Happy New Year!

“Should aulde acquaintance be forgot, and never brought to mind, should aulde acquaintance be forgot for the sake of Aulde Lang Syne.”

Happy New Year Everbody!

*fires toy revolver in the air* in the manner of a Sherman or Musselman alike. Good old cowboys from the south and Al’Akhbar’s followers both have that much in common. That and they both drink coffee.

On the Flex

New Year’s Eve is a write off.

Dear Diary,

Landing safe and sound, snug, in the depths of the shire, ’midst happy company, talking philosophy. Today has been a good day. Last night was alright, playing Ticket to Ride, a board-game. Who goes first is determined by who has visited the most states on the map. I was delighted to see Conan bade me take the first turn.

Frivolities aside, something slightly sinister is afoot. Fallings out betwixt some particular groups of friends. Thus a bit of a ‘bad vibe’ existed for a short time. Matters have calmed down, for the now.

New Year’s Eve is a write off, and I am now able to sit in good company, and study archæology, in peace, and tranquility.

Stranded in a deluge

Dear Diary,

Great. The train line is flooded here in south Wales. Boned. Buggered. Stranded. God willing we’ll make it to where we’re going, but the silly train routes (travelling west means you must go east, in completely the wrong direction) mean I will become stranded a second time. Nightmare. I am trying to be philosophical about it and am thinking I should just walk.

There exist no problems: only solutions. I’ve found an alternative route. It’s a bit roundabout, but it should be good, might be alright. Several hours waiting at a station means a few jars might be in order, whilst perusing my Latin and archæology books. (As with every Christmas, I even take them to the dinner table on Christmas Day. In-fact I’d say I take them everywhere I go. You never know when something like this might happen to have a chance to get a few moments of study-time in). I only wish I had brought my guitar(s) but the sheer amount of books I have with me prohibits that.

Early-Modern Anglicised-Latin

Dear Diary,

Well, I just managed to get to Ludlow and the bus driver wouldn’t let little Ronulus on board; so I took the train. Last night was awful, for the first time this year the hornets re-surfaced in the cabin where we slept. It took me a good two hours to catch the nasty insect and cast him into a lake of fire (the wood burner).

The reason for yesterday’s depression could be numerous, pining, lovelorn, the usual, all combined with the surroundings. Today? I am going to see Delli, Conan and Dan. It should be awesome as I have a little something for Delli (philosophy and Shakespeare podcasts - neither of us have the web on our computers at home). Delli has something for me: another Encyclopedia of Egyptian Archæology - just what the Doctor ordered.

Ho hum. It is so nice to be able to be free again, no responsibilities except to the nation, Uni’, and God. (A responsibility to Ronulus goes without saying). I can’t wait to see Delli and company, it’s been ages since I saw them all.

He wants to learn Latin as well, and me to teach him. I told him I am not qualified to teach and would only impart what I know once I’ve passed my examination next year. We are planning on re-inventing an old language. In the Church at Wareham is a scrawl of graffiti, and it is written in a combination of Early-Modern English and Mediæval Latin. This graffiti, and others like it, will form the basis of our resurrected tongue. Unless you knew your Shakespeare, Marlowe and Classical Latin, you would not be able to decipher the tongue. It’s a nice little pet project, and I am up for any excuse to listen or speak in the manner of Marlowe and Cicero the Humanist.

No-one reads this shit anyway so...

Dear Diary,

Maximus and Ronulus are going to make good their escape in half a day’s time. Just like last year, I asked Ron’, “Do you want to go home mate?” The moment I had uttered the word home Ronulus went ballistic, tail wagging, jumping around like he’s back at the gig, an ever expectant look in his eye that says, “I thought you said we we’re getting out of here! Why aren’t we leaving already?!” There there Ronulus. Not long now mate.

Since the falling out with Dad I’ve been on the wagon, and today I ran out of tobacco. Luckily I am a monk so need nothing except some rainwater, a bowl of organic whole-food short-grain brown rice, and perhaps a little snuggle with Ronulus from time to time. So long as he’s okay: I’m okay.

I’ve been trying to escape here for several days now, and only just about managed it on the day of the gig. Since then I have had to fabricate an elaborate deception in order to take flight from this God-forsaken place of windswept solitude.

I told father I have a gig on New Year’s Eve, which is true. Another historian from our hallowed institution invited me, the man is a trooper, and a friend. It will be nice to catch up. Of course, what I didn’t tell father was that I need to get away to do my TMA which is due in less than one week’s time.

It’s not that bad. This morning I saw two magpies and the falcon again, magnificent animals. I also had a letter from my tutor explaining how to avoid the pitfalls in the next essay, which was very helpful indeed. I figure, for this one, I am going to write how I feel about it all, then submit a second spurious draft, that steps in-line with what the set text says. Fcuk it. I just don’t care. It is not possible that cities are identical everywhere, but sociologists, in their infinite wisdom say they are the same everywhere; so I must write a load of conformist waffle, Chomsky style, and just jump right through that hoop like a good little student.

I talked about this with the other student/graduate I met the other day. She explained that I must just do as they ask, then I will pass. So long as I stick to the script, everything will be fine.

1) No-one ever set foot on American soil from outside America until Columbus arrived, societies there evolved in complete isolation to Europe or Asia. (I know this is absolute bollocks but I must write it anyway).

2) Cities are precisely the same, and always have been, wherever you are in the world, and whenever cities have existed throughout history. (Again, complete hogwash, but this is what they want me to write).

I cannot afford to do another degree after this one, so I am just going to have to shut the fcuk up, and write what they want to hear; lest I n’er will fulfil my dream of gaining a degree.

It is highly likely that I will not ever become a history teacher, at Uni’ level. Nor will I ever become a successful author. Nobody has any interest in what I have to say anyway. I shall most likely just disappear on the Continent somewhere. I like playing music, and have very few opportunities here. As Tim Curry said, “You must become successful in your home country before you can achieve world-wide success.”

I heard a cracking quote yesterday. Classical comes from the Latin word classicus meaning ‘first class’. A person well versed in the Classics.

Saturday night study fever

Dear Diary,

The gradual realisation that you are completely alone, a singularity, is hard, yet now’t new. Didier once said that to be intellectually gifted is to be extremely marginalised by society. This is very true. Still, little Ronulus is the best friend man could ask for (as I was typing that, he could sense that I was sad, and came up and snuggled up on my lap).

Last night at the show as I sang, so did Ron’, in the crowd. He bays for his master, and when the show was over he jumped up, excited as ever, tail wagging, always pleased to see Maxy.

Today this really fit Scottish burd (she is the main yummy mummy) posted something in what I thought was the Latin FB group, I commented on it, numerous times. When I went back to the FB group to check what we had written, I could not see the thread. Then I realised I had replied in the Classics FB. Oops! There are some seriously heavyweight intellectual classicists in that group I can tell you. Man! Anyway, I don’t think what I wrote was silly, so thank God it’ll be read and understood. (Needless to say, the following posts that stemmed from that thread were far more interesting and precise than mine own). In any case, it’s cool.

Oh, well, Dad will be home soon which means I must tear myself away from studies - today has been reasonably productive in that department - and I must get back down south soon.

Life is proving to be quite challenging, and I waffle and waffle and waffle, and nobody hears (I get like one hit a day on this blog, on average).

I may as well face facts: I will not become happy by dwelling on the negatives, but I must buck up, study hard, and that way become educated enough to apply for a decent job. Archæology is a strange discipline.

Little Ronulus Latratus is curled up on my lap near the fire. Dad will be home soon, so I must go and wash up. In any case, talking to the walls, and Ron’, is on the cards. It’s Saturday night: I should be typing up my assignment! (Yes, although this seems sad on the surface, it is actually my favourite past-time).

This current paper is on global similarities in urbanism. I disagree 100% with what is written in the books. If I write the truth about how I feel, no matter if it is backed up by solid evidence, it will be seen as incorrect subjectivity, and I am likely to fail. If, on the other hand, I write a load of B.S. that repeats what is written in the books, then I shall likely pass.

This is a major quandary for me. I am not in the habit of writing B.S. yet, nor do I wish to fail. Finally, if anything I write stands the test of time, it is surely of more benefit to man-kind than writing falsehoods - even if they are believed by many people.

Characterisation of phenomenon and catch-all pigeon holing of urbanisation, sweeping generalisations are what is written. I cannot repeat this B.S. but I must. Dear Lord! What do I do?

(Just in-case J.C. - the big guy upstairs - doesn’t get back to me anytime soon, I have emailled my tutor about it).

Max.

A chance meeting and gig

Dear Diary,

Matters have improved, if only slightly. Yesterday was very interesting indeed. Escaping the clutches of Cold Comfort Farm, cutting loose and meeting somebody new was very nice indeed. Her company was utterly delightful and she is a very very successful academic. Out of 2,000 applicants she landed a job in the European Space Agency. What a woman!

The minute I had left her company, things began to go downhill. The gig went okay I guess, I stayed straight for it and played in a rather subdued manner. Still, as promised, I did a good job, professional.

It was quite amusing actually, two blokes kicked-off while we were playing and the butch-looking Ladette backing vocalists both hugged each other in terror as the fight kicked off and beer flew all over everywhere. The men in the band just kept playing. It was like something out of the movies.

Today is boring, except for my only release - my studies. I can’t wait to get home so I can study in peace and solitude.

Max.

A wonderful afternoon

Dear Diary,

Today was fruitful and fulfilling, I met a most marvellous person. We went to an excellent music pub, and talked about personal and intellectual matters for quite some time. I leave with a residual feeling of bitter-sweet melancholia, an unfulfilled desire that was n’er to be.

Essentially, to me, she is a Muse. Having been possessed of such a fragmentary life, from Tibetan mountain top to the highlands of Scotland. What a woman, humanitarian, extremely knowledgable, and delightful company. In any case, I am on time for the gig. Ronulus in tow. What a lovely afternoon. Words cannot express just how much of a joy it was philosophising with such a staggeringly proficient intellectual. Aye. She’s the best.

Ronnie Barker my dog

NorfolkTerrier (wikipedia entry)

They were first called the Cantab Terrier when they became fashionable for students to keep in their rooms at Cambridge University.

They are the smallest of the working terriers. They are active and compact, free moving, with good substance and bone. Good substance means good spring of rib and bone that matches the body such that the dog can be a very agile ratter or earth-dog.

Norfolk terriers are moderately proportioned dogs. A too heavy dog would not be agile. A too refined dog would make it a toy breed. Norfolks generally have more reach and drive and a stronger rear angulation, hence cover more ground than their Norwich cousins. Norfolk have good side gait owed to their balanced angulation front and rear and their slightly longer length of back.

