TWTWTW

It's been a bit of a weird week this week, Wincey forced us to work out in the rain leading to me getting a head cold, which is something I never get, we were chased off site by a rampant gypsy horse and an aeroplane finally responded to Logan Josh and me continually waving at them by doing loop the loops and tricks above site (whilst Wincey tried to ruin my fun by talking to me the entire time).

Depressing...

The highlight of the week's vocational activities was that Logan found a rather nice wattle lined Roman well. It's really quite something to see timbers that were last touched nearly 2,000 years ago and despite Wincey's best intentions to stop me enjoying what I do, I really think I've got a pretty cool job sometimes.

About as awesome as archaeology gets...

Amongst the other fun things that happened Berny was crucified for his part in refusing to carry the wheelbarrow plank back up to the cabin at the end of the day:

Pious...

And Barry introduced the world to the bucket boot:

...prick

But I think my week at work can best be summed up by the text messages that I have received over the past week. All of these are genuine messages sent to me by a handful of friends. I'm not going to tell you which ones though.

Jerry lee elvis. First man on the mars

I'm thinking about setting up a family friendly murder mystery weekend. The murder story will be about a six year old who was raped and murdered and left in a suitcase. The families have two days to solve the mystery. I think it will be fun.

I think she sleeps with her brother

He just flipped and started throwing stuff

And another thing, i don't like it when young mothers parade their babies around and sit with them in cafes like normal people. They should keep them at home behind closed doors until they are fit to appear in civilised company without screaming or shitting everywhere.

FUCK CHIPS AND FUCK YOU

Jazz with bagpipes day

Looks like we both got fucked

No, we do all your pictures with blood, piss and crap. 

Thanks for not replying you ignorant bastard. I hope g gets u 2 lick his moist beard and a chinnock drops on your head.

Will you please stop showing my texts where i make rape jokes to all and sundry? I'm never going to get a girlfriend at this rate.

What would you do if you found out there was a photo going round on facebook of you lying naked on the floor of a train station toilet with a bottle of buckfast stuck out of your arse? Just out of interest.

WE COULD STILL BE DRY

Have you ever heard a joke about Barry Manilow and a pair of siamese twins? One apparently exists but I can't track it down.

From the top of the pops on pluto to the hellholes of uranus.

As long as you've got your supervisor on side you're okay. just listen to what they say. They say jump, you jump. They ask you to suck cock, you do it. Don't ask questions, just do it.

Nowt. The flat tyre lead to the pipes falling out every ten yards. He was screaming cunt and growling as he twirld and kicked the pipes around.

I was just in a seminar about the anglo-saxon migrations. I argued it was a good thing that the welsh were exterminated from everywhere except that mountainous shit heap they now call a country. Some of the students say they're going to make a formal complaint. So much for free speech, it's political correctness gone mad. 

Last night I was back in Rotherham Town ostensibly to see Goatleaf, the band Dave had rejoined after their fifteen year hiatus. They've been gigging for a the last couple of months but because I've been hunting man eaters in Eastern Africa and digging up rust in Belgium I missed them every time. But last night was different as I had no pressing engagements. Good God, the last fifteen years disappeared in a flash and it was as though it was '96 all over again. The lads put on a great show and what was more telling was that as soon as Goatleaf had finished their support slot the place cleared out when the headline act came on. It was quite embarrassing and Jonny's missus said to me 'they [the headline act] need dancers down the front' I said 'they need an audience first.'

Goatleaf: you need them more than they need you...

The mid-nineties vibe was also helped by the fact that I knew or recognised about 60% of the audience from my more salubrious days spent in the Tut N'Shive which was Rotherham's premier Rock Bar. It's not hard to hold that title as there was only two Rock Bars in Rotherham at the time. I ended up in SNAFU with Dave and Carl staring at a young lady dressed as Wonder Woman as she flashed her pants to all and sundry. I think she'd been brought along by Jonny's missus to introduce to Dave, but he was having none of it, preferring to get his kicks by sticking money down the pants of strippers rather than talking to a real life girl. Which he did when I left him to go and get a taxi home...

The Lair of the White Worm

Over the preceding weeks I have infiltrated a family grouping of primates who call York their territory. Like Jane Goodall and the chimpanzees at Gombe after gaining the trust of the group I have been allowed unprecedented access to their daily rituals and have made several observations that will only help to advance scientific knowledge. It took many days of offerings to the group in order to secure my standing as part of their social order. Mostly my activities consisted of clearing the rudimentary implements they were using to eat with after meal times. A few times I had to wrestle these out of the control of the patriarch of the group whom I came to name 'Tim'. This led to a couple of unpleasant scenes but learning quickly not to back down or show fear, or indeed, one's back, I demonstrated my willingness to blend into the group hierarchy. I also made an input to the rudimentary system of barter that the group employed. This consisted of several sheets of paper with a nominal monetary fee written on them. Their lack of understanding of modern finances helped in giving gravitas to this offering.

