Another day at the office

Dear Diary,

It was busy at that... place this evening, and the young chick that is banging Captain Bligh was unusually highly strung, yelling the entire time it was busy. I almost quit this evening, but just about managed to keep my cool. If anything goes wrong it's me that gets the blame. I am always the first to be blamed. Everyone makes mistakes, myself included. Whenever I make a mistake I always accept responsibility and apologise. Whenever anyone else makes a mistake (the teenagers or the thugs) they immediately blame someone else, most often me. It is always someone else's fault, never their own.

In any case, I bought a trio of reasonably curious books today from a second hand stall. The first was a book on business, which is potentially important. It's designed for CEOs of companies and may come in quite useful. Another book was a reference work on geography. If I am to translate Pomponius Mela (an ancient geographer that wrote in Latin) then I will need this work. The third was a work on philosophy and morality.

I made some notes before work on while reading a work on how to write well. One of the things which struck me was that Mae West kept a diary, and advised keeping one. If nothing else, keeping this diary, even if hardly anyone reads it, is worthwhile.

Happenings...

Dear Diary,

I cannot tell you just how much I detest having to take orders from a boy that still lives at home with his parents and has not even reached adulthood yet. He's 17, and it pisses me right off, having to do whatever he says. The boy is bone idle, does shoddy work and is the slowest member of the team, yet he is my "superior". Take for example, something small. As a matter of course we are supposed to divide the tinfoil at work so that single portions are placed on the right amount. He just takes the whole sheet, thus using twice the amount he should do. He works with only one hand the entire time (not just making food, but uses a brush with one hand!). This is certainly Britain in the Dark Ages.

Reading a book on Chinese history at the moment, I find it interesting that in their culture scholars are held in high esteem. Not so here. Scholars are scum, the lowest of the low, beggars, slaves, paupers. Didier warned me before I went to university, he said, "Maxwell, if you become a scholar you will be extremely marginalised." He was absolutely right. Olly the old-time fiddle player too said to me, "You'll get your degree, and you'll still be washing up." I refused to believe him, having faith in the British Establishment. Alas, no, Olly was right.

To be honest, I am thinking of contacting Chairlady Mao and offering to work for her full time in China, where I can live quite comfortably. If scholars are in demand there, then that is where I should be, not wasting my life here in this cold, heartless and unfruitful country.

Stalin the cheapskate

Dear Diary,

We have a wasps' nest in the scullery. It has been there for about six months now, maybe more. I remember a couple of years back we had a wasps' nest outside my window. It wasn't until the things started swarming through that Stalin would fork out the ten bucks to have them removed. It takes 11 wasps' stings to kill a person, a fully grown one (though Stalin cannot be classed as such, even if he is 55 years old or so, he's still only a boy, emotionally - that is according to his kind hearted, elderly and infirm auntie that lives across the street). He washes up in cold, dirty water, and never does it properly. We have recently been hit by two very high electricity bills. Stalin refuses to believe that the kettle uses any electricity. It uses shed loads of electricity, but rather than replace a £20 appliance which overboils, he would sooner have his head in the sand, refusing to believe that it uses any significant amount of power. He would sooner go without hot water from the immersion heater than replace the kettle.

Moreover, we have a new 'smart' phone which British Telecom insisted we have (he is so cheap that he had the Job Centre buy him a smartphone - even though he is against smartphones, except when someone gets him one for free: he would certainly never work to earn something he needs). The bloody thing doesn't work (well, of course it doesn't work: it's British Telecom, not North Korean Telecom, or Ethiopian Telecom, or any other civilised, developed country. This is Dark Age Britain, so naturally, it doesn't work - it's so smart, that it has no function whatsoever - that is, except to drain yet more power constantly). The old phone has the sound of a harrier jump jet in the background, a crackle like a 1950's radio used just after the last World War - again, that is British Telecom for you: certainly no fibre optics, only copper wire, and absolutely not any mobile signal. It's like Borat, "Is there a telephone in this village?" Moreover, there is no transport system here so people cannot get to and from work. I hear from the simpleton across the street (another person with a broad accent that yells at the top of his lungs the entire time, a relation of Stalin's - cross eyed, webbed feet, small hands: you know...) that there used to be a working transport system here, some thirty years ago, even four years ago when I first moved here, but not now, not today, not here in Dark Age Britain. Moreover, there is certainly no railway station anywhere near here. If anyone thinks this is not the Dark Age, they're living in f-ing Rainbowland, and instead of accepting reality for what it is, makes it up as they go along.

Old Etonians, Latin, ancient Greek and the current class war

Dear Diary,

I read in the headlines (only some frivolous tabloid) that the head of the union which is fronting this current rail strike blamed "Old Etonians speaking Latin and Greek with barley a paid hour of employment between them." I watched the chap speak during his grilling by Richard Madeley (from Richard and Judy) on some morning show, and it would seem that my theory about Latin and ancient Greek being understood by the servile class in Britain may be misguided and misplaced. What does Mr. Lynch know of Latin and ancient Greek? Not a lot, it would seem. Much like Jonathan Pie, it is a stereotype, a cliché, that only the élites understand this language. Therefore I ought to rethink my theory, from top to bottom: it is not only the beggars and the slaves which understand Latin, but also nobby pricks that never did a day's work in their lives. Yet who cares about the bottom feeders, the well-educated slaves, the homeless beggars that have studied Latin? No one. It is only the élite that grab the headlines.

