The gig - how it went with the new band

Dear Diary,

I was already feeling shaky, from being shockingly hungover, having overdone it the night before and not eaten much. We arrived at the gig (already charged, well practised and rather quite loaded up on Leffe), and there were some old guys playing. It was like the Eastbourne zimmer-frame relay team, very subdued, toned down, soulless. Then I appeared on stage, playing Jimi Hendrix's Voodoo Chile (slight return part 1), and it was as though I had discovered fire to these old folks, audience and prior bands alike. I was another Prometheus, forethought, bringer of the fires of heaven. They didn't know what hit them.

Anyway, there were some relatively interesting people there, with whom I had much in common (though no fellow classicists, sadly) and the evening passed amicably. I was, as always at these kinds of events, the star of the show. I may not be modest, but I am honest.

Max.

My (hungover) birthday - holidays

Dear Diary,

I became... somewhat inebriated last night and emailed my father, letting him know precisely what I think of him, which was perhaps not the most prudent move. Still, what's done is done. Once the word flies, it cannot be recalled, and I have no regrets. Father is obstinate, a dictator, a tyrant. I let father know that (a) his daughter is Jewish (hence she is named 'Jewel') and that (b) I shall be nothing like him, as a father, but instead be a reasonable man. She's my baby girl, and I would do most anything for her, but on her terms, for I do not insist and impose my will upon her. If I am honest, I love mummy more than dad. Most guys do, much like most girls adore daddy.

In any case, I have cut loose for my birthday. I just don't care. If there's only one day a year when I can do so, it is today. The rest of the year is spent working my ass off for next to nothing. Let's get out of here, and forget ourselves for a brief moment. Then, once awoken with a hangover, it's back to work.

Speaking of which, the teaching gig got back to me. I will have some web meeting, then several more hurdles to clear, but I am convinced that my knowledge (and being affable) will see me through. This 'ain't my first rodeo. I know what to do, more than many. It is a case of not pushing it, being a good listener, serious, yet jolly good fun. Being amicable. I am quite certain that I can cinch this job. There's nothing to it, for I have been studying towards this for over ten years now.

Max.

Move on up?... (Maybe...)

Dear Diary,

One of the first days I was around at the luthier's he stuck on Craig Charles' funk hour on the radio and Move On Up by Curtis Mayfield came on (one of my all time favourite songs). You can see and hear me playing it here (I am playing the keyboard, and certainly not singing). Anyway, among the many jobs I have applied for recently, there was one that popped up may be suitable, providing I can keep it together, act strictly professionally, and put the work in.

It's teacher training, to be a teacher in schools. I predicted some half a dozen years ago that "I will probably end up teaching in some school in the back woods province." This may well be how things turn out. I ought to look on this as a positive thing, it is, after all, better than working where I am now. I love studying, and am an excellent teacher (or so my one and only Latin student claims - my ex-fianceé). We learn by teaching. I would prefer not to teach modern history, but that is what I will probably end up doing (for in the Dark Ages the eternal classical tradition has no place), that is, if I get this job.

I once bought a Chaldee and Hebrew lexicon from a little antique bookshop in Bath. It falls open on the page which reads the definitions for the words "positive attitude" and "to become" and "a teacher". That same day I bought the Oxford Book of Latin Verse, which falls open on a page in its introduction which reads words to the effect that a patriotic historian is a good historian. This is not strictly true, for all historians nowadays are supposed to be world historians. However, there is no denying that the Oxford Dictionary of National Biography only shows one side (the positive side) of Great Britian's former men and women of note. For example, look up the entry from General Redvers Buller there, then compare that to the (unfavourable) entry in Brewer's Dictionary of British and Irish Rogues Villains and Eccentrics. The two read like chalk and cheese.

In any case, these signs from the gods (if signs they are) indicate that so long as I maintain a positive mental attitude, and remain a patriot (which I still am, in spite of my growing disillusionment with the state of education in Great Britain generally), I may yet become a teacher. Moreover, it will be a job I enjoy, and I may yet be of more service to this once great nation of ours, in a higher capacity than the basest slave that ever there were in the history of the British Empire.

Max.

Friends and a clash of differences (Saturday night out)

Dear Diary,

A friend at work asked me if I would like to spend Saturday evening in his company. He's a rough diamond, and has two traits which I find the most admirable in a person: honesty and kindness. Therefore, amicably, I agreed to. However, although I was aware of the fact that the last time we had a drinking session, we came to cross purposes (at which point I began reciting Christopher Marlowe by heart [Faust'] and when things got really bad, I did an impeccable Joe Pesci impression from the movie Casino) I trusted that things would be alright. They were not.

Despite the man's great traits, which include discretion - very important - he is an Aries. Mars, god of war (and agriculture). I am an air sign, ruled by Mercury, and when air fans the flames of fire, a conflagration happens. I am like little Ronulus, a terrier: indomitable. However, seeing as that wasn't working (no amount of being assertive helped, and one is never aggressive, even in the face of aggressive vitriol and cursing: which he did, like a goddamn tyrant or dictator) I tried a different tack: passive humility. I was sincere, and tried to calm the situation down, but to no avail. The man is not particularly well read, and even as I had had enough and ignored him, he took offence to me reading silently (Seneca's tragedies). Ignorance is a pest. It is darkness.