In my tribe we call this 'money'

My observations, there in the depths of the lost valley of Huntington, broke the group into two distinct sub-stratas. There was the patriarch, 'Tim' whom I have already mentioned, and the matriarch, whom I came to call 'Cath'. The tribe used no names when I arrived and these monikers were taken from my faithful hunting dogs I had left back at home. There were many resemblances between the great apes and my dogs, not just physical, either. I noticed as the weeks wore on that the patriarch liked to believe he was in charge of the territory. He would strut around the group's territorial boundaries, pounding his chest and claiming to be the best at everything. This behaviour was quickly cowed upon the arrival home of the matriarch. It was she that did the lion's share of the hunting, literally bringing home the bacon whilst the patriarch sat contemplating his navel. The matriarch was definitely the dominant of the group despite the patriarch's protestations and displays of vulgar power. The patriarch's behaviour is placated by the use of food. There are days dominated by various meal types, as they have no calenders of their own Tuesday is known as 'burger day', Thursday has become 'curry night'. The patriarch knows what to expect on these days and is greatly upset if anything happens to change this routine. These observations scratch little of the group's dynamics and further investigation is warranted to reveal more of the secrets of the group.

Is it sea bass night?

On Thursday Wincey's kid was ill so he took the day off. On the site a revolution occurred. We cleaned the cabin. It was a cultural revolution, literally sweeping out the old to bring in the new. Despite Wincey reneging on allowing us to clean it when he was around we took the initiative and spent the first forty five minutes of the day getting it to a state that was fit for human habitation. Previously the place had been caked in mud and crisp wrappers. The only area I had to eat my lunch from was a triangle of table that was no bigger than an envelope surrounded by rotting wooden artefacts yet to be removed to the laboratory facilities. Even this table was caked in two inches of mud. It is a wonder that none of us had yet caught cholera or at the very least dysentery. After we cleared all the unnecessary tools and equipment and placed them in the large lock up next door, we were able to reach our seats without having to step over shovels, mattock and hoes. The cabin suddenly seemed to take on massive dimensions, we hadn't seen the back wall for years. I could sit on my chair without having to put my knees on my neighbour's lap. The light and space really put the zap on our collective heads.

Hello! Hello! Is anyone else in here?

I travelled down to Birmingham last night to go to the middle day of the Supersonic Festival along with Rhys, Dave and Linzi. The reason we'd all paid £35 for a day ticket? Godflesh were playing again. No doubt you'll remember I saw them in France at Hellfest. Well, despite that being their 'only European date' they decided that the money was enough of a draw and played their hometown of Brum. Of the other bands playing that night I'd only heard of Melt Banana before. Best by far was the psychedelic group Gnod. They were like Neu! and Amon Duul II high on a lethal combination of crack, steroids and PCP fighting in a disused multi story car park. There was an Italian band called Ovo who were 'interesting', Stinky Wizzleteat who were 'shit' and Melt Banana who were 'bat shit crazy Japs'. But how were Godflesh? Fucking amazing. Unlike at France where they took twenty minutes of their set to tune up, they got straight down played some of their best songs, including Like Rats, Christbait Rising, Streetcleaner, Tiny Tears, Avalanche Master Song, Weak Flesh, Spite, Crush My Soul and Slateman. I great night despite Dave and Linzi getting into two different fights and taking two and a half hours to get home having got lost on the M6.

D'yer Mak'er

 After a week spent in a cage in the back of Logan Josh's garage I managed to escape his evil clutches and made my way back to Rotherham. Whereupon I was immediately ordered to get ready as we would be 'leaving in five minutes'. I was not in the best of moods to take this news on board as I was wet from working in the rain all afternoon. Wincey is of the opinion that there are several types of rain. One of which is 'the rain that doesn't get you wet'. Scratch that, he thinks that all types of rain is the 'rain that doesn't get you wet'. It would have to be weather akin to the storm that moves across Saturn's surface for him to allow us to go into the cabin to do 'Paperwork'. Speaking of the cabin, a fucking rat has taken residence in it. It was probably initially attracted by Berny's musk and has elected to stay due to all the cheese that falls of him. This is quite a concern, (the rat, not cheese falling off Berny, we're all used to that now) not only from a Health and Safety point of view but also from a infectious disease point of view. Now we are all at risk from Weil's Disease (which Barry doesn't believe exists, but that's another story) what with the rat(s) running all over the biscuits and pissing on them. I voiced my concerns about the state of cleanliness in the cabin on Wednesday and was roundly dismissed out of hand by Wincey. Barry then brought up the bone of contention again on Thursday, offering to spend an hour cleaning the cabin (not such a Samaritan act as you may initially think, he was just getting out of working in the shit pit with Berny) this request was also passed over until Friday when Wincey relented and said he would let us clean the cabin when it pissed it down later in the day (what a treat!!), it did but he didn't. The cabin stayed filthy, the rat remained and we worked through the rain.

