caldrail

She couldn't wait. With a mischievious smirk my mother asked if I'd heard about the latest government initiative for the unemployed. I hadn't, as it happened, but I understand that long term claimants are now going to be required to work four weeks on placement to qualify for benefits. Actually I'm not that bothered. I did thirteen weeks of that earlier this year, so it's just more of the same to me. The point though in this case is that my mother couldn't wait to push a pin into my little bubble. She relishes every chance for that. There are other weapons in her arsenal. Family successes are thrust in front of me too. This week a cousin was part of the line up in a photograph of the staff of a highly rated school in some newspaper or other. The idea being that I feel envious of how well other members of our family are doing while I'm clearly not. Every time I visit she mentions how tall I'm getting. That's nonsense of course. I'm the same height I was thirty years ago, but the point here is belief. She wants me to believe what she tells me. The moment I say "Yes, I am getting taller", she wins another victory, and she'll start suggesting all sorts of things safe in the knowledge I won't argue. So the siege of my self-esteem goes on. All part of her master plan to turn me into a Jesus creep. My mother has this mental image of what she wants me to be. She denies it, of course, but for the last thirty years she hasn't given up, believing blindly that one day my lack of success will make me realise that my spirituality is the cause of my misfortune, and that going to church on a sunday, wearing the clothes she prefers me to, having an accountant hairstyle, and all the other sundry requirements are going to make me successful. Rubbish. She's a manipulative old woman who thinks she knows better than everyone else. The christian idea that worshipping God turns you into a success is actually bending a Commandment to the point of catastrophic failure. After all, wasn't it Jesus who said "A rich man has no more chance of entering the Kingdom of Heaven than a camel has of passing through the eye of a needle"? Does faith reward the faithful with material success? That seems a very dubious concept, but then, that's been the christian message since the 1st century. In any case, I have other beliefs. I don;'t accept Jesus was anything other than a typical cult leader who got himself executed for undesirable activity. God is a human concept, not an absolute truth. Nor for that matter do I accept the existence of the retinue of supernatural entities invented by christians in times gone by. Fate is the sum of all decisions and natural forces. The breakdown of my career and personal affairs happened the moment I declared myself a spiritualist. That's not divine intervention. That's malice and spite. Pressure Is On The news of the government initaitive to make long term claimants worjk for their money isn't a new idea. That's been mooted around for a long time. Only now, when the country is in debt to desperate levels, has the will to enforce that idea emerged. That's only the tip of an iceberg. The mood in job centres has changed. Driven by a messianic need to uncover the workshy and dole cheat (not to mention earning brownie points at head office by doing so) the red tape involved in job searching has gone up a notch. Previously my job search booklet was enough, a simplistic table in which to scrawl a quick record of each step I've taken. Now I have to enter the same information again on a form designed to catch people out. It'll get worse. The dreary routine of searching, applying, and receiving rejection is bad enough but the pressure to prove that you are doing what you claim will get steadily worse as the most obvious cheats are unmasked and the temptation to find scapegoats increases. For now I shall have to grin and bear it. Sorry Jesus, but the castle gates are shut, the walls are stout, and I'm not in any danger of starving. Besides, I'm content with my spirtuality. I don't need yours.

And cause gatherings of woolly hats in tents outside your door if you own one.

Probably not. Climatic changes in the Bronze Age had resulted in extensive deforestation, The Romans were a consumer economy in imperial times, not agrarian, although farming was obviously an important factor. Agriculture was only important on a local level unless it generated profit, or an identifiable regional export. Since there was plenty of land to be had, the importance of it wasn't so pronounced as today. They did colonise Germania. The remains of Roman towns have been uncovered well inside the generally accepted frontier and appear to have been abandoned following the victory of Arminius. The whole sorry debacle was sparked by Augustus sending Varius to gather taxes, a man known for his greed, which illustrates that wilderness colonisation was not about ownership of land, or high minded cultural principles, but rather a matter of bringing barbarians into the taxation system. All emperors were worried about their security. Rome was a competitive society full of ambitious upwardly mobile individuals who were waiting to sieze opportunities. The size of Ireland was largely irrelevant. What was of concern was a victorious army returning to Rome. With booty and success, the soldiers would have been loyal to their general, not the emperor, thus Domitian avoided the possibility of a coup by preventing outright victory in Caledonia. In fact, Agricola was asked if he wanted a triumph for his successes to date. Had he accepted, he would have have labelled himself an ambitious rival to Domitians power, giving Domitian the excuse to have him removed. Agricola wisely refused.