Norfolks are described as fearless, but can be aggressive. They, along with Norwich Terriers and Border Terriers, have the softest temperaments of the Terrier Group. Norfolks work in packs and must get along with other dogs. As companions, they love people and children and do make good pets. Their activity level is generally reflective of the pace of their environment. This breed should not be kept or live outside since they thrive on human contact. Generally, Norfolks are not given to digging but, like any dog, will dig out of boredom when left alone for too long a period. Norfolks can be barkers and are very vocal. They generally cohabit well with other household pets when introduced as a puppy. Outdoors, they are natural hunters with a strong prey drive for small vermin.

Norfolks are self-confident and carry themselves with presence and importance, holding their heads and tails erect. A Norfolk that is shy or that carries its tail between its legs is atypical, as it is hot-tempered and aggressive with other dogs; these traits are not the standard. A Norfolk's typical temperament is happy, spirited, and self-confident.

What a perfect dog for me.

The Great Escape

Ever Dearest Diary,

It is as though a weight hath been lifted from my shoulders. We trudged through red-clay fields and hills this morning, Ronulus and I, through an ochre coloured overflowing river, o’er hills and through sodden valleys, we escaped.

When Ron’ was freezing his nads off last night, I just snapped. Enough is enough.

When we were young we used to have a dog called ‘Kitchen’ as that is all father ever said to him. This is how scanty the rapport and empathy with canines he has. When he shouted at me last night, “Is that dog of yours in the bedroom?” I went f- mEnTaL at him. This morning I apologised.

After our journey, once we had reached the little town, father and I crossed paths.

“What you doin’?”

“I’m going to the next town, I’ll be back for the gig tonight.”

“What about guitar practice?”

“I’ll make sure I do a good job, as always.”

At that, he stormed off in a huff. Dad has not player the saxophone in practice, he plays keyboards, then plays sax’ all throughout the show, so it’s pretty rich him asking me to run through the same monotonous three chord riffs over and over and over.

c’est mon choix: what I choose to do with my time. It is not often that she makes it south of the border, so I took the opportunity to meet her today.

For all the support and subsequent ‘right’ in ordering me about, I have just had enough of father. When I was in the shop buying some morning orange juice My Best Friend came on the radio, and little Ronnie Barker was outside wagging his tail, looking up at me expectantly at the checkout. I love you Ron. No, we won’t let the nasty man leave you alone outside in the freezing cold, will we? No. There there Ronulus. *cuddle* It’s alright now mate, Maxy’s here.

Rock out with the drummer

Dearest Diary,

Something extraordinary happened this evening. Our drummer exploded (in the manner of Spinal Tap) well, he went away on holiday to New Zealand for a time. In any case, we have a new drummer, and he kicks ass! I mean, forget RnR, or the Texas two-step or the humpty dumpty ticky tacky shuffle. Man! When this guy plays funk-rock or Machine Gun by James Marshall Hendrix, man you wanna hear that shit. I could tell straight away the vibe of the musician, he is seriously On the Flex, big-time. Like Maxime, or Mitch Machabelli, a real genius. We played Machine Gun, I hear my train a comin’ and Voodoo Chile slight return much to father’s dismay. I just don’t care.

“Well if I don’t see ya again in this world

I’ll see you in the next one: don’t be late!”

kick ass man.

Fcuk the Texas two-step, it’s time to rock out, proper style.

Freedom.

Max.

Fuck ’em: and everyone who looks like ’em

Ever Dearest Diary,

This is pissing me off now. After tonight’s rehearsal, I said that I am to meet an eminent scientist in town tomorrow, which was met with vehement disapproval.

I mentioned that I am supposed to be doing my homework, that I didn’t have time for such trifling pleasantries.

This was met with distain. “I am meeting an eminent scientist in town tomorrow.”

“You will not meet your friend tomorrow.”

I just didn’t care, and spouted a load of Latin. This was regarded as such.

“What ya talkin’ French for?”

As if you could even begin to understand that which is said to you! I told them in no uncertain terms: that I intend to escape the clutches of Cold Comfort Farm and that I am autonomous. I do that which I please, not to be at the behest of stern and assertive illiberal wrong-headedness that would see my liberty curtailed.

These people have no impact on me, blood red or no, I am my own man, and if I say I am to meet fair Adrienne, then it shall be so. No other way. This is Maximus they are talking to, not some chaperoned whelp. This is me, this is Max. I do what I wish, and that, is the end of it.

Not enthused about band practice

Dearest Diary,

The band is running fifty minutes late for a last-minute rehearsal, thank God. I am desperately trying to sober up for when father returns with many a musician in tow. I’m hoping it’s cancelled, but just incase it isn’t, I have done all the housework, made a pot of coffee, and am chilling the flex out with Ronulus in the wood shed.

Tomorrow may bring a chance passing with an eminent Geoscientist from Scotland. I am enthralled to meet her, if only briefly, as such a staggering intellect would surely mean much reverence on my part. In any case, a few drinks, a few laughs, and getting to know one another a little bit better is perhaps on the agenda. Jolly good. It’ll make a change from father’s illiberal perspective.

Cold Comfort Farm does not begin to describe it, more like Wuthering Heights. Gotta go. They’re here.

Max.

Don’t speak: whisper

Don’t look, just listen.

Quietly, gently, doucement.

Roam away from home

Ever Dearest Diary,

Thangs have eased up a little, but I’m still on edge, hiding out, in the cabin with the wood burner, Ronulus, and a tall glass of cider. I am trying my utmost to stop Mr. Barker from chewing any more phono leads or golf balls. Today I found some rice in the cupboards, so I am having bubble and squeak with rice and gravy.

It’s rehearsal today - or maybe not - I just don’t care. Either way it’s archæology and Latin today, in the cabin. I’ve ran outta smoke, which is prolly a good thang. Yesterday I burnt a large hole in my jean trouser leg, after having fallen asleep by the fire so mashed. Now? Ronulus and I: celamus.

Max.

Post-Script: Oh! I also finished working on my short story yesterday. As Prong Horn created a new genre (‘cow punk’) my new novella ‘Forbidden Fruits’ should be in a class of its own: Trauma fiction. (Essentially driven by a compulsion of resurfaced traumatic memories, which induces Catharsis).

Post Post-Script: One thing that strikes me as strange about wattpad though, is that the story is unrated. Not simply being discounted from being in the book charts, more than that, the age classification. My book contains incest, a steamy sex scene and a double homicide. Yet, still it is fit for all ages to read. Bizarre. I guess because there are no vulgarities, bdsm references or self-harming scenes, that wattpad decided it did not warrant censorship, nor did it qualify to be in the charts. Evidently I am not poet or writer whose worthy of censoring nor even being placed in the running. My work is just not good enough.

Post Post Post-Script: Mad Max just called. I did not phone myself, the other mad Max, naked boy, the drummer and friend. It was sonorous hearing his voice (even if he has forgotten how to speak English - he was very drunk, luckily I am able to communicate in Frog). Danny-boy was there, an old soldier. It is comforting to know that whatever happens, I have friends abroad. From Bretagne to Les Vosges I am able to seek the sanctuary of fellow musicians, if push comes to shove. God I miss Maxime. He is the craziest person you are ever likely to meet. Guaranteed.

Mexican standoff (merry Christmas everyone)

Merry Christmas everyone!

Without having such words to that effect pass either of our lips, it’s still the Chinese style standoff ’twixt father and I. In the manner of two Mexicans, a stone could drop without a sound (except for the spaghetti western soundtrack in the background). It’s Christmas, and I am still hiding out in the cabin, getting mashed right up on the last glass of cider and a shed load of smoke. Father wants me to have a bath. I have resisted him for two days now. Today is no different, in Latin: cēlō. Verb. First conjugation. Present indicative active.

I’m 5T0N3D, boned, resisting a Christmas bath. Mashed up, proper style. Trying to get on with the urb’ as a singular phenomenon. So far I have come up with cities built on a grid-plan: Teotihuacan, Milton Keynes, Bath, Glastonbury; Roads built on Ley-Lines by the ancients, roads connecting cities to sacrēd sites: Avebury, Stonehenge; Memphis, astronomical city planning and monumental buildings, often located outside vast urban centres, et cetera, et cetera.

Father has just informed me that I must have a bath. I guess that means I must.

Later Diary.and a very very merry Christmas one and all.

Cheers!

same old same old yuletide bull

Ever Dearest Diary,

Well. Father is due home in eight minutes time and expects the dinner on, and the hot water. I am, of course, shit-faced like you would not believe. I’ll keep you posted.

He arrived, sternly, I looked busy, it wasn’t enough, as always. Busked away with him muttering under his breath, “useless”.

Yeah, well (in my mind at least) ‘fcuk you dad!’ I’ve done what needed to be done today, tidied up, made dinner, whatever I do, it’ll never be enough.

It’s Brontë’s immortal Jane Eyre, excepting that the Thespian, the prodigal son, grins and bears it with chagrin, until the rain in the dark pours down, the fire side embers glow, and silence away from him descended upon this happy log cabin.

He’s back. Bang! Crash!

...and gone again.

then here just as soon as he’s passed.

Dinner time. Silently. I do the washing up, obediently.

Now I’m back in the cabin with Ron’, gettin 5T0N3D. Stay On the Flex

Max-out.

Christmas is cancelled (well, almost)

Ever Dearest Diary,

Christmas was cancelled. Boned. Outta there. I dog gone missed it.

After being invited for drinkie-poos at a friend’s house (which I missed) there came a knock at the door. It was father. He insisted I accompany him into the land-rover. So, I stocked up on smoke, ’shrooms, study materials, Ronulus, coffee, everythang. This is just gonna be an awful Christmas, I just know it.

I can see what is gonna happen. Ronulus is gonna get shut out in the cold, without food; my old man is prolly back with his old lady, whom I don’t get on with. I am gonna spend the entire time trying to avoid father’s stern manner, trying to get on with my essays and exercises, simultaneously wondering with worry what on earth Ronulus is doing shut outside the cabin door shaking, in the freezing wet December weather. Meanwhile, dodging father’s assertive commandeering way about him I’ll be makin’ a log fire in the cabin, blazing up a phat spoocher or few, and sneaking Ronulus in through the back door, so he’s not cold and hungry any more. I think I’ll hold off on the mushies until the gig, maybe do a stage dive. For now I’ll just stay bang on the wine and spoochers.

After several hours sat in this vehicle I realise now that father is possessive. I told him, “Here is in the middle of a massive storm, I can’t make it.” So he takes the decision to make me visit him this Christmas. No choice. When he arrived at my door, I had only just put the coffee on, I was in the middle of my coursework. I had not even packed. He just insisted that I go with him.

I am just going to have to immerse myself in my books this week, try and forget about being ordered about and having no free will to make my own decisions, in father’s eyes.

I am going to just let my hair down back on the ranch, whilst simultaneously settling into my archæology paper. This Christmas trip is the last thing Ronulus needs, and not what I wish either. A little being my autonomous tokin’ self is on the menu methinks.

Finally, I realise that father is working Christmas eve which leaves me free to tinkle the ivories all morning. Woohoo!

\o/

Max.

