hear is some highly strung and clearly irate young woman yelling and screaming intermittently. So angry was she this time that when she slammed the door, the entire house wobbled. Really. I kid you not. Now I know why slang for a tantrum is "Throwing a wobbly". That one registered three point five on the richter scale. I guess one way or another the earth moves for her on demand.

What a lovely morning this is. Was, I should say. Earlier today I strolled through Swindon and the weather was sunny, just a hazy wall of cloud on the horizon, or mybe a few small globular clouds trying to creep across England without being noticed. The high altitude cloud is now changing the blue sky to a dull white, and grey ragged clouds are advancing on my position. Another rainy day to come? Like yesterday? Yesterday was one of those 'love it or loathe it but you can't beat it' kind of days. In other words, typical weather for Rainy Old Swindon. One minute it was a grey sweaty day, the next a chilly spray of water from darker clouds that just seem to appear out of nowhere. Strictly speaking I got wet again, but since this was heavy drizzle rather than heavy rain, it wasn't too bad. That said, I had to stop under the cover of an awning at the supermarket while a raincloud dumped its load of water on the town. Finally I made the decision to trudge home, regardless of what drizzle was still remaining. An old lady sheltering nearby said "Decided to brave it, have you?" Ha ha ha. Yes I have. See you. We've Been Warned Floods in China. Then floods in Pakistan. Then floods in Europe. I wonder where all this rain is going next? No... Surely not....

I like science fiction. Except the sort you get in modern cars that is. I enjoy the exploration of worlds and ideas that make the genre function. Some people criticise sci-fi as lacking the insights and qualities of the fiction they prefer. In fact I've done so sometimes as well. My criticisms of the new Doctior Who for instance, which has turned a quirky and cheap sci-fi show into a childrens fairy tale. Talking of science fiction fairy tales, I see George Lucas has abandoned plans for a television Star Wars series. Apparently they have the scripts, they have the actors, but not the cash. Maybe it's just me, but has George Lucas really missed the point of the small screen? Just show lots of flashing lights, small explosions, and get everyone running around breathlessly to a non-stop music score. How can you lose? You'll be selling millions of little ewok dolls in days. Here's An Idea Maybe the americans should take a leaf out of the British book and charge more tax? No seriously, I see they've just started charging ten pounds or so for travellers to enter the country. Why not introduce, say, a five dollar Star Wars tax on everyone? Mr Lucas will be drowning in money, he'll make lots of wonderful tales of teddy bears fighting evil armour clad minions of the state, and the american toy indistry will begin a new era in action figure dolls. On The Other Hand I see from the news that Afghanistan has found a new way of exacting taxes on foreigners entering the country. They shoot them. It's terrible that people going on holiday might find themselves on the receiving end of violence, but you have to ask yourself what the heck tourists were doing in Afghanistan in the first place. Visit war torn Afghanistan! See live action gunfights! Oh, and remember your travel insurance. And pack a teddy bear, just in case. Driving Tests I see that the AA are issuing helpful tips on how to pass your driving test here in Blighty. That doesn't affect me of course, I've already had the dubious honour of failing a test the first time for sending pedestrians in all directions. I got mauled, I really did. But hey, I passed the second time, and pedestrians have been happily avoiding me ever since. The trouble is those tips are all so unhelpful. At the end of the day, you do have to handle the car with some confidence and skill or you fail. So here is the How To Pass Your Test (Star Wars Style) How To Pass Your Test (Star Wars Style) 1 - Listen to Yoda. He might be small, speak in wierd grammar, but boy does he know a thing or two. And you don't need to bring any seat cushions for him to see over the dasboard either. 2 - Feel The Force, Driver. this has actually been part of driving in Britain since the car was invented. Put on the helmet. Never mind if you can't see with the blast shield down. Stretch out with your feelings. Oh, and make sure you have a strange old hermit in the passenger seat. 3 - A Bad Feeling About This - Does that car ahead look like he's going to do something dumb? Is that child about to run across the road in front of you? Is that warning light flashing on your dashboard? Has your fuel gauge stopped working? because when it's all gone wrong, telling the examiner that you knew it was going to happen wiill only earn you a cross. Tell him you have a bad feeling before it does. He'll tick that box. 4 - The Trench - The most difficult part of the test is when you have to manoever along the trench dodging enemy fire. Just press that accel;erator pedal and hang on. You can sort of tell what danger you're in by the music playing in the background. Other drivers will add hints by screaming when they crash and burn. 5 - Avoid the Trees - Can't stress highly enough that driving through huge forests is potentially hazardous and a real test of reactions. Always a good tip to make friends with the local teddy bears before you set out. 6 - Don't Get Caught - If the authorities stop you for any reason, you might want to cancel your appointments for the next couple of years. The standard punishment for being caught learning to drive is to be encased in carbonite, and it might take your friends some time to find you and fight for your release. Well that about sums it up. Remember, the driver must have the most serious mind, the deepest commitment, and a couple of robot sidekicks.