As predicted, the temptation to set off fireworks was too much for the local inhabitants. As damp and dreary an evening as it was, they set to work creating as much mayhem as possible. The early shift started around seven o'clock. I looked out the back window of my home, which has a narrow view across the west of Swindon. Usually on bonfire night one area sets off, finishes, then another begins elsewhere. Not this year. Stretching into the distance was a display of pyrotechnic fountains in all sorts of bright colours, little showers of twinkling light as far as I could see. Given the weather, the effect was extraordinary, and I've never seen that before. Also, some peoples rockets were penetrating the cloud base, and whilst the burst was hidden from view, the cloud lit up with a dull colour briefly, giving a sort of surreal stormy effect. With the window open, I could smell the smoke. In one of the gardens backing onto the alleyway, a family were having their own firework party and the wind was sending the smoke in my direction. Again, it was a surreal thing, watching a bright glow appearing behind the fences and garages like something out of a fifties sci-fi B movie. They're Coming! Talking of things from Outer Space, I see there's an alien invasion planned to conquer our local library shortly. Naturally I will be there to defend mankind and fend off their fiendish schemes. Luckily I doubt the invasion will require any nuclear response, but given that such weaponry has proven to be futile against alien armour, I shall have to resort to coughs and sneezes. Hey, it worked once before pretty well, didn't it?

Unfortunately the authority of your local lord is handed out by the government and assured by loyalty to the crown, whether he does a good job or not. For me to usurp his seat would be treason against the state. Further, the government are currently cracking down on benefits payments and for me to ask for housing support for a stately home is not politically prudent at this time. Nor likely to be successful. Rest assured, simple village person, that I shall strive to right wrongs wrought by the evil Baron of Clayton and free a couple of your common folk from serfhood as a sort of motivating competition for support. Actually, I do need a herald for this. Do pop down to Clayton Towers and tell him to surrender his fief, will you? You never know...

Agricola didn't think so, and I suspect his military intelligence was better than ours on that subject. A huge demand in men and logistics would be necessary if the Irish were presenting a common front. However, the national patriotism we see today didn't exist back in Agricola's day. To him, the irish were a collection of barbarian tribes, and as the Romans knew from experience, such a setup was relatively easily handled, because the Roman policy in such situations was 'divide and conquer'. However, inasmuch as an invasion of Ireland was going to prove a logistic challenge, then I agree. There is implicit in this debate an idea that the Romans could simply go on conquering to their hearts content, and by implication, that they had every intention of doing so. Despite this, there was no clear impetus for the Romans to seek territory in the way we do. For us, territory is important in itself. With large populations dispersed over wide areas, territory allows (please excuse the term) living space, agricultural space to feed them, and a sense of status. Since in Roman times the vast bulk of territory was empty wilderness, they had little reason to regard territory as important. Instead, they saw value in resources. Mines, quarries, cities, harbours and river networks, places where things were made. In other words, while we see conquest in terms of area, they saw conquest in terms of ownership. We shouldn't forget the over-riding impulse for Roman expansion was money, pure and simple. When Hadrian gave back Dacian territory conquered by Trajan, he kept the bits with gold mines. There is also the idea that the Romans had already reached a psychological frontier where Britain was concerned. Previous to Julius Caesar, the British Isles were thought of as mysterious lands filled with all manner of exotic inhabitants. In making his two landings on British shores, Caesar popped that bubble. At once he proved he was a true conqueror, taking the Romans where no Roman had gone before (which of course wasn't entirely true), but also demonstrating that beyond the frontier was more wilderness, and little else. There are also political reasons. Agricola was recalled to Rome before he completed the conquest of Caledonia by Domitian, who regarded the prospect of a conquering hero returning to Rome in triumph as a rival for his authority, and potentially a very real military threat if he got ideas into his head. Agricola was a little more wary and realised the danger he was in, preferring not to make a big deal of his success and live happily ever after. Notice that Claudius, who had ordered the conquest of Britain, had travelled there to receive the honour of victory personally. How many emperors were willing to travel to Ireland to do that? Conqueror of what, exactly?