I have never been to a protest (though I have wandered through one by accident, during my many travels). I do not generally agree with protesting, preferring to maintain the status quo as best I can, going with the grain, instead of against it. However, evidently, things are not going well in Britain. People are starting to get pissed off with the plain fact that the privileged are getting richer and richer and the servile underclass - educated or uneducated makes no difference in this country - are becoming poorer and poorer. Everyone from railway personnel to teachers and even a barristers are starting to complain that their dutiful service to this once great nation is going unrecognised while the spongers (that is to say those that do little work but fare extremely well) are profiting greatly from such turmoil.

France is a nation which has earned its right to fairer pay. Take, for example, the health care workers and carers during the pandemic. They were permitted an €8,000,000,000 increase in pay after several sustained weeks of strikes. What did they get here for risking their lives on a daily basis (myself included, having worked in a care home during the pandemic)? Nothing but a clap, is the answer, an ever diminishing ripple of pity is what. Something's got to give, eventually.

People (and some surprises...)

Dear Diary,

Remarkably, the new arrivals at work have some surprising stories to tell. I thought I heard the Liliputian today say to the oompa loompa that he believed the fact that she is studying uncool or something like that. I said to the young man (both are only 17 years old, both are my superiors at work, naturally), "Some people of my age, actually like studying." His reply surprised me. He is studying to be an accountant at college. I remarked that although this profession is not glamorous, it is an excellent occupation, financial services being Britain's main strength (along with arms exports - gun running has been attested in this country since at least the 16th century). I asked how his mathematics are. He replied that he achieved an A at his GCSE (seemingly a '7' in the new system). I then remarked that I was proud of having been awarded my master's degree, after twelve years, in classical studies, specifically classical Latin. He asked, "What are you doing working here?" I replied, honestly, that this is not Renaissance Italy, nor is this the Golden Age of Elizabethan England. Latin is now the language of paupers, of slaves, of beggars (evidently - in Britain at least). I recall, also, that I once met a chap that owned his own building firm in Cambridge, who saw me translating Latin, longhand, when I was homeless. He remarked, "I have not met anyone lower than me that understands Latin." I replied, "But we are about the same height. What do you mean 'lower'?" "I mean in the social scale." I replied, "This is not Renaissance Italy. Latin is no longer held in the esteem it once was." This is true. I am living proof of this very real fact. Even if Britain has the facade of Latin being somehow associate with the élite, the reality is it is nothing of the sort. It is for poor people. Anyhow. Back to the Liliputian. I expressed an interest in him being my accountant, should I ever become successful. However, something irked me. I am a fairly good judge of character (having been around for 44 years now, much of that time homeless, travelling, years spent living abroad). I was not entirely certain that this young man is completely trustworthy.

Then I was given a lift home by another colleague. This is a remarkable woman. She is from extremely good family, but could not afford to make it through university (it was simply unworkable - too expensive and too time consuming). Now she is married, has children, gets up at the crack of dawn and finishes work just before midnight. Furthermore, she works as an accountant (though she had wanted to be a veterinary surgeon). Moreover, besides being an amateur historian, a fellow patriot and royalist, she is honest. This is a rare trait indeed (though seemingly not so much in these parts). Instead of hiring the Liliputian, I should very much like her to be my accountant, should I ever be successful (which is not unlikely - one way or the other, whether it be here, or elsewhere in the world, where prospects for Latin scholars are much greater than they ever could be in this... place).

Two quaint and charming little books (rubies in the dust)

Dear Diary,

Compared to the magnificent selection of most profound and learned literature one finds in Cambridge, there is very little literature of worth in this tiny town. Whereas it is true that I have happened upon one or two little gems here (well, more than that when the market book seller used to sell real literature, but now only sells novels and other books of dubious and most mediocre value in terms of knowledge and wisdom), almost every book you see in every second hand shop is trash. It is prosaic. They are almost all novels.

Today, however, I happened across a tiny little literature section in a second hand shop (no more than a dozen books - all worth buying), and among them I found two rather curious little gems. Besides one good book on China (a succinct history - only a secondary source, but seemingly a good one), there is one book I bought which is absolutely wonderful. It is by a chap named Richard Gordon Smith, and it is called Ancient Tales and Folklore of Japan.

The stories are full of wonder, graced with romance, and are deeply spiritual. The translators are Mr. Ando, Mr Matsuzaki, Mr. Watanabe, Mr. Mo-No-Yuki and [Mr?] Yuki Egawa (in Smith, 1995 [1918], p.viii). The tales are bite-sized short stories, hastily written in old diaries, probably oral traditions handed down of uncertain dates. It is truly a marvellous little work.

I only know very few Japanese words, but I know enough to understand that reading these tales in translation is a really different experience to reading them in the original Japanese. Even so, for a non-specialist (yet a translator of French, Latin and even some ancient Greek), it is marvellous to be able to simply relax and enjoy these folk tales.

