Don't leave me hanging on the telephone...

A quick one this. I was siting int he office today at about midday and I received a call from Tim. It went along these lines:

Him: Fuhrer, there's a problem with the cameras...

Me: Yeees, what is it?

Him: We've reached the end of the films and changed them, but the colour one seems not to rewind.(despite me telling him I would come and change all the camera film in order to reduce the possibility of fucking the films up)

Me: OK, do you need to take photos? I'll come out and sort it out.

Him: It's OK, I took two shots with the black and white film and some with the digital.

An interlude: four and a half weeks ago I told all the other supervisors to take at least two shots of every archaeological feature with both the colour slide and black and white film cameras. Also back up shots would be taken with the digital camera. This is standard practise through the archaeological world.

Me: OK, but you need to take some with the colour slide as well. I've told you that before.

Him: But why? I got some with the black and white.

Me: But you need to take some with all the cameras or you will fuck the registers up.

Interlude: This has happened before. People take different amount of photos with the different cameras and the photo registers don't match up. I don't understand how such a simple operation can get cocked up, especially after I told the others and even wrote this information on the photo register, but there you go.

Him: But for what reason? You've already got the pictures.

Me: We haven't got colour slide pictures and because this is how it is done in archaeology.

Him: That's not a reason. You're just telling me what's happened before!

Me: OK the reasons are, what if one photo is blurred or out of focus? What if the light changes? You need black and white and colour pictures to be able to detect soil differences. That's why we take two pictures with each camera. That's why you have to take two picture with each camera.

Him: But they're not proper reasons, you should start asking why you are doing these things instead of blindly following traditional thinking!

Me: I've just fucking explained to you why things are done as they are. Are you saying we should throw away the 40year old rule book, just becasue you don't agree with it? Is today going to become the start of a new archaeological era, because you don't agree with how things have been done for the better part of half a century? Is this how Tim Cockrell advances archaeology? By rubbishing established fact and creating a new archaeological epoch where recording becomes the 'land of do as you please'?

I was waiting for him to get back to the office with a sharpened ranging pole in my hand...

A Perfect Vision of the Rising Northlands

You may be wondering what that is on the right hand side of the page. Well, gentle readers, it's an award from The Daily Reviewer, a blog review site and '[t]o be included in The Daily Reviewer is a mark of excellence.' Apparently this shite that I pour out has been rated as being in the top 100 Icelandic Blogs. What they don't tell you is there is only one hundred and one blogs in Iceland. I was also wondering why I got an award for an Icelandic Blog, as I haven't lived there since May, but never mind. At the end of the day I got an award and Herr Docktor Clay didn't. so:

IN YOUR FUCKING FACE CLAY!!!!

Back in my world, the titanic struggle with Tim goes on from the Summer House Plantation Trench 3. All the while the trench was being dug was an on going battle about the age of the ditch we found in the trench. It's quite obviously Roman. About halfway down the fills of the ditch was a mass of Roman pottery. Squashed pots, made from Grey Ware were coming out in handfuls. It was the same as having an inscribed stone in the base of the trench saying 'Romulus and Remus were here'. But one day, as I was walking up the field to see Tim's progress, I could hear him a whoopin' and a hollerin'. 'Flint! Flint!' he was crying. As I got to the trench, I asked him what the fuss was all about, he held up the world's smallest piece of flint and started discoursing on how the ditch was obviously prehistoric due to this empirical dating evidence. I argued it could quite easily have been dropped at any time the ditch was open, nothing more than what we call 'background flint'. He told me I was talking bollocks and ignoring the truth. The fact that he will be starting a PhD on Prehistoric South Yorkshire soon apparently has no bearing on his desperation to find evidence for prehistoric activity in an area where there is very little anyway.

The Black Hole of prehistoric activity in England

I was going over Tim's context sheets a few days later and found this little gem. It was written in the comments box of the context sheet for the ditch fill where the flint came from. I reproduce it verbatim here (the emphasises are mine):

'Also recovered were a small lump of flint, a flake of flint with a blade like edge, but unworked, a bone implement in the form of a point (the tip was intact when recovered, but broke off. The end however still shows where the point was worked), two pieces of black cylindrical material (jewelry?) and crucially, a small stone rubber of the kind that might have been used by a specialist crafts person'

These crucial pieces of archaeological dating firmly put the ditch in the Bronze Age, according to Tim's preliminary dating box on the same context sheet. I'm not sure if he's just breaking my balls at the stage or has really fallen hook, line and sinker into his own little fantasy world.