The whole argument was over rugby (of all things). There is a player that is very heavy handed, a French player, and one whom I quite liked when I was in my youth. Then, at a party in France one night, a rugby aficionado (more well informed than I am) quite rightly stated that this man is, "A very bad player." When I asked him why, the answer I received was because the man is not a gentleman, he is not honourable, he does not engage in the sport in the spirit all sports should be. Being a good sport. Winning with grace and humility. Fair play. These things are important. But to this splinter of the god of war (Mars, or Aries), this man is an outstanding player (because he is excessively aggressive). With all the humility in the world, I tried my best to soothe the situation, dial it down, establish a measure of peace and harmony: all to no avail. Curiously, I had just translated these lines of Latin before I left for work:

No soft breeze warms with cold wind, nor do light
Zephyrs blow out the flames in people’s hearts.
- Seneca, Oedipus 37-39.

Max.

Biding time, learning patience and humility

Dear Diary,

Okay. So this is most certainly not the Golden Age of Elizabethan England. It's Dark Age Britain. That much is evident. Even so, despite the fact that I hold two degrees, and were I in any other country in the world (even without these two meaningless pieces of paper that have cost me deep in the pocket, over £15,000, not to mention countless hours of studying) I would most certainly not be reduced to slavery. I have to get over it already. This is not a Golden Age. It is an age of poverty, plague, war, climate change, and anyone that thinks this is not the Dark Age, is living in f-ing Rainbow land (making reality up as they go along, rather than accepting it for what it is). Anyway.

There was a tense moment at work this evening. I got the blame for a mistake (though it was not my fault - that time at least). One ought to be forgiving, and see the very best in people, recognise the hard work they have done, not come down like a tonne of bricks every time a slight error is made. Yet this is not an enlightened period of history. My line manager is not yet eighteen years old. He is the village idiot. Slow. Lazy. The boy is insane (yet no less than the rest of them there). Anyhow. Captain Bligh was hard on me for trying to do two jobs at once (no one else would do the other job, for they were all busy, and all jobs need to be done: it is also time critical, with a conveyor belt running), my attempt at rectifying said mistake. I very nearly almost said to him, as Marlon Brando's character, Fletcher Christian, in Mutiny on the Bounty (in precisely the same accent, I might add), "Williams has been drinking sea water. I was giving him some fresh water. I'm afraid he'll die without it." Captain Bligh likes to kick his crew sometimes. Even his older brother thug, today, when one member of the crew complained that they were tired, was promptly put out of doors and drenched in the rain. They have not trapped anyone in the freezer with the lights off now for some time, so surely things are looking up.

I almost said to him, the thug, "You'll not put your hand on me again. Ship's company! You've given your last command Bligh! I'm taking control of this ship! Mills! They keys to the armoury!" Yet I did not. I am reminded of Mike McShane's character's line in Robin Hood, "Thank you Lord for teaching me humility." These people are not well read, they are not educated, they are not mindful, considerate, kind hearted people. They ridicule those well educated (especially the foreign thugs in charge) and have no conception of what it is like to be an artist or a scholar. They are impatient, sarcastic, and ill-suited to their positions (lowly though they are, though not as low as the basest slave that ever there were in Dark Age Britain: namely, myself).

I have been rehearsing in my mind what I shall say to them each when I do finally leave (for I have made preparations to elevate myself out of poverty: through hard work, study, learning ancient languages and penning plays fit for a king - or indeed a queen). I shall say to them, "Thank you for teaching me patience. My time here has been most instructive. You have taught me mindfulness, diligence, a measure of politeness, and most of all: the privilege of labour teaches us all things. I thank you all, kindly, for deigning me fit and suitable to be of good service." These are, of course, all of the qualities which they lack, for they are not that way inclined, but instead of saying anything negative, it is best to remain on good terms with all men and women, no matter how much they may despise you. Repay evil with good. Always.

Max.

Distractions and what I ought to be doing

Dear Diary,

I have done a lot of soul searching recently. In my dreams I'm out there, with old friends, on some kind of flight, crashing through trees, keeping books, maintaining friendships, looking ahead despite all life's little ups and downs. Right now I find myself embroiled with the luthier. I know, in my heart of hearts that this is not the right direction to be headed. It's a backwards step. I should be working, studying, doing the best I can. Yet there is an inner child inside of me (most probably affected by my sun sign - Gemini - even if the Ascendant [in my case ruled by the leaden and grave planet Saturn] is, in truth, more important, according to the wisdom of the ancients) which wishes to break free from the bondage of indentured servitude, Captain Bligh and all of his b-s--t.

I was given a new lease of life today: the possibility of a gig, a private party with our new band. I love doing things like that. It's a social event, not without its own issues (those of the luthier) but in truth, I will be in my element: a musician on stage, shining as brightly as the pole star. I'll be in my element. Never mind Captain Bligh, or the most boring Stalin, or any of my other responsibilities (except for those towards little Ronulus, my Cambridge Terrier, who will always come first). I must think about what is important. Sure, editing for the old ball and chain (yes yes yes, that goes without saying). Then there is the 'pillar post' I am working on, which is pretty cool. It's still a long way off yet, but I'm working on it diligently. I actually love it, even if it's not ideal (i.e. a proper tenure at a university somewhere, but this is Dark Age Britain, not the 8th century Tang Dynasty in China, or the Umayyad Caliphate in 11th century Baghdad, nor even 1463 in Florence, Renaissance Italy. These are the Dark Ages, here, now, in Britain - this is not the place or time for scholars, poets and musicians. It is a place for beggars, slaves or crooks, and nothing in between).