Post-Script: It’s begun already. In at half gone the witching hour and father is already insistent. Little Ronulus bays for his master. I snuck him out some food and water and turned the chair back round (father has it turned down so poor little Ron’ has to sleep on cold cement). My little baby boy, down there, on his own in a draughty porch in late-December. There there Ronulus. I’ll take care of you buddy.

Ron’ is going for it with the howling now. Good boy Ronulus! bene púerum! You give ’em some stick lad. Keep father up all night.

He’s quiet now, having glumly arrived at the reasoning that after a ten hour jeep ride alone in the back, he must spend another ten hours, alone, in the cold dark draughty scullery.

Father insisted I go do this and that as soon as we had arrived home. I tried to meet his insistent demands half-way and we settled on an uneasy compromise. In any case, betwixt his sternness and stubbornness and my capacity for radical insubordination, this looks like it’s going to be a long Christmas.

Ron’s started up again, go on boy, and... stopped just as soon as he begun, realising there is no hope, for little Ronulus having warmth, or food, or company. G’nite Ron’. I love you mate. :'(

Penultimate gig of the year

Ever Dearest Diary,

Wake and bake as a storm raged outside, as it had howled all night. I rolled in late, after having awaited a lull in the tempest which blustery winds blew outside my little house. Upon this Saturday morn’ in to the eye of the storm, I stepped out, hazy, hoonered, wing-wanged.

Upon arrival it readily became apparent from my pebbled-dashed perspective that a whole mess of musicians were in the joint from having done a gig there last night. (Thus rendering me even more nervous than I already was. That and a packed café was just what I needed). Their musical trio was called ‘Vengeance Squad’ (or ‘The Acid’, they haven’t quite settled on a name yet being newly formed), cello and two rhythm guitarists. I played Fairytale of New York, instrumental in G-major, then to D, diads and triads descending from the top three strings, and a few other plucky pieces banjo-style for a while, as best I could, on the Classical guitar.

After becoming bored of plucking Old Timey & Bluegrass slowed to moderato, I hit them with my rendition of Kill Your Television by Ned’s Atomic Dustbin, some more plinky stuff, a bit of southern-fried slide gee-tar on Gertrude, a little lightly on Saint Lillian, and scrammed. Outta there.

Time for tea and a smoke methinks, in my little hobbit hole, as the storm rages once more, outside. Home now Ron’.

bene púerum.

Maximus Mercurius Fleximus.

Post-Script: Man! I gotta get back to hot dang reality man, gotta git mah archæology thang done gone writ’ n typed up and all that sorta stuff. Gotta git yer pre-history urbanism as a singular phenomenon flex on.

Wake the flex up Max.

Mesoamerican Ethnographical Participant Observation Case Studies

In August 2013 in an interview with the amateur ethnologist Maria Montserrat (BA) from the Toluca Valley, México, it was understood that even primary school children are taught in the syllabus there that the ancient city of Teotihuacán was not a civilisation in its own right, that Teotihuacáno was not a nationality, but instead Teotihuacán was a polyglot collective, comprised of priests, holy men, and shaman, from the outlying territories. These shaman, had a mutual respect for one another, as did the warriors of all the tribes, on the field of battle. There was an understanding, that, no man, would harm a shaman. It would not only be the Maya civilisation or Teotihuacán but a mixture of high-priests, which collectively organised, orchestrated and gradually built this first city in the Americas.

Veneration of the spirits of the gods entailed sacrifice, the gods having made the world from their own life-blood, which meant that in the mythology and collective cultural consciousness, a need to reciprocate, to repay a debt to the spirits of their tribal ancestors; which is why the ancient Mesoamericans fought to subdue, rather than kill.

The steps leading up to many of the pyramid’s peak, one cannot walk up conventionally but must turn and ascend sideways. This is indicative of the decapitated head falling down this channel, or indeed excessive blood-letting formed a sanguine waterfall, descending these side-ways channels, which are not conventional steps.

The Danes in the Americas.

A second case study undertaken by Jean-Jacques Doucet, a French historian, from Fermanville, Bas-Normandie, who has suggested that the Northmen of Denmark journeyed to the Americas. During an independent study into Normand heritage and ancestry done in the 1970’s throughout Denmark, then to the Shetland islands, even to America and back; (specifically New York City, Louisiana, and Quebec). Monsieur Doucet has highlighted the importance of an early compass, a Danish artefact, from a millennia ago.

“...Imagine if you will, a lone Viking, keeping busy ... in the process of felling a tree, he doesn’t even see the native bowman - a scout.” - Doucet, 2000.

There exists archæological evidence for settlement in Labrador in 1957 and various plantations in South America.

Whether they flourished, failed, or inter-bred is anybodies guess. J.J. Doucet again (2000).

“Silent arrows en masse stood against a solitary boat or two of men. The war-like spirit of the Viking, his bearded - barbaric - character, would be his undoing, in the vast unknown land mass of the continents of the New World, where the native, was born and raised, knew his land and lifestyle well.”

From the archæological record, it is likely these early attempts at settling by the Danes ultimately failed. It would not be for another half a millennia or so until the first European fur traders and settlers began pioneering these tracts.

“...the arrival of the Scandinavians in Labrador circa 1,000 C.E. and the possible arrival of some Chinese Buddhists 500 C.E. on the Pacific coast, ... and perhaps Polynesia...”

Bibliography

Fossier, R. Dunan, M. & Bowle, J. et al, (1981) Larousse Encyclopedia of Ancient & Mediæval History, Librairie Larousse & The Hamlyn Publishing Group, Paris, p.283, ll.24-27.a

Mahieu, J. (1974) Les Viking en Amérique du Sud

interviews with J.J.Doucet, 2000-2002, 2005; interview with M. Montserrat, 2013.

M.L.Latham

Back-slide solitude: back from town. Hazy daze of learning.

Dearest Diary,

Transgression over temperance, temptation got the better of me, letting my hair down a little hazy, but stayin’ off the booze. Well, the dregs of yesterday’s bottle, a modicum tickle; a tipsy bit toast to prosperity, if not sustainable, appreciating the fleeting moment of relaxation.

On t’other hand, the language module has gotta be caught up on, but the archæology thang is first. For the now. Then back on track, On the Flex.

Max-out.

Post-Script: tarnation, I done gone left mah brand new gee-tar stand round another chaps gaff’. I could use a couple more of those down at the store anyway, so a return mooch on the ’morrow might well be in order.

Taxes vs. starvation

Dear Diary,

Life. Life. What is life? Love? Surely not. According to Oscar Wilde there are two tragedies in life: one is not getting what you want, the other is getting it.

I know an old hippy who used to work in a factory, and when he walked into work one day wearing a T-shirt with ‘Oscar Wilde’ on it, one of his colleagues asked, “What band’s he from then?” Ahh, the uncultured and unacquainted masses of rural factory workers. They probably thought Wilde was a bass player in a punk band.

I find myself in a state of modest affluence, post-film star wage, but the Council want a shoulder of mutton, blood raw, a pound of flesh. I can either live in all voluptuousness, or pay taxes and starve. The decision is a no-brainer, and I am gearing up for a siege.

I so should have opened the mail, attended the court hearing for not payment of tax, in a suit, clean shaven. I would have been akin to Cicero or Pliny, and surely would have had the charges waived.

A friend of mine (quite a hard friend, a singer in a metal band) once had a Court appearance for the exact same charge.

Magistrate: So Mr. X, what do you have to say for yourself?

Mate (in a gruff London accent): I ’ain’t payin’ it!

Magistrate: You stand to spend a week in prison. What do you mean you aren’t paying it?

Mate: I mean, I ’ain’t payin’ it! Look, you can send me on ’olliday for a week, banged up, and then next year, level the same charges at me, and I’ll spend a ’nuvva week ’olliday. I ain’t payin’ it!

They conferred, and let him off.

I would have put up a somewhat less assertive and perhaps more eloquent defence.

As it stands, I have in my possession the first real amount of money I’ve had this year, and I am still eating the cheapest food, drinking the most modestly price scrumpy, and little Ron’ gets Barker’s complete. (He used to always have that, but since I’ve been on a tenner a week for the past year, he’s had to settle for the cheapest food).

Hunger does strange things to a man. Even if I do lose my house, I will always remember that scene from the Robin Hood movie.

“That Sheriff says we owes him taxes! ... This here is the best we simple men can expect, here we are free, here we are kings...”

That one memorable line kept my spirits up for years on the road.

Max.

Movie star

Dear Diary,

Life is pretty cool at the moment. I dig archæology. Christmas is coming up. Once my next two papers are out of the way, I’ll finish my novella ‘Forbidden Fruits’ and also my play ‘Zenobia’. I just have to divide my time between reading and writing for academia and also writing creatively. It is highly unlikely that I will ever fulfil my ambition of becoming a Doctor of history or indeed, an established author. My style is too wordy, and only appreciated by a select few.

I have recently fallen in love with the literature of Sir Thomas Browne. He is a scholarly precision and his works flow like a meandering river of learning, steeped in classical culture and moral philosophy of the most proper sort. I think he appeals to me every bit as much as Charles Lamb or Ralph Waldo Emerson.

My love life extends only as far as reading (and writing) poetry. This year has been ... challenging, but perhaps my most proud moment is becoming a movie star.

I am not permitted to blog about it, but seeing as I may well have been paid for the acting job this week, I see no harm in blogging about it.

Next year, in the spring, appearing in the cinemas is Fox’s production of Thomas Hardy’s Far From The Madding Crowd. During the carnival scene (with a bear!) is a boxing match happening. I have a speaking part, and play the rôle of a Bookie, a book-maker who takes bets on the boxing. In said scene is a dashing young man in an ochre-coloured jacket, wearing a colourful waistcoat, with a red handkerchief, wearing a bowler hat. He takes the money from everybody, including Sgt. Troy (played by Tom Sturridge). That is essentially the entire film. I intend to cut and paste that whole scene, repeating it in slow motion with kick-ass slide guitar goin’ on in the background. Vanity? Yes. But I’ve never been a movie star before, and am very excited about being in the pictures. People will see this film all across the world.

I love Thomas Hardy, and I was honoured to be a featured artist.

Back to the archæology flex. Time to get that paper written.

Max.

“...the iniquity of oblivion blindly scattereth her poppy, and deals with the memory of men without distinction to merit perpetuity. Who can but pity the founder of the Pyramids? Herostratus lives that burnt the Temple of Diana, he is almost lost that built it; Time hath spared the Epitaph of Adrian’s horse, confounded that of himself. In vain we compute our felicities by the advantage of our good names, since bad equall durations; and Thersites is like to live long as Agamemnon, who knows whether the best of men be known? or whether there be not more remarkable persons forgot, then any that stand rememberēd in the known account of time? Without the favour of the everlasting register, the first man had been as unknown as the last, and Methuselahs long life had been his only Chronicle.” - Sir Thomas Browne, from Urn Burial.

