And so with this minor disappointment I think it's time to start a new volume.

Has it really been two whole volumes since we started?

And anyway, it occurs to me that only hosting a Rapier and Singlestick competition is more than a little limiting.

As one isn't even a sword.

And the other is just a stick.

Actually, winter can indeed be a little off season with regard to swordplay, so things may indeed get quiet around here. Lets hope not eh?

Despite this we have on on the horizon the BFHS Brighton Event in December. Those who have been following our adventures will know that we had a great time at the BFHS Cressing event. Lots of interesting workshops, fun folk to spar with, many different weapons to entertain us. A quick look at the Brighton programme has the Doctor particularly looking forward to a Military Sabre workshop by the Dawn Duellists, some more exposure to Bartitsu, and there seems to be some Backsword instruction too.

And of course, then there are the tournaments.

The tournaments at Cressing were absolutely cracking affairs. They were well organised and involved longswords, smallswords, sabres, singlesticks and even pugilism, grappling and fisty cuffs. It's a real delight to see the various groups show off the fruits of their hard training. In particular, it was most satisfying for one's victories to be judged subjectively by Those Who Know What They Are Talking About rather than fight to the touche for the marginal victories of my sport fencing days. My only regret is that we didn't get to see the rapierists fight the good fight - although there was an interesting demonstration.

Therefore I was really looking forward to the Brighton tournaments.

I say was for good reason, and at this juncture refer to my disclaimer at the top of this page - opinions expressed here are entirely my own. I'm rather pleased that this event will delight us with some rapier sparring. In fact, I may even enter. I have no idea how to fight rapier properly, however it's always an education to get slaughtered by someone who knows what they're doing.

I can assure you that the abject humilation infront of a crowd of jeering peers is more than compensated by the experience of being on the receiving end of a good trouncing. A Granstand seat, one could say.

The Doctor first learned such joys in his Sport Fencing days. Of particular note was facing a German International who hit me about half a second after fence! was called. Although I was facing my opponent for the entire 500 milliseconds of the bout this fearsome creature actually leapt high high into the air, stetched his weapon over my head and with a whip hit me between the shoulder blades. Although defeated it was a real pleasure to witness this first hand, up close, flying German.

But those were my sporting days when flick hits to the touche between the shoulder blades were considered sword play. Life has become far more martial since then, and these days such behaviour would get my German opponent a fist in the face and a kick in the balls mid-leap.

For Schola have dragged my swordplay from the modern sporting fence into the medieval fight. Literally kicking and screaming. The coaching from the Python and la Bete has combined the many tools I have at my disposal into one single martial approach. HEMA with a capital M.

Of course we don't fight to the death, but we do fight.

Which brings me back to Brighton, for the Doctor is somewhat dissapointed that the tournaments arranged are a step in the wrong direction for him. I've discussed the possibility of entering the rapier. This will be jolly interesting, but doesn't really give the Doctor the opportunity to perform. There will be no longsword, alas. I don't know why, but it means I won't be able to defend my victory at Cressing. Shame.

So this leaves the Glorianna cup.

The Python won the Glorianna cup at the last meeting, facing a light simulated smallsword whilst wielding a heavy simulated sabre. As I recently learned that there will be no longsword to distract me I have been looking forward to my attempt take the cup from the Python's mighty sabre. We have worked hard to push the weight of our simulated weapons to something nearing a real weapon, and have strengthened our arms to wield and to ward the downright blows of such a match.

But the Glorianna cup seems to have turned into a singlestick competition.

This ain't such a bad thing, but I do hope that I'm mistaken. It was singlestick that drew the Doctor away from his sporting roots and into a more martial approach. But they're lighter than a sword, and faster than a sword, and fighting just to the touche can get you points, and fighting to more than the touche can get you into trouble. All fought for points, like my old Sport Fencing days. I'm afraid it's still not quite far enought from sporting endevour to satisfy the Doctor that he is fighting with swords.

Fighting. Not fencing. And unfortunately the Brighton event allows no contact except between blades. No corp-a-corps. No strikes. No grappling. No throws. No locks. No Giocco Stretto of any kind.

No longswords?
No sabres?
No empty hand?
No strikes?
No grapples?
No locks?
Duelling?
To the touche?
For points?

I enjoy singlesticks very much. It's a fun discipline. But fighting to the touche whilst neglecting the rest of my fight seems like step backwards for the Doctor.

Of course, there is another explanation. The Doctor has been locked in battle and thus somewhat indesposed. He's been enganged in a titanic struggle with the algorithm he has spend 14 months constructing.

It's all grown up now, so we have been exercising it. Unfortunately it gets a little overexcited and I must metaphorically beat it back into its box with a stick. This has kept me somewhat preoccupied of late.

I don't doubt that at some point my algorithm will attmept to take over. If Star Trek has taught me anything it is that, like Data, it will suddenly start to behave oddly and attempt to take over the ship. Why they allowed Data onboard I will never know. Every other week this walking timebomb goes off the rails and attempts to take over the ship.

However, my algorithm is a linear programme which attempts to optimise operations in the real world. Perhaps I should release it and leave it to its own devices.

You will be Optimised.

I knew it. I bloody knew it. See what happens? See what happens when you let readers email you?

There you are happily assembling a comprehensive chronicle of Schola's history, completely anonymous, totally ignored and utterly unread. The next, you have readers scolding you for not posting for a few days.

Well I'm sorry. As I've pointed out, Real Life writes itself. I have no control of it. I too am tossed by the tides of fate. Tugged by the winds of fortune. Indeed, sometimes I can be tugged and tossed all day - and it would indeed be rude for the Doctor to spend his time online when he has a guest.

But I digress. I'm afraid I can only write it as happens, and sometimes it doesn't. The Python has been abroad, la Bete has abandoned the Doctor for the delights of a management course that he clearly regards as more interesting than the Doctor's diatribe, and nothing particularly interesting actually happens to the Doctor when he's on his own. I must either live an interesting life vicariously through Schola members, or simply get drunk and make my own news - but without an audience that is rather difficult.

Yes, yes, I know that Schola Days must act as a vital communications lifeline to those members of our swordly community who through no choice of their own must inhabit the isolated outlying reaches of Schola's sphere of influence. And so the staff at the Schola Days offices take their reponsibilities very seriously indeed - some of them are even sober after lunch. An incredible sacrifice, I know.

But exciting things can't happen all the time. And to suggest so would demand that we make things up. However, I know that you all have come to trust Schola Days as an accurate, unbiased objective source of vital swordly news.

And in other news, Tweedle Dum and Tweedle Dee had their first fitting for their gambesons last Schola Night. My Tailor turned up with tape measure and toil in hand and they busied themselves with much discussion on fabrics and colours. They are enormously excited. However, Tweedle Dum had a slight change of heart about the colour.

He original choice was a rather brave red. A bright red that would have shone like a beacon on the field of battle. However, now that he's actually seen what several yards of bright red material actually looks like he's retreated to a burgundy. Okay, okay, I can understand his motivations. However, I figure he should have kept his nerve.

In addition, the two Ts are also getting some additional embroidery on their gambeson. The Schola emblem will be embroidered over their hearts. How terrbly fancy. They are indeed going to look mighty fine in their new protective gear.

A nice solid Schola Night last night. Folk are drilling well and working hard. Nice.

As a result of a discussion on Sword Forum I find myself musing about the texts themselvse. Those dusty half millennium old manuals written by Fiore from which the Python draws his interpretation. What srtuck me what this - I haven't read them much. Nope. I idle through them from time to time, but I haven't really read them in depth. And I get to wondering why.

My conclusion is thus - quite simply I trust the Python's interpretation. As you can see having an able coach is a bit like the double edged sword we drill with. I trust his interpretation, so don't bother reading the manuals myself.

