Biffinator
Norm Smith Medallist
Comrades.
When I read any sort of virulent posting from a West Horshamite, (say, Flying Crow's ATTENTION - Supporters of Most Victorian Clubs"), I can understand how the Roman Legionary Commanders felt twenty one centuries ago as they stood on the western side of the Rhine and looked over the riverbank into the gloom of the primordial Forest.
How many times does one have to chastise these West Horsham barbarians and thereby remind them of their lowly status in the scheme of things ??
Imagine for a second that you are the Legate, say, of the Legio XVI Gallica. Behind you stands civilisation and the warmth of the Mediterranean.
At your command are 5000 odd men, backed up by Auxiliaries and a detachment of Eastern Archers from Palmyra.
On the other side of the Rhine are the forces of darkness, disintegration and hooliganism - in other words, the embodiment of West Horsham.
And here is the futility of it all.
It does not matter how often you cross the Rhine to bring the sword to their lands, you can still hear their ululations in the forest as you return home to the legionary fortress.
Anyone who is consigned by Fate to live in West Horsham has got nothing going for them: neither drinkable water, nor barbers, nor employment prospects, nor any Commodore beyond the VK Copper Rocket. Wayne Weidemann, verily, is their King: Rex Germanorum.
And yet they persist with their drum-banging.
So at such times I can relate, in a way, to the Emperor Caracalla, who rightly added the epithet Germanicus to his titles after his campaign of AD 213 - but it all meant nothing in the end. Have a look at his visage below. To borrow a line from Bruce Springsteen: they're still there, he's all gone.
Biffinator
When I read any sort of virulent posting from a West Horshamite, (say, Flying Crow's ATTENTION - Supporters of Most Victorian Clubs"), I can understand how the Roman Legionary Commanders felt twenty one centuries ago as they stood on the western side of the Rhine and looked over the riverbank into the gloom of the primordial Forest.
How many times does one have to chastise these West Horsham barbarians and thereby remind them of their lowly status in the scheme of things ??
Imagine for a second that you are the Legate, say, of the Legio XVI Gallica. Behind you stands civilisation and the warmth of the Mediterranean.
At your command are 5000 odd men, backed up by Auxiliaries and a detachment of Eastern Archers from Palmyra.
On the other side of the Rhine are the forces of darkness, disintegration and hooliganism - in other words, the embodiment of West Horsham.
And here is the futility of it all.
It does not matter how often you cross the Rhine to bring the sword to their lands, you can still hear their ululations in the forest as you return home to the legionary fortress.
Anyone who is consigned by Fate to live in West Horsham has got nothing going for them: neither drinkable water, nor barbers, nor employment prospects, nor any Commodore beyond the VK Copper Rocket. Wayne Weidemann, verily, is their King: Rex Germanorum.
And yet they persist with their drum-banging.
So at such times I can relate, in a way, to the Emperor Caracalla, who rightly added the epithet Germanicus to his titles after his campaign of AD 213 - but it all meant nothing in the end. Have a look at his visage below. To borrow a line from Bruce Springsteen: they're still there, he's all gone.
Biffinator