Questions I ask myself

Are you able to deal with the emotional turmoil of the band splitting up? Yes.

Do you feel sad and alone even though you have at least one admirer and can do nothing about it? Yes, but I’ve been single for prolonged periods before, so can deal with loneliness.

Can you handle the stress of doing a degree? Yes.

Can you cope with failure. No, but I must. Failure is not an option, in future.

Are you suited to the subject matter at hand? No. I should have done music or literature, but I already know a great deal about that, so decided to do history, pre-history and classical studies instead.

Are you okay? No. Not really, yet this feeling of failure cannot linger much longer if I do not dwell upon it.

Ask yourself, “Is it truly worth studying towards a history degree when nearly half of history graduates went into jobs in retail such as shop assistants last year?” Then answer, “Yes, because I will have enriched my learning, thus ultimately benefitted from an excellent standard of education.”

How will learning classical history benefit you? I will be much better at writing plays, novels and operas after completing my degree.

In spite of the time and cost invested in acquiring a decent higher education, would you say that it is worth it? Yes. Of course.

(These are my coping mechanisms when I feel like breaking down and crying, like now).

Fed up of feeling like a failure

Dear Diary,

Now I’m pissed off. Not about unreciprocated puppy-love, nor losing my house, but because I failed my archæology essay. I did not deserve failure. I should never have challenged my tutor on the forum, I should have attended the video-conferencing tutorial, and I should not have asked for an extension, and submitted my essay on time.

Had I done these three things and submitted precisely the same essay verbatim I may well have passed. I’m a fcuking idiot. I should have kept my mouth shut and not argued with tutor. As a result I have sketched the Don with girly braids, pinned the sketch to the dartboard, and am throwing axes at him: Norseman style. Surf Teddy would be proud.

I’m furious at having failed. This is the best essay I have written yet, but scored the lowest mark. FFS!

Man the fcuk up Max, and get the fcuk back on the horse. Ride that next paper down. (I am going to pass the paper through an already qualified archæologist to ensure success next time).

Right mister archæology Don: I am gonna write the best fcuking archæology paper ever written, so you cannot fail me. *throws axe* *misses braid* *hits tutor’s nose*

Calm down Maxy. Breath. It’s okay.

Alright. I’ve taken Ronulus Latratus for walkies, played ballies, he’s had wee-wees and done poo-poohs; had din-dins and cuddles. After a cup of green tea I am ready to tackle this paper.

Eyes down. Reading, note-taking, consolidation, written summaries, finally, write and re-write and re-write the essay. Run it by someone who knows the subject matter well. Re-write it again, and send.

Max.

Keep on keeping on

Dear Diary,

I am making headway with the archæology, but “The minds of men are constructed on the same pattern of... animals. To procure food, to obtain a mate, and to rear offspring - such is the real business of life with us as it is with them. If we look into ourselves we discover propensities which declare that our intellects have arisen from [such] a... form; ... [...] ... As the beautiful yet imperfect human body has slowly been developed from the base... creatures of the water and the earth, so the beautiful yet imperfect human mind has been slowly developed from the instincts of ... animals. ... The philosophic spirit of inquiry may be traced to ... curiosity, and that to the habit of examining all things in search of food. Artistic genius is an expansion of ... imitativeness. Loyalty and piety, the reverential virtues, are ... from filial love; benevolence and magnanimity, the generous virtues, from parental love. The sense of decorum proceeds from ... cleanliness, and from the instinct of sex... The delicate and ardent love... which can sanctify and soften a man’s whole life; the affection which is so noble and so pure and so free from all ... stain is yet derived from the desire which impels a male... to seek a mate...”

Reade, W. (1948 [1872]) The Martyrdom of Man, C.A. Watts & co., London, pp.314-315.

Max.

Dickens

Ever Dearest Diary,

I just finished the second set at the bistro gig, on my Jack Jones, it went well enough. That’s me for the week. I am sat with a cellist and a song-writer. They argue that a tenner’s alright, I say I’m used to ten times that, twenty even, more.

Finished the third set making it two hours of singing and playing. I even politely refused the free lunch as if to say, “I just want money.” Hinting that I need the money to live: strings, dog food, stamps, those sorts of things. Living costs, that old chestnut.

It’s cutting my nose off to spite my face really, but I have little food at home, and truth be told, I could just use going getting some tobacco, heading home, having an ale or two, and a smoke. I just split.

Max.

Compromise

Dear Diary,

Well well well, today had an interesting turn of events. I went to busk and just as I arrived at the pitch (where the streets are paved with gold) Gulliver the fiddler arrived. I asked him whether we should flip a coin to see who has the spot. He bade me go first, we agreed to share it (though he had it all day last market day, I must settle for half on this market day). Alas, after an hour I’d made a few bob (slim pickins) and made good, as a man of my word, left. I wandered up town and wondered where the banjoist-fiddler may be. He was in the square, where, nobody makes money. People who drink in wetherspoons (battery-farm drinkers) don’t have money, whereas people who shop at waitrose are affluent.

I considered letting him know that I had finished but decided against it. I wondered if he could see me walking down the street, and then realised that his right eye is missing so he can’t see shit down that side. We could have played together, but he doesn’t want to. It is his loss.

Food glorious food! Haha! My megre pittance is enough to buy some vegetables, gladly. Now I am ready to continue my studies. Well fed.

I decided against getting vegetables or coffee and bought some cider instead. Fcuk it. I could use a drink. First one this week. Also, I managed to meet Dad half-way and am going there for Christmas - much to Ron’s dismay. Band practice is out of the question, but the gig is still going ahead.

Max.

The world’s my oyster

Dear Diary,

Today, has been dreadful. I spent this morning reading an excellent book The Martyrdom of Man written by the Scotch empiricist and disciple of Hume: Winwood Reade. It is dubbed the atheist’s ‘bible’, and is a thoroughly interesting read.

I had already decided that Christmas was cancelled because of the sheer volume of Uni’ work I have to do. Father was not at all happy about it. I knew what his reaction would be, the instant I uttered that I am unable to make rehearsal: he would say, “I’ll find another guitarist.” Sure enough he repeated those very same words the instant I did not step in line. So be it. I don’t like the way he starves Ronulus anyway, nor that he leaves him outside in the middle of December. By not going to see him for Christmas means I have not only saved my future but also Ron’s life.

Alas, the film casting agency said that my wages would be in the bank at 4 P.M. today. By half-four the pay had not arrived. The agency had blocked my number so I had to call via another means. When I finally reached them the lady at accounts said, “Oh yes. I remember speaking to you. Sorry. Maybe next week.” I was furious. Since I had my Tax Credits slashed last Christmas, that is the first amount of money due to go into my account, and it never arrived. I wanted to ask her, “Why didn’t you pay me as you said you would?” but knew this would almost certainly make matters even worse. In-fact they tried to pay me on the 6th, and again today, but some computer error happened. I wonder why?..

Tomorrow I must busk with the supermarket staff all oogling at me, telling me I am not permitted to sing Christmas Carols. I am not going to sit here starving while they let the Iraqi ‘big’ issue seller stand there in his jesters hat, the only two words in English he knows are big and issue. Legalised beggars from Iraq take priority over British musicians, such is the state of the nation.

So, I am boned. More so than usual, would that were possible. Christmas is cancelled. I am poorer now than I have been at any time in my life.

On the up side, I found the answers to TMA02 part II of the Latin. Ha ha! It is a precise translation, and I will not be using it, because I am sure I can do an even more precise translation. We have a richness of language in an impoverished country, giving me the choice of words to use.

I finally realised that a white British man in his mid-thirties with no criminal record who plays guitar and piano well is welcomed into any country in the world. If things get really bad, with my confidence and knack for languages, the world is my oyster. I can go anywhere, do gigs, and get paid handsomely for it. Anywhere that is, apart from Britain, which has always been a struggle.

The following is a version of what I must translate.

Max.

Nihil vērō tam damnōsum bonīs mōribus quam in aliquō spectāculō dēsidēre; tunc enim per voluptātem facilius vitia subrēpunt. quid mē existimās dīcere? avārior redeō, ambitiōsior, luxuriōsior? immō vērō crūdēlior et inhūmānior, quia inter hominēs fuī. cāsū in merīdiānum spectāculum incidī, lūsūs exspectans et salēs et aliquid laxāmentī quō hominum oculī ab hūmānō cruōre acquiescant. contrā est: quidquid ante pugnātum est misericordia fuit; nunc omissīs nūgīs mera homicīdia sunt. nihil habent quō tegantur; ad ictum tōtīs corporibus expositī numquam frustrā manum mittunt. hōc plērīque ordināriīs paribus et postulātīciīs praeferunt. quidnī praeferant? nōn galeā, nōn scūtō repellitur ferrum. quō mūnimenta? quō artēs? omnia ista mortis morae sunt. māne leōnibus et ursīs hominēs, merīdiē spectātōribus suīs obiciuntur. interfectōrēs interfectūrīs iubent obicī et victōrem in aliam detinent caedem; exitus pugnantium mors est. ferrō et igne rēs geritur. haec fīunt dum vacat harēna. “sed latrōcinium fēcit aliquis, occīdit hominem”. quid ergō? quia occīdit, ille meruit ut hōc paterētur: tū quid meruistī miser ut hōc spectēs? “occīde, verberā, ūre! quārē tam timidē incurrit in ferrum? quārē parum audacter occīdit? quārē parum libenter moritur? plāgīs agātur in vulnera, mūtuōs ictūs nūdīs et obviīs pectoribus excipiant”. intermissum est spectāculum: “interim iugulentur hominēs, nē nihil agātur”. age, nē hōc quidem intellegitis, mala exempla in eōs redundāre quī faciunt?

Stay On the Flex

Dear Diary,

My tutor (Dr. Watson) came to my aid yesterday with the direct question (interrogative), and today I have slacked off, only having just finished one exercise, thus ending the section. I gotta go over it all again, and run through the good Doctor’s class notes. I didn’t make the last tutorial. I intend to make the next one. I’ve missed yesterday’s on-line archæology tutorial, and the other one.

Having only a smart-phone is okay I suppose, but not fit for purpose with the interactive time-line or video-conferencing tutorials.

Anyway, I’m okay. I guess. Talking to the walls, and my neighbours. Ronulus is okay. All is well. Still gotta wait a couple of days for my wages from being a featured artist in a film - Thomas Hardy, so in that time I may as well make myself useful. Gotta do some more Latin.

Max.

Dickens’ cider (‘dumped’) moribund of the band again

Ever Dearest Diary,

The day has not gone well, yet it is somehow alright. It was the best of times, and ... well. Let’s see.

Woke up, got out of bed, dragged a comb across my head; I went downstairs and had now’t so made my way to the gig, which went alright.

The fiddler arrived, we met up with the Devlin Eype Church, who, after jamming I fell out with. The fiddler (who plays banjo) more or less ‘dumped’ me, like a ho. We had one last jam, which I shot, and as we split up, he said, “Same time next week?”