The Internet is a funny old thing. As one idles around the Internet one occasionally stumbles upon something that interests or amuses greately. But rather than continue to chuckle in the privacy one one's own little corner of the planet the Internet strangley motivates one to tell the entire world just how jolly pleased you are to have found a site worth your attention.

I figure it's like a reward system. Some chap amuses me, and so I reward him by sending everyone I can to his website. So, without further ado.

Hmm, a further suggestion for a Schola Patron has arrived from the Abominiation.

He figures Brian Blessed as Vultan.

Okay. I can see that.

La Bete is away for the rest of the week leaving the Doctor all alone in the cottage. All by himself. But, hey, we're in the middle of London here not some lonely out of the way cottage on the top of a howling windswept moor. So, there's nothing to worry about. All alone. In the house. It bothers the Doctor not as he distracts himself for a few hours by pottering around with the sundry projects that amuse him. But the sun eventually must turn back and leave the Doctor to negotiate the gloomy evening alone.

And so a darkness settles upon old London town and the Doctor's little experiments have run their course for the day. Time for a movie. And this evening's movie is 'The Bunker'. A British made movie that follows a group of German troops during the Second World War as they become trapped in a cold, bleak concrete bunker in their efforts to retreat from the Allies. But this is no war movie. Oh no. These troops have commited a minor atrocity or two that morning and it is preying on their minds. Then they discover the Big Scary Metal Door that leads them into the Dark Dank Creepy Tunnel System under their bunker. A tunnel system that holds all of their fears, all of their crimes and all of their guilt. It's dark. It's scary. This movie has everything. Nazis, physcopaths, ghosts, monsters, zombies, wails, benzedrine bravery, screams, medieval plauges, atrocities, war crimes death, horror.

The Doctor is no longer feeling quite so unconcerned.

For he is sitting on the comfy couch under a big duvet staring in wide eyed terror at the grisely demise of the Nazis. Pursued by their past demons and picked off by their present comrades. One by one. Doomed, they sink ever deeper into their own private physcoses.

Google 'zombie', 'machete' and 'ealing' together.

Yay!

Try 'zombie', 'bag', and 'ealing'

I often find myself musing, if Schola had a patron, who would it be?

Obviously it'd have to be someone who can cut a dash with a sword. Someone with a bit of dash. A bit of style. Handy with a blade and fearsome without. A skilled fighter but an accomplished lover. The certain something that makes him stand out in a crowd. Successful and popular amongst his peers, confident amongst strangers and well known in all the boroughs. Brave and bold in the face of unsurmountable odds. Someone Schola can really look up to, but is entirely approachable. Joie de vivre with je ne sais quoi.

Whose picture does this paint?

Oh, and we had another newcomer arrive last night. And this got me musing. Newcomers are welcomed into the club very quickly these days. For example, our new fellow was assigned the Parolee for the duration, who did a jolly good job taking our newcomer through the basics. The odd thing was, by the end of the evening it felt as if he had been with the club for ages.

The Python will once again be leaving us for a bit. He will be away in Vienna for the rest of the week to present some sort of historical academic research or other. I really must concentrate upon what the devil he is up to so that I can give a more comprehensive report of his endevours. Suffice to say, he's off to foreign climes to be very clever and knowledgeable infront of a large crowd of Those That Know Their Stuff. Unfortunately I'm too busy hitting folk to really concentrate properly. Perhaps he'll give a full report upon his return.

Which, with the Python away he will obviously not be in attendance on Schola Sunday. Me and la Bete are considering making Sunday a Fighting With Fists Day, for something is afoot.

A dark purpose stirs in the breast of Schola.

(La Bete bellows...

The Python is off to Vienna to present to museum curators from around the world on the evolution of the Longsword. Specifically, he is using historical fighting texts to illustrate his findings.

In fact, I was having too much fun. But it's sparring wirth friends. I'm not going to get hurt, and so we are once again removed from the reality of full on ugly violence. I know that. I understand our training for the possible competition for what it is. We're still in the domain of the Dojo Tiger, but let's see how far down the rough road we want to take things.

So, how did I do? Well, in the vertical fight I closed distance, I attacked, I got a few punches in. However, most were quite feeble. Tapping to score, rather than punching to hurt. Typically my punching simply came from my arm and hand and so landed lightly. But, hey, at least I did attack. I'll try to build a more solid foundation as things progress.

And in the horizontal fight? I actually managed to endure la Bete's opening grapple for a few seconds, but I certainly did not manage to prevent him taking me to the floor if he was determined. But once on the floor I kept fighting. I tried to gain an advantegous position, and sometimes even had at least a little success. But it was on the floor that I made my best improvement - that of keeping going.

For la Bete rung my bell good and proper. A nice powerful punch to my head and my brain was rattled and I was disorented for a moment - and then the instant headache. But I kept going. I took the blow and kept grappling. This is new. I would not have done that in the past. This pleases me.

In fact, at some point in the proceedings I actually rung la Bete's bell too. Quite mildly, but a ring all the same. I can't remember when or where, but apparently I actually managed to land one on good and proper. Go Doctor. This is indeed a first.

And one more thing, I employed a strategy on la Bete that has worked in the past. It's hardly a sensible option for Real Life but it amuses me when simply sparring. I have a little more stamina than la Bete. As a result when we are grappling on the ground and I find la Bete is beginning to tie me up with something unpleasant I take a break. In this case it was a choke of some description. But it's not going to go on fully as my arm is in the way. So I take a break. I let la Bete heave and heave on my head and I relax. And I can feel him getting tired. He's getting weaker. I'm on his chest so he is having trouble breathing. To pass the time I help him on the way with a few lazy punches to the stomach. And he weakens and weakens, and I rest and rest, and eventually he lets go - knackered. I find later that my devious little strategy was much aided by the fact that my shoulder was accidentally driven into his windpipe.

Okay, okay, so it's hardly a 'win', but it did amuse me so.

Armed with these thoughs in mind I go to Schola Night last night. And I give la Bete a poke, and a prod and eventually he is encouraged to spar with me. He puts up his dukes and so it happens - that reluctance to close distance. The feeling that I'm going to get myself battered to a pulp. And I remember Mr Thompson.

He tells me that the effects of that little adrenalin don't ever go away. It'll always happen. The trick is to control the effects. You can make use of it. So I don't treat it as fear. I think of it as excitement. Mr Thompson has an analogy of use here - the duck. Calm on the surface, legs going like the clappers under the water. And to achieve this I play act.

So I conjour all the cockyness I can muster, which if you know me is quite a lot. For a moment I pop my head over the fists of my guard and call la Bete a 'Great Big Girly Girl Who Couldn't Fight His Way Out Of His Bloody Handbag'. I repeat this. Often and loudly, with alternative improvisations.

And all of a sudden this fear falls away, and is replaced by the excitement I feel when I indulge in a little swordplay. And so I close, and I punch, and I kick, and indulge in all the devious little bastardness I can think of. And I'm doing fine. I'm doing okay. And I'm having fun.

He knocks me to the floor, and I get up. I abuse him some more, and I close and punch and kick. And he knocks me to the floor again. And I keep getting up because I'm flying. I'm not tired. I'll never tire.

But the Universe demands balance. With every high, there is a low. With every gain there is a loss. And if you tell 15 stone of fearsome Ginger Menace that you think he is a great big girly girl who couldn't fight his way out of his handbag, with enough repetition he's eventually going to believe you. And he's going to react. And so 5 minutes later he's sitting on my chest, pinning me to the floor, raining punches into my head.

I'm in a ball, covering my head and taking a restrained beating from the beast.

But I'm having a wonderful time.

The previous entry gets me thinking about the rest of the club. We have quite a few members who are relucatant to spar with even soft foam filled boffers. Until now I've never understood why - they cannot possibly get hurt when sparring against myself when wielding foam swords. In fact, the drilling they do with wooden wasters is actually more dangerous than sparring gently with foam.

But still they are reluctant.