In any case, I shall be making a trip down to my old home town, to pick up a painting (the cover for my play Boadicea: Queen of the Iceni). During that time I will meet old friends, which will surely be nice. The sound of the violin, particularly, is one I am extremely fond of.

Right now I should be editing for the old ball and chain. I'll get it done, before the deadline, yes yes yes yes. Of course. But besides that, I fondly research this little paper.

Max.

The mutiny continues...

Dear Diary,

Man overboard! I heard one of my "learned" colleagues say today, "Man down!" as a young officer - we'll call him "Mr. Fryer" - was dishnourably discharged from the crew of the Bounty today, by Captain Bligh's superior officer. His offence? Being two minutes late reporting for duty on deck and insubordinate remarks made against a superior officer. Naturally, Mr Fryer was given the cat o' nine tails, and made to walk the plank. He tried to swim back to the ship (like the last time, and the time before that, and the time before that) but Captain Bligh ordered that no rope or lanyard be cast off the stern to the young sailor this time. He is cast adrift, on his own, no more a member of the Bounty's rapidly dwindling crew. Mr. Fryer is now in Davy Jones' Locker, so to speak: swimming with the sharks.

The poison dwarf remarked yesterday, that she would like to become an air-hostess. Today, I (perhaps unwisely) tried to explain, very delicately, most tactfully, that she ought to consider serving on board a cruise ship. Why? Because the poison dwarf has the nickname of "Ming the Merciless" among her friends at school. Why? One, because she is not the most attractive young lady (to put it mildly...) and two, because she has a complete lack of empathy. Becoming an air hostess is a little like becoming a receptionist or a secretary, only more classy. It is no coincidence that every flight I have ever been on has been with air-hostesses that are physically attractive. It is not just, it is not correct, it is not fair, but it is the way things actually are, in the real world. Men hire attractive female receptionists and secretaries, just as air lines employ attractive female air-hostesses. It is the law of nature. If thirty women are interviewed for the job, only a few (quite often the most comely) are hired to actually do the job as an air-hostess. I did not mean to shatter the young lady's dreams, only kindly suggest that she may have more success applying for a position on a cruise ship (which requires many more staff, and so employers are less fussy). Still, the young lady has not yet reached 18 years of age, and so, like her star sign, she is a maiden: not yet having been exposed to the harsh realities of life. Enough of the poison dwarf.

As for my own cause, I have been reading the rather excellent Hercules Oetaeus by Seneca. I was a bit too harsh on Miller's translations in my last post regarding it (it is easy to poke holes and find flaws - much like the poison dwarf: constantly nay-saying, fault finding and highlighting any fly in the ointment of others, most of all me). It is prosaic and old-fashioned, yes, but not a bad translation. Even so, I sometimes wonder how on earth Miller actually managed to render a particular sentence. One springs to mind (Seneca, Agamemnon 34). I fail to see how versa natura est retro can be justifiably translated as "nature has been confounded". With the exception of the regular noun natura 'nature', this is not actually a translation. I would render it (more precisely) as 'nature overturned is backwards'. In any case, my play, Boadicea: Queen of the Iceni is coming along nicely. I find it interesting how both R. Scott Smith's (semi-prosaic, semi-poetic) translation of Seneca's plays (Penguin) and Emily Wilson's superb translation of Seneca's plays (Oxford World Classics), neither translator chose either Agamemnon nor Hercules Oetaeus. Both these plays are absolutely excellent. To me, this looks like one thing only: an opportunity.

Max.

An imaginary take on what has happened

Dear Diary,

In my mind's eye, I wonder, from the writings of Captain Bligh (the actual William Bligh, not the juvenile thug that commands my every move in that... place) and Edward Christian, what it might be like, in some parallel universe, here, now, at that... place. It runs thuswise (at least, in mine own fertile imagination).

Captain Bligh: Do the meals. Take them from oven.

Fletcher Christian: I beg your pardon sire, but the Boreal downdraft which blows down from the Genoa sail, makes any and all meals stone cold, the moment they are taken from the ship's hold, to the crew.

Captain Bligh: I not care. Take the meals from there, and put them in boxes.

Fletcher Christian: You are not listening to me, sire. I wish only to point out that the ships' crew shall only ever have Continental rations, or rather, food which is as cold as the wine-dark sea, unless something is done to counteract this blast of cold air coming from the north.

Captain Bligh: You do as I say. You no argue. I boss. You just instore. Do as I say.

Fletcher Christian: Were it not for my astute observation, any and all meals served from the ship's pantry would go out cold to the crew, sire. I merely wish to object to the manner in which the food is served, so that our men may have bellies filled with hot, not cold food, and this in turn may in fact increase morale among the crew. It is said in the British Army, before going on a standing patrol, that the platoon ought to have all had a hot, not a cold meal.

Captain Bligh: You do job. You do job as I say. No argue.

Fletcher Christian: I beg your pardon sire, but I am merely pointing out that all the meals which you presume to serve, are all going out cold.

Captain Bligh: You no argue.

Fletcher Christian: It seems to me to be most unreasonable, good Sir, when you say that one must go about the performance of one's duties to the detriment of the crew under your command. Surely it would make more sense to rectify the problem, and carry on, as all good sailors should do in Her Majesty's Navy.

Captain Bligh: I no care. You do what I say.

Fletcher Christian: You've given your last command Bligh. I'm taking over this ship. Miles! (Yes sir!) Go and fetch the keys to the armoury.

Captain Bligh: I in command here.

Fletcher Christian: Not for much longer Bligh. Reason is sacred, and your commands ask more of fine officers and good honest sailors than rationality can allow. Clap him in irons lads!

