And here ends The ballad of the Doctor and La Bete. A couple of years in the life of two violent bachelors with nothing better to do with their time and money except purchase swords and hit one another. I think I'll leave this journal on-line. Who knows, perhaps one day it might stand as an interesting historical record of a time when HEMA was in its infancy, when there was still so much to work, when it was Old School, before big buisness moved in?

And what of our erstwhile heros? What happened next? Well, la Bete bought a kilt and moved out into the countryside to live in a warm comfortable barn. He may be there still, snoozing amongst the warm hay.

And the Doctor? Well, he stayed with his Princess for ever and ever and lived happily ever after in a lovely house in Muswell Hill. He even created his own little chapter of Schola, which you can read all about here.

Did I ever mention Blind Fury, yes indeed I think I did. An interesting story, methinks, that I will relate.

Folk are free to contribute to Schola in any manner they wish. Some like to concentrate on the manuscript. Some like to drill. Some like to cut. Some like to bash one another over the head with big sicks. Blind Fury was never really very keen on the mindless violence. He was more satisfied with the drilling and the formal paired plays. That's fine. That's just dandy. What ever floats your boat.

But at Schola we like to provide folk with opportunities. We encourage as best we can. We draw folk along. We create a 'safe space' within which they can indulge in their more aggressive tendencies. And so gradually we have drawn Blind Fury out, and drawn him into the arena.

Schola Night saw the team indulging in one of la Bete's little games. The club stand in a tight circle facing inwards. Two Schola enter. One has a dagger. And so the dagger is pounded and pounded into the unarmed participant with great vigour, and the unarmed participant must somehow diminish the number of blows. Every thirty seconds the circle gets smaller. If either participant approaches the edge they are roughly shoved back into the action by the hands of Schola. Soon the circle is so tight the arean is the size of a telephone box and the particupants must lock together in a life and death struggle for the knife.

'Stop!' Their time is up. Blind Fury has done well against the knife. He whips off his mask with a flourish, flushed with exertion. Blood runs from his forehead and down his cheeks, for the dagger has driven the metal mesh of his mask into his face.

But Blind Fury doesn't care.

Once again I am enduring my long tube journey to work, standing in the walkway between seats, hanging from the straps like some urban gibbion. On this occasion a young lady embarks, she is carrying a small baby. Once seated she cradles this newborn in her amrs and rattles along with the rest of us.

The child opens its eyes. It opens its eyes and stares, and babies often do. So I gaze back - it's really hard no to when one so youn gives you that long look with its big dark blue eyes. Eyes that seem to have no white at all, just dark dark blue. And so we're locked together as I look at babay, and baby regards this strange tall fellow on the tube. It's expression is relaxed, impassive, curious but without judgement.

But soon it's little forhead furrows into an expression of discomfort and resigination. It doesn't bellow, oh no. It just expresses its dissapointment in the type of people this poor child is going to have to face on the tube, and in the world at large. Resigned to its fate the baby closes its eyes to the world and rests.

But not for long, for after a few moments this baby has gathered itself. Martialled its resources for the lifelong struggle ahead. Baby opens its eyes once more and glares with a defiant vehmence at those who will be the bane of its life, the pain in its backside that forces me to look away.

Two years!

I've been sparring with these people for nearly two bloody years, and only now they inform me that I have a tell. A telegraph. A little ritual that I unconciously execute just before I make an attack. Makes it bloody obvious that they are about to receive incoming.

Whilst me and the Python assaulted il Duce with great gusto the Doctor's brain wheels began to creak. It is most infuriating when folk step back. It really is. You make a tremendous effort to come up with a most elaborate attack and your opponent defeats this nobel prize winning machination by simply stepping back. You advance, and they retreat. Most annoying.

Until this Schola Sunday where the Doctro made and observation. When the Python assaulted with furious energy his opponent was placed on quite the defensive. So much so that all of his opponent's weight was pushed on his back foot. Now, he could just pass backwards and out of distance, but he seemed strangely pinned. All of his time was spent simply not getting streamrollered. He tried to lift his back foot to take a rearwards step, but he couldn't. All of his weight was on it.

Wierd. So, I gave it a go. Lo and behold, if I attacked with great vicious gusto my opponent was pinned. Pinned by his own weight, or pinned by the need to stay put and fight it out, I don't know. Suffice to say, the harder I fought the less inclined he was to retreat. Counterintuitve, I reckon.

As I said, il Duce has a style all of his own.

For this Schola Sunday he turned up not in a Porche, or a Ferarri, but in a chauffer driven Bently. He is so flash. He gave me a lift back home, it was most luxurious. Fine leather seats. Wood panelling. Sat nav. It would not surprise me if this vehicle was probably bullet proof.

All of Schola should be transported in style to training thus.

We learn by mimicry.

The manner in which I spar with my Schola chums is rather different to how I compete. For how I spar with Schola is all rather technical. My attempts to apply repertoire rather considered. The repertoire I apply, I apply as precisely as I can.

So this Schola Sunday it was the Python, Il Duce and the Doctor on the field of play. Now, as you know Il Duce has a style all of his own. It's aggressive and it's bloody scary. But it's always this way, which makes Duce a little predictable. For does the Doctor's little book of swordfighting not tell us that to keep our opponent off balance we mush be able to change personality mid-fight? Indeed it does, and indeed whilst il Duce face the Python, the Python did.

From a rather defensive demenour the Python starts laying into il Duce hell for leather. Really laying them on hard, fast and visciously. Il Duce is routed and battered a bit.

