Salsa Sauce

I was on a watching brief today. For the three people who read this shit who are not archaeologists I shall explain what a watching brief is. When a developer decides to build something new, like an abattoir next to a children's soft toy factory, for instance, the development has to pass through several stages of archaeological investigation that has to be paid for. Full scale excavation is the highest of these stages, with a desk based assessment at the lowest. The developer has to take this extra cost into account when they decide to build a pole dancing club next door to a primary school, for instance. One of the most prolific activities of an archaeologist is the watching brief. This is an activity that entails the archaeologist being dispatched to a site that is being built, say, an artillery range next door to a playground, for instance, and literally watching the machine that is building the foundations of, for instance, the chemical warfare development plant next to the nursery. We are there to make sure that any archaeological remains are fully recorded in accordance with the local County Archaeologist's brief.

Shits and giggles never stop in archaeology...

This is what I was doing today and as usual it was no different from any other watching brief in the country. In that, when I arrived I was separately told by the cross eyed farmer and the grumpy machine driver that 'you won't find anything here, this is waste of your time and my money.' Despite my decade long experience and three years studying the subject of archaeology they still knew better. I guess when the farmer bought the land we were working on he must have stripped the entire field down to it's natural subsoil, identified and recorded any archaeological cut feature that existed in the pre-modern strata. It is my understanding that the farmer not only recorded these features to the acceptable levels of academic peerage that govern archaeological grey literature but submitted the report to the local Sites and Monuments Record office for future rumination under a tried and tested academic framework. This is the only course of action I can think of that would lead both these men to the conclusion that 'you won't find anything here.' Although, I had my doubts, especially when the farmer told me the village we were working in was the place the Vikings had 'parked their boats before walking to the Battle of Stamford Bridge', and I insisted on following the brief I had been given, that is, to watch the machine work for any archaeological remains, rather than listen to their, obviously, greater knowledge. I was texting Logan Josh throughout the day, I was telling him about the above situation and his reply sums up today's work:

I love that shit. As if we have not been sent by a third party but rather we have insisted we be allowed to watch. East Yorks farmers are the worst. They still think the English Civil War is raging and get all their 'news' via someone they know who attends church.

And in other news, we will be following Prince Rupert's campaign against Cirencester...

I was watching Knightmare the other night. Do you remember it? It was the spoddy Dungeons and Dragons rip off that was on ITV back in 1756 or sometime when I was in my early teens. It was a nerd fest, where three fantasy role-playing social retards had to navigate their equally 'insecure around girls' mate through a computer generated 'dungeon'. I fucking loved it! I sat transfixed trying to work out how many rooms they must have built to emulate the dungeon. I never cottoned on that it was all done in some tiny studio painted green with the images overlaid with computer graphics. I was a simple child. I always remember that every time the dungeoneer walked into a new room they asked 'Where am I now?' (they were wearing a helmet through which there were no eye holes) their three spoddy mates would always answer 'You're in a room!' NO FUCKING SHIT SHERLOCK!! WHERE ELSE ARE THEY GOING TO BE? IN A FUCKING FIELD? ON AN AEROPLANE'S WINGS? UP A FUCKING TREE?

Where am I now?

Erm....

Anyway, watching it again made me come to new conclusions about Knightmare. The first thing that struck me was the uneasy idea of a bearded creepy man in a tabard locking children in his 'dungeon'. If I had kids I would not be allowing a man called Treguard of Dunshelm to look after them. 'Yes, they'll be fine in my dungeon, there's plenty of fun awaiting!' Fun for who, Treguard? If that is your real name, which I very much doubt. Unless you had really nerdy parents who played D&D. I swear that man is wanted in Vietnam on statutory rape charges. AND WHERE THE FUCK IS DUNSHELM? IS IT A CUT PRICE CLOTHES SHOP IN ROTHERHAM?

A picture paints a thousand words...

But watching further I realised that the show was nowhere nearly as good as I remember. Treygard's introductions seemed to go on forever. It was like sitting through one of Ataturk's speeches. He was explaining the rules of the game in prose so formal it made me go blind. Once away from the most boring man in history the kid in the dungeon came across several other characters that lived in the dungeon. Generally the first was a wall monster called, I shit you not, Granite Arse. At least that's how I heard it. The second seemed to be one of Treguard's former child sex slaves, Lillith, or something. These two inhabited the lower reaches of the dungeon and as the kids progressed they met more characters. This got me thinking, were the actors who played these parts paid a proper wage or bit pay depending on their screen time? Imagine if you got the job of playing Cobble the Gnome? Imagine if Cobble resided on the forty sixth level of the dungeon and to reach the level the children would have to toil for six long years to get there. With the complete retards that took part in this game there would be no chance of you ever drawing screen time and therefore no chance of ever getting paid. Since most of the kids who took part couldn't even spell SHROUD or SHOVEL for simple level one spellcasting, Cobble the Gnome would be a very poor gnome indeed. I bet Cobble still drinks heavily now, trying to blunt the pain of what could have been an illustrious television career dashed by brainless idiot children that couldn't even work out right from left when walking along a chasm edge.

No! Your other left, you fucking prick!!

By the way, the farmer was right. There was nothing there. I didn't find anything.