Does the prospect of sparring even very gently give them a curious feeling in the pit of their stomach. A little excitement. A little adrenalin?

It is a bit odd actually. In my time I've had quite a few years of martial arts training. In fact, so much so that I should at least be reasonably comfortable with a bit of unarmed sparring. I'm perfectly happy to spar with swords, sticks, bits of pointed wood, clubs, axes. You name it - as long as I have something in my hand I'm fairly keen to spar. I love it.

But with nothing to defend myself with except my bare hands I baulk a little.

I assume this is because I'm scared. Although I have bounced around the dojo for some time, I don't really have much experience with full-on rough and tumble without a weapon. So, perhaps I'm simply scared. But of what? Of losing? Nope, I lose at swordplay all the time. In fact, that is when I learn most. Of getting hurt then? Nope. My Schola team mates are not going to seriously injure me in sparring. It's only a bit of friendly rough and tumble. Not even enough to worry the most ardent of Dojo Tiger. So, why am I shy to spar?

Because I'm scared. I must be. I can feel it.

And so once again Mr Geoff Thompson has a possible answer in his jolly interesting read 'Watch my Back' - his memoirs of working on the doors of pubs and clubs for many. In particular the way he describes and dissects his fears got the Doctor thinking.

Now, consider the subject matter. Bare hands fighting. It does occur ro me that using a sword quite literally puts some distance between you and your opponent. Much like a bomber pilot accused of distancing himself from the impacts of his load many thousands of feet below, I distance myself from my opponent by the length of a sword. I am quite literally one step removed from my opponent. And by association, I am perhaps psychologically one step removed from the reality of violence that our play fighting attempts to simulate.

But not so with empty hands. When sparring without a weapon I'm all too close to the action. When pressed against la Bete's sweating, snotty, bloody horror things are all a wee bit too reminiscant of real violence rather than the play I have indulged in so far. Such friendly sparring couldn't be further from the sort of horrors Mr Thompson describes in his memoirs, but it feels that little bit closer.

So perhaps this experience sets off some of the automated reactions one's body implements in the actual event of a full-on bloody encounter. And so with a little adrenalin I become 'scared'.

This doesn't happen to me often when engaged in sword play. In fact, only when I compete together with my clubmates against other groups do I feel this excitement that both invigorates and drains. But in this situation I recognise this feeling not as fear, but as excitement. And so I enjoy it. Immesely. I love competing with swords, and I love winning.

But when in a heaving, painful unarmed bundle I interpret exactly the same feeling as fear.

Schola Night was most fun last night, but had an interesting atmosphere. One I have not seen before. See, most evenings the Python will present something new and interesting for the assembled to get their heads around. However last night he simply got them knuckling down to drilling drilling drilling. And like a well oiled machine they did. For an hour or so the assembled simply cycled through drills suggested by the Python, and were then encouraged to start improvising. An you know what? They did. Happily. Happily drilling and drilling.

Sometimes one feels a certain obligation to entertain a class one is teaching by presenting new and exciting things they have not seen before. However, our current Schola population seem committed to each improving and contributing to a rise in the overall standard. They all seem to understand that this takes repetition. And they all seem happy to do so. For hours. This is most pleasing.

And indeed the standard is improving. And I should know, for my present role seems to be to mingle amongst the assembled and provide a little correction here, a little explanation there. And as the weeks roll on I have to do this less and less.

I'll be redundant soon.

A pleasant weekend seems to have been had by all. This weekend was the Python's 'surprise' birthday party. The Doctor could not attend as he had a most lovely date lined up. And very lovely it was too.

As a result of all this partying I'm afraid Schola Sunday was a bit of a washout. Okay, so everybody turned up, but then simply gazed offf into the middle distance and mused about their hangovers. So, instead the Doctor went to the local DIY shop and bought some necessary raw materials for his latest experiment. For I am trying to determine the best way to make lonngsword guards for shinai out of fibreglass and resin.

Schola Barracks are now well and truly secure from Zombie Attack, for our matching pair of 24" Cold Steel Latin Machete have arrived.

It's Friday, and the Doctor has been rather the busy chap recently. Hence I've been neglecting the readership. What's been happening? Schola Night was fun as usuual. The Python and la Bete presented their new mix of longsword and knife drilling subtly combined with extreme violence. All are improving.

This week's feature was the prescence of my Tailor. He popped along to get the measure of Tweedle Dum and Tweedle Dee, for they desire some Sporting Gambesons. Despite my warnings, Tweedle Dee insististed upon black for his gambeson. I told him that this would not show up very well on camera, but he insisted. Okay, if he wants to be black and tactical, then so be it. Tweedle Dum seems to have chosen a deep dark evil red.

Apparently these tailor made to measure gambeson will be ready in only a few weeks. How very exciting. That makes four. We will indeed look mighty fine when we are all suited up.

Schola Sunday was a low key affair - just the four of us. In particular, la Bete was missing for la Bete had romantic destinations. Ain't that sweet? However, much hard work was in evidence and improvements made. In fact, for what must be the first time ever I got within grappling distance of the Python whilst sparring longsword. I didn't actually grapple him though, as we were both so very surprised at this turn of events that we just stared at one another in wonder.

This Schola Sunday I had the opportunity to try out some new kit. I'm afraid the rest of this entry is quite quite boring. However, to those who might be interested, here goes.

First, my gloves. I have eventually discovered the perfect glove for sparring. Not so light that agony follows a hit to the hand, but not so heavy that holding swords, grappling etc is impeded. I have modified the summer motorcycle gloves I have been using for the last year or so. I like these gloves because they are tough flexible leather with plastic inserts along the knuckes for punching folk in the head. However, as they are summer gloves they only provide a single layer of leather on the fingers. Thus a hit to the fingers is somewhat painful. Quite simply I have glued 7mm thick dense foam rubber inside these gloves. Over the back of the hand and along the backs of the fingers. The first wear was a bit of a squeeze, but the nice thing about leather is that it stretches to accommodate. I now sport nice flexible light gloves, that contain just enough protection to prevent a hit to the hand from being bloody agony. Perfect.

In addition to the gloves I also tried out some new footwear - mainly in an attempt to eventually solve my bloody affliction with Fiore's Ankle. One wants one's footwork to be fast and light, and so folk will typically sport some sort of sport training shoe. Personally I have favoured squash shoes for years. However, I decided that I needed some sort of support for my ankles. In additon, I decided that I actually needed to make my footwork more firm. Typically I will skip and jump and dance around to avoid my opponent. But for longsword I want something a little more grounded.

Thus I have switched to wearing large black high ankled army boots.

Okay, perhaps I can hear a collective cry of horror from the assembled, and rightly so. How ever is one going to dance in those? Well, one cannot. But these boots have slowed down my footwork only a little. In fact, to the Python's eye they have actually made my footwork firmer. I am less likely to use my footwork to escape my opponent, but instead trudge toward my opponent with a certain inevitability.

But the Doctor is aquainted with a lovely young lady who's Father has been an Officer in Her Majesty's Forces for many decades. This thoroughly attractive young lady heartily dissaproves, as years of Army boots have apparently done her Father's feet no good whatsoever. The Doctor is very much disinclined to dissappoint a pretty girl, and so elected to do something about this. In fact, she is quite right. Although these boots support my ankles well, the are still rather flat and continue stretch my achillies out in Bad Ways.

So, I went to the sports shop and purchased some shock absorbing insoles and jelly like silicone heel inserts for these boots. In fact, these are so thick that I gain an additional inch in height when I wear them. Thus, armed with boots and bouncing party insoles I headed towards the park with a definite and literal spring in my step.

And you know what? They worked. Perfectly. It's the day after sparring and I have not the slightest pain in my achillies whatsoever.

Phewee, the Doctor has been a busy boy. He's been making movies. Specifically, movies of our Cutting party a couple of weeks ago. So, without further ado, here you go.

