TK Max

I just got back from Waltham Gunpowder Mills where I was working for Easter. A while back I got an email from Dr David Kenyon asking me if I'd like to spend my Easter weekend dressed up as a Stormtrooper. I thought it over for a full three seconds before replying 'YES OF COURSE I FUCKING WOULD!' So as you all sat eating your Easter Eggs in celebration of the mythical Iron Age necromancing zombie warlock I was chasing kids around an ex-secret nuclear facility dressed as the Galaxy's finest. What could be better? Probably only doing the same dressed as a member of SS Wiking...

The Gunpowder Mills were playing host to a Space themed weekend and as with last year Dr David was asked to play Darth Vader because he is as tall as Everest, give or take a few metres.

He wanted some assistants, hired in two Stormtrooper costumes and asked Douche Bag and I if we were in. Mostly so he could get us both semi naked in his office...

Gerrem off ya!

Anyhoo, this was the first time I had ever dressed as something from a Sci-Fi film, so I decided to use this weekend as an education. What did I learn? I learned that children are totally fascinated by Darth Vader yet completely frightened stiff of having their photo taken with him. The amount of hiding behind daddy's legs was hilarious.

Not that scary...

As the Stormtroopers  are supposed to be the elite of the Emperor's military we decided to make a study of what they can and cannot do and the results may surprise you:

What a Stormtrooper can do:

• Look fucking cool:

What a Stormtrooper can't do:

• Sit down on a chair
• go up stairs
• go down stairs
• step down a single doorstep without looking ungainly
• have peripheral vision
• lookup
• look down
• wear glasses under the helmet
• walk quietly
• do anything quietly

Basically, if you are ever in a situation where you are faced with an army of Stormtroopers, not only will you hear the fuckers coming from about a million miles away, but you will just have to come at them from ANY direction other than the one they are looking in for a successful attack. If all goes to rat shit, simply run down or up a flight of stairs. Or indeed, a doorstep.

I make this look easy, but believe me, it wasn't...

As we were wandering about having our photos taken with various kids one of them asked me 'Are you a clone?' I answered 'I'm not, but' indicating Danny 'he is.'

The Clown Wars

Eyes Like Piss Holes In Snow

I have been working up in Masham for the better part of the last week. The job is good for several reasons, one that there isn't actually much work for me to do, so I sit about reading the paper and books about the Great War until I am called out of the car to watch them machine through made ground. Another thing is that the lads on the site are good fun. The dumper driver has 'Tab the Muffer' written on the back of his helmet. He has teeth like a row of burnt fence posts and is the approximate size of a pregnant elephant. He's a good lad. The digger driver has that look of the village simpleton, but as he is in charge of a three ton machine, I guess he must have something about him. The banksman stands about three foot high. He's like a midget, but with a normal sized head. He looks a bit like a Beavis Bobblehead toy. They have a good banter between them and most of the time I stand just laughing at them calling each other cunts.

'You cunt!' 

'You cunt!' 

'You cunt!'

The third and best thing about working in Masham is the butcher's shop just around the corner from site. I found it when I walked around town on the first day looking for somewhere to buy a paper. It seems that knowledge is not needed in Masham. There is only one paper shop in this mid-sized town. One paper shop, but approximately four thousand six hundred and twelve sandwich shops. I guess people get their outside information in Masham from the farmers coming in for the Wednesday market. They bring stories from the greater world that they picked up during their Sunday visits to church. News of Germany's defeat in the First World War only made it to Masham three weeks ago.  But then why would a place need news when it is home to two of the countries finest breweries, Black Sheep and Theakston's? Just get arseholed and forget the outside world! Anyhoo, this butcher's shop is probably the best I've been in for a long while. I have made it my duty to buy a pork pie every day so far. And good God, are they good pork pies. The butcher now knows a bit about me, he knows I'm there as an archaeologist and he knows I like pork pies. What more does he need to know? My name, nar, he just calls me 'boss'. So I sit in the car watching the rain teem down, listening to Jeremy Vine patronise his listeners and eating Pork Pies. What's not to like about Masham?