As the late-great Dickens-cider said: It was the best ... and worst of times.

I had a good cry about it, once I’d returned home, gave Ronulus a cuddle. Then got stuck into my Latin coursework for a short while, and am now shattered.

Must... finish... module A297 work.

My academic fate hangs by the slenderest of threads, finer than an arachnid’s filament. A horses hair. A whisper.

No sound now. Just quiet. Calm.

Max-out.

Friday night: might be alright.

Dear Diary,

I’m supposed to be doing my Latin coursework. Instead the fine artist punk guitarist Mike ‘Devlin’ Taylor, the artist of artists arrived this afternoon, carrying a shed load of booze. Gung Fu master and Hannibal the hard-core just turned up, left as soon as they’d arrived. I am determined to get back to my Latin studies, but for the moment it’s Friday night, booze, smoke, haze, wasted, gone, outta there. Pickin’ on some slide gee-tars and getting fcuked. Just like the old daze. Yes sir.

Max.

Philosophy: Pythagoras

Dear Diary,

I made it, crashed out awhile, waked and baked and am now listening to Iron Man by Sabbath with Gung Fu.

I still can’t believe I made it! Essay out the way, albeit late. Thank God that is over. Right sub-urbanism next. On the Flex. Though I be a country lad at heart, I ... guess I can handle the city vibe, just about, there is work, wage, opportunities, prospects.

In any case, I just gotta write about that stuff.

Yesterday I submitted my essay about three hours after the agreed dead-line, I think it’ll be okay. I mean, I hope, and wish, and pray, that it’ll be okay. Man. These papers are far out.

Philosophy.

T-minus 13 hours

Dear Diary,

It is like major f- freak-out time right about now. TMA due in at high-noon tomorrow. Even after some trimming I still have just over a thousand words left to write. Good ones. T-minus thirteen hours to go and I am boned, so boned. Buggered. Buggered backwards.

Yes. This is real. This is happening. Christ, nail me up. Years of work down the drain if I f- this up. Serious. I gotta get my shit together, make a cup of coffee and a little spoocher tooth-pick, et rêvée comme ça.

Wake the f- up Max; and get on the pre-history of agriculture Flex, sharpish.

This is time critical. Gotta scram. Lest I mess this up.

Christ! Don’t freak the f- out Maximus. Chill the Flex out.

It’s only processual and post-processual theories. Nothing could be simpler.

...Yeah, right.

Post Script: F- me this is tricky!

I’m getting it done but having to work like a 81TCH to get it wrapped up and ready to send (local library usb thang) while Ronulus barks outside, chained up. Latratus.

This assignment is galliére (to row on a galley, chained up like a 81TCH) or even better the Calvert.

Seventy-five large

Dear Diary,

I am a fool. How anyone could fall for an internet email scam is beyond. Half the morning I spent the whole time entertaining the notion that I have three-large (3/4 a mill’) on the way, I was out to find world peace, cure all maladies, employ the most talented people I know to help me do so. Good God! What was I thinking?! I’m so very gullible!

It is not true. Evidently. But being Brewster’s millions in my mind was nice for about three hours; that was, before the bubble burst.

Countdown to D-day looms like the sword of Damoclēs o’er my head; by but a horsehair’s slender thread. Aye.

I am beginning to regain my enthusiasm for the discipline: archæology. It is an interesting subject.

Equally, I never thought I’d say this, but I long to get back to my Latin. I am behind on that module. For the now, takin’ it easy. Just chillin’. Coffee on. Let’s get this assignment out of the way, within the next day, then promptly resume work on A297. Juggle the two.

Maximus Gullibulus.

Fatigue

Dear Diary,

It’s Friday night, I had a visitor this evening, after dinner, just as I got in the bath. Ronulus barked and I ignored it. I think it may’ve been Gung Fu, or Pester, possibly Cyborg or Conan. I am kinda glad no-one is around, this way I can focus on my paper. It is ... not going so well. Today I did some more research, stumbled upon a few academic journals and book reviews of interest, pertaining to my current cause.

I am going to make a fresh start in the morning. Burning the candle at both ends has burned me out a bit. Tomorrow’s another day. 48 hours to go until this essay needs to be in the bag. Must focus. Too sleepy to focus.

Nefarious Deal

“Straight might have grown the laurel bough...”
Oh dear. A certain somebody local to Dorsetshire has done something really quite incongruous. At the price of their reputation as an eSeller (from the inevitable negative feedback) has sold two families a photo of a games console, for the princely sum of four-hundred and fifty pounds. Technically the description is correct, stating clearly that the item for sale is a new photograph, of said gaming console. Statistically more rows in families happen at Christmas than any other time. This Yuletide is surely no exception.

In other news I am still freaking out about D-day for the archæology paper due in, at midnight.

“...and now thou hast but one bare hour to live,
and then thou must be damned perpetually.
Stand still, you ever-moving spheres of heaven,
That time may cease and midnight never come!
Fair nature’s eye, rise, rise again, and make
Perpetual day, or let this hour be but a day
A year, a month, a week, a natural day,
That Faustus may repent and save his soul!
O lente, lente currite noctis equit!
The stars move still, time runs, the clock will strike,
...
Where is it now? ’Tis gone; and see where God
Stretcheth out His arm and bends His ireful brows!
Mountains and hills come, come and fall on me,
and hide me from the heavy wrath of God!
No, no!
Then I will headlong run into the earth.
Earth, gape! O, no, it will not harbour me.
You stars that reigned at my nativity,
Whose influence hath allotted death and hell,
Now draw up Faustus like a foggy mist
Into the entrails of yon labouring cloud,
That when you vomit forth into the air,
My limbs may issue from your smokey mouths,
So that my soul may but ascend to heaven...
O, no end is limited to damndēd souls.
Why wert thou not a creature wanting soul?
Or why is this immortal that thou hast?
Ah, Pythagoras’ metempsychosis, were that true,
This soul should fly from me and I be changed
Unto some brutish beast.
All beasts are happy, for, when they die,
Their souls are soon dissolved in elements,
But mine must live still to be plagued in hell.
...
...curse thyself. Curse Lucifer!
That hath deprived thee of the joys of heaven.
...Now, body, turn to air,
...O soul, be changed into waterdrops,
and fall into the ocean, n’er to be found...”

Although I have a few hundred good words down, I still have hundreds to go, and have had to take the last resort: plea to my tutor for an extension. Thankfully it was granted. Three days. Moon-day morning, at high-noon. So, I am fighting a deadline, and working on the pre-history paper.

“Cut is the branch that might have grown full straight,
and burnēd is Apollo’s laurel bough
That sometimes grew within this learnēd man...”

- Marlowe’s Faust’

Marlowe, C. (2003 [1594]) Christopher Marlowe: The Complete Plays, Penguin, London, pp.393-395, ll.63-72, 79-92, 101-109, 111-113, 115-116 & 1-3.

Maximus Mercurius

et Ronulus Latratus.

9-11

Dear Diary,

Over the past few days I’ve watched a couple of videos about nine-eleven. On the day that the planes struck, I was in France. So was a friend of mine, who said, that on the streets of Paris that day, many people there were only too aware of the shady double-dealings going on. Business deals, whistle-blowers, assassinations. So what?

The ‘what’ part of that rhetorical question is important. So what? Money, power and political corruption have been around for millennia. Anyone opposing the establishment ends up being given the pearl-handled revolver, and, much like Dr. David Kelly was asked to, “...take a very long walk in the woods...”.

I am not saying that what happened is correct, righteous or even just, it is merely a fact of survival. Today it is not trendy to be a survivalist.

Max.

Long time: no blog

Dear Diary,

I haven’t blogged in a while, I’ve been busy. A couple of days ago I just finished my first Latin essay. It was the wrong dimensions so I must re-write it.

In one week I have an archæology deadline. Both subjects are fascinating, but neither of them are as interesting as either ethnography or in-particular: history. Ironically the Latin suits me more. Though tougher than archæology (which is at least written in the vernacular) learning Classical Latin gets easier. Modern archæology entails a lot of digging. Do I want to dig for a living? No. I would rather do literary research, perhaps focus purely on literature, the history of. I really do like reading old books and want to dedicate my life studying them. Most people would find this boring, but I do not. It is not archæology or pre-history which interests me, but just good old fashioned history. Plutarch’s Lives, Suetonius Twelve Cæsar, Livy’s History of Rome, not to mention Polybius, Herodotus or Thucydidēs. Classic reading material for an ancient historian.

Max.

Crapulentus sum!

Dear Diary,

Where am I? Saturday night wasted, garn (gone) outta there, dog gone gonnan hot dang drunk too much. Tarnation! Scrumpy and smoke (after doing my Latin coursework, naturally) then it all began rapidly to go downhill. My vision is blurring, walking home was a wobbly one. At least Ron is fed, watered and snuggled.

Just as I was trudging home, losing control of my motor functions but with most faculties still their, the wind suddenly kicked up. Dark clouds gathered. The annoying same everyday jingle of the ice-cream van.

The wind has begun to howl. Louder outside my window now, trees sway. I had to cancel going to MikeMcLœd3’s place on account of being drunk on a Saturday night. Well, that and what sooth-sayers say.

(what television weathermen [and weatherwomen] have predicted of late)

The highly irritating jingle of ‘I’m Popeye the sailor man’ goes again, the wind dies, but it will pick up again soon.

It’s harsh, I shoulda caught up with MikeMcLœd3 weeks ago. I have to sober up and get on with my Latin. It’s harsh man. Anyway. I must sleep this headache off, and try to ignore the storm brewing (gathering momentum as we speak) raging tempestuous gale, whilst tackling 3rd Declensions for the first.

Max.

Moriband

Dear Diary,

At the end of the last gig, we walked back. I had only just enough money to get to my Latin tutorial the following day. Gulliver had left when I awoke, late for class. He lost his toolkit on the way home and had flaring haemorrhoids. The mæstro just turned up at my house to look for it; then gave me a piece of his mind. His failed marriage, his lost tool-kit, and all the broken pieces of his life surfaced, and I am blamed for all his woes.

He does not understand that I had only just enough to get to the first class and back, and could not afford to share a taxi. He said he would’ve covered it, but did not say this at the time. He just arrived here on the premise of looking for his lost toolkit (some of which were hand-made) then bam! Called me a c- in my own front room. Had it been any other man I would have given as good as I got. Instead I remained calm, quiet, let him say his piece then he saw himself out. That was the end of that; the very moribund of No electrickery. It doesn’t matter a jot, because of my changing profession. As a wise man once said: It is far better to learn, then teach history, than become history.