Today has been a challenge, and needless to say I could have acted more prudently (I lost my wallet but a kind and honest soul handed it in - thank heavens - but not before I cancelled all my cards). Yet these are life's little ups and downs and one learns, over time, to handle them as best one can. I still had to work a full shift, but that comes with the territory. I still have to put up with the juvenile oompa loompas and Lilliputians at that... place, but if nothing else, such an experience has taught me more patience, humility and a growing understanding that university is nothing more than an extremely expensive hobby (in Britain at least).

So, what's to be done about it? Well, I have collected all the books I have on how to write books (including one or two old university blocks and units - few and far between, because I didn't study creative writing or whatever - except for about a half a year: I studied Latin and ancient Greek, for my sins) and am jotting down, longhand, all of the key techniques for writing a full book. If I am honest, I am actually selling out. I should really only be writing plays on classical lines, or translating Latin texts (thereby being known for someone of refined taste, deep learning, a keen playwrite and a scholar - creative immortality). Yet what use is it to be known in future generations yet be enslaved all my life here, now, in this particular incarnation?

The book itself does use some knowledge of archaeology, but is itself a kind of prosaic fiction. Plays penned along classical lines and Latin translations are for poor people, beggars, slaves. Whereas Latin may have been the language of the intelligentsia at some point in history, perhaps even seen as an essential part of any learned scholar's reading, but no more. Although in popular culture and among the uneducated there is still the misconception that it is somehow only for the nobby lot, it is actually the language of beggars, of slaves, of poor people.

I remember once, when I was homeless in London, many years ago, I gazed up at an inscription in Latin on a magnificent building, and asked another hobo if he could read it. (The man was from the Continent, and the romance languages are much closer to Latin than English is - the vernacular having only about 40% of its words stemming from a French-Latin root, etymologically - and English is certainly not an inflected language). Said hobo translated it for me, and I believe it to be a faithful translation (now having spent the past twelve years studying Latin). Therefore it is evidently true that Latin is the language of street beggars, paupers and slaves. Clearly. Here, now, in this country.

Slaves in the ancient world, compared to today in Britain

Dear Diary,

In the plays of Plautus (kinds of comic soap operas which shed something of a light upon the lives of ordinary people in the ancient world, albeit in verse, albeit with a certain amount of hyperbole) there are examples of slaves being beaten, treated badly and also occasionally being praised. In a way, this is not unlike what it is like working for Captain Bligh at that... place. Yesterday, for example, he gave me a bone-crushing handshake which meant I had pain in my right hand for the remainder of the day, and of course, he kicks and punches the staff from time to time, myself included. All jolly good fun, right? No.

There is one thing, however, which was different in the ancient world: education. A well educated slave was valued more than an uneducated slave. On the contrary, in Dark Age Britain, the opposite is true. Quite often scribal duties or even the education of children were entrusted to such slaves. In Dark Age Britain, it is the uneducated village idiot that is given authority, is more well off, and despite the fact that he is the slowest and least efficient member of the team, it is he that calls the shots. Why? Because uncouth barbarians run the show, thugs, foreigners. The native well spoken, courteous, polite, dutiful, respectful, hard working, experienced and indeed extremely well educated slave is the lowest of the low, here, now, in Dark Age Britain. Tonight, for example, I was to mop. I immediately put the wet floor sign out. The village idiot ordered me not to do so. I insisted. Imagine, for example, someone had tripped and fell, breaking their neck, and it went to court. I, the defendant on a charge of manslaughter, would have no defence by saying, "But the 17 year old village idiot - my superior - told me not to." I should know better. I am 44 and have an ever increasing understanding of the law. I would be charged with manslaughter, in such an eventuality, once the video was rewound. At the end of the evening the village idiot told me not to mop out the store cupboard. I disobeyed and mopped it out anyway. Why? Because if it were entrused to him and his authority (which it is, because this is Dark Age Britain, and anyone that thinks otherwise is living in f-ing Rainbow land) then the store cupboard would never be mopped out, and would continue to get filthier and filthier. One does the best job possible, or one does not do the job at all (that is, except for in Dark Age Britain: land of beggars, paupers and slaves - except for crooks of course, most especially crooks laundering mafia money in the City of London...).

Yesterday, for example, we were incredibly busy. The store was at capacity. The heat lamps were turned off. Captain Bligh ordered an order worth £241 to be put through the oven. Why? Because the place is run by uneducated idiots, barbarians and foreigners.

I would sooner be a slave to Pliny the Younger or Cicero, than a slave here, now, in Dark Age Britain. It is not a civilised country, but only has the veneer of legitimacy.

In other news, I have adopted a new policy of writing notes by hand (and indeed drafts of works) so that it is more secure (i.e. cannot usually be seen easily). In the 'Big Society' (which should be called 'Big Brother Society') there is no privacy any more. It is more prudent to write longhand. Indeed, the FSB keep their records in steel filing cabinets, with files typed out on typewriters, the whole thing under heavy guard. This leaves them far less likely to be vulnerable to a security breach. Therefore I have adopted a similar policy.