• Part 1, in which we cut with two handers.
• Part 2, in which single handers are employed.
• Part 3, where all sorts of other unpleasantly sharp objects are used.

Perhaps a little explanation is required - particualrly for Part 1. See, it is rather too easy to dub Heavy Metal over sword fighting footage every single time. It is an enormous cliché. So, I thought it'd be rather amusing to employ a different cliché for a change. I thought I'd try a ballad. 'The first cut is the deepest' seemed to me to be an appropriate gag, considering the sword related material, and the fact that this is the first part of this movie endevour. And so armed with a rather slow sentimental tune I set to.

But what to do, what to do? Get in the mood first, I figured. So, I imagined that the entire club had been lost over the Alps upon their victorious returm from the World Longsword Championships. A real Buddy Holly moment*. With this in mind the rest was easy. Lots of slow motion. The occasional turn to camera. Long slow easing into heroic looking stills.

It really takes very little talent to conjour up such overwhelming cliché. I'm quite pleased with the result.

The other two movies where quite straightforward. A little appropriate upbeat tune which is popular with the Python for the single handers, and the rather obvious use of Blur for the cleaverplay.

Enjoy.

*(An Abominable Aside...

Cool, I've always wanted to try cannibalism. Next time we fly I will remember to take a proper selection of condiments if you think this is a serious possibility.

And so what is the problem with the Doctor's empty hand repertiore? Well, it's the lack of experience I suppose. I know quite a bit of Kung Fu and Jui jitsu repertiore, but don't really have the experience to know how to apply it. But one can't learn how to apply this repertoire if someone is punching you in the head. So, I need a progression.

Fortunately Mr Geoff Thompson has some advice in his fine work 'Real Punching' - chapter 13.

'Pyramid your sparring, start at the bottom with light sparring or even restricted sparring. As you confindence and skill increases so should the severity of your sparring.

If you jump in at the deep end right from the start it is likely thst your progress will be slow, believe me, if you think you are going to be trounced every time you make a mistake you will not take any chances and try out new techniques, relying upon the moves that you know will work for you. So, better start of light.'

And he continues later on Light Sparring..

'...everything may be practised in the full knowledge that no matter what mistakes you or you opponent might make, you will not be penalised for it with a heavy counter blow.'

Thanks Mr Thompson. That's where I need to start.

Well, what can I say? Although it is my duty to chronicle this saga that is Schola sometimes this reporter has difficulty finding the words to describe some of the truly excellent events - for Schola Night was a triumph.

The Python and la Bete got their heads together and training session that in this reporter's opinion was a near perfect mix of subtle tactical discourse combined with a brutal violence.

The Python started by continuing his attempts to encourage a little Giocco Stretto. Thus we drilled a simple phrase, but were encouraged to enter grappling range and make a grab for targets with our left hand. At this point the Doctor decided to make a small contribution. Usueally the Doctor will mingle amongst the assembled and correct simple mistakes. However, this evening he decided to help raise the energy level a little. Thus he chose a good robust partner and enaged inthis drill. Vigorously. The Doctor's theory was this - if he drills like a maniac, it will spread. Those around will start drilling like maniacs, and thus the whol clubhouse will resound to the clattering and battering of sword wielding maniacs.

It's hard for me to determine the success of this endevour, as I was lost in a little world of my own. However, I figured the class looked reasonably exercised and sweaty by the end of this prologue. The Python then cooled everyone down with an interesting practical discussion on Fiore's guards.

Once complete the Python then handed over to la Bete who drilled us in knife defenses. Drilling done he then elected to test the assembled under a little pressure. So, the class is directed to stand in a circle and two enter this ring. Both are clad in boxing heard guards. One is provided a knife. The knife weilder is directed to hit the other as many times as possible over the course of a few minutes. A frantic bundle ensues, but both are directed not to grapple, but to block and manouever.

Every 30 seconds the circle is diminished in diameter.

A superb drill, and a nice way to confine the action and imcrese the pressure.. In fact, creating a ring out of thew assembled is actually a nice way to ensure a little safety. If either participant reaches the edge of the circle they are gently but firmly directed back into the fray by the spectators - this is a nice way to prevent such a drill from ranging all over the avaialble clubhouse.

Once all had been thoroughly drilled the Python ended with another drill - something not unlike a Jui Jitsu 'V' that is somewhat familiar to the Doctor. Queue the whole class up and arm them with training knives. stand someone facing the front of the que and direct each member of the class to make one simple 'zombie' attack. The victim must simple deal with the knife and move to the next.

As you might imagine, by the end of the class Schola was fully drilled, thoroughly exercised, and entirely overexcited. Between them the Python and la Bete gave us quite the lesson.

So, we first broke the ice on Sunday. La Bete provided the Doctor, the Abomination and the Parolee with a simple drill. We have hypothesised that if many decisions at Cressing '05 were made on the basis of grappling, then we'd best learn to close distance, get inside the opponent's guard, and give them a grappling that they will not forget in a hurry.

Bugger. I'm crap at grappling.

So, for example, the Doctor stood infront of the Parolee, and swung his arms to simulate easy slow slow hooks or straights.The Parolee would simply form a cover for his head with raised arms and hunched shoulders, and attempt to close as fast, hard and with outstretched speared arms using much vigour and aggression as necessary, perhaps using bobbing and ducking to augment the cover to his head. Simple.

This example provides a brief essence of la Bete's approach. With so little time before December it is perhaps unwise to load us with a large quantity of repertoire. Thus la Bete is providing simple direct principles, upon with we will load ourselves with as much experience as possible.

But this endevour is not all about the empty hands competition - for it has benefits on the side. Those who have studied longsword for a bit will have noticed that longsword has a large grappling element. Once the distance has closed one must employ some grappling repertoire. However, the Python has noticed that many are either reluctant to grapple, or unable to grapple.

The empty hands event at Cressing '05 was predominantly decided by grappling.

So, in theory if one improves one's ability at empty hands, one will improve one's longsword.

The BFHS occasionally hold an 'empty hands' competition. We were aware of it before we attended Cressing '05. However, for a variety of reasons none of Schola entered. Some felt insufficiently skilled to enter what we thought could simply be an unlicenced boxing competition. Some felt that they didn't want to take their martial arts in a competative direction, but instead retain their fight for the street. Some simply wanted to keep their nose unbroken.

However, when we witnessed this competition the Doctor percieved a slight collective sigh from the assembled Schola. We really should have entered. The competion was well organised, and involved some handy looking guys. However, the event was well controlled and even the Doctor felt that he could have at least entered and contributed. We won all the swordplay at Cressing. It would have been nice to also make an attempt at the empty hands.

But the Doctor is not so great at empty hands.

However he has elected to give it a try next time around. He'd like to test himself, just once. The next event is in December and the Doctor is going to give it a try, and has managed to recruit the skills of la Bete to get him up to speed. He's not looking to recruit anyone else into this endevour, as the possibility of getting one's head punched in is quite real.

However, he'd really appreciate some company on this short journey if anyone is feeling brave.

The Black Widow strikes...!

Dear Doctor,

I write to you today with a troubled mind. I have been studying "Schola Days" most carefully, and have come to the astounding conclusion that something is missing.

With all this exhortation to violence, what of Schola's souls? Many eastern martial arts have a basis in spirituality and yet this appears to be lacking in our beloved Schola. So, I implore you, please spread the word of the true church:

[..the word..]

As pastafarians positively encourage swashbuckling on Fridays, I feel this is the ideal path to enlightenment for Schola. (As a scientist you will of course be impressed by the scientific evidence linking global warming to the decline in the number of buccaneers, particularly as there are graphs.)

May we all be touched by His noodly appendage,

Ramen

Oh, and something I've been meaning to mention all week - Bloody Austrailians.