'Time to go back out'

I had also just sat for two hours in the car on what should have been an hour long drive from York. As ever when it rains everybody on the road seems to loose their driving abilities and crawls along road at 13mph. On the Motorway. During rush hour. So I sat and listened to two Dead Kennedys albums in the time that it would normally take to drive the ten  minutes from Asda roundabout. So, no, gentle reader, I was not in the 'correct' state of mind upon arriving and being ushered into the awaiting carriage. The reason for the 'leaving in five minutes'? It was my cousin Sara and her husband Shaun's wedding anniversary.They had been married a year previously in Jamaica and wanted to recreate the magic of the moment by going to Huddersfield.

Bless

The venue was a Jamaican restaurant in Huddersfield and all the usual suspects were there. Sara and Shaun (obviously), Mr and Mrs Cat, Vicky, Neil and Lou, Auntie Chris, mother, Elaine, Janette, and a few others whom I'd not met before. Before we'd even hit the road there was copious amounts of drinking, the minibus stopped at Co-Op to pick up more drink and Scotch Eggs whilst Rotherham's finest champagne was being handed out like it was going out of fashion. Needless to say there was plenty of bellowing as the bus winded its way to the heart of Huddersfield. As though we hadn't had enough drink already the party was quickly herded into what must be the worst bar I've ever been in and I've been out drinking in Llanenlli. It would appear that an evening's drink in Huddersfield is not complete without a go on the boxing machine. Young men each take turns to proudly step up to the mark and smack a punch bag as hard as they can to the exultation or derision of their peers. These new found skills are used upon the visages of unsuspecting members of the public outside a nightclub later in the evening.

I coulda been a contender, I coulda been somebody...

Drinks were drunk, the restaurant was reached and my extended family began the ritual of making a show of themselves. Typical large group meal really, everyone orders something, instantly forgets what it is they've ordered and the ones with the fish allergies end up with the prawns, the vegetarians end up with steak and the veggie-phobes get a plate of peas. We scoffed until appetites were sated, we drank til we were silly and we shouted until the rest of the customers left the restaurant. The bill was duly brought and debated over harder than the Treaty of Versailles. A personal note here. This is something I fucking hate. Whenever I go out for a meal with a large group the bill is always broken down to its component parts and dissected into individual pennies 'I had the fish starter and a Jerky Chicken main along with two glasses of wine and three bottle of beer, so I owe exactly £23.41. Here's the exact change.' There is the argument that if you split the bill equally someone may end up paying more for someone else to drink some more wine or whatever, but so fucking what? It's usually down to pennies, unless of course all you had was a starter and no drinks and everyone else had a five course banquet with the finest wines known to man. But when does that ever happen? Most people's individual bills are roundabout the same cost and who wants to be the richest person in the graveyard? Then the poor minibus driver had to drive us the hour back with repeated requests for piss stops, fag breaks and to clear up sick. Saturday was ruined by a hangover.

TIA BABY!! PART TWO (Pt3)

That twisted maniac Herr Doktor Clay whined that I wasn't talking enough about the archaeology at Engaruka in the previous posts. Now, I assume that most of you reading this are not archaeologists, neither are you interested in archaeology. If you are, you're not right in the fucking head. But for the benefit of the poor buffoons that have a slight interest in Heritage Intervention and to stop Dr. Clay ringing me in the middle of the night, screaming down the phone and hanging up, I will give you a brief summary of the archaeological shizzle that went down at Engaruka.

Fucked

As I may have mentioned in previous posts, the Engaruka site was situated on the edge of the modern village of Engaruka, what a coincidence, imagine that! The fucking mind boggles! The actual archaeological site covers an area of over nine kilometers (that's over five miles in old money) from the base of the escarpments of the Engaruka valley. Think about that. Go on. Yeah, it's big isn't it? Although we had such a big team of archaeologists we had little hope of more than scratching the surface of the site. Even with Posh Bastard opening random holes all over the place, usually just before a meal break, there is still massive amounts left to do. Mind you, it's probably going to be difficult getting tools to site in the future since we buckled the chassis of one Landrover and fucked the shock housing of the other.