I had a dream last night, which was just outside of Mexico City (perhaps Teotihuacán), and this has prompted me to write a new novel. It is probably just a silly dream, but several things have been unearthed from my subconscious which have aided me in trying to claw my way out of poverty (namely, writing). I will still write translations on-line because they are sacred vāticinātiōnēs.

The Viking is gone already (and other matters).

Dear Diary,

The Viking left as soon as he arrived. No word of an explanation as to how or why. Like a ghost, he vanished. Enough of the voiciferous and otherwise tedious (yet ultimately pious, well-meaning, industrious and indeed successful) Viking.

I myself have been pre-occupied with getting a book published. It is a right bloody pain in the backside. Programming is so f-ing boring (compared to playing music or translating poetry or philosophy). However, it does present an opportunity to do something more than simply be a passive receiver of things. Almost all of the top 1% are programmers, and good ones (apart from the magnificent Warren Buffett). Bill, Jeff, Elon, they're all programmers, and good ones.

It is absolutely certain that the path of philosophy is the path of the pauper. Not only is this true in terms of philosophical outlook (not giving any mind to mere materialism), but also by its own admission. Socrates was a pauper, Diogenes the Cynic too. Apuleius, also, although endowed with a great inheritance, spanked all his cash up the wall and went travelling. Does anyone even read any more? Not many (most people are so lazy they listen to audio-books). Does anyone bother to try and unravel the wisdom of the ancients? Not likely. However, from my observation of the common herd, they are most often lazy, self indulgent and amuse themselves in a most shallow way. Stalin, is a perfectly excellent case-study of this very real fact. He spends all his day playing silly games. Most of the people I have met, as soon as they get home, play games. Therefore, rather than bother myself with the most unfruitful labours of philosophy, I ought to apply myself to making games. Not just any old games, but great ones. I used to be a gamer (before I grew up). Therefore I have a keen understanding of how they work.

Stalin. Today I said to him, "I have found an easy way for you to make money from your game design." (Stalin spends all his time designing games - when he is not playing them or watching other people play them). He dismissed my suggestion immediately. Why? Because it would mean that instead of just doing what he wants to do, he would actually have to work, study, and apply that study to something practical and useful. It would mean not only learning new things, but also having to deal with people in the outside world, artists, clients, business people. Stalin does not work well with others. He is not amicable. I, however, am. I work. I study. Moreover, I work and I study hard. I do what needs to be done. Stalin is bone idle. All the ideas he had have come to nothing because he does not study, he does not work, he does not get one well with others. He is a dictator (hence why I call him Stalin).

My game is all about magic. Well, one of them. (I have numerous ideas, all feasable, all doable, all potentially possible). Never mind poring over a bunch of bullshit that just means I am stuck in some dead end job for the rest of my life (holding two degrees in classical studies, no less...). In this country, you have to put your own work in. No one will do it for you. Books are old fashioned. Computer games are where it's at. Why? Because this is the Dark Age. Knowledge and wisdom mean nothing here, unless they can be applied to something fruitful. Writing, poetry, philosophy: these are the stuff that poor people do. Computer games, however, are more profitable, and precisely what I intend to apply myself to.

Max.

The Viking's back...

Dear Diary,

Even though he is a nutcase (and he is), I've actually missed the company of the Savage Viking. Today he returned triumphant from his nine month excursion to the Continent. I am surprised at mine own (miniscule) influence. When the fuel crisis arose, nine months ago, I suggested that he use his HGV licence to help this great nation in its time of need. He did, and has been away for quite some time. Now he has returned, but is so exhausted that there is not one peep out of him. This is surely a singular occurence, and this peace, this tranquillity, will surely not last. However, I remember the words of the Good Book: Love thy neighbour. And so it is only right and proper that I should. Yes, we have had our differences, but he is well meaning, and not a bad person. I ought to do all I can to ensure that harmony reigns supreme in the household.

Something happened at that... place recently. Instead of appointing a person experienced and well qualified for the role, the Arch-Overlord (the top boss) opted that his child be appointed the regional inspector. For all my gripes, Captain Bligh and his superior (the older thug) actually run a tight ship. Everything is done correctly, to the best of their ability. Yet, due to the nepotism and lack of experience (and indeed lack of humanity) on the part of the child of the Arch-Overlord, the rating the store has been getting is awful. As a result, the older thug said, "I don't care any more." (That is, about the rating, the statistics, everything they obsess over). Why? Because no amount of effort gets them anywhere. Nothing they do will ever change anything. Their hard work is not acknowledged nor even rated as high as it should be.

This reminds me of my own efforts. No amount of effort will ever change anything (well, at least not in this country). It doesn't actually matter whether I hold a master's degree in classical Latin. It doesn't matter whether I work, or don't work. This country is not a meritocracy, it only pretends to be a meritocracy. It is actually nepotism, and failure brings promotion, whereas all effort is in vain. "I don't care any more." Why doesn't the older thug care? Because nothing he does, however Herculean an effort he makes changes nothing. This, is the reflection of an utterly broken system.

Educated? Not educated? Honest? Dishonest? Hard working? Bone idle? None of that makes any difference here.

