Local archaeological horde uncovered and Roman archaeological site

Dear Diary,

Today at the gig I met "the Dorset castle hunter" who asked me the whereabouts of Marshwood Castle (where I had been on an archaeological watch survey recently). I told him it was on private land, and that he would need permission, and told him to go to English Heritage to find out more information. In between breaks at the gig (where I have received a small pay rise, in the two and a half years I have been working there, that still only amounts to less than 10% of the going rate for musicianship). [Today I played the best gig I have ever played in my life, and am extremely undervalued. For that kind of money they could get Wolfae wailing or the crazy cat lady screeching! Not a musician of extreme quality such as myself. I am so pissed off with the situation that I have resolved to wait until Ronulus (founder of Bone) kicks the bucket, and once he buys the farm, if I have not found a job which does not involved either unskilled labour "the spud b**tch" as they affectionately call my in my day job, or being exploited by these people: I will depart for France then Italy, then Spain, as it is easier to be poor, by the sun, and I know I can get gigs there. Ten years to this day.]

Anyway, back to cases. the Dorset castle hunter told me of two archaeological stories, fables, locally. Seemingly near Dodhams lane, Bridport, there was an archaeological discovery of some significance - a Roman pottery horde - and the builders just smashed it up. Also, out in Shipton Gorge was another archaeological discovery, gold coins and artefacts, most of which were kept by the person who found it (a farm hand), with only precious few finds donated to the local museum. This is a shocking travesty, and, if I do hang around to found the Marshwood Archaeological Society (in association with Arrowhead) then these are the sorts of things which we will have to tackle, lawfully, above board, and see that these precious historic finds are given to the proper owners.

I don't know, it's all a mess. I'm in Court on Monday for non payment of Council Tax, some two neighbours who are quite scary (especially the woman alcoholic) came round yesterday. I have two assignments overdue, shed loads of work to catch up on. After walking to and from Court (forty miles in the wind and rain), I have a house inspection, shed loads of rent to pay, no money to pay it. I am up the swanny. What I need to do is relax, focus, and just get what needs doing done. I just applied for another washing up job, which might get me out of the s-. Shakespeare? Paganinni? Get him on the kitchen sink, get him down the mines, best place for him, in this society.

I might have to leave for Froggieland sooner than expected if I am evicted, and that might not be a bad thing. Snail-side. At least they appreciate good music there (to the tune of two-hundred and fifty Euro), and are liberal with wine, women and waffles - of the Belgian variety. I am so pissed off. I have no freedom. No more future, unless I knuckle down, grow a pair of bollocks, and just get on with it. Nightmare.

No problems: only solutions

Dear Diary,

It's late, I'm mildly... tipsy, but I shall recount what has happened to me in the past week, and my plans for the next few days, with little Ronulus Latrator (my pet Norfolk Terrier) in the next day or so. Where do I begin? Well. First off, the Carthaginian turned up at the show, he gave me the time of day, but it was feigned, and he merely tolerated my presence. I longed to give him a piece of my mind, but I thought it best not to "rock the boat" and just keep things on an even keel, retain my job, and do the best I could, all things considered. I did a good job, managed to earn the money, and get out of there, unscathed, which was nice.

On another point, the other job I am currently in have cut my hours in half, then half again, so, I decided to cut loose, go and find my old mate Steve "Lightsabre" Pearson, and reform our old band. Life is going well, and I am well.

Ronulus is learning to play bass (instead of pianoforte, he's a jazz man at heart, but I am getting him into the idea of learning blues, rock and funk "jazz ain't nothin' but good musicians playin' bad" sort of philosophy). Ronulus is still studying towards his Masters Degree in Natural Canine Sciences with the Department of Dog Studies at the Open University, Milton Keynes. He is very happy, but lovelorn, and I long to find him a Toy Poodle, who is mild mannered, well educated, and a worthy suit: faithful, honourable, and honest. In any case, we embark on a long journey tomorrow morning, to find Lightsabre, and a Toy Poodle for Ronulus to play with, so he may go forth and multiply, have lots of little Ronnie Barkers to continue the family line, to prosper.

Domestic violence and drama (misogyny)

Ever Dearest Diary,

'T has been but two days, and already I miss you, dearly. Much has happened today. Where do I begin? First of all, something inside me told me to wake from my dream, so I did. Thirty seconds later the phone rang. It was the ex, the stalker one. I lined her up with some Sand Monkey to get her off my back, and she was out front doing something with her car, cleaning out her old dear's house, who died a while back (shortly after her and this Sand Monkey boy got together). Anyway. He comes out, and is slamming his bicycle around, getting all heavy with her (he's always pissed off about something or other). I called her back and told her to phone the Police, after he had stormed off. He came back, and was very angry (more so than usual, normally in her house he snatches food from her plate, telling her "women should not be allowed to eat such food" - in her own home, no less! - and in the same breath, intimidates her). So, anyhow. He jumps in his car, it won't start, and eventually the engine springs to life, and he takes off.

I go to my gig (the band split up last week, amicably, Gulliver went to town, moved back to where he came from, our Great Nation's capitol).

En route to work, I cross this guy, a young thug I am dimly aware of through moving in nefarious circles in my wayward misspent youth. He has blood all over his face. The lady next to me said, "Oh, that's just halloween paint." Um, no lady. I told her, "Whoever hit him was right-handed." I carry on walking. In town I see him again, and he says, "I beat him up." bragging to some younger boys. Evidently it was not paint.

Next, I bump into a lovely Irish Lady I know, who is a Classical linguist (graduated with Honours and a first, two years erstwhile, from the Hallowed Hall of Walton, MK). I read her the poem I wrote her, she loved it.

At the gig I bump into said Sand Monkey. He usually engages me in conversation, but this time he thrice shot me a look like he was looking for trouble. I call the stalker. Seemingly she told him that I told her to call the Police. Not only this, but (not for the first time) she implied that she had been with me, to make him jealous.

This man murdered his ex-wife (I was the translator on that gig, his "sorrow" was very overplayed, and a lot of money was involved, which all ended up in Tunisia - Carthage). This Sand Monkey is sleeping with one of his five sisters, his only other brother has serious physical and mental disabilities, and his father is very old, so the onus falls on him to earn the money. After he got together with the stalker, her mother sadly passed away (mysteriously), and again, a lot of money was involved, which again, ended up in Tunisia.

So, I return to my house, after work, with some crazy ass Sand Monkey gunning for me, and a stalker neighbour who is stirring up trouble. Incase anything should happen (heaven forbid) I am writing this diary entry as potential posthumous evidence, for the circumstances surrounding my possible death.

I'm betting that this Sand Monkey won't do anything, as the bully usually only attacks women, for money, then sleeps with his sister.