Fucked

Anyhoo. There was two main area that we worked on. One was on the flat part of the valley and consisted of stone built circles and field systems. HOW FUCKING EXCITING IS THAT? Field systems!! Holy fucking shit! Let's have a street party! The people of the past farmed in FIELDS!!! Just like us! They're almost the fucking same as us. Except they're dead and we're alive and we have stuff like tractors and combine harvesters and massive barns with massive chickens hidden away in. But except for that, people of the olden days are exactly the same. Peas in a pod. Because of this, I took on the task of excavating one of the stone circles. I figured no one these days has stone circles but people use fields all the time. We're tripping over fields there's so many of them. All across Britain Town Halls have to be regularly cleaned of field droppings, but stone circles? Name one person you know who owns a stone circle. You can't. You know why you can't? Because no one has them today. There is no greater symbol of the enigma of the ancient past than a stone built circle. It's like the dim and distant past rising from the grave and belting you round the head with a full round house kick from down memory lane. Tackling a stone built circle is the equivalent of recieving a full Nelson from a bygone age.

Fucked

So we decided as a collective that Kirk should get the easy archaeology of the field systems and Ted and I would tackle the elusive stone circles. I was joined by my hand picked team of savvy go-getters in attempting to answer the riddles of the ancients. Over the course of the excavations we suffered as Ted and Kirk stole all the tools and left me and my team with only rudimentary implements to excavate with. Undeterred we fucked a great big hole in the centre of the circle. We fucked everything out of it.

Fucked

We fucked so much out of it apparently we fucked all the evidence for any kind of occupation out of it as well. We found NOTHING in the quarter section we fucked out. Not a single fucking piece of pottery, not a single bead, not one tiny iota of testament that people had been anywhere near these stone circles. Earlier excavations on similar structures in the recent past at Engaruka had yielded so much pottery that it had to be air lifted off the site in shipping containers by Chinooks. At least that's what Posh Bastard told me. Engaruka has it's own type of pottery. It is unique to the site. It was not made on site and was most likely traded in to the area. It appears who ever was making the stuff was making it for the people of Engaruka specifically. A case of: 'Those daft cunts down at Engaruka like lines and dots all over their pots, so we'd best put a load all over them, but don't get them mixed up with the good stuff we sell to that other village.' But the circle I was working in had not a scrap of this stuff. There was only two conclusions to leap to, either they weren't living in the circles and they were being used as some kind of cattle corral OR they were the cleanest Iron Age folk in all of Africa, carefully picking up every thing they dropped. Sweeping up everyday and tidying the place constantly. Every day was a spring clean for them. I prefer the latter theory.

Fucked

The circles threw up more questions than they answered and in the end we'd have been better if we'd left them well alone. There was the whole riddle of the doorways and why a load of stones had been fucked about at the entrance like some kind of ankle breaker and 'unwelcome mat', if you will. But before I had a mental breakdown considering the eternal mysteries of our forebears I was moved up the hill. Above the valley sat the hills and on these hills sat terraces and on these terraces sat house platforms and on these house platforms sat... Oh fuck off. This is not a nursery rhyme. The hill was the ace in the hole for Posh Bastard. It was the place where the people of Engaruka lived and loved, laughed and cried, dreamed their dreams. It was going to make Daryl a rich man. If only he could work out the sequence in which the terraces were built. If he could unfurl the intricate patterns of confusion that were the embodiment of the terraces he would be revered in the archaeological world as a God, no longer a mere mortal but the living incarnation of archaeological science. He could retire on his discovery and live a life on a Bahamian island surrounded by dusky maidens surrendering to his every whim. There was one snag, he had Ted, Kirk and I in charge. He was completely fucked.

Fucked

The terrace structures are unique in African archaeology. They consist of a sequence of platforms backed by stone built walls, often ten feet high. It's the African equivalent of Stonehenge. What we did to them was the equivalent of taking a JCB piped with a breaker to Stonehenge and turning it from an attractive stone feature into a pile of aggregate. Oh yes, we fucked holes through those walls, we blasted chasms into the side of that hill. We were like Belzoni burying into the Pyramids at Giza. Did we answer any research questions? I've no idea but it sure was fun pulling the walls to bits. I think Posh Bastard had some idea of what was going on with the sequence of building, but you'll have to wait until the ultra-exciting report is published sometime in 2054 to find out the answers.