Today, for example, my superior (the little girl that is banging Captain Bligh) upon hearing that there might be an inspector here (someone was seen in the car park, and it could have been anybody, but she - being uneducated - immediately jumped to the conclusion that it was the inspector again - the Arch-Overlord's daughter) said, "You will make the food right or I will throw it on the floor and blame one of you for dropping it!" This is beyond all reason. How? Well, that's what happens when you put a little girl in charge of adults.

The return of Captain Bligh

Dear Diary,

Bligh turned up yesterday at that... place. He was in his usual 'good' spirits. Having failed to return from Tahiti with breadfruit, it surprised me that he arrived by row-boat and not onboard the Bounty. Seemingly there was some kind of altercation or rebellion onboard while he was away. Anyhow.

At that... place, it was moderately busy. There were only three delivery drivers on. The older thug would have probably "pushed" (a word they use for working hard, seemingly) and got everything done. Had I been in command (an unlikely eventuality, seeing as I am middle aged, experienced, and extremely well educated) I would have sent one driver out east, one west, and one in the locality. Certainly what Bligh did was ban any drivers from going any distance beyond a half mile from the store. It reminded me of that time a customer rang up asking where there order was, and I replied, "I'm afraid we cannot deliver to you. The store manager has said so." "So what you're telling me, is that the store manager can't manage the store." "That is precisely what I am telling you Sir."

It's not actually that bad (though this is a veritable record of the truth - notwithstanding the breadfruit/rowboat bit) as the crew are not actually beaten (well, not that often). Bligh has forgiven me, on occasion, for my insubordinate remarks, and I am fortunate to still be working there (if the adjective "fortunate" can be used for someone that holds a master's degree in classical Latin being permitted to do the same job he did when he was 14, when he is 44 - unskilled labour for minimum wage at the behest of thugs and teenaged "superiors").

The luthier called me up, and he has done a marvellous job of my table, which was nice. Today I am racing to get a book formatted for the deadline (Boadicea: Queen of the Iceni), so I must dash.

Max.

To the bar? (not the pub) - Plato and Isocrates

Dear Diary,

Much as I grumble about not being able to teach classical studies (in this country, at least...) I should be thankful that there is a route into teaching, and that I may, perhaps, be eligible to get into teaching, and be of better service to my local community than performing unskilled labor. (Not that there is anything wrong with good old fashioned hard graft - to the contrary, as Hesiod said: it is a disgrace not to work (Works and Days 309 cf. Xenophon, Memorabilia 1.2.56). However, I am becoming less and less enthused about the law. It is terribly complicated, unneccesarily so. It is infuriatingly bureacratic, unneccesarily so (perhaps). I have been reading Isocrates recently (Norlin's translation, with the facing text in ancient Greek). In Isocrates' Antidosis he models his speech (which contains a patchwork of other speeches of his) on Plato's Apology (Isocrates, Antidosis 5, 15, 21, 26, 30, 33, 50, 92, 100, 144, 154, 177 etc.). I also noticed (though it was not noted in the current text) that parts of it dimly alluded to the opening of Plato's Euthyphro. These allusions quite often concern the sentiment that both Socrates (via Plato) and Isocrates emphasised the fact that they had not been in court, that they had not been a counsellor. Isocrates, as a matter of fact, was involved in speaking in the public assembly, regarding one case to do with an exchange of property, and he certainly declaimed much throughout his lifetime. Even if Isocrates modelled himself on Plato's Socrates, the two led actually quite different lives, though they both shared a similar philosophical outlook.

In essence, reading these texts has made me question my motives for wanting to get into law. Why? Lord Sumption once said that he got into law (instead of medieval British History) because he didn't want to be poor. This is fair enough I suppose, but what do I prefer? Do I prefer history, or law? Well, history, in fact, and I don't actually care about the money. I would sooner be poor and do something I love than depressed having to work all hours God sends doing something I would rather not. I had considered studying law, during my first two years at university, yet I chose not to. Why? Because it is not my passion it is not what I love. I chose history.

There is a guy at work (that is, one of the crew of the Bounty, somewhere between that and William Golding's Lord of the Flies) that has been offered a job for £35,000 a year as a head chef. I asked him why he didn't take it, and why he chooses to remain on minimum wage. His answer was curious: because he knew he would be depressed doing such work, and would rather settle for less money and lead a relatively happy life, than be paid quite well and have to deal with all that that job entails. Is health, happiness and well-being more important than pecuniary considerations? I think that the recent pandemic has shown that for many people, at least, if not Her Majesty's Government, well-being is more important than money ('the economy, the economy!').

Besides, experience counts for much. In my experience, becoming more well educated is not lucrative, at all. It's a long shot gamble that enriches one in knowledge and wisdom, but leaves one ultimately feeling hollow and used, as a kind of guinea pig in a thankless system. I am not alone in this view. I have met many students that feel the same way throughout my life. I will leave, Dear Diary, on one note. An actor from Brazil said that her mentor and acting tutor maintained that it was not the most gifted students that he prized most highly, but those that stuck at it, were the keenest students and practised so much they became better. Isocrates echoes a this sentiment in his Antidosis (191):

"We know that men who are less generously endowed by nature but excel in experience and practice, not only improve upon themselves, but surpass others, who, though highly gifted, have been too negligent of their talents." (trans. Norlin, 1929, p.295).