This weekend is going to be noisy. Today is after all Guy Fawkes Day, when we celebrate a plot to blow up the British government hundreds of years ago. Given how sensitive the authorities are to security issues right now, I'm probably going to be arrested for this blog entry. The weather is not encouraging. It's a damp morning, grey and unwelcoming, and I suspect a lot of firework parties tonight will suffer the problems of setting off their noisy and colourful gunpowder fests. That of course won't stop the evening revellers from having a great time. They'll be hooting and whooping, chanting football songs, and shouting taunts all night long. Bless. I did see a bit in the newspapers that police have stated that a large portion of their law enforcement takes place because of nightclubbers wandering around drunk without having found a camel to wake up beside. I mean, wasn't that obvious? Is that the sum total of expertise of law enforcement garnered over the years since John Peel decided truncheons were a good idea? How To Win Friends And Influence Having mentioned fireworks, I was stunned to find my current claims advisor chatting about them in a friendly manner. What? Isn't this the guy who signs me on half an hour late and hardly says a word before he tells me I can go? Amazing what happens when you get shirty and remind a pleb he's talking to nobility (even if it is a little faux) Actually, most claims advisors don't like treating their customers as anything else than people to be bossed around. It's a social status thing. They happen to be employed by a government agency, and possess some authority over us. We on the other hand are lazy good for nothing's who darn well ought to know which side of the bread is buttered. It's been nearly a year since I got my title. Three people have voluntarily used that title in a respectful manner since. Incredible, don't you think? To a large extent that's down to my appearance. I just don't resemble most peoples idea of an upper class person in any sense whatsoever. Partly it's my circumstance, since I'm unemployed and upper class persons aren't supposed to claim benefits, or even work for a living, as John Prescott proved recently. Well, since my claims advisor has decided to be friendly, I'll let him get away with it. Especially since in the not too distant future I might well get my tail feathers singed. Fireworks? There's a lady in the Department of Work and Pensions who has demanded my attendance and proof of identity. Uh oh.

Rest assured this was a supreme effort and today I have reverted to my usual idle condition. I'll be finishing my job searching in an hour or two and that about wraps it up for the day. Still, it's Halloween & Guy Fawkes Day, so the weekend is going to be noisy and pyrotechnical, if not entirely busy!

I did add my two cents worth but so far the Daily Mail seem to be ignoring it. Obviously my answer didn't have enough sex and violence in it.