Roman Pottery in situ in SHP Trench 4: It must be Prehistoric!!!

In other work related news, Tom fell over in the night during the weekly barbecue. He was trying to move Danny's tent and paid for his horse play with a dislocated knee cap and a trip to Doncaster Accident and Emergency. He was back on site the next day, with his leg strapped up and orders not to walk on it for about six weeks. So this year's season we have seen two firsts: a human burial and an ambulance at the camp site. I also was 'arrested' by PC Pell, when he turned up to have a chat, the first time I've seen him in twenty years. Emma also showed up at the barbeque, she asked me not to slag her off in this blog, so here goes: Manowar are not Goth, you fucking ape. And finally I went for a massive Chinese meal with the extended family last night, the funniest thing was that Ian was watching in dismay from his table (who had finished their food early) as our table was served course after course of delicious grub.

Our table at Modern China, Rotherham, last night...

Striving for Mediocrity!!

Tonight U2 are playing in Sheffield Arena. Normally this wouldn't be a problem. At least all the fucking Moronic U2 fans are enclosed in one place, getting them off the streets. The problem is I was going to go to a site visit and introduction to the Redmires POW camp community archaeology project. I have an active interest in Battlefield Archaeology and, more recently, community projects along these lines, so this would have been a great opportunity for me. The fact the U2 are playing tonight means that I can't get across Sheffield for the meeting as the roads will be packed with brainless oafs clamoring to sycophant in front of their idols. This is just one of another of a long list of reasons why I hate U2. Not that I needed many more anyway. I have always hated them to such a degree that I am unable to physically listen to their music in any form or another. Johnny Cash did a cover of the U2 track 'One' on his American III Solitary Man album. I immediately reach for the FWD button on my CD player when the first few notes begin, this is the only song that I ever do this with. It's like an OCD reaction to it. A Pavlovian response that has been drilled into me by a reaction against mediocrity. Because that's what U2 are, they are mediocre. No nonsense, straight line, stand up BORING. Not only is Boner a massive fucking hypocrite, what with preaching we should all be giving our hard earned money to the poor of the world, but then flying his FUCKING HAT around the world in First class to the tune of a thousand pounds, but he has no talent or originality. The band have found their rut and are staying in it. They haven't developed a single bit in the 33 long years they've been going. The shit they first recorded sounds the same as the garbage they are dragging out now. I hate them and their lack of artistic movement with every inch of my being, if my rage were a gun I'd shove it down Boner's fucking throat and pull the trigger until it goes click! Music is about dynamism, creativity, breaking barriers, just look at the brilliant Faust for Christ's Sake! U2 fans wouldn't even know bands like this exist because they're happy with their safe, inoffensive idols. U2 make music for people who don't like music. U2 are a crime against humanity, act now! It's time to make Boner History!

Stop the madness, say NO to U2!

I had the weekend off after almost collapsing on Friday and didn't return to work until Monday. Happily the site hadn't been reduced to a burning pile of rubble by Tim. He had managed to fuck up some registers in the two days I was absent however, so no change there then. The rest of the week has passed pretty quietly, except that we lost Dane through a BMX related injury and although he came close to having his leg amputated he should pull through. We all miss him on site and his lack of presence is very noticeable.

Get well soon, big man!!

Deathcult Armageddon

Here is another guest posting, this time, it's from lauren and again it's about Brodsworth and the supposed Crimes Against Humanity that went on there last year. Sit back, relax, pull up a biscuit and enjoy....