Happenings, foolish and wise.

Dear Diary,

I should have been more prudent, and spent today programming, formatting my play. I have instead been translating Seneca's Trojan Women (which is a marvellous little play, I might add). I should have also retired to bed early, as I have an important meeting tomorrow morning. However, Darkest Hour came on the Beeb's iPlayer, and I simply love this film, so have decided to stay up and watch it, against my better judgement.

Over these past three days a member of staff at work has been rather ill. He was told to go home, but stayed to earn a few more pennies. In all likelihood, as a result, another member of staff became quite ill yesterday. Then, I did too. I was ordered home, and given the day off. This is marvellous because I was not permitted a day off this week (which is actually against the law, but this is not how things work here, in Britain. One does not complain, and one keeps working, as indeed I tried to do, but was ordered home). Had Captain Bligh returned from Tahiti, and been in command, I would most certainly have had to keep working, and no doubt more members of staff would have become ill.

I really should keep it together tomorrow morning. It is only a brief little chat, but one must always make a good impression, as no doubt I shall. One does one's best, in spite of all challenges. I should very much like to be a classics teacher, yet I very much doubt this may be possible, for such a subject is not held in high esteem here in Britain (among the ordinary people, that is). It is still taught in nobby schools and academic institutions, just not for the lower classes. I am completely unsuited to teaching modern history (because I only studied that for about a year and a half, in my eight years so far studying at university). I absolutely refuse to be put in a situation whereby should a student ask a question, I am unable to give him or her a well informed response, objectively. I may consider teaching medieval history, as I know more about that than I do ancient history, but I am much more comfortable teaching Roman history, or even Greek, to a measure. I should certainly very much like to teach Romano-British history.

In any case, we shall see what happens.

I wrote an email to the judiciary today. They had put out a call for any suggestions on how to simplify statutory instruments. The whole thing is a bloody shambles, in all honesty. When one looks at a statute, one should not be expected to wade through over 140 separate documents and piece together one law out of so many disparate amendments and revocations. It's a mess. The law is so complicated not even any single lawyer or judge understands it. If, however, legislation were to be presented in a more comprehensible manner (id est: one law, on one page, instead of over 140 different little sections, in the case of the Civil Procedure Rules at least), then at least there may be a chance that someone, perhaps a Police inspector or even a lawyer, may actually understand it. How can the law be enforced or even abided by, if no one understands what the law is? The answer is, it cannot be. I very much doubt my suggestion will be adopted (because one can imagine that there are several quite good reasons for smashing up the Civil Procedure Rules into over 140 disparate documents - for example, because amendments and revocations need to be stipulated). Even so, one can but hope.

Max.

A career in litigation? (Or perhaps teaching?)

Dear Diary,

I decided to trawl the university's opportunty hub today to see if anything perked my interest. Among a swathe of completely irrelevant and otherwise unprofitable so-called 'positions' there were a couple of legal firms that seemed interesting. The firm in question, we shall call for the sake of argument Bandini, Lambert and Locke, have a little programme for would-be applicants or candidates for the Firm. I thought this might help with my next degree (like an addicted idiot, I am subjecting myself to still further punisment by the Matriarch that is the sorority - and it is a sorority, no matter whatever anyone else says). Upon first glance, it did not, at all. Instead of learning, the student is expected to have already learnt law, effectively, then produce work as though he or she were a paralegal. (In my view, this is the exact opposite of how things should be: one ought to learn first, read, take notes, revise, then - and only then - be expected to submit to examination or submit an assignment). In any case, there were some hints (in the programming sense, that highlight once a mouse pointer is over a particular word or phrase). These were actually quite useful, because much like the Oxford Dictionary of Law I own, they provide a succinct summary of what particular phrases are in terms of the law.

I found the little exercise actually quite interesting, though it was dry and full of mind numbingly boring minutiae (one must become accustomed to reading such things as a student of the law). The hypothetical scenario was all about some shady offshore private equity fund in the Carribean. (Hence the name Bandini, Lambert and Locke - from John Grisham's The Firm, the film of which, I might add, is outstanding. So good, in fact, that I ordered a copy. Unusually, it is actually better than John Grisham's original book!). Anyway, I typed these 'hints' out manually, and they may yet help with my studying R82 (LLB for post-grads, id est: a Bachelor's degree in law).

There was something on my mind as I worked my way through the exercise: classical studies. I absolutely adore classical studies. Over these past couple of days I have been reading Isocrates, who is an absolute delight to read.

Do I pursue a career as a teacher? I have a sort of informal interview in a couple of days (one of many - the 'first hurdle' in effect). The person interviewing me will no doubt be a psychology major. I should like to be as Sigmund Freud in the original Bill and Ted's, when he is arrested. "Would you like a couch to lie on? Tell me about your mother." (I am only joking).

There are a few things which oust any psycho-analysis: honesty, and being a person of good character. No amount of cross examination can go any deeper than the truth coming from a person with a genuinely affable demeanour and a sincerely kind heart.