It is time to move on. My film appearance for Fox’s production of Thomas Hardy’s Far From The Madding Crowd is tomorrow. I have earned more in two days filming than a year of playing music at the café. I have had quite enough of dealing with temperamental musicians in my life. Time for a change, it is time, to become a licentiate. B.A. (Honours) in Humanities with History specialism and Classical Studies specialism here we come. Nothing can stop me. I will be a Doctor of History one day. It might take me quite some time, but time passes. Life changes. I am thankful to be here, have a roof over my head, and many fine books on order (all pertaining to my studies).

Maximus Latium.

Boned

Dear Diary,

The gig went well, we made a tidy sum in the contributions pot, then the house whisked it away, gave us only the note, a few coins, and our usual pitiful amount. This is disheartening. I’ve barely, enough to survive, but it’s better than nothing. We’ve a couple more gigs coming up, it could be worse.

Needless to say I had to budget. No food, just baccy and booze. It’s Saturday night, fcuk. I have appointment with Mike McLeod. Discussing novel writing. On the Flex.

Maximus Fleximus Latratus Latium. Cert.H.E. (Humanities) with History specialism.

Wasting away

Dear Diary,

Strange how shopping is free for mentalists such as Barb’ up the road, but for those not on two-ton a week giro, living on thin-air, free food is not an option. I suppose that is the price of sanity.

I’ve been banned from blogging at the Uni’ again. An investigation is underway. No-one pays me any attention anymore. It doesn’t matter - I’ll just waste away.

Wattpad refused to accept that my story came under the category of Romance, so I deleted it. I have better things to do with my time, such as fighting beggars for scraps of pavement, just so I don’t die of starvation.

Max.

Getting In Print

Dear Diary,

Wattpad have a tantalising new contest out, “So You Think You Can Write?” Here’s the rubric.

“Stories submitted for this contest must reflect the ...Adult theme... This genre focuses on characters between the ages of 18 and 25, who are dealing with a time of choice, independence and risk-taking. ... face significant change: college, new jobs, falling in love, sexuality, military deployment, moving from depending on family to being self-reliant. ... a time of taking risks and discovery.

...Adult stories contain a level of sexual tension between the protagonists, but whether you write love scenes or prefer to fade to black, the choice is up to you... Romance is the most important emotional element. As well, the hero and heroine should have strong and important connections to secondary characters who add depth to the story. ...your most important task is to create characters with whom readers will fall in love.”

So essentially they want steamy sex stories and/or whimsical love scenes, whilst a didactic element must be ever present in order to awaken the younger generation to the rigours of independent life in autonomy.

I am going to rise to the challenge: fifty-large words comin’ up, with the first five grand grabbing their attention. Nothing ventured: nothing gained. So, you think you can write? Yes, I can actually.

Right now though, I have a gig to get to, so must away to play, for scant pay. A meal. All on my todd. Time to man up Maxwell, and face the world.

Max.

Time Away

Dear Diary,

Networks are always a nightmare. Yesterday we tried to play co-op Rome II Total War. Having two machines capable of running it, running on Win7 & 8. Seemingly cross-over cables are not needed now. Alas, the game never got off the ground, too many snags, drag man. That’s a bummer.

No matter, I should be getting on with my studies. Yesterday I finished translating a tract from Pompey. It was quite satisfying, and I adore my new koboMini. It doesn’t damage my eyes like ’puter screen or smartphone.

Right now I am enjoying travelling through Somerset. It’s peaceful. I am looking forward to tomorrow. A gig, meaning food, a little coin, and an old time live music session. Groovy.

Slabbi has invited me to La Fortesa for a halloween party! :) I am going to Catalunya. Monserrat once more. Mountains Gandalf.

Maximus.

Total War Masterclass (Ultimate Tactics)

Total War Tactics, any version.

Okay you lucky dogs, here are the untold tactics for most any version of the Total War series of strategy games (T.B. with R.T. battle).

Delli’s strategem: “If a settlement is losing you money and being disorderly: just sack it.” By sacking, we mean exterminate. Caution though, once started down this track, one must be not afraid to keep sacking it, any time it gives you hassle. Another tip is to raze the Temple and construct one to your own God, so that the people that grow up there are indoctrinated favourably. Warning, do so only when you have a (decent) general stationed there, or you’ve just razed it. (Unless it gives you a trade bonus). Also, in Mediæval, one must have a general with ‘dread’ and not Chivalry in order to do that.

Another Delli tip (elaborated from Conan’s original tactic). Manually merge armies but only once they are in-training at a settlement. This will give you a favourable outcome and can elevate rookies to veterans at one simple click and drag.

Guinness’ tactics: Hire mercenaries. I, personally do not like most mercenaries, but admit that sometimes it is worth it. Mine own tactic is to disband them as soon as the battle is over. I sometimes keep cheaper ones.

Conan’s tactics: Keep any building that benefits trade, build roads and ports first and foremost. Anything that increases trade.

Max’s tactic: On Mediæval, put merchants only on secluded islands, exclusively on commodities that are worth something (tobacco, chocolate, honey et cetera). This way, assassins and rival merchants cannot touch you - providing you have naval supremacy.

Delli’s battle tactics: Make good use of artillery from the high ground, ensuring they are protected.

Conan’s battle tactics: Never enter battle. Use armies of agents to assassinate enemy generals then move in and automatically resolve. Fast-moving cavalry armies, with just a few mercs hired to carry the siege equipment, once having arrived at the target settlement.

Max’s diplomatic policy: Ally with your enemies enemy.

Conan’s diplomacy: Never ally with anyone.

Delli’s diplomacy: Pay me tribute or die.

Maximus Fleximus Latium.

The End of an Era

Dear Diary,

...and so ended the Great Banjo War of 2012-2013 Common Era. Alas, such a lengthy and hard-fought struggle emerged with no victor save for liberty. Rosie Rushton-Stone finally capitulated, and Maxwell has his phone free from being fecked with. I had considered writing another ‘title fight’ piece of creative writing (which, like my R.T.W.:B.A. post, is lastingly popular).

However, it is not correct to do so, therefore it follows that Catharsis is not in good taste.

In-fact, I am going to delete a large section of this blog right now.

Max.

The Gig

Five Jive gig diary. Gig #2, The King’s Head. So far so bad. Dad is stressed out, this is a nightmare shambles. The Landlord had just as stern a look about him where he be normally affable. Father would rather I didn’t drink, so I snuck out some strong scrumpy in my gig bag. I am now sat in the loo ‘getting changed’ (i.e. downing a couple of pints before we begin). Lord help me. I am so damn nervous. More to follow...

As premeditated, Dadio didn’t permit me to drink any victuals. Alas, I am now nicely sozzled, having downed two pints of Mad Hatters homemade scrumpy. Arr! Wasted mate. The sound check was a complete non-event seeing as the double-bass player took off for tea. I am about to take the stage on my own and play some slide. On me Jack Jones. Should be good...

Well, I mounted the stage, liquored-up, well-oiled, seriously On the Flex, like never before. You would not Adam and Eve it. Some guy in the audience came up-to me and said, “That was f- excellent!” Yeah, I know. I lived it. The best was yet to come. ‘Ain’t seen nothin yet...

As per usual, the band got off to a rocky start (especially seeing as the new piano-player, Cymræg, had n’er played with us before). Yet, within sixteen bars the band had it together. In time, in tune. Solo after solo it was Rock ’n Roll, like you ’ain’t never seen before. Straight up. I can’t describe just how great this evening was. At one point my old man said across the mic’, “That’s mah son playin’ the gee-tar!” In the middle of my solo. It was spectacular.

Then, as were leavin’, a fight broke out. I offered to back the Landlord and Lady out. No help was required. We took off.

Max.

Fair-weather ‘friends’

Dear Diary,

It’s the morning, let’s have a rant, and why not?

First thing to get my back up is Josh Thomas. The geek was having a D&D session, and I just knew I wasn’t invited. It’s okay, sort of; except that he did in-fact invite me, then ‘cancelled’ at the last minute. I caught the rest of the group all role-playing, and I don’t care. I shouldn’t be playing silly games anyway, but focusing on my education. Role-playing ruined my first shot at becoming educated, I am not about to fail a second time. Screw that jive. Intellect is a precious gift, and I am not about to fritter away my time playing pointless games. I just wish Josh could have been honest with me. I appreciate honesty, in the preface to Thomas Hobbes’ translation of Thucydidēs, Hobbes states that honour is equivocal to honesty. This is because of the etymology, rooted in the word is Latin. Besides, Josh tried to steal a treasure dice from me once. I caught him, he returned it. I would much rather have friends who are completely honest and not thieves, so things have worked out for the better. I am thoroughly enjoying learning Latin, so ’tis of no consequence.

Another guy, Matthew Austin. He was my best friend at school, and now he doesn’t want to be my friend on F.B. Admittedly I did un-friend him some years ago, because I was on the run from some gypsy types and thought they may have been masquerading as him on-line. I was silly. That was eight years ago. Now he doesn’t want to know me. It’s okay. He’s a photographer. This is a vocation I have no respect for. It is simply “click” on an electronic device. A photograph is information: it is not art.

Speaking of FaceBook. The Vice Chancellor of our hallowed University said recently, “The O.U. is a community.” and I ’ain’t in it. Yes, it is true that I study, hard, and am incredibly gifted, intellectually, musically, linguistically. Yet, the fact that the O.U. have blocked me on F.B. bugs the hell out of me. Being banned from blogging is bad enough. It is highly unlikely that they would ever give me a job anyway, so it doesn’t really matter. The world is far larger than Milton Keynes, and in truth this country has never appreciated my artful intellect. I have had much more resounding success abroad. They only take the top few percent of the crop anyway, and that rules me out. I have said too much already. I yearn to be a part of the flock, but fear I shall only be fully appreciated elsewhere.

Last night Dad shut Ronulus Barcius in the porch all night. The little fella’ howled and bayed for his master all night. This morning Dad took his food away and shut him outside in the cold. No food. No water. Outside in the cold. Right now he is curled up next to me. I love him more than anyone. He is my family.

So, thieves, phoney artists and people who do not care for animals properly annoy me to buggery. No matter. Ron is okay now, and I have some more Latin to be getting on with.

On a good note, Rosie is no longer tampering with my iPhone, only attacking my YouTube channel. This means I can get on with my Latin work, unmolested. The serpents sleep, silently flickering forked tongues every-so often. I wonder how long that will last?...

Maximus Latium.

Translationese to poesy

Dear Diary,

This is the last day that Fairyn is here, now she is off with the cRaZy cat-lady from down the road. Those two get on like a house on fire, at the very least it gets her out of my hair for tonight.

If you thought that being a would-be scholar was tough, try learning Classical Latin. This is my most arduous challenge yet, and I am relishing it. Tonight I began the translation for my assignment. An extract about one of Plautus’ plays about a prostitute. After doing a quick translationese style meticulous word for word precise transliteration, I verified a few lines and words I was unsure of via Google. My translation was spot on. I have a good feel for translation, and comprehending French helps immensely.