Three plays of Seneca (and other musings)

Dear Diary,

So, I've been up since first thing and spent all day finishing my first pass editing a book for the old ball and chain. I'll have to take another look at it tomorrow, and do a second pass, because I'm tired after having finished a busy shift at that... place. Needless to say I ate humble pie and apologised for acting unprofessionally and speaking to Captain Bligh so disrespectfully. The bread fruit is still being well watered, but the crew are now on only a quarter rations, and the dread of the lash looms ever menacingly, imminent in the gloomy workhouse.

There is one member of staff that just graduated (her second degree: this one in business administration). Naturally, like me, she holds two degrees: therefore she does unskilled labour for minimum wage. That's just the way things are in Dark Age Britain. Education is merely an extremely expensive hobby, of no use, except for being marginalised and scorned by the base born rabble. This is not Elizabethan England, evidently.

Anyway, I have been reading more Seneca, in the bath tub, on the way to work, and on my five minute break. I must say that there are three plays which I single out for really quite excellent pieces of inspiration. One is not by Seneca, and is the least of the three, but it is Senecan in style, though it falls short of Seneca's own particular finesse: Octavia. This historical play (the only one of its kind to survive in Classical Latin, I might add) may yet find a line or two in my new play Boadicea. The second is often thought to be Seneca's greatest work (according to the Oxford Classical Dictionary at least - the old school edition): Thyestes. If one gets over the gruesome and eldritch ending, there are certain passages in there which really are sublime. A few lines from this play already feature in Boadicea but I am thinking of weaving in one or two more, maybe even a few. The third is Agamemnon. Okay, okay. It's never going to be as lofty or as great as Aeschylus' treatment, but it is still a very good play, and most of all, it's in Latin (so I can read it like I can the Telegraph, instead of trying to learn to read and write for the first time: as I am with ancient Greek, still only at the crayon learning to form letters stage. Well, maybe a little more than that, but even so, it's hard work for someone not well versed in this ancient language, still only learning it). There are a few nice lines in both Agamemnons, even if I have to spend more time pouring over Aeschylus' ancient Greek (I was foresighted enough to buy the - now out of print - John Denniston and Denys Page Oxford critical edition and commentary of Aeschylus' Agamemnon, while studying towards my master's, about a year ago now).

My play, as it stands, is certainly in good shape, but it could always be better. I ought to chop out many more lines borrowed from Marlowe, and instead translate Latin and ancient Greek lines from tragedies. (Imagination and verse from life experience go without saying - that's the easy stuff). I have set myself the task of reading all the tragedies of Euripides, Sophocles and Aeschylus (and indeed Seneca), and then come back to the play, after having made lots of notes. If I am honest, I have borrowed the odd line from lines in translation, and this is a bloody awful habit. Just glancing across at the Latin in the old Loeb version I have (Seneca Tragedies vol.2 - Frank Miller) of Seneca's Agamemnon reveals that this not how I would translate certain parts. It is imprecise in some places, and takes too many liberties with interpolated words and mistranslated verbs (especially). And more than that, it's in prose (yeuch! *sicks up*). One does not render the immortal Seneca into prose, the low born language of mere mortals. No no no no. One does Seneca justice, and renders verse into verse: the language of the immortal gods. Translating excellent verse into base prose is not only sacrilege, but it requires very little effort (scansion notwithstanding...). For example, I once began a translation project with another person at university, and my fellow translator said that it was not the translation which was bothering them, but the arduous task of making it fit the metre. It's not easy, I can tell you, trying to hammer it into shape, bend it to your will, without losing accuracy. Prose is for petty wits.

In other news, the luthier gave me a ride home yesterday, and we had a nice jam. It is surprising just how much high culture he is versed with (an avid listener of Radio 3 and knows a fair amount about art), and indeed how much life experience he has, having travelled extensively. I like people like that. They are not the boring usual 9-5 types that have lived in the same village their entire lives. Sure, everyone has a story to tell, but interesting people are hard to find.

Max.

That... place (the end of an era?)

Dear Diary,

I had had quite enough of Captain Bligh's draconian and most tyrannical way of imposing order, upon a busy Friday night. One does one's best, in the workplace, in spite of all imperfections and challenges life may throw at one. Alas, I fear I may have acted, in another time, with a more cordial manner, and in a generally more respectful way this evening. Yet, if truth be told, I am an artist but not (yet) a true philosopher. Being a poet and not an even minded practitioner of the more.... rarified arts which grace and adorn not only this world but the hermetic spheres which surround this little planet (or 'wandering star') that surrounds us, here, now, in time and space, means that I do not handle situations as well as I could have done.

Far from the polite (with comparatively few vulgarities being spoken) take over of the ship HMS Bounty, done most cordially and in as civilised manner as possible (for manners maketh the man, in truth), This evening I made an inoportune and hasty outburst, which did not happen without precendent. "I am in hell, Sir. For the last six months I have been in hell." I was like Fletcher Christian, this night.

What happened was that the air conditioning was on full blast, which means a constant, freezing blast of cold air comes down upon the fast food meals on the top deck of the conveyor belt at work. I said to the 'man' (the Eastern European non-rational thug-like creature that is my boss, not yet twenty five years old) "The food is going cold, so I need to take the meals from the top conveyor belt first in order to not send out cold food the whole time. To which he replied, "Every Weekend, you not fast enough. You make no good. You do work better." I said to the young man, "You need to listen to me. It's important." So he pushed harder, Captain Bligh style, coming down on me like a tonne of bricks, so I said to him, "I am trying the best I possibly can. I only mean to take the top orders off, because they will be cold soon if I do not." He again ploughed into me, so I said to him, "Shut the fuck up."