I was thinking, as I was working through this exercise in the law, would I like to spend my time teaching (therefore learning)? This would be the easy option. It would pay little, but I would be at leisure to spend free time working on other projects such as writing plays, doing Latin translation and learning ancient Greek. Yet if I chose the more difficult option, it would be more rewarding, but very difficult. I once spoke to a friend of mine (a graduate at the University of Edinburgh) that interviewed a top barrister. She said that she can see why barristers are paid so much, because the work is very difficult indeed.

I am put in the mind of the words of Hesiod:

The road to virtue is long
and goes steep uphill,
hard climbing at first, but the last of it
when you get to the summit
(if you get there) is easy going after the hard part.
Works and Days 287-288 (trans. Richmond Lattimore) cf. Xenophon, Memorabilia 2.1.20; Plato, Republic364c, Laws 718c; Stobaeus 1.28.

Becoming a barrister is not going to be easy, indeed I may not make it. Yet, I am quite certain, that with three degrees, one in law, I shall be able to find a good job somewhere in the world (if not here...).

Max.

Progress? More or less.

Dear Diary,

It is the day of Her Majesty's Platinum Jubilee (though technically the anniversary of Her coronation was yesterday - that is, Thursday the 2nd of June, 2022). I read in the newspaper today that this is a 'Platinum Age'. Indeed it is, for that such term has no precedent whatsoever in the ancient world: not being outlined by Hesiod, Ovid or indeed Seneca. This is not a Golden Age, by any stretch of the imagination. These are the Dark Ages, in actual reality. In many ways, the final years of Elizabeth the First's reign mirror that of our most noble and glorious Monarch's. These days are marred by war, poverty and plague. They heyday of fine literature is over. There is no real advancement here (evidenced by the state of our airports, which still look much like they did forty years ago - give or take - whereas in many other countries such as the U.S.A. or China, airports change with the times). Would that things were different, but alas, they are not.

What of it? What might there come from this cost of living crisis? What might be as a result of these post-apocalyptic times in the shadow of nuclear war and mutually assured destruction?

There is one thing which one ought to plough all one's energies into, according to John Braine, at least: writing. I feel another play coming along. It is one I have been working on (and off) for some half dozen years now. It is, on the surface of it, a play written about two brothers in the ancient days of the Roman Republic, but is actually, beneath the surface, about 'austerity' (the rich getting richer at the expense of the poor that get poorer and poorer still). It is entitled The Brothers Gracchi, namely, Tiberius and Sempronius Gracchus. It is drawn from ancient sources, such as Cicero, Plutarch and Florus, yet is actually about a social failure of a society, no different to many Western societies today. It is not actually about any particular nation state, but is more about rich criminals getting away with blue murder, while those that are honest, hard working, that served their country in the very best capacity (as a soldier, as serviceman, in Her Majesty's navy or air force) being exploited at the expense of the already filthy rich enriching themselves further. I have seen many things in my life: a single mother, alcoholic, an addict, turn her life around, get dry and clean, look after her boy, work hard, only to be made homeless, though she was a native of that town (Cambridge). All the while addicts and drunks get given places, though they had not worked hard. I have seen soldiers sent out on the streets, though they were born and bred in those places. I will focus all this energy into the play. It is not a nice play. It is not a patriotic play. It is not a play which has a happy ending. The bad guys win (because it is a realistic play - the good guy never gets the girl, and the morally upright, the hard working, the true patriot, never comes out on top in real life. It is the offshore moneylanders that win, the kleptocrats.).

In future generations this will be derided as my very worst work by patriots and conformists. It will likewise be seen as my very best work by social reformers and critiques of society. It will be forgotten, because it is not (1) magical, and (2) patriotic. That is the very reason that Edward the Second and Doctor Faustus are the only two plays of Christopher Marlowe to be performed still, most often. Even so, it is an important play.

Imagine, for a moment, a man that has played a thousand gigs the world over, then had studied classics for a dozen years, only to end up, after such a colourful and vivid life journey, full of experience and learning, in precisely the same place he was when he was 19, when he is 44, moreover beneath the heel of foreign thugs and juvenile deliquents, subsisting on minimum wage, in spite of all his experience, academic accomplishment and natural talent. This, is why these are the Dark Ages. According to the Cambridge History of the Medieval World (the new edition), a university degree used to be the first step towards a knighthood. This may have been true 700 years ago, but this is certainly not the case today. The British will offer the earth: a good job, rich rewards and honours. Yet when it comes to delivery, the British do not put out. They are like a frigid date on Tinder: all mouth and no trousers. No backbone and no bottom.

Max.

The last minute dash to get it finished (and other happenings)

Dear Diary,

There, at that... place, it's busy. There is one colleague, she holds two degrees (recently having been conferred with a master's in business administration, so naturally she does unskilled labour on the bank holiday weekend for minimum wage: this is not Columbia, where she's from. It's Dark Age Britain). She spotted that an order was repeated. A customer had recently called the store asking about an order. I said to the old thug (Captain Bligh is off sailing round the Aegean, looking for breadfruit, en route to Tahiti) that I ought to call the customer, and we should not make the 'dupe' (duplicate order). He said not to worry. This works out well for the slaves, because normally they would be barred from eating any crumbs, so it was the night of the bountiful harvest. Sure enough, the customer had not ordered twice, as the young lady had pointed out. Sure enough, also, it was the very same customer in question that had just called the store. This is what happens when you put the least intelligent in command. If I had my way, the said young lady would be in charge of the store. She works tirelessly, is always calm under pressure, works well, hard, is always eager to help, is always polite and correct. No. In Dark Britain, it is the least capable, the laziest, and the least well educated (and indeed least mature) that are in positions of power. This is not Columbia 2022. It's Dark Age Britain: not a civilised country.