Pie: Pork

 Pie: Chicken

There was another 'gathering' of On-site staff on Saturday night. I thought to myself, I'll just have a couple, save a bit of money. Stanners had organised it, and told me that 'pretty much' everyone was going to be there. In the end only myself, Kate, Ryan, Sir Stanners and G-funk came out. Fuck the rest of them. Who needs those bellends when we've got the cream of the crop? Anyway, I threw a load of beer all over Kate's feet, told G-Funk what I really thought of someone, that I probably shouldn't have and ended up incredibly wankered and penniless in the Lowther at 2AM.  Sunday has been lost in a day of recovery.

OK, this is a bit awkward. I was a little drunk last night and I really can't remember your name... But would you like some breakfast?

I was chatting to someone t'other day about what makes me happy. I couldn't really think of a list, but I was also thinking of it when I was driving up from London the other day. I like it when lorry drivers flash their lights me when I allow them to pull out in front of me on the motorway. It feels like you've done a nice little deed for your fellow man. In fact I go out of my way to allow lorries to pull out in front of me, just to get that little hit of the light flash. I also like it when the butcher in Masham calls me 'boss', so I'm not going to tell him my real name.

Troll Piss

I went to see the Norwegian Documentary 'The Troll Hunter' last night. It served to cement my idea that Trolls do in fact exist. When I was in Iceland I saw enough evidence to point to Trolls and this documentary has only confirmed my suspicions that we are not alone in the world, but in fact are continually at the mercy of 100ft giants. Imagine being a poor Norwegian farmer and having trolls run across your land smashing the crap out of everything, just for shits and giggles. I for one am glad they use power lines to fence them in.

Lauren and I at Dimmuborgir, Iceland, STANDING IN THE MOUTH OF A FUCKING TROLL!!!!

I have been working back in an Twelfth Century church today. Previously I was excavating in the bowels of the west tower and undermining the foundations of the church in the lovely little village of Alne in the hope it would collapse. I am always wary of going in churches, my deep seated hatred of organised religion always make me think that I will either burst into flames or do something to incur the wrath of God that will see me struck by lightening. But this was not so. I suppose we were working hand in hand with the church authorities so God kept his fucking nose out of it for the time we were there. Basically the church is having a new floor put in and as the church can be traced back to the 12th century it was quite important that we were on hand to see if anything from the olden days came up. It was actually a watching brief that should have been an excavation. What I mean by this is, the builders should have been digging out the ground surface of the tower whilst I watched, but in reality, the possibility of archaeology being present meant that I had to dig out the ground surface whilst the builders watched. It became one of those jobs where I had to spend a few days explaining to the builders that my job wasn't about the fact that we hadn't found anything 'interesting' but the fact that I was actually there to make sure anything that may come up was recorded. Being a part of the building industry, you would assume that builders have a reasonable idea about what archaeologists do, but this never seems to be the case and I end up explaining my job to people who don't really give a fuck in the first place. 

You do what? For Money?

The builder lads I was working alongside were good guys, as people generally are, except for the cunts. Who are cunts, whatever. Anyway, these lads weren't cunts. One of them had the best two tattoos I've ever seen. One was a dog that looked like Rude Dog, from Rude Dog and the Dweebs, giving a smutty gesture. If that wasn't bad enough he'd gone back a few years later and got an even worse inking. It was a heart with a scroll across the centre. Upon the scroll he'd had written the name of his object of affection: BABY SPICE. I also had the usual queue of interested parties coming through the church to have a nosy at how the work was progressing. The trendy vicar, with his 'hair do', the church warder and the 'Colonel' from the Vicarage over the road. I don't mind the general public, or explaining what is going on, but when each one requires a half an hour lecture on what we've found, I wish they'd all come at the same time so I can get on with the work with minimal interruption. Despite all these interruptions, Jim and I managed to get the job done well within time. There was quite a panic on getting the job finished as there was a wedding being held, we were repeatedly told, 'On Friday'. Obviously it was the biggest thing to ever happen in Alne since the Plague and the entire village appeared to have been invited along to see the youngest people in the village betrothed. In actuality the couple weren't even from the village and were coming up from the south to get wed, so most of the village were probably gathering to see 'the queer foreigners from that London.' And our work had no right to stand in the way.