I cannot wait to get these assignments out of the way, so I can focus on archæology. I love it. All of it. So long as the subject-matter is related to the study of history or classics, I yearn to have more and more intellectual sustenance from the fruitful plot of Higher Education.

My next task is to translate the set piece into a poetry, capturing the spirit of each sentence whilst hammering them into the iambic pentameter. Marlowe would be proud.

Tomorrow I set off to a gig up-north. Naturally I will take all my Latin books with me.

Stay On the Flex,

Maximus.

Another day, another dollar

Dear Diary,

Today got off to a rocky start, I forgot my keys, Olly was in good humour yet masked by a black dog of sourness that poisoned the spectacular occasion. After returning home, I found my keys (in the door, where I left them). We struck up ‘gainst booming stereo bass-lines, the show was almost a write off. Thankfully Max’s optimism kept our spirits high, and we saw the job through to its conclusion. In amidst competition from four other local musicians, we retained the regular residency. Fed. Paid. (Albeit a pitiful amount).

We went for another drink, philosophised a little, then headed back into town.

Wherein was found the cellist and composer who had seen us earlier on in the day. Olly stayed there sloshed, I had to leave. Fairyn is off in Glastonbury, and I dine alone, happily, with Ronulus Barcius (whom I adore more than anyone in the world, never before has any man had such a faithful and true companion). It’s all good.

On the Rosie front: She freed my phone up only after I arrived home from work (i.e. when I needed it the most). Now I have my iPhone back, for a time at least. The serpentine mass of hair will surely become aggravated and begin to twitch and squirm: she will hack me again (if the last year and a half is anything to go by...) but for now at least, is peace. Thank God.

Maximus Fleximus Latium.

Post-Script: Upon waking up the next morning, I go to see if my YouTube videos I re-tagged yesterday are still searchable. Sure enough Rosie Rushton-Stone has hacked my account again and made them all undefined. She is surely evil.

The Funeral

Dear Diary,

Today is Steve Travers’ funeral, and I’ve lost my comb. I look like shit, and must face all these people. It will undoubtably be a maudlin affair, and I do not relish the prospect. Even so, it’s a nice sunny day and having a bath and a shave might just perk me up sufficiently to be able to face the solemn gathering of local family and close friends.

Leaving Mr. Barker at home will have to be done. The usual drill of putting all the electrical wires up on high be necessary, lest my little chewer destroys another laptop lead or lamp. I can’t begrudge him for it, he’s just wanting attention, and who can blame him? “Have you been chewing mains cables again have you?” My little chewer. I love him so much.

Max.

Hard Times

Dear Diary,

Life ... is incredibly tough. Though having spent years living outside in a tent, I can safely say that I am poorer now than I have been at any time in my life. It is hard times at the moment.

“Well, there our pleasures ended,
and our troubles all began,
The hardships of those summer months,
would break the strongest man.”

(From John Renbourn’s The Buffalo Skinners).

I must find a new kind of employment, perhaps sell off the færie forest (painted miniatures) to fund keeping bank charges at bay and staving off hunger. Much of the time I feel like not eating, even though I may have food. I realise I am depressed. The remedy for this does not come in the form of scrippy pills (prescriptions) nor wooing women with allure, nay, the solution is in working hard and reading history. I am utterly depressed and only myself may restore my spirit.

No-one even reads this, so it seems as pointless as ever, blogging.

Farina is in Edinburgh, putting on her show. I am stuck down south, listening to winds that blow; The soft shadow-like spectre of mourning hangs over me like the sword of Damocles, threatening to engulf me.

Max.

Rome TW: Barbarian Invasion (Tactics)

Dear Diary,

It’s the summer holidays, and as a result I’ve been reading and researching Roman history and Latin culture. Besides doing the odd gig with No electrickery light relief from studious endeavour includes me playing one of the few games that doesn’t bore me, Rome: Barbarian Invasion. I am eagerly awaiting the release of Rome II in September, but until then I’ll happily make do with Rome: Barbarian... (Besides, I don’t even have the hardware to run Mediæval or Empire, let alone Shogun or Rome II).

My tactics are somewhat unorthodox: an island hopper, who does coastal raids on larger empires. Put simply, once having captured a province on the mainland continent, I exterminate every time, click raze on the pagan Temple, build a Hermitage or Chapel, then, next turn, burn every building in the settlement (apart from the Roman school and Christian Church), get back on the boat, and go find another settlement to plunder. I get about ten grand for the wiping out, then roughly a further 10,000-30,000 denarii for the city’s buildings I’ve razed. Not bad. We invest that exclusively in the island provinces, ensuring naval supremacy, and building up as much trade as possible.

Long range archers (longbowmen or even better: eastern empire archers) are my mainstay, with a hoplite hedge or cohorts of legionaries protecting their front and flanks. Cavalry on the edges. My favourite unit are the mobile artillery chariots both the east and the west get. Fast-moving ballistæ are devastating against troops.

In the game I am currently playing (currently gone from circa 370 C.E. to the summer of 455 C.E.) I’ve managed to keep hold of Constantinople, but long since lost all of Asia Minor and the Middle East, to rebels, not Sassinids. The Mausoleum has been gutted many a time. Being fully Christian means I get a lot of defections from rebel generals, they usually don’t survive long. Baptism of fire. It’s all good.

I own all of the islands on the map, from Cypress to Crete, Sicily to Brittania. I also have Rome, a victory condition province for many, and am about to recapture Alexandria [in Egypt] after nearly two centuries of rebel occupation. (I stood my ground and tried to keep hold of Alexandria: it’s a victory condition requirement for Byzantium). Carthage after that, then

“Go burn the turrets of this cursēd town!
Flame to the highest region of the air;
Over my zenith hand the blazing star
That may endure ‘til the heavens be dissolved...
Give me a map then let me see
How much is left to conquer all the world!”

From Christopher Marlowe’s Tamburlaine the Great, Part Two: Acts III & V, Scenes ii & iii, pages 190 & 236, lines 1-6 & 123-124 (respectively); Also from Dr. Faustus the movie, 50 minutes and 30 seconds into it.

Playing Rome whilst watching Richard Burton then afterwards hearing Professor Paul Freedman’s OpenLearn for Yale lectures is a thoroughly enjoyable and enlightening experience.

Maximus Fleximus Augustus.

Marlowe, C. (2003 [1587]) Christopher Marlowe: The Complete Plays, Penguin Books, London, pp.190 & 236, ll.1-6 & 123-124.

Strength in adversity

Dear Diary,

Well well well. Though the grey blanket of shrouded clouds seemed to cast a shadow over an otherwise fine day, the patchwork woven coverture was not enough to dampen spirits nor stop a man making his living - as a musician. Aye.

This morning I penned a letter to the Police station, citing the Vagrancy Act of 1824 in an attempt to get rid of the thief and beggar that threatened to smash up the violin and guitar, and stole my living on the street. It was no use. He's still there this morning, as far as I'm aware.

I played the Bistro instead, was paid, and well-fed. Having not gigged on my own for quite a while meant I hadn't realised just how much I miss being at liberty to play what I please, to sing whatever I wish. Maxy was on fire this morning! Oh yeah! I was the man of the moment, a musical mæstro in residence. All is well. I am looking forward to the gig on the morrow with No electrickery. Life is swell right now, adverse circumstances notwithstanding the beggar-man/thief still being a bane.

Max.

Route to Honour

Dear Diary,

With the rain came a lull in income, it’s always this way on the street live music scene. It means I probably will only do the gig tomorrow, and not play on the street. Life, is tough. I have no idea what I am going to play, probably a load of slide stuff, some southern-fried chicken style, the usual.

I am much more enthused about getting to the gig on Sunday with No electrickery. Then it’s hanging out with Cyborg and the Toaster on Monday. Awesome.

I've been really getting into the Yale OpenLearn videos. They are really cool. So much so that I take copious notes on the second viewing. Pause. Scribble. Pause. Scribble neatly. Pause. Scribble. I wish I had known about this when I was studying A200, Exploring History 1400-1900: Mediæval to Modern. That course really kicked ass! It was hard-core, but an excellent worthwhile module. I would love to do Empire seeing as it cover the same period of history. The way things are going I was thinking of doing:

Reading Classical Latin

World Archæology

“Roman Archæology” (new level 3 module still under development)

Empire (by then I will have accrued 120 points at each level)

From Enlightenment to Romanticism (History Degree with Honours)

Then it’s a masters, phD and PGCE. (Assuming I work hard enough to be able to afford it!)

God I love the OU.

Max.

Field

Dear Diary,

I have just had an awkward experience. This woman I knew - I won't say who - invited me to a campfire sing-song thing. Great! Thought I, like a wazzuk. So, we arrived and then felt quite unwelcome, the campers were evidently homogenous.

We arrived in a beaten up stock-car with the three numbers crudely sprayed on the side. Everyone there was completely sober. I soon discovered that we had turned up uninvited, and unannounced. Then it transpired that this was a load of Londoners who were into “Home-education”. This was one of the last places I wanted to be. We went to view the “Celtic roundhouse” that had been under construction for four years, which turned out to be several wobbly modestly sized telegraph poles, cut so they stood shorter than me. Now the mist has descended, and Mr. Barker and I are almost home. Thank God.

Max.

Blood and Body

Dear Diary,

Well, I could n'er stand losing the busking war, so went out this morning, to play on the pitch. One of the first historians, Herodotus, said he'd rather suffer his share of evils than be ever fearing what may happen. So, I did what I must. I forgot my plectrum this morning, so have to use “God’s plectrum” (fingers) which meant the music was very quiet and not having played in so long meant my fingers were sore. Stealth run (an hour) and made enough for bread and beer, no baccy. I've only the blood and the body to transubstantiate myself with. With the change I can afford a cheap set of two squid strings from the charity shop and a plectrum. That's me. I even went to CAB to ask for food from the Church this morning, things have become that bad. Tomorrow I must play on my own, again, then Sunday is the gig with No electrickery. Monday: Toaster and Cyborg are getting together. Should be good. Might be alright.

In the meantime, I must stop smoking, though I've no choice. Maybe I'll hit the street again, maybe not.

Max.

Essay: to try

Dear Diary,

Today has been a trial, not unlike most days. Living frugally, and sitting beside the quite riverside field, sun shining, sobriety. With my mind as vast and clear as the cloudless stratosphere, I began to write. Not a novel nor a history essay, but the hundred-thousand dollar question: the Brexit prize.

Economics have I never had any interest in, until the field has some overlap with history, which it does. Alas, I set to work and have a clear framework now from which to build an assignment. Essay: to try, in French, with other rendering roots to the word that pre-date its original signification. However, to try. Attempt. Essay. So try I shall if I want that hundred grand which could make me and my business. You gotta be in it to win it.

The Brexit prize, even though it is un-thinkable that I might win first prize, aim high: always. If you try your hardest and aim the highest you possibly can in life, even if you fall-short of your original aim, you will be contented to know that you tried your hardest. You tried your best. No-one can ever ask more of you.

Max.