These "people" (if they can be called such) cannot be reasoned with, they cannot be bargained with, or met half way in a spirit of amity. They get irritated comparatively easily. They have not read Plutarch or Seneca, their tracts about how to deal with stress, anger, effectively, so one may see clearly, and carry on regardless, no matter how stressful the situation. These are uneducated brutes, young.

I could have conducted myself with more decorum tonight. Certainly, according to the Golden Verses of Pythagoras, I could have done better. Yet life is a journey, a rich tapestry, one learns from one's mistakes, to become a better person, in terms of kindness, good-will, good character. I would do well to reflect on what I did wrong, assume responsibility for one's actions, and most of all, see how I can improve and not make that mistake again ever. I ought to remain philosophical, and introspective in my outlooks, to learn to be better next time, and instead of caving in to pressure, remain even-minded, and treat everybody with respect, especially the boss (even if he is another Captain Bligh, well, in which case, it is probably best to take over the ship and assume command).

Max.

Moving house

Dear Diary,

It is perhaps no coincidence, that soon after I reported that Stalin had sent Vladimir Putin a death threat, my application which I made for re-housing (some months ago, perhaps even last year it was so far back) got back to me. I will need to rummage around for some old paperwork, also get a passport, and some new letters, but needless to say the ball is well and truly rolling. I will also have to 'bid' on properties, but that's no problem. I would very much like to move to town. This will save me a oner (£100) on travelling costs, but will probably double the amount of rent I pay, so I will almost certainly be poorer, but that's okay too. The better one does in Britain, the poorer one becomes. That much is evident, crystal.

It would be enough to be safe, and not have to worry about being served a cup of polonium tea or touch a Novichok laced door handle. Seeing as I prefer books to people, that too would be marvellous: to enjoy some peace. Even so, man is a social creature, and I do sometimes quite enjoy the company of others (most especially artists, musicians and most of all: intellectuals), so living in town would also be nice. I should like to get a piano again, and play music sometimes, as that is a joy I have been missing for really rather a long time. I am most pleased about this possibility of moving. It will be nice to live in a space which is larger than a cupboard (the room I live in currently is not very spacious at all, to the point where I cannot cram any more books in). I should imagine that being in a place of my own would be rather pleasant indeed. Stalin shouts a lot (as does his closest relation - it appears to be a family thing). Even this very morning, once I had awoken with a shocking hangover, he began yelling at me about some frivolous 1990s TV show he was watching. He probably does not mean to shout, but he - like our last lodger, the Savage Viking - shouts the entire time he speaks to anyone (that is, except anyone in authority). There is a nice word I like in French, doucement, meaning 'softly, quietly, gently' which neither they, nor many of my "learned" work colleagues seem to know the meaning of. In any case, the possibility a little peace and quiet, and indeed some safety, is most welcome indeed.

Max.

Seneca's Hercules Furens and my play (Boadicea).

Dear Diary,

I am absolutely loving re-reading the simply marvellous translation of Hercules Furens by the demi-goddess that is Emily Wilson. Best known for her exquisite translation of Homer's Odyssey (the first female to ever translate the work into English) Emily Wilson is probably not as well known for her work on Platonic philosophy. I bought one of her works, The Death of Socrates and found the book quite informative (highlighting some fragments of Plato which are important, as well as a few critical essays). Equally, Emily Wilson does not like Socrates, at all. According to Emily Wilson, he should have been at home taking care of the kids and his wife rather than gallavanting off drinking with his mates and spending long hours meditating. No doubt this has been the bugbear of many a married woman throughout the annals of human history. Anyway, back to Seneca.

Only 27 lines and 7 syllables are indebted to Seneca in my play Boadicea: Queen of the Iceni presently (which currently stands at an admirable 1,340 lines precisely at the moment - very nearly almost the same as Hercules Furens). I've known for a while now that I will have a lot more trimming to do, because it needs a good old fashioned nip and tuck, not to mention a few sections cutting down (which I am not really looking forward to doing - because to remove too much risks removing as many merits as flaws, maybe even more). Yet, today, as I journeyed to that... place (Tartarus - my workplace) I was transported to another world - reading Seneca's Hercules Furens. I couldn't wait to get home and break out my Latin copy and the commentary I have.

This all came about because I was doing some editing for the old ball and chain which discussed Hades (so naturally I put in some citations of primary sources, being the wily and well educated master of classical studies that I am - you know, the one that cleans the gunk out of the burnt pans and sauce tubs each night, because, well, that's what you do with two degrees in Classical Latin in Dark Age Britain - this is not 15th-16th century Renaissance Italy, or the Golden Age of Chinese poetry during the 8th century Tang Dynasty, evidently. These are the Dark Ages, most especially in poetry - even today's In Our Time episode on Li Bai and Du Fu was evidence of this [see 45 minutes and 20 seconds in]: all our [Britain's] best translators of poetry have emigrated over to the United States - including Emily Wilson, I might add! Well, apart from one: yours truly).