Nothing stands in the way of this!

But today I was sent back out there, ripped from the warm bosom of my front room, where I was writing a report, into the howling gales of Hurricane Scrimshaw or whatever it's called.  I had been told the builders might have found some bones in what I previously thought was an empty trench. The trench actually was empty when I walked away from it the other day and they assured me that they would be doing no more digging in there. Surprise surprise, they did some more digging when I wasn't there and found some stuff. So I found myself scratching away at a child's skeleton whilst the noises of playtime drifted across from the local primary school. a very strange experience indeed. Added to this I was still recovering from Saturday night when we had one of our twice-a-decade work night out. This one was pretty messy in all events. There are large chunks of Saturday night missing from my memory, which is unusual for me.

Stanners tries his luck

Bwyd Time

On Monday it was ten years since I graduated from York University with a BA in Archaeology. It feels like literally two minutes have passed since then. I can't believe it was just ten years ago that Graham and I could be found on a Tuesday night, rolling around on the filthy floor of Ziggy's nightclub demonstrating to the world our own brand of Breakdancing. I can hardly believe that almost ten years ago I was getting ready to go to Ireland, in order to get three months digging experience but ending up staying for nearly four years. It is crazy to think that I was heading out into the world that seems very different to me now. Since then, what have I done and where have a I been? I must have dug literally thousands of holes filled with shit from the olden days. Through archaeology in the past decade I have worked in the following countries: Ireland, France, Belgium, Germany, Iceland, Japan, Singapore and Tanzania. I've driven across America, from shining coast to shining coast in the company of archaeologists. I have done a mini tour of Iceland dressed as a Ninja accompanied by an archaeologist. I have appeared in television programs on the BBC, Channel Five and the Discovery Channel. I have had the honour of locating and being involved in the identification of the missing from the Great War. I have been involved in creating archaeological sites on the Somme that are used as educational locations. I have even created and taught a University course on Great War archaeology. Yes, if the last ten years is anything to go on, archaeology has been pretty good to me. I think that decision to move out of the flat after the police raid and go to university was probably a good one. I would still be ingesting vast amounts of military grade amphetamines and LSD if I hadn't.

What you could have won...

On Tuesday I went for my CSCS test. The CSCS is a card that has been introduced for all site workers as a cover all for Health and Safety. It also serves as a license to print money for the companies that run the tests as they charge what they like and it has to be paid for by the companies. I have sat through several such tests and talks both here and in Ireland. I am now an expert on the correct ampage of electrical tools and the correct angle that scaffolding should be set at. The thing is, as this test is aimed at labourers it is as simple as they come. If they made the test too hard none of the monkeys that inhabit building sites would pass and the building trade in the UK would fall through its own arse. They even sell you a fucking book that has all the answers in it. Typical questions would be:

You find a bottle of unmarked clear chemicals, do you
a) put it somewhere safe and tell your supervisor 
b) sniff it
c) drink the bottle, passing it around the cabin at lunch time
d) all of the above

You notice the electric-hammer is damaged, do you:
a) unplug it and check for further damage
b) tell your supervisor
c) tape up the damage and tell your supervisor
d) continue using it to stove in the head of the daytime hooker who just asked you for her money

So it was on Tuesday that I found myself in the testing van clicking the mouse for all I was worth answering such questions. I was finished in under ten minutes, even doing the practise test. I was confident of my own abilities when it comes to health and safety. I'm no monkey.