Tough Times

Dear Diary,

What a trip! It's been emotional, lots going on and not a whisper to be said about specifics. Overall a feeling of transition lingers, on all fronts. For father, brother Bliss, and even me.

We have a gig on Sunday, my megre share of one score quid shall keep brother Barker and I in food for the next however long. Next week, God only knows what I'll do. Certainly not go into the dole office, I'd rather starve. It will not be long now until I die of malnutrition, surely.

I've been having this turf-war with this beggar, it very nearly turned violent. I relinquished the spot, and even when he's not there, he leaves his false trappings in place (his sleeping bag - he is not homeless, but lives in a flat in this town). As a result, the well has dried up for Maxy. I have lost this war, and am now in the ‘hungry thirties’ of my life. I've been so depressed about it that even when I've had food I've not eaten it. Life is changing, and not for the better. I fear that a combination of sleep depravation, malnutrition and saddened sombre sorrow sends me down to darkest depths of diminution.

Surely life will change for No electrickery? Possibly not. This gig next month might be alright. A hell of a way to go for a tonne. It's good money, but a long way to travel. I might just get out of the house and start walking there, as from this upcoming last gig.

What am I to do? Fuck it. I might just live off the wild raspberries growing in my garden. Ronnie likes to pee on them, and I haven't the heart to tell him not to. I feed them to him after washing them, he doesn't like them.

I do not mind going without ... whatever the base consumer vice product; but little Ronnie not having dog food, that is a real problem.

I know two families (one druggie another violent thieves) locally who cannot stand Christians yet rinse benefits of food parcels from the local Anglican Church whilst caining the benefits from the state. I do neither out of foolish pride, nor do I steal, get violent often, nor need anything or anyone. (Except that Ron is not superfluous).

I should perhaps go poaching for fish and forage for food. Life is not a handout, life is a challenge. It's as tough as old boots, and when all these benefit reforms come in, people are going to wake up. It's been a long time in coming. I am prepared, used to living with nothing, abroad. These people have no clue as to just how hard life can be. Just wait.

Were I a plant I would be Achillia Creedo: needs direct sunlight, but is easily pleased and thrives on hard ground.

Max.

Back to Life

Dear Diary,

Well, the drama has calmed down somewhat since yesterday and the preceding days this week. Praise the Lord, Brother Bliss has resolved to rescue me, a Knight in shining red alfa-romeo. We're heading back down south, planning on going sea-fishing, taking a boat out. Lovely.

Life is strange how things pan out. I've inherited the family piano, which ushers in a new era for me, musically. It's my first instrument, and I've never before owned one. A real piano. Gosh. This is so cool. It means I can compose properly and practice pieces I've wanted to play for years.

Yesterday we went to the King's Head and the moment the couple that own it saw me: they offered me a gig, very kindly. It's awfully nice of them, seeing as how they've already booked our rock 'n roll band four times a year. They are really nice people indeed. I am hoping to play with our belovēd No electrickery there, if Gulliver can make it. We now have 75 likes for our page: facebook.com/NoElectrickery which is awesome. We have a gig coming up next week.

On another point, I am looking forward to our Game of Thrones interactive storytelling session this week. Things are hotting up there.

Reading about twelfth century eremitic movements of ascetic wanderers is fascinating. I am still engrossed in my tutor's Thesis: only yesterday was I able to read her footnotes for the first time, meaning I can follow up the citations. (Reading it in Word for the first, on a proper 'puter, not on my iPhone).

Today I intend to buy a Classical Latin dictionary in preparation for my next module with the Open University. God I love that place: Walton Hall, Buckinghamshire. As I call it, "The marshmallow space-ship spire, the wizards' tower of the Unseen University".

I watched David Starkey's From Prison to the Palace yesterday, and as a result I am going to follow in Elizabeth's footsteps and give double translation a try: doing an accurate translation of Ovidius into English, then taking Marlowe's poetic translation and translating it into accurate Latin. In any case, Brother Bliss is about to arrive, God willing, so I must go. Take care.

Max-out.

Fever Pitch

Dear Diary,

Things here have been so very peaceful today. The sun shone, the light cast down upon this humble residence, alone with my thoughts, and my little dog, Ronnie Barker. Then, into the garden, a serpent did come. It was her: "the wind from the north", the evil step-mother. With a venemous forked tongue she spat forth her lacertian acidic verbosity. Not a good word said. Not one. Father was philosophical, calm, as was I. Yet I am this close to biting her head off (metaphorically). I am about to tackle the washing up, and should she lay into me again, verbally, I shall either bark and growl as my dog, or, more likely: switch into Sergeant Major mode. I will tell her, how it truly is, and not like the Buddha, but like a Warrant Officer Class Two, when I held such a rank. Oh yes, it is so on. She has disturbed the family peace and I am about to explode. One has no idea how ... retaliatory I can be, if attacked. She has stirred a whirlwind so strong, she knows not what she is about to encounter, a storm, the likes of which the world has never seen. In thunder, and in earthquake, like a Jove. You may attack me, but beware, for what a realm I preside over: that is, the peace of my fathers home. My sisters have weighed in against her, and now, the evil witch knows not what manner of beast she shall unleash in me, and my family. Blood. Kin. Fraternity.

Not physical, that would be most unbecoming of an English gentleman, but instead, I will show her what I am made of. Time... to test mettle.

Peace be with you, and let no-one disturb your friendship bonds of family.

Maximus Fleximus.

Post-Script: Thankfully the washing up was done and the entire time the "wind from the north" was gassing on her phone. She had better be. All was resolved amicably, thankfully. I am sleeping outside in the shed tonight as I cannot stand sharing a roof with that harridan. Peace prevails. Thank God.

Awful

Dear Diary,

Yesterday was a bloody nightmare in both the waking world and in dream-land. My Lord! First off, sulky step-mum exploded into screaming hysterically with her venomous tongue, like you wouldn't believe! I wanted to check to see if she wasn't inhuman, some sort of evil android perhaps, she was that bad. Oh my giddy aunt. Shrieking at the top of her lungs, every word was like licking a razor blade coated in honey, pure poison. Gulliver's old-dear raised him under the sound principle, “If you can't say anything nice: don't say anything at all.” I wish someone would explain this to the harridan wicked step-mother. For eight hours solid each and every word that came forth from her tongue was venomous. It is horrid. She even dug her keys into him. Father and I were philosophical about it. I told him in French that I cannot speak to that woman in English any more. This morning is no different. Dad is at work, and I am subject to more verbal abuse.

In between time I experienced an awful nightmare where I went to visit my ex-missus in a rural loony bin. She attacked my groin with a pair of scissors, just before I awoke.

On the other hand, yesterday I rediscovered the magnificence of Abelard and Heliose. They are beacon of peaceful light in a whirlwind of mayhem.

Today I am supposed to be practicing for the recording. Having only just awoke, I am not truly in the mood for playing rock 'n roll with electrickery.

Max.

On the Road

Dear Diary,

Besides a step-mum going ballistic shrieking at the top of her voice then sitting in sulky silence, something I bought this morning makes my mind wander and wonder at what an exciting prospect Reading Classical Latin will be. It is going to be a pure joy to enable comprehension of ancient histories, inscriptions and most of all: poetry. All this is highlighted in a marvellous book I just bought, for thirty-three pence.

Brooke, C. (1969) The Twelfth Century Renaissance, Thames & Hudson, London.

Such a joy to read, a sheer delight.

Moonday

Dear Diary,

Well, I called up about that job, seemingly the Home Office won't issue a visa for a teacher unless they hold a PGCE. I suspected as much but had to have confirmation. It's nice to know the proper procedure: protocol. Essentially I must educate myself further. Too little too late? I hope not.

Lots of stuff happening around town. The weekend was host to an altercation, this guy I know landed himself in some hot water. It'll all be settled in court.

Right now I'm a headin' up north, off to Offa's Dyke to go cut a record with Five Jive our rock 'n roll band. Little Ronnie Barker on my knee. It's nice to be nice.

The Village Green Preservation Society going round and around in my mind. God bless strawberry jam.

Max.

Have a Care

Dear Diary,

I am listening to The Village Green Preservation Society by the Kinks, what a great record. It stands for everything that is true, good and beautiful. I want it played at my funeral.

The more I read about history, the more I unearth cohesion instead of revolt, morality in place of criminality, and of course God instead of cynicism. People just don't get it nowadays. The amount of people who share "the less you give a fuck the happier you'll be" is unreal. I thought it had a great shot of Jack Nicholson, one of my favourite actors. Yet, the more I mull over this supposēd philosophical maxim, the less I like it. Gulliver came up with a great counter-point quote from an Old-Time player, "It's nice to be nice." Not uncaring, but quite the opposite. Being a nice person, compassionate and kind is more rewarding than being cold, uncaring and selfish. Selfless.

I am rapidly losing touch with the mainstream television watching brainless morons who don't care, they only care about themselves, science, nihilism, and have no idea. The clueless masses.

To read history, learn it's lessons, and to impart that knowledge in the spirit of good-will and compassion. That is rewarding, and why I am resolved to be a history teacher one day. Hopefully not too far away in time, but certainly far away in distance: Jordan *crosses fingers*. I'll call the agency tomorrow to see if it's even worth applying seeing as I have no formal experience or PGCE. In any case, it's worth a try.

Max.

R.I.P. Steve T.

Dear Diary,

Today I saw a good friend of mine, on his deathbed. Steve T. (the Django Rhinehart of keyboard players, an incredibly gifted intellectual and a master musical arranger). He has cancer, a yellowish skin-colour and is but a shadow of his former self. Steve taught me so much about science, evidence based analysis and music history. It is such a shame to see him so poorly. He has only weeks to live, maybe only days. Not a good day.

Max.

Hardship

Dear Diary,

Awakened unto a gloriously sunny summers day, Maxy Waxy went into town to meet Gulliver the fiddler. A friendly cellist was there talking to him, we all agreed that the band that had set up were very average sounding. These old boys played "What shall we do with a drunken sailor?", very loudly amplified. The moment the 'banjo player' picked up his instrument he played duelling banjos: telling us his worth, which was zero. They then played Old Joe Clark, very ropey. As Gulliver said, if you play that tune you had better have some balls. They are all crap. They also put the cello player and us out of business. The beggar in the alley had also stopped us from making any money. Life is so hard at the moment. I am starving, wasting away slowly.

Even so, we played extremely well at the café. The pay is about a tenner a week, and they fed us, twice. I get this food, and that is what I live on, all week. It is so tough being me, beggars, amplified very average musicians, they are the bane of my life. I don't care, once I get my degree I want to be an AL or a Don, even if I have to go to the Middle-East to do it. It doesn't matter. Being a history teacher there is better than wasting away as a musician here.

We met up with the artist's artist M.T. yesterday, went swimming and spent the tenner on booze. It was like a dream, good friends, great times. M.T. has done a painting of me, it is incredible.

Max.