Anyway. Rant over. I remember choosing to study Seneca's Hercules Furens during the mythology module I studied as an undergraduate, and I had fogotten just how good a play it is. I really do not think it will ever been seen as being as great as Seneca's Thyestes (a magnificent play) but it's still extremely good. The artwork is coming on nicely, by all accounts, and the play is progressing nicely as well. Who knows, maybe once I am dead, my poetry will be appreciated, in a better, more enlightened period of history (one not so pre-occupied with war, plague, famine, drought and global warming).

Max.

Stalin's resolution and a dangerous situation

Dear Diary,

Two days later, following the mobile phone fiasco, Stalin, after a half-hour long conversation with the bank, managed to get them to send him a 'sentry' PIN machine for making secure transactions (not every bank has these available, only a couple, as far as I am aware).

Anyway, that was one thing. Now, something else has developed, something potentially rather serious, deadly, in fact. Stalin is a loud mouth, a blow hard. He shouts a lot of the time, loves to shout, rarely listening, seldom reading (and when he does read it is either frivolous novels or at best aged secondary sources from forty years ago: very few of them). He has no discretion, being an incorrigable gossip. Since the start of the latest war in the East, I have had to be very careful about what I say. Indeed, it has taken me many years to become a little wiser, to become discreet, to think before I speak. One must think about the consequences of one's words or actions, but Stalin doesn't. He is ruled by emotion, not reason. He is not an educated man. There is a noun in ancient Greek, σωφροσύνη, which means 'wisdom, prudence, discretion; moderation, self-control, temperance'. Stalin does not know this word, either its pronunciation or meaning, and least of all: living likewise.

At the start of the war, just after February 24th, 2022, Stalin sent Vladimir Putin an email threatening him with death lest the Russian Premiere ever set foot in his home village. This is a serious mistake.

I have been following the war closely, and in particularly looking at Vladimir Putin as a person, and what kind of man he is. Vladimir Putin is not a man to be trifled with, he is not the kind of President one ought to speak disrespectfully of, and certainly never threaten with death. This is not to say that one ought not to stand up to injustice nor kowtow to dictators, but one must always be careful about what one says or does. In every action or word, there are consequences. This is what got Stalin fired at his last job, because he does not think before he speaks, or acts. Moreoever, Salisbury is just down the road from here, not far at all, and it would not be difficult as former head of the FSB and current President of Russia to put a little polonium or Novichok about. Perhaps Stalin's only saving grace is that he's a nobody: just some backwards country bumpkin, as base as base can be. Even so, my grandmother always taught me, "It is best to err on the side of caution." As a result of Stalin bragging about his little mis-step, I fear I shall have to move away from this place at the earliest possible opportunity. One thing Vladimir Putin does, is never forget, specifically about people that try to intimidate him. Stalin is an idiot, and I am quite certain that one day, he will pay for his mistake, and I don't wish to be here when that happens.

Max.

Stalin and the mobile phone fiasco

Dear Diary,

Being set in one's ways, obstinate, idle and inflexible, is a recipe for disaster in today's world. I realised very quickly that although the mobile phone signal is awful in this back woods remote provincial part of fair England, that one cannot get along in society today without a mobile phone, especially a smartphone. They are necessary. I could not order a pizza without a security text, or publish a book, or receive my wages from my editing work (today - when the mobile signal seems to be getting better here) without one. Yet Stalin seems to imagine that he is perfectly okay without one. He just tried to pay the Council Tax for the house, but could not do so without a mobile phone. I tried to tell him that they are necessary, but he is stubborn as an ox, unwilling to adapt to the modern times. I once said to him, "You are the only person in the world I know that doesn't have a mobile phone." to which he replied, "Moi aaaauntie don't 'av one neiver."

Stalin was complaining because the phone call to the bank he just made (on his landline, which has a horrid crunchy sound in the background whenever you use it) interrupted his television programme, as did me advising him to get a mobile phone. I replied, "Were you to watch this on iPlayer, you could pause the programme, or even rewind it." (He still uses an old fashioned television set, so old, it has a big blue patch in the centre of the screen which is evident the whole time). I remember watching televion as a child, and wondering how marvellous it would be if one could pause or rewind or fast forward a television programme. Then, the video recorder came out, some years later, and we children could not believe how wondrous an invention this was, being able to watch James Cameron's Aliens whenever we had free time. Even in that film there is a scene when Paul Reiser's character receives a call in the small hours after Sigourney Weaver's character had a nightmare about the xenomorph, asking to go on the mission to LV426. The call was not just any call, but a live video call (albeit in black and white through some huge non-portable device). I wondered how amazing it might be, if one day, we may be able to call people and see them on the other end of the telephone, perhaps in the far future.

Stalin is still living in 1986. He does not do FaceTime or Skype or Zoom or a FaceBook video call or any of that. He is still back in the 80s, and refuses to budge. One wonders what hope there is for such an obstinate soul in these times. Surely they are handy and useful devices, if, for example, there were an accident or an emergency and one was not at home. "Oi don't need vaat bloody technology rubbish!" ('Red sky at night: get orff moi land!). Mmmmnnn yes, quite. One should imagine that just like I have had to, through necessity, Stalin will have to learn to adapt, lest he be left behind in this fast paced brave new world. This is not 1986 any more: it's 2022.

Max.

A new assignment and a busy Saturday

Dear Diary,

Chairlady Mao came good with a late run, offering me a seventeen and half thousand word long assignment, a Ph.D. thesis on virtual and augmented reality. It was actually quite interesting to read the paper, and even involved the odd phrase or word of Latin. I was reviewing another editor's work, and there were actually a shed load of little mistakes (some quite crucial) but I did not mention these in my review, because I know how hard it is to be criticised harshly not only in my day job, but also as an editor. The editor didn't do a bad job, so I said as much, even if I was a little too generous in my praise, and could have been more critical and blunt.