Anyway, I have been working my way through CSS in HTML. It's a pain in the backside. I'd rather chew broken glass. Yet this is the Jubilee weekend, so I had best act quickly if I am to say that this book (my play, Boadicea: Queen of the Iceni) is written in honour of Her Majesty the Queen. It is also, a blessing in disguise.

I have been fondly imagining what wonders there may be in the joys of publishing. First off, I have planned a little work (a trifle, frivolous really). It is entitled "The wonderful and the weird in the ancient world" and it is a collection of all the little pieces I have discovered scattered throughout the ancient world (mainly in ancient texts) that discusses: aliens, vampires, werewolves, lizard men from other planets (?), and even weaponised monks from India that fight with lightning-style weather weapons using modern day warefare tactics. It is all that is unusual or interesting from the ancient world: magic, the wonderful and the weird. I figure that will have a wider audience than writing about staid prose histories or even love poems that have been done to death already. I will not, however, be like any of the conspiracy lot. Aliens should always be the last hypothesis, instead of jumping to conclusions and having one's imagination run away with one: not the basic assumption. It has to be grounded, rational, evidence based, like any proper historian or archaeologist would practise. This is not to say it is not open minded (being a part of the hermetic community means I read things which are way beyond most academics' comprehension), for I do keep an open mind, very. Yet it's like studying history or the law. However intruiging the facts of the matter or case, one must always try one's best to remain grounded in the facts of the matter (even if it is a very lucid and transcendental case study). This, I feel, would make a nice little book. I remember one post I did on social media which discussed the Wandjina 'spirits' in ancient Australia (that look precisely like aliens from outer space) garnered well over a hundred 'likes' whereas discussing work, study or even love, garners no (or very few) 'likes'. Why? Because it is something interesting. People want to believe in something, out there. The only problem is, that an objective, rational and dispassionate study of these phenomena is the only real way to get to the core of the matter. Yes, keep an open mind, but let not yourselves be fooled.

Max.

Another gig, a fool's errand, and what I did instead

Dear Diary,

We were supposed to rock up for this mini-festival this weekend, but seeing as I had no transport back (like Borat, there is no transportation after 5 P.M. in this backwoods place: "Is there a telephone in this village?") I decided to skip it. I was toying with the idea of calling the luthier, but we've spent a fair bit of time together recently. I must say that I much prefer translating Latin, so that is precisely what I did.

I knocked out well over a 100 lines of Latin translation on that day (Seneca's Trojan Women). The play is also very nearly almost finished (Boadicea: Queen of the Iceni). Now comes the dreaded task of formatting. I dislike it very much, but it is a necessary stage, and the more I re-familiarise myself with coding, and recapture that software developer's mindset (which is a cold, logical, heartless mindset - generally speaking), the greater the progress will be. I am gradually overcoming my psychological barrier to all things programming related, through exposure to programming.

I took the week off this week. Yesterday I finished an editing assignment for the old ball and chain. She has yet to send the next one, which I asked her to do, but I guess she's got other stuff on, such as formatting that last one. I also have a kind of brief informal 'interview' (screening process) coming up next week, to see whether or not I may be a 'suitable candidate' for teacher training. It is the first of a few hurdles I'll need to clear. I should imagine that striking a balance between the amicable and the seriously professional is required. Patriotism (as well as professionalism) is required in this field (teaching history), or, at least it is in (almost) every other country world wide. The French, for example, only ever employ French history teachers (no foreigners), except in some private schools, which are outside of their national curriculum. In any case, I'm not going to hold my breath. I've had far too many knock-backs to stay positive. I remain instead... realistic.

Besides, there were a couple of really good books on teaching and making teaching plans in a second hand store I saw recently. I instead opted for their book on psychic wonders and unexplained phenomena, and a good reference work (ODQ). So I'm not really geared up for learning how to be a teacher right now. I have a lot more books on law, so will probably explore that route into work instead. Besides, I've had enough reading about successful and semi-successful authors, that I now need to overcome that psychological barrier I have with programming, and instead, let the tap loose after being blocked up for years, that I may yet draw fresh water, so to speak.

Imagine. You're a poet, a dreamer, a musician, a writer, a creative type. You discover something even better than simply reading works of poetry in libraries, but education, in your early thirties. You earn two degrees, and are yet at the behest of Captain Bligh and the teenaged underdogs. Now it is time to transform what I have learnt over these past twelve years into something practical and useful. Even if I only just manage to scrape by with this publishing malarky, that would be enough. That is, so I can wake up each morning, and do a job I love (translating Latin, writing poetry), rather than having to face a job I hate. Didier Deman once said, "It is not the learning which is important, but the application of that learning to something practical and useful."

Max.