Sometime around dawn this morning I woke knowing my day was going to busy. Normally at this time I groan, roll over, and go back to sleep. Today I don't have that luxury, so it's out of bed - Gah! Cold! - and a quick dash to the bathroom for the daily ritual of turning myself into a human being again. First Now for a stroll down to the Job Centre for my daily signing. They told me to come in at a certain time, but neglected to tell me the place was closed for an hour due to staff meetings. Oh great. Now that's my schedule up the spout. Think, Caldrail, think! What would any normal employed person do in situations like this? Second With time to spare I dropped in on the park and watched the builders cementing new stones along the lake edge. The birds seem all bored of this activity and swim away, convinced that the stingy sweaty humans moving stones around won't have any bread with them. If only they knew... But this is boring. And I need to get on with my day, so... Third A quick stop at the library and book a computer for this afternoon, at the last slot available. There is method in my madness, because... Fourth A quick dash down to Swindon railway station and off to Chippenham, fifteen minutes away, a sort of dingy stone-coloured town where I'm being interviewed for a job. I did actually take an earlier train than I intended and just as well, as the office I needed to visit wasn't well signposted. Wasn't signposted at all. Wasn't even a bold title above the door. I just happened to see the company name in the window. No matter, I found out where they were, and I still have an hour to kill. What can I do in Chippenham on a Wednesday lunchtimne? Fifth One sandwich and a canned drink later, I was sat watching the birds by the river. Still quite a pleasant day, but these birds are ferocious scroungers, not like the polite queues you get at Queens Park. One duck caught a piece of bread and every - I mean every - other bird lunged at it. Swans, pidgeons, ducks, and various other birds I don't know, they all made the poor little duck run the gauntlet. Eventually it swallowed the bread almost whole in a desperate attempt to stay alive. Sorry birds, but I haven't got any spare breadcrumbs. Why is that swan hissing at me? Sixth After escaping the wildlife by the river, it was time for my interview. A very pleasant positive atmosphere and pretty young ladies to chat up. What could be better? Eh? I sign here? The crunch came when the agency boss interviewed me. He looked at my CV and asked me with a frown how long ago it was I drove vans for a living. This is where it gets painful, I admitted, that was twenty years ago. Well that about wraps up this part of my schedule, and before I catch the train home, just one more item to go in Chippenham... Seventh A quick trip over to the Wiltshire History Service building and delve into their archives. Sadly, all I can do is submit requests for stuff to be located in their dark vaults and wait for it to arrive at my desk. Come on, come on, I'm catching a train in half an hour... Sigh. They failed. very friendly people, very willing to help, but nothing moves. No, wait, I saw one of the archivists breathing. No, really, I did. Wish I'd brought my camera to prove it. I apologised to the helpdesk and told them I wouldn't require the requested documents as I was going home. I wonder if First Great Western would delay the train for me? I mean, what use is my title if I can't make very important phone calls? Apparently I'm not that important yet. So I'll have to catch the train. Bye... Eighth So I found myself back at Chippenham railway station waiting for the ride home. An announcer warned that a train was approaching that wasn't schedukled to stop, so stand well back! Good advice. The freight train thundered past me at an alarming rate. English trains might not have the majesty and scale of their American cousins, but they certainly don't hang around. Oh, here we go, that's my train. See you in Swindon. Nineth My return to the library, plus a few pit stops along the way. A magazine here, a baguette there, and another visit to the Job Centre to get advice on what to do if this agency actually comes up trumps. Now I have a rapid search online for jobs and vacancies. There's one. I can do that. There you go, it's applied for. You know what? This multimedia age has some advantages after all. Tenth Made it! Home again, collapsing on the sofa after rushing back and forth across Wiltshire. All I need now is for some crazy old hermit to wander out of the kitchen, check my temperature, and say "Rest easy Son, you've had a busy day".

Most of us do dumb things at times. I used to hear work colleagues confidently claim that they never made mistakes, but they did, one being an attempt to convince the management that they were superior workers. That sort of mistake is due to poor decision making and to some extent, a deliberate risk. The rest of us, sooner or later, foul up. Yesterday I did that magnificently. You see, when I get sent on these courses on how to search for jobs, I'm also obliged to attend a follow up interview. It's mandatory. Failure to attend results in loss of dangly things, not to mention a wad of cash from the government. So what did I do wrong? Well, I sort of half remembered I had an interview scheduled for the Monday, but I couldn't find any letter confirming it. Perhaps I was wrong? Well I turned up at the Job Centre and discovered I was spot on. The interview had been scheduled earlier that day and I forgot it. As an errant joobseeker, a crime against society only surpassed by raising taxes, I was obliged to suffer 'the procedure', in which my feeble excuses are logged and sent for a decision to be made about my claim. Gulp. However, I survived intact. Firstly, I'd turned up for my signing-on session on the same day, and secondly, the lady who condemned me to the interrogation forgot to issue me with a warning letter. So my sentence was commuted to daily signing. Again. Talking About Jobsearching I've been contacted by an agency regarding a driving vacancy. Apparently I applied for it ages ago in amongst all the other hopeless causes. Then, right out of the blue, they phone me and ask if I'm still interested. I can't actually refuse - that's the disadvantage of being unemployed - so yes, please tell me more. They asked about my experience in that field of work. Well... I did drive the van a lot back in my aspiring rock star days, and did the occaisional day doing parcels and multi-drop on an ad hoc basis, subbing in for a mate of mine who wanted the day off to have sex with one of the young ladies at a business he regularly delivered to. He got laid, I got paid. Of course, that was twenty years ago. I mean, am I seriously being considered? I don't have an encyclopedic knowledge of the target area, I'm not quite young and fit as I was, and I haven't driven a vehicle in two years. I have noticed this about courier firms. They have this wonderful optimism about sending employees out into the world in the vain hope they'll arrive at the right place at the right time. I have to confess, twenty years ago I once delivered a parcel to the people who sent it the day before. Can't wait for the chance to make another embarrasing cock-up. That, I know I can do. Weather Or Not? It's been a funny kind of day. Thin stratus cloud and blankets of soft focus raincloud almost obscuring glimpses of the blue sky, but it never quite rained, never quite got warm or cold, never quite did anything other than stir even more yellow leaves on the trees. Should I dress for inclement weather and sweat buckets? Or go out unprotected in true macho style? Why do I get the feeling it isn't going to go to plan....?