While I'm on the topic of the Parolee, allow me to provide an anecdote from last Tuesday night - last Schola Night. The trickle of newcomers continues, which is a delight. Thus, on Schola Night we had this new fellow come along who joined in with our cutting drill right away. As is our sport these days, the Doctor and la Bete like to guess what folk may have studied prior to turning up at Schola - particularly if they look coordinated. Well, this new fellow got the hang of cutting in no more than five cuts. He needed no correction or instruction whatsoever. He simply looked at what everybody else was doing and copied them. We have been here before with the Parolee.

So, the Doctor and la Bete engage in their sport. La Bete reckoned possibly Aikido. The Doctor figured TKD. So, with bets laid the Doctor made enquiries. TKD or Aikido, he asks?

'I'm an Australian.', he responds.

Fuck me, they are always doing this. I really wouldn't mind if they were coming over here, taking our jobs and stealing our women. But must they make learning to swordfight look so easy?

It took me and la Bete many bloody months to understand the basics.

Bloody bloody sodding sporty bloody Australians.

Schola are back in the fight. After a necessary four week break Schola once again returned to Gunnersbury park for some practise. However, the first spar after a break is always a little unpleasant. It's quite surprising how much your performance can drop after only a small break. Thus, if the rest of the assembled's performance was anything like the Doctor's then Schola indulged in quite a few hours of wild flailing and ill-advised repertiore.

In particular, everybody got hit often in their Sour Spot. One's sour spot is that bit on your body that one get predominately hit upon. In the case of the Abomination, it is his left nipple. With the Doctor it is the fingers of his right hand. Fuck me they hurt today.

And as usual the greatest Finger Collector was the Parolee. He managed to hit me on them every time. I figure he was a little overexcited to be back sparring, for he also poked a finger in my left eye and punched me in the jaw. But I shouldn't complain. If I don't want hit on the fingers then I shouldn't bloody place them in the path of his shania, should I? However, as you can imagine this session was accomapnied by a good deal of bitching and moaning about sore fingers.

There was a minor upside to the Doctor's efforts this Sunday, for he learned a old trick. I was getting so damned pissed off with the dings to the fingers that I decided to simply ignore what the Parolee is doing. 'Bloody right..', I though, '...as soon as the bastard moves I'm simply going to counter attack as hard as possible'. No messing, just aim for my opponent and batter him, but ensuring that my attack closes his potential lines of attack.

This is, of course, what one is supposed to be doing all along.

However, it seems that I must get a little riled to commit myself properly to the attack and trust that the line closing will save me. And you know what? It worked. Perfectly. I managed four perfect counters to Parolee in a row. Four. Bang!. Very hard. Very fast. And very covered.

Grignr spread his legs into a battle stance, steeling his quivering thews for a battle royal with a thing he knew not how to fight. Carthena wound her arms about her protectors neck, mumbling, "Kill it! Kill!" While her entire body trembled. - The eye of Argon, Jim Theis.

Too true. This sort of thing happens to me all the time.

Schola Days has been described as 'A sort of Boswell to Schola's collective Johnson'.

And so, with the Zombie Bag introduced, we can now proceed with #4 in a series that I have unfortuantely not yet bored of - despite the odds.

Reasons the learn swordfighting #4: La Bete's Zombie Fantasy

I assume that upon reflection the possibility of being flung back to the Viking Age may seem a little far fetched to la Bete. However this is no reason to neglect his training in swordplay, as far more immediate and pressing concerns wrinkle his little ginger brow.

A combination of real life news events and too much television has caused la Bete to worry about the possibility of a Zombie Attack. This explosive concoction has motivated la Bete to prepare for the worst. And it seems likely to la Bete that the worse is a possible zombiefying T-virus like outbreak in London.

He has a point actually, as such zombie outbreaks seem far more likely to occur in grey old London than somewhere sunny and nice like Hawaii. This is because, when filmed just right, London can appear a whole lot more creepy - and as a zombie's main objective in life is to be creepy then it seems logical that they would congregate here.

So, a gold star to la Bete for working that one out.

But would they attack Ealing? We have no need to speculate, for this has already happened at least once before. In fact, the more one thinks about it, the more likely it seems. Perhaps la Bete does indeed have a point. It seems clear that the Zombies will attack at night, for the aforementioned reasons. However, signs and portents will have been building for days, which give la Bete time to sharpen his machete.

Anyway, they will attack at night, but la Bete will have already taken the precaution of boarding up his bedroom window and preparing a barricade for his door. Once one has battled with the undead for a few hours one is always beaten back to an upstairs room. So, it's best to be prepared. La Bete figures that he'll be able to hold out in his bedroom for some hours before he runs out of pornographic magazines and rap CDs. Boredom will then force him to fight his way to his car. But this is the moment he will have been waiting for.

All his life.

Unfortunately, all he will have for protection with be a longsword, a schiavona, a huge collection of knives, a Victorian train guard's sword, a blunt mortise, a sword stick, two leather saps, an axe, a crowbar, a baseball bat, and of course the 24" machete that I am purchasing for him as a present.

I think you can see where I'm going here.

To escape, la Bete is going to need all his sword fighting powers to hack his way through his barricaded bedroom door. He will then have to hack his way through the packed masses of the putrid undead to cross the landing and through the Doctor's open bedroom door. He will then gently shake the Doctor awake and quietly inform him that it is definitely Time To Go.

With a sleepy Doctor trailing behind la Bete will have to fight his way downstairs, into the backgarden and towards the car. Of course with Schola training this should all be fairly easy. Once at the car he will direct the Doctor to the passenger side, slay his way back around the front, open the car door, jump into the seat and start the engine - remembering of course to put on his seatbelt. Safety first, after all.

However, it seems very likely indeed that in his attempts to enter the passenger side, the Doctor will of course be grabbed by the fetid zombie hordes. Typically this grabbing will be by the ankle as the Doctor attempts to enter the car. Half in, half out of the passenger side, drama demands that the Doctor ask to be left behind, thus sacrificing himself so that his friend can make good his escape.

I can tell you now that this is very unlikely.

In calm, measured tones the Doctor will politely inform la Bete that the Hordes of the Undead are about to drag him to his doom, and would la Bete mind extracting the Doctor from this unpleasant potentiality. With a roll of the eyes La Bete will therefore have to stop the engine, undo his seatbelt get out of the car and once again use his swordplay skills to hack his way back around the front of the car. He will then hack off the offending zombie limb that has a hold of the Doctor's ankle and bundle the Doctor into the passenger side. He will than fight his way back around the front of the car and climb in. As you can see, la Bete's need to learn swordplay is quite pressing. Once in the car la Bete will then press his foot to the floor, and impress the Doctor with his driving skills. Thus they will escape from London - but remember to stop at the local garage to stock up on Scotch Eggs and Ginster's Pies.

A long long time ago I wittered at length on the topic of equipment. I was reminded of this, and earlier, wittering when I was watching this movie. It is a brief film of European Sport Fencing vs Kendo.

It's a mildly entertaining little film, but one thought struck me most.

But before I tell you about la Bete's zombie fantasy, I have to tell you about la Bete's Zombie Bag. Recent events in New Orleans have caused la Bete to worry about the complete breakdown of society and the possibility that he may have to survive for a few days in a post apocalyptic London as he makes his escape.

He really shouldn't be allowed to watch the news.

As a result of his concerns la Bete has eventually got round to assembling his 'Zombie Bag'. A Zombie Bag is a small rucksack chock full of essentials to keep one alive and comfortable in the unlikely event that Zombies Attack.

Clearly his computer gaming time should also be strongly curtailed.

I'm also considering banning him from chatting on-line to those nice folks who live up mountains in log cabins with the express intention of being the only one left alive after chaos has struck. As laudible as their intentions may be, their efforts can adversely influence impressionable minds such as la Bete.

Anyway, back to The Bag. It is a nice, new, small, tactical black rucksack. It now contains all sorts of handy nick-nacks for surviving the apocalypse. First aid kits, rations, tools, hundreds of metres of para-cord - that sort of thing. All in tactical black, of course. In fact, perhaps la Bete could mail Schola Days with his entire shopping list, for our perusal.