The little Windows machine I have couldn't cope with the online Word 365, so I broke out with the Chromebook Spin, which did a fantastic job. The upshot of this little ordeal (I only just made the deadline on time) is that I realise now that despite the drawbacks of using 'Word Lite' so to speak, I can now edit works from the other firm (for the old ball and chain) on my Chromebook.

That... place was a bloody nightmare. It does not bear thinking about. I've been working flat out from the moment I awoke until now. I've only just got home a little while ago, and so am enjoying a nice glass of the very finest wine available, and I bloody well deserve it.

I have made some progress with my play Boadicea: Queen of the Iceni, and it is nearing completion. I have prioritised this as my top priority publication, because I have a deadline: June the 3rd. I will spend my week off ensuring that it goes to print, free from error, in the best, most polished and refined condition possible. This will inevitably lead to more books being published (my two translations: Nennius, and also Apuleius' De deo Socratis), and more translations still (I have a further two which are half complete). This will not provide very much revenue, but only a trickle, and only after three months or so.

I have decided to go ahead with teaching for the old ball and chain. This is going to be a lot of work. (Not least of which learning ancient Greek as best I can as quickly as possible). It involves designing, then teaching an entire module, probably two. However, with some small amount of editing work coming in from Chairlady Mao, coupled with a trickle of revenue from my books, and the lion's share from teaching, will mean I can finally claw my way out of indentured servitude. I am not a fan of being told what to do by those... people, at all.

I have been reading law again, and I must say that this an area of academia which I am growing increasingly fond of, day by day. It encompasses many different subjects, many: forensics, biology, sociology, psychology, philosophy, oratory, history, and of course, the law. The study of criminal law is not actually the study of the law. It is the study of crime, in a legal framework or context. I actually really like it. I like the Latin in it (which goes without saying) but also the very fine balancing act between judgements passed and defendants being either convicted or acquitted. It is actually quite fascinating. There is no other area of law I would rather study, than criminal law. Why? It is interesting. If you think reading prosaic novels of fiction is fascinating, try reading criminal law cases. Real life, is much stranger than any fiction.

Max.

My one day off, developments in work and study

Dear Diary,

My one day off was spent at home. I could have gone to the gig, but I am a pauper (I work six days a week, so of course I am poor). I spent some of the day working (editing for the old ball and chain), working on my play (Boadicea which is coming along nicely, by the way) and roasting a little Empire TW as the Great British Empire, naturally (always).

On my day off, I happened to notice a sign for some work. It is a menial job: mopping floors, cleaning, even the lavatory (!), but I am not proud, and am industrious, and of course, am well suited to the task (holding a master's degree in classical Latin - the perfect job for such a scholar in Dark Age Britain!). Within 12 hours of seeing the sign I had an interview, which went well. The chap (a former RAF man [20 years in the Service], well educated [a degree in Business from the University of Bath], a thoroughly good chap in my opinion) wanted me to go through an agency. I told the gentleman that I would much rather work for him directly, and cut out the middle man. He said it would be best, so I replied that I trusted his judgement. The agency assigned me work away from the place I live (relatively near, but not really close - a two hour walk one way). I asked if they would please re-assign me the job I applied for, the one I was interviewed for, at the place where the interview took place. I have had no reply, but spent a couple of calls to the lady in charge of this assignment. Maybe something will happen, or maybe not. Had I transportation, I could have been working first thing this very morning.

I'm not proud. I work for a living, and I work hard. Stalin, on the other hand (my housemate), has not had a job since I arrived here, three and a half years ago. Well, he did have a job, for just over a week, about six months ago, until he acted inappropriately towards a young female member of staff, and has not had a job since. However, my application for this new cleaning job, and indeed the place I used to work is also recruiting, nearby, proves that if one wants to work, there is work to be found. Yet Stalin is a lazy bugger. He would rather not work, and why should he? If I took all three cleaning jobs I would still only earn the same amount as one would receive on the dole (less, in fact, because of travel expenses). Then he has his rent income from his two lodgers (the Savage Viking is still abroad - thank God). Therefore Stalin does not need to work, nor does he have any such intention of working, as there is no incentive to do so. He does not have the work ethic. For me, it does not actually matter whether I earn more or less than I would receive on the dole: that is not the point. As my late grandmother always said, "You're one of the world's workers now Maxwell." (when I was but a young boy of 15). Working is important. One does not attend the Job Centre lest one wishes to be shamed. This does not bother Stalin in the least. He is quite happy to be seen there. I, however, am not. Still, there is one thing which the British Imperial State has in its arsenal (even if there is no actual financial incentive to work or become university educated in Dark Age Britain): the stick. There is no carrot.

There is another problem here, too. There is no mobile phone signal. There are no buses that run in the evening. There are no connections to major towns. There used to be (only two years ago). One could commute to Bath or Salisbury early in the morning, and get home late at night. Yet things don't get better in Dark Age Britain: things get worse.

One thing did improve, however, recently (even if there are no buses in the evening here). The bus fare actually decreased for once! (The fares have shot up since Cold War II broke out). This, I suspect, is from subventions from the local council (for the bus company certainly wouldn't lower their fees just after increasing them). So even if one cannot actually get to and from work due to a lack of infrastructure (as one used to be able to) at least it is now cheaper for one to become stranded in a town far away from here, after working a full shift, and walk home for two hours through the forest. If these are not the Dark Ages, I don't know what are.