'This is a computer' 

'Woah! Slow down with the science Poindexter!'

I failed.

Like a Tudor vacuum cleaner saying “How do you do?”

So much has happened in the past week that I have blanked most of it out of my mind. The horror of swapping cars between staff members has been too much for my tiny little brain to cope with. Instead I shall illustrate my week with several well thought out and tastily arranged lithographs that I have about my personal communication device. Are you sitting comfortably? Then I shall begin:

There is a caption competition for these pictures. Do your worst. Leave them in the comments

I went to see True Grit on Wednesday Orange 'two for one' night with Anna. The cheap bastards that we are.  Anyway, it's brilliant, it's like a visual Johnny Cash song. Go and see it.

The Freezing Moon

This has been a week that has seen massive student protests and riots against a LYING TWO FACED coalition government and their ridiculous plans to destroy several centuries of education in one swift swoop. But I'm not going to dwell on this as it just makes me angry and depressed. Instead, come with me on a journey of Polar exploration, a magical trip to the land of ice, a tundra landscape dotted only with rocks to serve as navigational points. Come with me to share the joys of last week's work!

Nov 6 1912

Broke camp on Ross Ice Shelf. Bade a sad farewell to Chef and Patty. They take four dogs with them and small amount of supplies. -14 degrees recorded by thermostat in automobile. Not sure it's working correctly but bloody cold anyway. Camp at base of glacier, the men are in high spirits. Sense of adventure is high, everyone happy to be here.

Farewell Patty!

Every journey begins with one step...

Nov 7 1912

Glorious day of bright sunshine but still sub zero temperatures, storm moves in by afternoon. No land marks causes hard going but we push on and make six miles today! Last of the dogs die in the evening, finish the day by pulling the sledges by hand. Camp still in good mood despite the hardships.

Nov 8 1912

The men are tired. Scrump has come down with a fever and Jonty seems to be having fitful sleep. They show me a brave face though. It can't last. Finished off the last of the dogs, a stew with the precious few vegetables we have. No tinned food left and all perishables are now rotten.

 

 Nov 9 1912

A storm brought fresh snow fall and collapsed three of the tents. Tick-Tock and Old Captain Merry took quite ill. Kept the party awake for the duration of the night. Merry announced he was going to attend to his ablutions and walked outside. No sign of him since. I pray that the furnace will hold out. Had to find alternate food sources all of which were unsuccessful.

Nov 10 1912

Lieutenant Farington and Corporal Tubes along with Tribby and Slack, the stokers, found dead in their cots. Froze to death over night. Terrible business. Storms getting worse and visibility down to nil. No hope of rescue coming. Not even sure where we are, all compasses are frozen solid. Had to burn the last of the sledges to keep the fires going. Damn this place. One last toast with the remaining brandy: Gentlemen, The King!

'for God's sake look after our people'

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.

We Sent Them To Dig In This?

I'm just going to tell you about Belgium before I continue with East Africa, if you don't like it, use your telephone to call someone that fucking cares. Cos I certainly don't. The Belgian archaeologists of the Institute for the Archaeological Heritage of the Flemish Community (IAP) are working on various sites throughout Belgium in order to assess the preservation of the underground archaeology of the Western Front. The areas affected during the war are under scrutiny to be put on the World Heritage List by 2014. This being the one hundredth anniversary of the beginning of the Great War, you thick cunt. Do try to keep up. Marc Dewilde of the IAP asked Dr David Kenyon to assemble a highly professional team of some of the most experienced Great War archaeologists that Britain has to offer. He did, but they were busy, so instead he had to ask Danny Boy (Douche) and me to help him dig out rusty German beastliness. It mainly comes down to the fact that Douche and I have pissed away every opportunity for any kind of proper career and at any one time either of us are not working or are in such vocational circumstances that we can take time off at the drop of a hat. I got the call whilst languishing like a sweating sun burnt sow in Zanzibar and this is how I found myself on Friday night lost on the outskirts of Hitchen ringing Douche to find out where he lived.