Despite his efforts, it does seem unlikely that zombies will attack.

However, I am being careful not to scoff too much.

Take a break from reading all of this nonesense. Take a break, and then I'll tell you all about la Bete's zombie fantasy.

Enjoy some of Talhoffer's messer

The Doctor enjoys this sort of thing. So does la Bete. In fact, they enjoy this sort of cleaverplay so much that la Bete has ordered a matching pair of Cold Steel 24" Latin Machetes. One for la Bete, and one for the Doctor.

I sometimes question why we are considered perfectly normal, fine upstanding citizens. In fact, as a result of our gas leak the other day we have had a number of chaps through the cottage fixing this that and the other. One of these tradesman took one look at the manner in which the cottage is 'decorated' and asked la Bete, 'Are you expecting trouble?'. With a completely straight face la Bete's response was simple, direct.

Yes.

Fine gents in paintings often sport a fine sword to go with their emsemble. In fact, to pose for their painting they must have donned their finest threads and buckled on their favorite sword. A fine figure of a Modern Swordsman is then ready for his closeup.

And I gets to thinking, I'm a Modern Swordsman. If I donned my nicest threads and buckled on my favorite sword I figure I'd be in a nice black suit with a 1796 Light Cavary Sabre by my side. Quite the dashing figure I'd be. In fact, that'd be a nice theme for a swordly party - Suits and Swords. Everyone in their best with their finest sword. Quite the dash we'd all cut.

Hmm, perhaps as the evening wore on I'd change into something more comfortable. A 24" black machete perhaps. Or just a simple hatchet.

Which leads me onto the Cold Steel 1796 Light Cavalry Sabre, for one arrived a number of weeks ago and I have not yet mentioned it. Purchasing a sword is a Big Deal for the Doctor, for in all his years of swordplay he has never actually owned his own sword. I am now complete. I absolutely love it and Plan A is complete.

Light and stylish, but a real brutal cleaver.

Whilst I am on the topic of comedy, Schola's very own Black Widow emailed Schola Days with a most amusing link that I have been saving for a rainy day. I quote.

The unique prose style is truly an inspiration
- The Black Widow.

Indeed it is, for it has inspired the wooden cogs of the Doctor's brain to begin to turn. And in their turning the following thought emerged. Intentionally or not, this stuff in already rather funny. It seems that at some geekish conventions it is regarded as a challenge to read this tale as far a possible with a straight face.

But the thought that creeps into the Doctor's brain is this - has anyone ever had the nerve to commit this story to audio? Like the World's Funniest Joke of Python fame, it does seem that reading the whole story in its entirety would be unwise. But little by little one could use one's digital toys to slowly assemble an attempt to at least provide some flavour of the original piece.

One could start with just a snippet.

As a test.

In fact, a whole gallery of snippets would be amusing.

Uh oh.

The Doctor's brain is turning.

Joke:

How many Freudians does it take to change a lightbulb?

Two.

One to hold the lightbulb and the other to hold my penis.

Sorry, I mean, my mother.

The Internet is indeed a powerful tool. The Doctor can create a movie to illustrate Schola's progress, and a few minutes later someone on the other side of the world can watch it, muse about it, and suddenly all those swordly individuals all over the world seem that bit closer.

For example, our reader Raj hails all the way from the city of Chennai on the East Coast of the Indian peninsula, but currently resides near Philadelphia in the US. That's quite a reach considering the few resources needed. The Doctor did post-doctoral research into the use of the Internet in this manner, but the power of it still amazes him.

Now, Raj studies the japanese swordsmanship disciplin of Muso Jikiden Eishin Ryu. I've never even heard of this style. But montion of other sytles does remind me of an objective of Schola's. Many martial arts can claim a continuous unbroken lineage far back into history. Despite the survival of European arts such as boxing, fencing, countless wrestling styles, and historial swordplay dotted here and there, I don't think many practitioners of the older styles such as those described by Fiore tend to make such a claim. But all this study of centuries old texts needs some grounding in reality. It needs some pressure testing.

Schola do their best to pressure their abilities amongst themselves, and amongst the European swordplay community at large. However, there seems little harm in turning to other styles and seeking assistance.

As a result, Schola are very keen to train and spar with other groups who practise other styles from all over the world. For example, we have developed a good relationship with some Gatkha groups in London with whom we have sparred and from whom we have drawn ideas to direct our own training. We are fortunate that our London location provides us the opportunitythis next request is as this is really quite a pleasure. Thus, this next request is directed it you Reader. If you fight with all manner swords, polearms, axes, clubs, sticks, knives, Schola would love to hear from you for a little 'cutural exchange'.

The train of thought travelled by boys and girls do indeed often arrive at different destinations.

The Doctor has been sitting at work all day with an enormous headache. A real migrane type humdinger. However, he was cheered by a phonecall from a delightful young lady of his aquaintance. She cheered him up, and gave him the opportunity to have a good grumble about his headache.

'You have had a bit of a busy weekend', she noted. And she should know, for it was she with whom I was busy.

'Perhaps you are just a little overtired from your exertions', she adds. Knowingly.

'Headaches are often caused by tension.', she continues in sweet tones.

'You need to be relaxed.'

The young Doctor is beginning to forget his headache, for his train of thought has left the station and is chugging off on a merry fantasy. All aboard for Happy Valley!

'Alternatively, you could just approach one of the girls in your office...', she suggests helpfully.

The Doctor is now taken aback by this somewhat unexpected turn in the conversation. Was this young lady making a rather broadminded suggestion to embark upon a most unprofessional course of action, simply to cure myself of a nagging headache?

'... as girls often carry painkillers in their handbags.', she concludes.

A somewhat tiring weekend was had by Doctor. He is a bit pooped.

Friday night was date night for the Doc. So, off to a pretty girl's house for dinner and fizzy nice drinks and other blissful endevour. As a result Saturday continued to be blissful. However, I won't go into details here lest I turn your stomach.

Despite these physical exertions the Doctor still had Sunday to get through - A Mammoth Schola Cutting Party. This cutting exercise was indeed a triumph. Quite a number of the chaps attended and all had brought targets for our entertainment. A mountain of plastic bottles was gathered, plus enough fruit and veg to feed a small village. In addition, many of our little militia had brought swords. We had heaps and heaps and heaps of swords. Enough to make quite a number of ploughshares, had the fruit sued for peace.

I have to tell you now that no such undertaking was received.

And so with swords in hand hostilities began. Schola used the long poles recovered earlier in the week to create a sort of 'Cutting Cage'. However, this domestic pallisade looked to me more like a sort of ritual altar one would find on a fictional island in some novel of Pacific bound high adventure. It's actually quite hard to describe what is actually fun about spending the day chopping things up with swords. I've spent some time trying to conjour up some clever prose that will turn you on to the whole thing. Strictly speaking, one of us picks up a sword we like the look of. A target is chosen and, snick, it is chopped in half. For safety reasons there was not even the refuge of booze to provide tales of drunken japery and highjinks. Not very interesting reportage.

But do not dispair, for help is at hand. Schola will, of course, be creating a movie of the event for your entertainment. Perhaps this will enlighten. Do be patient though, for the Doctor has 2 hours of footage to trawl through. Perhaps he'll be done in a week or two. Patience.

Much to my surprise, cutting is actually a tiring buisness. Never before had Schola had such a glut of targets. This took us hours and hours to get through. As we didn't want to waste any opportunity for cutting, an unspoken consensus arose which motivated the assembled crew to cut everything available. No target was to be left uncloven. As a result we actually had to form a cutting chain gang. We were forced to form a queue on one side of the cutting block, targets in hand. Targets were cloven. Weapons were passed up and down the queue. And eventually we managed to get through everything.