The phrase 'overking' is our label rather than an actual rank. Fritigern wouldn't qualify for it anyway, because he wasn't the most senior goth at the time. Athanaric was his rival and the two squabbled - though I do accept that might be a dramatic inclusion to the history since not all Roman sources of the time refer to such a struggle, such that Fritigern had to ask for Roman aid. Athanaric on the other hand was the first foreign king to visit Constantinople, in it's new guise as Roman capital in the east, and concluded a peace agreement that lasted until 395. The Goths were migrants, and in any case, Jordane's Res Getica, a summary of the now lost history of the Goths written by Cassiodorus, describes the goths as having kings for some time. The problem is that we understand the emergence of kings in terms of Roman interpretation. To them, kingship was a barbaric or tyrannical foprm of government by a strong ruler, and they used the term somewhat more loosely than we do. It might be worth pointing out then that leaders we refer to as 'kings' were usually no more than tribal chiefs by any other name, and such important personalities often do indulge in creating pecking orders among themselves.

Autumn is making itself felt. Steady streams of yellow and brown leaves are wafting along in the breeze, and it's been threatening to rain all day. You can feel a sort of heavy dampness, an occaisional raindrop, and the trees obey the stimulus in time-honoured fashion. As autumns go, this one is proving to be a bit more colourful that ususal. Don't know why, maybe it's all that fresh CO2 we humans have been making that has invigorated the trees with autumnal splendour? Drive a car today. Make your tree happy. Saturday Night Saturday was a little odd. I've experienced a few saturdays in my time, but this one was different somehow. It felt quiet, as Swindon was having the day off, and I have absolutely no idea why that was the case. Of saturday night was saturday, and that's all right for doing congas in the street. I'm sure they were having a great time but why did they do that outside my home? Everyone seems to. It isn't as if I'm a party animal (though I have my moments). I've had a look but I can't see a "Congas Mandatory After 00:30am" sign anywhere. Or did they take it home with them in drunken delerium.? I do hope so. Because tonight, of all nights, I would like to get some sleep. An Extra Hour! For once in my life I remembered that the clocks went back an hour last night, leaving me with an extra hour of snooze time to enjoy. The endless debate on whether British Summer Time is a good idea rages on, and every year the tv news debates the issue. The same arguments all over again. rather like congas every weekend. Lots of noise and fuss but no-one goes anywhere. A Strange Sight This morning i strolled along the back lanes of Okus. Most of it is nothing more than residential housing, some a little shabby, others renovated and sparkling, usually in unison with the type and polish of the car parked outside. I also happened to pass the housing estate built on the site of the old hospital. Apartment blocks never quite look friendly in the British town, but at least the area has been tarted up with grass verges and young trees. It was almost looking like a pleasant place to live, even if the architecture was a bit cold. Look over the brick wall halfway along and you can see the upper floors of what the estate actually is. Even colder, a festival of bland and angled style that looks more like a shopping centre than a place to live. That said, I turned down an alleyway that leads to what was once an old quarry, now host to a series of flats and houses in somewhat more natural and agreeable repose. Then I noticed a tree by the fence next to me. A silver birch, it's branches lopped off by some maniac tree surgeon, but for all intents and purposes, seeming quite dead. Then I spotted the fungi. Loads of it, forming shelves up and down the trunk, almost camouflaged against a tree the same colour. Perfectly natural of course, but it struck what a rare sight that was. Almost alien, and certainly I've never seen a tree with so much fungo growing on it before. Just thought I'd mention it.

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.