Deathcult Armageddon

If you’re interested in stories with happy endings, you’d be better off reading some other blog. In this blog, not only is there no happy ending, there is no happy beginning and hardly any happy things in the middle. This is because not many happy things happen in the presence of Alex Sotheran, (a.k.a. Herr Sotheran, or “Führer und Reichskanzler”)

The sorry story I am about to impart concerns Herr Sotherans dealings with the once breathtaking student archaeological excavation at Brodsworth. I myself am partly to blame for this, which is the reason why I now write – to warn future students from dealings with this madman, nay, monster. Two years ago it came to pass that myself, a naive young archaeologist with a yearning to please, had the foolishness to introduce Herr Sotheran to Brodsworth's evil ruler Overlord Merrony. After a brief dalliance and several sacrificial offerings, it was decided that Herr Sotheran was to take charge of excavation the following year.

The full impact of this brief liaison between Sotheran and Merrony two years ago is unknown, but it should be noted that one student, one Adam McWhan, was never seen or heard of again. Rumours persist that somehow he escaped their evil clutches, changing his name and fleeing to Holland. These stories however may simply serve as a device for saddened friends and relatives to come to terms with his sudden disappearance.

What really happened to Adam McWhan

What happened the following year was unforeseen by all. The once beautiful grounds of Hickleton Hall had been transformed. Grey and desolate was the landscape, the hulking shell that was the camp kitchen the only building left fully standing. The Hall itself was ruined and aflame, the charred corpses of its former residents littering the ground. As the students stood aghast at the scene before them, Herr Sotheran appeared. “Welcome to your new home, my pretties” he sneered. “Meet my loyal servants, Von Redface, Donkey Kong and Sykes. They will help you...settle in”. The horrified students were sent to set up their tents in silence under the watchful eyes of Herr Sotheran and his servants, any protests being met with beatings unlike any ever seen by the eyes of man.

The grounds of Hickleton Hall after Herr Sotherans “alterations”. You don’t want to know what A, B, and C are...

I realised the full consequences of my imprudent actions over the coming days. At 5am every morning we awoke to the sound of Her Sotheran thrashing the engine of his car (which he had stolen from a passing old deaf man) and playing SS marching tunes at an ungodly volume. If any person was not up and out of their tents withing 5 minutes of this event, Herr Sotheran would run them down, driving his vehicle like a madman. Tents and bones were crushed in the furore, mud, blood and gore splattering Herr Sotheran's face as he laughed at the injustice of it all while Sykes, Donkey Kong and Von Redface looked on in cold indifference.

Artists impression of Hickleton campsite, 5.05am

Students caught committing anything deemed a “crime” were singled out and publicly humiliated. Such crimes included not laughing at Herr Sotheran's childish jokes, not liking Burzum and being a fan of historically inaccurate Hollywood films. One girl, the poor unfortunate Kate Brown, was ritually beaten with wet bamboo in front of the others, before being forced into a half finished test pit and covered with tarpaulin. It was only when she crawled inside that she realised the scale of her punishment – the hole was already filled to the brim with dead clowns. Dead clowns with no trousers. “That’ll teach you for denouncing the Chosen One” laughed Herr Sotheran, his eyes burning with lust for revenge on the girl. “Hvis Lyset Tar Oss is fucking brilliant. You will learn to love it too”.

One of the inhabitants of Kate’s test pit

While I cannot possibly recount the total number of atrocities committed by or in the name of this monster, I feel it necessary to list some of their names and fates. Their friends and families were lied to incessantly about their dearests whereabouts, and I feel it is my responsibility to impart the truth, as gruesome and shocking as it is.

Ben Wheatley – Herr Sotheran's sex slave. Required to refill his arsehole with crushed limestone every morning so Herr Sotheran can “feel natural”.

Kyle Leaper – hypnotised by Overlord Merrony to serve Herr Sotheran. Mind control is exercised through the forced wearing of a leather waistcoat.

Angela Walker – in hiding. One of the few who got away. Discovered that Herr Sotheran had designs on her as the mother of his “master race”, to be conceived though the medium of a pair of beige pyjamas and a teatowel soaked in his seed.

Alex Bratby – drowned in a portaloo.

Sam Stein – still working at Brodsworth, only because her feet were nailed to the floor. Frequently passes in and out of consciousness. Locals, scared of freeing her and incurring the Wrath of Sotheran, now visit and treat her as a prophet of the future.

Chris Nolan-Rennie – bound in chains of adamantium and backfilled into one of the churchyard trenches.