In fact, during the final hour of cutting, the Doctor cut so often and became rather tired that he actually began to forget how. He lost his mojo. Most upsetting. It actually took a little concentration to begin cleaving succesfully once more.

And what did we learn? Well, we learned to cut. We learned that if we didn't cut with a certain accuracy our weapon would simply bounce off a target, no matter how hard we tried. Just because one has hit one's opponent, does not necessarily mean one has hurt one's opponent. How disconcerting would that be in a duel?

But at the end of the day we were surrounded by the shattered bodies of many plastic bottles, and the crumpled, cloven and juicy remains of so much fruit. I did feel a little guilty, for the Doctor's Mother would definately dissaprove at the waste of good food. And talking of parents, as the Python lives in a lovely third floor flat in Ealing an alternative cutting site had to be found. Now, Schola Days is aware that the Python's Father reads this site.

Yesterday the Doctor was rather the Schola overachiever. We have our cutting party at the weekend, and so need something to balance our targets upon. And so with this thought chugging around in the Doctor's brain he spies outside his gym of preference no less than seventeen, 6 foot long, 2 inch wide tent poles.

What are tent poles doing outside a gym, you may ask? Well, Gary's Gym is a Proper Gym. It's full of huge guys lifting extraordinarily heavy weights. Not one of your comfortable MTV gyms, oh no. A proper Manly Gym. So rather than some lovely purpose built-air conditioned-carpeted-jogging machined-step workout-jacuzzied hotel this gym took over the local Sea Scout hut.

It may be interesting to include a brief historical note here. This scout hut is the very same scout hut that the Python did dib-dib-dib part of his youth in when he was but a nipper.

The gym, of course, inherited all the scout equipment but seems to have no use for it. So, Schola are intent on recovering the good stuff. The long poles of the giant Scout tent are ideal for balancing cutting targets upon. We are considering recovering the entire enormous green canvas tent. We coud hold lectures in it when we go to the Royal Gunpowder Mills. This tent could actually bring back some memories for the Python as it may even be the very same tent that the young Python shared with 36 other young lads out in the healthy countryside, sleeping in neat rows, all playing with their ging-gang-goolies. Back in the old days, when men were men, and boys will be boys.

On the other hand, Schola have little use for the two outboard marine engines, 36 wooden paddles, one giant perished rubber dingy and the box of large letters that strangely seem to spell the words 17th ANAL SIEGE SCOUTS.

However, the Doctor was on a roll. Not only did he recover these ideal poles with the help of the Python, but he also collected a whole bunch of empty plastic water bottles from the gym - for targets.

But he doesn't stop there. On his way through the gym he also stops briefly to recruit into Schola a ninjitsu practitioner.

Actually, discussion of our Yorkshire reader has reminded me of a gross omission. I forgot to ask where our reader Raj was mailing from.

How terribly remiss of me.

Yet another reader has washed up on the sun dappled shores of Schola Days island. Whilst in Cornwall making bronze swords our reader spied the Python's Schola Gladiatoria tshirt. Hardly surprising really, as the Schola Gladiatoria General Order #1 is to always advertise our prescence at every opportunity. Great big Schola emblems emblazoned upon ourselves is de rigour

As a result of this advertising onslaught our reader was motivated to track down our site. A great big public hello there to you from all the staff of the Schola Days publishing offices.

This reader is from Yorkshire. The Doctor knows Yorkshire, for this is where he did his PhD in tricky mathematics. It was tempting to actually make this the title of my thesis - Tricky Mathematics: A study

Anyway, our Yorkshire reader now has a lovely new bronze sword and is wondering what to do with it.

Cut! Cleave! Slice!

The Python has just been asked by a collegue if he would run the Marathon this year for charity.

He declined.

However, in an attempt to encourage the Python his collegue has pointed out that 'it would be for blind children'.

Have I directed budding sworders to Sword Forum? I figure I aught to now and then - an essential conduit to all those other swordly types all over the world. If further convincing is required, allow me to furnish you with an example of the sort of serious discussion that goes on via this vital communications link.

The topic under discussion was the practicality of the Buttered Cat Power Generation Turbine. My response details some of my earlier research on the topic.

- The Doctor.

Schola Night was again a cracking evening. The clubhouse was packed to the gunnels with Scholas. We've had quite the influx of newcomers recently. Good 'uns too. Actually, I believe that's the most I've ever seen in the clubhouse. Last night one had to positively crawl through a forest of wasters to negotiate the hall. To quote Police Chief Martin Brody, 'We're gonna need a bigger boat... '

And chop and hack and slay they did, all night, like proper troopers. I do believe it to be not entirely inappropriate to suggest that Schola are indeed flourishing. For me, this is a delight.

Last night we also had visitors, Jeroen, Paul, Brock and Claudia with whom we chat to on Sword Forum.

The Python spent his weekend with our visitors forging and assembling bronze swords and had spent the day visiting museums with them. Hence he invited them to Schola Night. As a result we had our first ever Educational Break during Schola Night. We've never had an Educational Break before. This interlude was a short presentation on the Bronze swords the Python et al had fashioned over the weekend.

Oooh, heavy leaf bladed bronze swords - like a machete, but not a machete.

Continuing my current series that details reasons to learn sword fighting, it's about time I presented la Bete's mentalist ravings on the topic. Here goes.

Reasons to learn swordfighting #3:

According to la Bete it is just possible that he might accidentally find himself swept up in some sort of freak time-travel accident. As a result, of the many many possible temporal destinations, la Bete may find himself swept through the currents of time to be unceremoniously dumped in Scandanavia somewhere, possibly during the time of the Vikings' most expansionist endevours. La Bete may be without his Zombie Bag*.

It's possible that in his attempts to find food and shelter the cold nothern fogs may hide from him the fact that he has stumbled into a Viking encampment. He'll obviously notice eventually, but not until it's far too late. Now, la Bete's very pale skin may allow him to pass as a native. However, they're going to be suspicious. They are probably going to be especially suspicious if time-travel only allows living flesh to travel. Those clever chaps in Hollywood suggest that this may indeed be the case.

So, we can now picture a possible and potentially volatile scene - la Bete thrown back in time, in Viking country, standing in the middle of their village, naked.

If you were a Viking, what would you do faced with this hideous creature? Obviously la Bete is not going to be mistaken for human. They're going to be afraid. They're obviously going to try and drive this foul creature from their midsts. They'll probably start by waving a flaming torch at him. This approach will probably not succeed, for la Bete will probably light his cigarette on it with a friendly 'cheers' **.

The Vikings will clearly have to drive la Bete from their village using pitchforks and hounds.

I guess that la Bete will probably manage about 50 yards before exhaustion overwhelms him and the Vikings catch him. After a bit of a mauling he will befriend the hounds. The Vikings will drag him off, and keep him in a filthy shed with his new friends.

Now, it seems pretty obvious to la Bete that the fairest and prettiest of the Viking girls will have the job of feeding the hounds. It's clear that these foul circumstances and the wretched state of la Bete will cause her to take pity on him. La Bete reckons that this fair and pretty Viking maiden will no doubt fall madly in love with him. I haven't the heart to correct this misapprehension.

But of course the fairest and prettiest of the Viking girls will be betrothed to the largest, hansomest and most fearsome of the young Viking men. This stands to reason. I think you can see where he's going here. Should this chain of events actually occur la Bete is obviously going to have to fight this mighty Viking warrior.

And this is why he trains with Schola. After falling through time into the Viking period he's going to have to fight a mighty Viking warrior for the hand of a fair maiden. It's obvious when you think about it.

They'll have to give him some clothes, perhaps some armour, and a Viking helmet with horns. They will also give him a sword, of course. But not a very good one. This fight will probably last all day. Of course, with Schola training la Bete is well prepared. He knows full well that if this situation does indeed occur he will win easily. However, he's going to have to make it look difficult, lest they work out that he is a time travelling Process Manager from the future. Much heaving of huge swords and cleaving will ensue. La Bete will probably show no mercy and brutally murder this mightiest, handsomest and blondest of the young men.