There was a time I used to see things pretty much as you do. Nonetheless, your argument is painting the Roman legion in modern colours. This is a common viewpoint and one that's been prevalent for two or three huindred years now. Historians of previous generations, right back to the rennaisance, coloured the Romans with ideas more suitable to their period. As for the phrase 'military machine', I hate it. I really do. The Romans must have seemed that way to many of their enemies but that was a matter of relative impression, not an absolute one. They were better organised than their contemporaries but that doesn't necessarily equate to performance or quality in the field. It doesn't in the modern era, where we see a lot of myth and urban legend about certain regiments, troop types, or weaponry. The Romans were not robots in any way whatsoever. In fact, the harsh discipline was very necessary to keep them in place to begin with, as the sources clearly deascribe how readily they misbehaved or mutineed if control was not maintained. We also know how corrupt the centurionate usually was. We also know how amateurish and often inept the senior commanders were. We know how lacking the Romans were in any tactical nous on the battlefield. They believed, not without reason, that might was right. Their behaviour as an army reflected that. To describe the Romans as highly trained expert soldiers of the highest calibre, a military machine relentlessly crushing all resistance in perfect order, moving on the battlefield in close co-operation with other units, is a gross distortion of history in my view. The sources are very revealing if you actually read them and put aside all the romantic myths about Conquering Heroes of Rome. It was mentioned in the accounts of Cannae and notice the behaviour of legions in mutiny. They didn't change to a cohort system - it already existed. What they did in the marian reforms was simplify the formation to better match their enemies. That wasn't a matter of flexibilty at all, especially since the Romans weren't actually concerned with being flexible. Far from it, you could argue it made command easier for the less than capable leaders. Also, the idea was to improve the rapidity of recruitment and reduce the required the level of training. But in any event, the reforms formalised changes that had already happened in legions of the time and made them standard.

Years ago the music business seemed like some magical lottery. I suppose in a way it was, though in fairness it's also a ruthless business as any other and even after decades of popular music, we still see the same headlines in the tabloids about the disillusionment and disaster of becoming famous. As if that ever put anyone off. I made my own stab at at it, and Red Jasper's guitar player is still out there twenty years on, trying to become the next guitar hero. That's free publicity there, Robin, so don't sneer. Back then the cassette tape was the key to fame and fortune. There must have been countless bands recording and sending these things through the post hoping a record company would discover their talent. As if. Most A&R men simply through the cassette onto the pile of others over their shoulder. The grim reality was that they never got listened to. The key, which in our starry-eyed innocence was beyond our understanding, was to connect with these people on a business footing. It's all abouit money. In a way I'm right back in the same sort of situation, sending off applications and CV's in the hope that doors will open. That's why the internet is such a useful too, both for music and employment. Your work is right there, on the screen or in their headphones in a matter of seconds. Except for one particular recruitment agency. I come across their vacancies sometimes on jobsites, click on apply, fill in the details, and click on submit. Another application away, and another entry in my job search record. Usually you get either a rejection email in response, or perhaps just gather dust and cobwebs waiting for one. This particular recruitment agency sends me an email saying they can't open the CV file. Pardon? It's tried and tested. It opens in a variety of Microsoft and Microsoft compatible programs. It's available for download on a number of sites. Employers have accessed the file. I know it works. But I'll send it again. Then I get an email telling me the file is corrupt. No, I don't accept that. My anglo-saxon blood is beginning to boil. I know, I'll visit their office in Swindon and hand them a printed copy. That way I know they have the information. When I got there, the office was bare. An empty premises, devoid of carpets, desks, computers, and blonde ladies. I went next door to an estate agent who kindly pointed me to where they'd moved to. When I got there, a premises filled with all the expected contents a recruitment agency should have. Unfortunately, none of the blonde ladies were impressed enough with my appearance (nor my fuming demeanour I suspect) so I got some fuzzy haired bloke in a shirt and tie, who apologised with a wicked smile, but informed me I'd come to the wrong place. They couldn't help. Oh all right. I admit. I threatened to throw a tantrum. The office clerk realised he was in imminent danger of being mauled and provided me with the correct address. So I left, he breathed again, and my CV got sent by post so that this morning a a disgruntled recruitment agent now has to transfer all the information manually. Sometimes sending cassette tapes worked. You just had to make them listen. Sand Between The Toes What is going on? There's fine sand all over the pavement down the bottom of the hill. Is this some council scheme to improve the area? Or is this the first sign of a beach forming in our new ice cap deficient world? We've had seagulls for decades. Now the seaside really is coming to Swindon. The poster said it all. I just didn't listen. Darn... I've got nowhere to build a wooden aircraft carrier to the amusement of all those disbelievers in my area...

We seem to have gone through a cultural fantasy in which home ownership was possible for everyone. Renting has re-emerged in a big way over the last ten years after those heady years when Thatcherism expanded our horizons, at least in the relatively prosperous south. That includes me too. Except I couldn't afford to buy in the first place, but unlike people who were taking on mortgages costing more than seven times their income and lasting fifty years, I kind of figured all that out for myself.

What, you think people can afford mortgages in Swindon?

The romanized celts made up a proportion of the people in that area, not the entire population. That said, being in the southeast meant a great many of them were indeed adopting Roman lifestyles. Canterbury had been the tribal centre for the Cantiaci I believe, so it was an important site politically at least. Druidic influence had reached a position of domination four hundred years earlier and I would have expected some to be present up until the Romans arrived. Although the druids were broken by the Romans, they persisted into the dark ages as rare individuals and never regained their former power, but the druids had largely displaced earlier religious belief systems in Britain. Again, given the area, it's unlikely that any druidic influence persisted into the Roman period but you never know. Certainly the Romans would have adopted local gods into their own system, which they did as a matter of policy, so as Canterbury was an important site then yes, it is likely that some religious site was there or nearby. As to how important it was, the emphasis has to be local. I doubt the adoption of christianity had any meaningful effect on Cantebury's success as a community. This was more likely to be a an effect of changing commercial infrastructure, spreading disease, or security issues with the threat of saxon raids. I don't know if Theodosius had a wall built at Canterbury. If not, he had written the town off and the decline was already well in place.