Fucked

OK, I think I've bored you enough with the exciting world of archaeology that I inhabit. The next post about Africa will be about the FUN things we did. I forgot to put these on the previous posts but here are links to the pictures from my Facefuck account:

Album One
Album Two
Album Three

Listen In Awe As You Hear Him... Scratch At The Door...

In this edition, like all the best glossy magazines, I present a photo montage of last week as seen through the eyes of the camera. It will shock and appall you, it will surprise and repel you. You will be weaker for having witnessed it. You will be dehumanized. No longer will you be allowed to sit on a jury. A trail of weeping wrecks of humanity shall follow in its wake. Sit back and gasp with horror as you witness life as a modern field archaeologist...

Berny arrives in the morning with his worldly possessions...

And immediately has his breakfast...

A professional approach is the key word in the work of a field archaeologist...

A little bit of gentle persuasion gets the motor going...

'Stop taking fuckin' photos of me, let a man paddle shit in peace.'

In other site related news, I have been staying on Logan Josh and his wife's reservation for the past week. Not that I've seen much of the house having being locked in the garage for the duration. They tell me it's something to do with the cats not being spayed and that they may give me some cat related illness. That I can accept, but why they have to confiscate my car keys, steal my shoes and chain me up to the wall is beyond me.

'Get up shit bag, it's time to go to work...'

Tiiiiiiiiiiiiim, can you paaaaaaaaaass me that penciiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiil?

Before I continue with the African blogs I'm going to tell you what I've been up to this week. well, first and foremost I managed to get myself a wee job. It's back again with Onsite and it's also back at Heslington East. I feel as as though I'll be drawn back to this place for the rest of my life. Long story short, I sent Nick an email asking for work and got a call off him on Tuesday, saying 'Are you doing anything now? No? Then get in your car and come to work.' I told him I couldn't possibly do anything until Wednesday as I had some high powered navel gazing to finish that afternoon. But Wednesday duly arrived and I plowed the car through the heaviest rain the North of England has witnessed since records began.

The joy of field archaeology...

Wincey was back in charge, at the helm of the sinking ship, just where he should be. Berny was also there, along with Sam from York Uni. As the rain whipped our skin to shreds Wincey put me in the filthiest stinking punishment trench that he could find. The rain fell, the wind howled, I whined, but I wasn't let out of the hole. Water was running over the top of my boots and the sucking sand was threatening the drag me under. I asked G-Funk what it was that I'd done wrong and all he did was laugh. Then to top off the misery Sir Stanners showed up in his gilded carriage. Immediately upon arrival he dined on an osprey sandwich, sat in the warmth and dry of the cabin and began his evil machinations against humanity. Logan Josh and I have worked out his cruel plan. When he fills in forms his writing is so big that the letters can be seen from outer space. There can only be one explanation for this: Stanners is a drone of the Martians and is passing on Earth's secrets to his overlords whilst pretending to make archaeological records. He is identifying targets for their imminent attack and pinpointing weaknesses in our defences. The man is nothing more than a species traitor!

'We have a new message from Drone Number Seven, he says we should target the one called Wincey...'

Speaking of Josh, he showed up along with Barry Onions on Thursday. The pair of them swanned about and lorded it over everyone else as though they knew what they were doing. They just succeeded in sliding about in the mud and banging into each other until Barry was cowed into bailing the ditches out:

Work, you cunt.

Friday was another day of rain of Biblical proportions. Wincey wasn't on site, he was in the office, being downloaded for his back log of eight years worth of site work. Since he never records everything we reckon he must somehow keep it all digitally stored in his head, this information is then downloaded when his 64bit memory is full. Every so often he needs a reboot as well. We (Logan, Berny, Sam and I) sat in the cabin taking a well deserved chance of him not being around second guessing everything: 'So that ditch is nearly finished is it?' 'I have no idea Graham, I've only just started taking the top fills out, I don't have x-ray vision. If I did, this job would be a whole load easier.' We sat around until two o'clock when the call came through from the Eagle's Nest to begin the retreat.

'Graham, I think the site might be slightly unworkable...'

Over the weekend, I got the chance to see Shrine of the Monkey. They played in SNAFU and were fucking excellent, mostly for the stage antics of the lead guitarist/vocalist. I have not seen such guitar faces since Hendrix and they guy's soloing was fucking class. The fella had a fucking box to stand on when he was fret wanking. It reminded me of something Hrappi said when we took Sudoku to the stage in Reykjavik: 'Always play as though you're playing to a stadium crowd.' I've seen nothing like it for a long time.

LET'S FUCKING ROOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOCK!!!!!!!