Let's face it, given the opportunity we all would. Bloody overachievers.

Now here's the science bit. To me it seems obvious that if only objects surrounded by living flesh can time travel, then perhaps a small injury on la Bete is going cause trouble. The skien of time is going to snap back violently. At the moment of victory la Bete will be heaved out of his Viking fantasy and flung forwards in time. He will probably crash back in through the glass doors that connect to our garden. Me and my date canoodling on the couch will be somewhat shocked, for he will again be naked.

The fairest and prettiest of the Viking girls will of course be devastated. She will die of a broken heart, old and alone .

I think la Bete's case for learning sworplay is pretty solid. In fact, we could probably get a heads up on events prior to their occurence, as this episode is probably already detailed in an old Viking Saga somwhere. Could one of our Norse chums look it up for us please?

* Oh Good God, I'll tell you about his Zombie Bag in a later entry.

Monday once again. Back to work. What's been happening?

Well, not much this weekend. This weekend was greeted by the gentle flip-flopping sound of foot fetishist's weather, for the weekend was warm and sunny. The Python was away making bronze swords somewhere, no doubt having a whale of a time. La Bete was out and about. And so the Doctor was left to his own devices. So, he decided to make another short movie. In this instance a short instructional movie on 'The Full Pretzel' (11 meg with musical accompaniment).

The Full Pretzel is a grappling move occasionally employed by la Bete if his opponent is foolish enough to get too close. In this instance it was the Parolee who was indeed foolish enough. Do enjoy his discomfort.

Anything else? The Doctor has been collecting plastic bottles for Schola's Cutting Party next weekend. However, whilst drilling in the back garden he was unable to restrain himself, and so had an impromptu private test cutting session of his own. Most fun.

(Nursey Speaks...

The leather nurse and the Abomination are still residing in the mother of abominations nest. It's great here, but there just isn't enough room to put up the rack, nor the machine that goes 'ping'. We are now on our way to our dungeon to see if it has running water yet, and toilet for me to flush the Abomination's head down when he is naughty.

Whips are being taken to hurry those workmen along in the style of a scene out of Ben Hurr.

A question has arisen: Were is the Parolee?

Methinks it's time for a brief update on the Elbow Demon - for I know how you all worry so.

It doesn't hurt any more. Well, not much. And it's no longer squishy. Nope - it's turned into a completely solid hard lump of bone on the end of my elbow. For enduring months of discomfort and downright disgust at my squishy demon, Nature has granted me an armoured lump on the tip of my elbow. Like those donosaurs with boney armoured cranium, or boney clubs on the ends of their tails - but on my elbow. I have evolved and I just cannot wait to hit someone with it.

And what have we learned from this little episode?

In response to a discussion on Sword Forum - my reasons for learning sword fighting #2.

I shall then retire to write my memoirs.'

How are things today? The Python is back from his travels, and Schola Night is once again back to normal. And a jolly good Schola Night it was too. In fact, we have gained a few newcomers in recent weeks as a result of some coverage in a local magazine. Now what's newsworthy about, you might ask. Well, it seems that these days the newer the newcomer the faster they progress. Our currect batch seem to have picked things up rather quickly already.

I wonder why? Perhaps it's something to do with the improvement of the club around them. Perhaps if you plunge beginners into an environment where they can observe and train with folk who are doing not too badly at all, then a newcomer will pick things up all the sooner. Perhaps after a good long period of hard training the club as a whole picks up a certain momentum. Dunno. Suffice to say, it's a pleasing sight and one which I hope to continue seeing.

Of course, it helps if our newcomers already know how to use a sword. For it was a great delight to fight a genuine Kendoka this Schola Night. We elected to exercise a few newcomers, and of course, things started at their usual slow pace. When folk don't know one another it's always best to start slowly rather than compete hell for leather from the first moment. Otherwsie a thrashing flailing injurious mess can ensue where someone gets hurt or, even worse, someone gets put off swordfighting, or even worse, I lose.

So, we begin. And as our Kendoka gets a hit on me here and there, I increase the pace. And he steps up a gear. And I increase the pace. Etc, goto 10. Within about 2 minutes I'm thinking 'Aw fuck, I'm going to have to work a little here'.

And so work I did. Quite hard. It was quite an interesting and illuminating fight. Our Kendoka indeed fought as one would expect - kind sporty, with uncovered hands. Also, mebby a little 'receive one to give one'. This feature was highlighted when he noted that I was very hard indeed to hit. I was often covered on my way in. Conversely, my opponent tended to close with all sorts of lines open. However, la Bete noticed that he learned very quickly, and had changed his approach somewhat by the end of our little bout. Jolly good. Well done Kendoka.

(An Abominable Aside...

When I read of your immersion heater troubles I felt I had to relate our own watery problems, which frankly put yours to shame.

Friday morning the Leather Nurse & the Abomination rise early to pack the car in order to take advantage of the long weekend for a trip to the West country for violence & heavy drinking. 10am, the landlord rings,

"Are you in? That's good because I want to come round to fix the bathroom* up."

"We're going away at 12, but if you can get here by then we'll leave the spare key."

11.55am The landlord arrives

2.00pm we finally depart for Exeter complete with booze & weapons.

There followed an interval of mayhem until Sunday afternoon when the Leather nurse returns as she has to play with the machine that goes ping at the 'specialist' hospital the next day.

The Abomination calls her as she approaches the flat after a five hour drive, bearing curry.

"Err, the bath's in the garden, I thought they were only doing some tiling and fix a leak?"

Upon entering the abode she discovers there is

• 1. No bathroom sink
• 2. No water anywhere in the flat.

Monday evening, the Leather Nurse, once again returns to the flat, followed shortly by the Abomination. to find that the Landlord has been busy, Oh yes indeed. Now the toilet is also in the front garden, and all the windows have been left open. The leather nurse picks up her "special" bull whip & together we head to the nest of the Mother of Abomination, making plans of revenge.

- The Abomination)

'I believe your immersion heater might be malfunctioning', our gas man said with with the confidence of a man who knows about such things.

No shit, Sherlock?

For the state of the immersion heater in our boiler is well known to us. More specifically, it is particularly well known to la Bete.

To set the scene, Schola barracks have had no hot water all week, for we have a gas leak. Not a problem, for all we have to do is simply find the electric immersion heater switch and turn it on. I inform la Bete that the electric immersion heater switch should be a big white switch with a large bright red light on it.

But no matter how hard he tries he cannot find it. So, he retires to the study and on my return home I have a look for it. 1.5 seconds later it is located. On la Bete's bedroom wall, at eye level. A big white switch with a large bright red light on it. You can't miss it. It's huge. Naturally I extend the inquisitive finger of the Scientist and turn it on.

(The camera cuts to the study)

La Bete is on his knees, hunched over, rummaging around in a low cupboard for something or other...

(A clever movie special effect shows an notional dark blue x-ray image of the wall, with the housing circuit wires indicated as ghostly glowing white lines)

...He's rummaging in the cupboard that contains the fuse box...

(Our x-ray special effect illustrates the electricity coursing towards the fuse box as a bright blue spark)

...In fact, as he rummages his head hovers very close to the fuse box indeed.

Fuses can be funny old things. They are there to cut the power should a mafunction occurs to your electrical equipment. Pop. Simple. Oh no, not our fuse box. Our fuses are a little over enthusiastic. The immersion is turned on and our fuse box makes the ultimate sacrifice for our safety. Or my safety, at least.

For it explodes.

Right next to la Bete's ear.

I promised la Bete that I would relate this tale in such a manner that his behaviour would demonstrate his ability to exhibit heroic bravery under fire. However, the fuse box's final farewell was that of a stun grenade.

Friday at last! The week has indeed been long and tiresome, but it's now Date Night for the Doctor. How very pleased he i