Max.

Work (the new boss - now the old boss)

Dear Diary,

Naturally, what with the older of the two thugs having promoted the simpleton from the village to be in charge of making the food (fast food, him being the slowest), this was of course, recipe for disaster. It is the bank holiday weekend and that... place was very busy indeed. Upon the older thug's return he was really rather put out (to put it mildly) because the statistics recording the load time (something these... people are obsessed with) were very tardy indeed. Alas, after things had settled down a bit, the older thug asked me, "What happen?" I replied, honestly, that I worked to the very best of my ability. He replied, "Everyone work to best. What happen?"

Now, in one of the more enlightened books I happened to have read, by Manly P. Hall, it is said that a gentleman must never speak badly of anybody. (Something which I quite often fail to do, at least when addressing you dearest diary). In accordance with such sound philosophy, I spoke only well of my colleagues, but omitted mentioning the simpleton from the village. I said, "The brother and sister both worked very well indeed this evening." This older brute is no Sherlock Holmes, but even he, lacking reason and not the sharpest tool in the box could not fail to deduce from such a statement that the only member of staff not mentioned was the very boy he promoted yesterday evening (from a process of elimination). I was honest, but I did not speak my mind. I wanted to say to the older thug (who's still a decade my junior), "Well, that's what can expect when you promote the slowest, youngest, most immature member of staff to a higher rank." Yet I held my tongue, and let the work speak for itself.

Later on that evening, the 'older' sister (just coming up 19) backed me up on this point, asserting that she had wanted to do away with the simpleton. At one point in the very busy evening, when the older thug had returned (and later with reinforcements: a member of staff from another store), the 'older' sister became really quite angry, banging metal trays around, cursing, and at one point became so vehement with a ladle that red sauce splashed all over the wall. For much of the rest of the evening, the sanguine coloured splash gracing the walls of the establishment became a kind of looming, ominous symbol, reminiscent of hightened tensions, stress, and most of all: mismanagement.

Yet this is what one gets when one has a business run by the least intelligent, the least wise, and the youngest of all. The older thug and I had a falling out some months ago, on the day after I was conferred with the honours of my master's degree in classical studies. He said to me, "F-ing 'master'". This grated somewhat, but I held my tongue for a good hour or so, before there was a lull. Then, I was less than courteous and polite (my usual self), not aggressive, but assertive, stating that it had taken me twelve long years of studying to attain that qualification, and listing the qualification itself: Magister Artium in litteris humanioribus cum honoribus (with the rolled 'r's and usual Latin pronunciation - not nobby and Anglicised as public school boys speak it, but well educated, at university). I also happened to mention that our nation's PM studied this very same subject at university, and did not study making fast food. Since then he and I have not seen eye to eye, and the older thug has also since then expressed his displeasure at our PM (yesterday evening, in fact). Therefore it comes as no suprise, him not being a fan of our PM, that since then anyone and everyone has been selected for promotion except myself: even the village idiot. (The poisoned dwarf missed it when she didn't turn up for work, and the other lad, again her age - 17 - had a low frustration tolerance and sometimes turned up late or intoxicated, or stormed out in a huff, and was therefore promptly fired). Yet this is not the golden age of Elizabeth the First. It is not the eldest, nor the most pious, nor even the most capable or well educated that are promoted here: it is the least mature, the most juvenile, the least capable and least well educated. These are the Dark Ages.

I shall have to endeavour to attempt to become self employed (for I do not imagine that holding a master's degree in classical studies, nor my age or ability have any bearing on employability in this once great nation). In the opening section to Albert Pike's Morals and Dogma the General wrote that Julius Caesar was a tyrant and that Cicero was a man of honour (or words to that effect). Likewise, the General also wrote that leadership should be comprised of those that are the brightest souls, the smartest. I confess, this thug from work, has only himself to blame for promoting a simpleton from the village, after the fiasco this evening. I am reminded of the time a customer rang up and asked me (pertaining to the younger of the two brutes - when issuing a number of refunds because we were at capacity), "So what you're telling me, is that the store manager cannot manage the store." to which I replied, honestly, "That is precisely what I am telling you, Sir. You are really quite correct in your assessment."

Max.

Work (the new boss)

Dear Diary,

One of the trio of juvenile brothers and sisters, along with his father, has been allocated to another workplace, so there's room at the top. The poisoned dwarf (another one of the teenagers from this little domestic disaster) called in sick yesterday. There is no evidence either way, but it seems no coincidence that it was the day of the town's annual festival, and the weather was bright. It was she that was pegged for promotion, being related to the hierarchy. Alas, the larger of the two thugs (brothers) that run the place have now put the village idiot in charge instead. This young man is by far the slowest work (this is fast food, remember), talks a lot, and like many of the others, makes animal noises often, wailing like a cat, mooing like a cow or barking like a dog. It is absolutely certain that this chimps' tea party is run by the least intellectual, wise and prudent people. That's okay too. What does one expect from Dark Age Britain? A good job? A career? Certainly not! I will now have to 'suck it up' and just do what this boy says (he has not yet reached 18). This is the guy that runs the tap without the plug in, "waiting for the water to get to the right temperature" then wonders why there is no hot water left, so uses the kettle. He does this every day, and no amount of sage advice from myself will ever stop this. Does he not know that the planet has only a finite amount of water? Evidently, climate change is not something high on this lad's agenda. I simply must get out of this job. One way or another, something's got to give.

Max.