You wanted the best, you got us instead...

We had the usual car swapping leap frogging journey to the ferry (I drive to Luton then Douche drives us both to Sevenoaks then Kaptain Kenyon drives us all to Belgium with Kenny Loggins, Survivor and Cher as a soundtrack) and ended up at the accommodation in Ypres. We really landed on our feet with the place where we were staying (It was called Le Chat Noir which we anglicised to the Black Shit) it was clean, comfortable, two seconds away from the main square in Ypres, had satellite TV, a barbecue, a fully working kitchen, swimming pool, ball room, aga, space rocket launch pad, discotheque, firing range and tank proving ground with a fully stocked garage of armoured fighting vehicles. OK, fair enough, it had every thing up to the kitchen, but it was a really good place. The only problem was we had to sleep Das Boot style in the same room but at least we didn't have to share beds.

The Black Shit, what a great place!

Douche was up to his usual tricks, he had forgotten to bring his toothpaste and tooth brush from home. Whilst on the ferry the fucking idiot could only afford to buy one or the other, so in his glorious ignorance he chose the paste. Rather than buying a brush and using someone else's toothpaste he ended up not cleaning his teeth for three days until we went to a Belgian supermarket where he could buy a brush. His forgetfulness didn't end there, on Monday at work he forgot his lunch, on Tuesday he forgot his coffee. He'd finally got it right by Wednesday. Not only did I have that to put up with, but Kaptain Kenyon continually droned on about his working as historical advisor on the new Steven Spielberg movie 'Warhorse'. He made it sound like he was rewriting the script as he went along. It was either luvvie talk about lunching with 'Steve' (as his friends call him) or he was wittering on about his ideas for a time travelling movie involving Roman Dodecahedrons. The idea is that a mad scientist in the future has sent an object back in time in order to prove time travel can exist, an object so ambiguous and puzzling its purpose cannot be fathomed by modern archaeologists, but would be known by the mad scientist to be from their time. The whole idea was a load of shit and didn't even involve a single Delorian.

Dr. Kenyon, archaeologist, film writer and wanna-be-time traveller

So I had to put up with this crap for a week, not only that but I had relentless abuse about my beard. I'd not had chance to trim it since getting back from Africa and admittedly it's got a little out of hand. I think there may be as of yet undiscovered rain forest tribes living in there and it's strong enough to hold a spoon in place, but there was no need for the continual torrent of psychological torment that I had to put up with. It was an abuse of KK's position of power and jealousy on both of their parts as they can only grow wispy bum fluff.

The beard is big, but the beard is pissed...

Apart from that, we had some great trenches, we were looking at mostly German front line systems. We worked on two sites, Palingbeek and later, Sanctuary Wood. As ever in Belgium, the wood preservation was excellent. Douche had a brilliant little slot across a communication trench with wooden planking on the base at Palingbeek. Also at Palingbeek we found in situ wooden hurdling (the Germans used a lot of wood in the trench wall constructions), something we've all seen in photographs but never in the ground.

I've got wood, BOOM BOOM!

Sanctuary Wood was also excellent from an archaeological point of view. There was a certain amount of difficulty in actually seeing the features in the ground, but we cleaned up and I located two trenches of sizable depth. Absolutely packed full with cartridges and a sock. Santuary Wood had a further touch. We were digging within spitting distance of the Canadian Memorial on Hill 62 and every so often we would hear, drifting through the woods, the sounds of bagpipes at various ceremonies being held on the memorial. There is something haunting about the thought of the violence that the place had witnessed compared to the tranquility that it currently holds.

Then...

...now

But as ever, as soon as it had started it was all over and before I knew it I was standing in the square in Ypres eating Belgian waffles waiting for Franky and his van so we could sign off the sites and return to the UK. I don't know when I'll be back in Belgium again and the time between jobs is never short enough.

 

Belgium = Om Nom Nom