Owen Watts – choked on his own hair.

Caroline Esberger – danced to death in shoes made of heated iron, to the tune of “Dance Yourself Dizzy”.

D-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-dizzy!
D-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-dizzy!
Tonight they're turning on the heat
Tonight you're in for such a treat
Tonight, put on your dancin' feet
And dance, dance, dance

Mario and Luigi (real names unknown) - painted red and green respectively, beaten, and forced to eat pizza whilst jumping over barrels until death by exhaustion.

RIP

Adam Doore – dissected alive as Herr Sotheran tried to discover the source of his luxuriant beard.

Ryan Wilson – crucified on top of “Pimpin’ Jesus”

Daniel Goldswain, a. k. a. “Sex Machine” – literally turned into a sex machine.

It is here that this sorry tale must end. I know no words of comfort that may aid individuals affected directly or indirectly by these crimes. The Brodsworth Deathcult continues, with no end of Herr Sotheran and Overlord Merrony's tyrannical reign in sight. All I can hope is that this message is received and serves to discourage unfortunate students from signing up willingly to serve this torturous machine. Unless the only other option is going to join the Stonehenge Chain Gang.

Galdralag

On Sunday evening Jo and I settled down to make a jigsaw, one of several in the house. The one we choose was of Noah's ark and all the animals waiting patiently in line, not eating each other or fighting or fucking, to get on the Ark to be saved. Now, looking at the box lid I was wondering how did Noah decided which animals would make it onto the Ark. I'm not talking about leaving the Unicorns behind, they were shit anyway what I mean is how did he whittle it down from all the millions of animals to just two of each species. Was there some kind of test? Did they have to be good at carrying stuff, if they were, say, camels. Did their shit slinging skills have to spot on if they were Chimps. Even with all the time in the world, just setting up an Olympics style contest for animals would be a fucking task, never mind judging it and deciding on winners of each event. Surely he must have cut some corners, so this must also mean that some of animals on the Ark were not up to scratch. Maybe the two Lions he chose were particularly rubbish Lions. More like the kind of Lion that would spend it's life signing on and watching Jeremy Kyle every morning before popping down the Job Centre to pick up it's Giro. It's just a thought.

Anyhoo, we made the jigsaw, but as it progressed things took a decidedly odd turn. not all the pieces were there. This in itself is not odd, but when fully assembled the Jigsaw took on a new dimension... There was what looked like a deliberate removal of certain animals. Looking on the box to see what was missing we saw there was a rather large Tortoise in the bottom of the picture. Jo did a quick search for tortoise int he bible and found the following:

These also shall be unclean unto you among the creeping things that creep upon the earth; the weasel, and the mouse, and the tortoise after his kind, in Leviticus 11:29.

OK, you say, a weird coincidence, but as Roz was looking through her room for writing paper she chanced upon a large pad. Glancing through it there were several pictures of crude Crucifix's, a picture of Jesus with 'Jesus loves you' written underneath and creepiest of all the letters WWJD? written several times in various styles. If you don't know WWJD stands for What Would Jesus Do? and is a reminder to do what is right in Christ's eyes. Now call me cynical but anyone who needs a continual reminder on how to live their life in the correct fashion shouldn't really be let out of the house...

I sleep very uneasily in that house...

We turned up on site on Tuesday morning to be confronted with the sight of the large tent listing badly, the strong winds during the night had blown half the fucker down. Two of the heaters were smashed to the floor and the poles in complete disarray. The wind was still blowing strongly as we tried valiantly to correct the damage. It was like trying to tie sails down on the high seas during a storm on a boat with only three crew... It had to happen on the day that nobody was in as well. We managed to get the thing secure even after loosing two of our number, both within minutes of each other. Duncan had his finger trapped in a ratchet for the straps and moments later Sindre took the end of his thumb off with the same device. This led to Ace calling him Stubs today, then blaming the new nickname on me...

Speaking of which...
Atli Quotes, when I was making some derogatory comment in Jo's direction: 'You're on slippy ice.' All ice is slippy, Ace. What is funnier is I originally misheard him and thought he'd said 'you're on slippy eyes.'