Later that day the Doctor is sparring il Duce, and a great swigning swipe is made at him. Il Duce has a habit of this, for he uses a great swipe to defend himself in a pinch. When he is retreating or unsure a monsterous great mezzani is exploited to keep you off him. However, I have a serioursly injured left hand at the moment and I found myself thinking, 'Fuck me! That was close! If he injures me before Dijon I will break his knees!'. And this thought made me a little angry. And the Dark Side of the Force did flow through me and I found myself taking a somewhat viscious approach as the Python had before me. And bugger me if my five or six strikes in a row didn't all find their target. I was very pleased, but also found the feeling somewhat familiar.

Never underestimate the power of The Dark Side.

For I realised that this is how I approach competition.

I had a brainwave this morning. See, now that I have moved in with my lovely lady I also get a great deal of time to play with her delighful eight year old son. As I usually get home after his bedtime we spent breakfast together in the main. At breakfast I discuss with him important matters of the day whilst he feints interest. With his little smiling happy face he's really very good at humouring me in this way.

Anyway, this morning I realised that despite his defenses some of this idle banter may sink in. Who knows, I may spark his interest in something. He may follow this up. Become educated in the topic. Hey, from a simple comment of mine he may find his chosen career path. Become successful. Become rich. become rich and look after me and his mum.

So, this morning's idle breakfast chatter was subtly turned to international finance. Starting from the simple concept of houshold mortage financing I cleverly manged to work our discussion towards futures markets and portfolio management as described by the Black-Scholes partial differential equation. I was subtle though. I shall only start to introduce flip charts and other presentation aids by approximately week three of my plan.

He seemed interested. Smiling and happy he listened to my lecture. So tomorrow's breakfast topic will be pop music and the rewards of possible stardom.

But the tube is not all spite and bile.

This morning I'm bouncing along on the Piccadilly line as usual and across from me sits and old Chinese gentleman with a young man that I assume is his son. They are surrounded by luggage as they accompany me Westwards towards Heathrow airport. Underground the tube is typically a close claustraphobic environment. But once you reach far enough West is bursts out from its subterrenian blues into the bright sunshine of a clear, damp London morning.

The old Chinese gentleman turns to the window and a smile joins the creases on his old face. He points out of the window and begins to chatter excitedly in Chinese with his son. I look past the pair to see what has caught his attention.

But as usual all I see are rows upon rows of stoic Victorian dwellings. Haughty homes topped with red slate roofs that sparkle wetly under a bright sun that peaks out from dark thunderous rainclouds. This herd of roofs lumber ponderously past the train window, each the same as its neighbour but made unique by a sea of angles. This domestic geometry is contrasted by the current generation of scattered bright yellow and green lichen that cling to these old dwellings in a gaudy blanket as their like have for over a hundred years. Of particular excited interest to our Chinese travellers were the guesthouses that are occassionally sprinkled amongst this domestic scene sporting bold signs that describe the economy or their daily rates. Occasionally this herd of angled roofs breaks apart to reveal bright green parks and sports grounds that provide light, space and respite for the residents of this crowded city - momentary oases that are soon swallowed up once more by the city as the train trundles by. The huddled residences are further mingled with ancient rusting train sidings that house row upon row of red white and blue tube carriages. Carriages that stand rank and file in their patriotic livery awaiting the call to duty or simply resting from the busy London rush hour. The backdrop to this scene is provided by the looming modern glass skyscrapers that dot the horizon behind us towards the centre of the City of London. Tiny cars speed through the narrow London streets to transport city slickers to this towering horizon whilst others are carried further afield by huge gleaming thunderous aircraft that arch overhead having just departed from Heathrow to continue their ponderous climb away from London.

London is a busy place to live. Busy, crowded, stressfull. It is said that anyone moving to London from elsewhere will most likely find themselves feeling very very angry for about six months. After this time one gets used to the hustle and bustle and calms down a little. Excessive stress must be identified and dealt with and fortunately London has it's very own stress monitor - the underground rail system. For if you are on the tube and every bloody little thing any folk do annoys you, it's time to take a holiday. In addition, the tube not only will provide a warning if one is overwrought, but also provides the means for Londoners to relieve stress, for they can spend hours on the tube subtly annoying one another whilst travelling to work.

For example, this morning the Doctor is travelling to work as usual on the Piccadilly line, and this young lady embarks with her luggage. She is obviously bound for Heathrow. On a Thursday morning the train usually empties steadily as Heathrow is approached and by Ealing there are usually plenty of empty seats. This girl wants to get comfy. We all do, the tube is not a very comfortable place what with all the iPods hissing and the generally grumpy people to contend with - me included. So she swings her legs to the side to get comfy and lies acoss the seats like some giant municipal chaise longue.

I hate this. I really really do.

More than bloody iPods.

Hell, she's got all her luggage and is off travelling. But some of us must take this tube ever morning and every evening and we have to sit on these seats. So get you bloody stinking dirty shoes off them! There are even great big signs explaining this to the terminally inconsiderate. I'm in my suit. Nice and smart. Dog shit and gum on it I do not need. But I don't say this out loud. Oh no. I'm British after all. Best not cause a scene, not on the tube. After all, I probably just get a mouthfull of abuse anyway. But I'm irritated by this. Totally unreasonably irritated by this. But I need justice. I need balance. I need some petty petty stupid little satisfaction.

So she's comfy. She's tired. She slowly nods of to sleep to the gentle rocking of the carriage. Time for me to get comfy. I'll use her luggage as a handy footrest. A pouffe. Actually, to be precise it was in fact a musical instrument case. A harp. As a footrest this is really rather fitting if you consider my chances of getting into Heaven.

Ah, I get it now.

When two folk face off with spar with daggers they will snipe. They will make single attacks. They will dive in, stab, jump out. Okay, this is fine for a bit of sparring I suppose, but it doesn't look realistic or particularly martial. Under such a scenario one blow will probably not be enough. La Bete recommends that one stab, and stab, and keep stabbing until your opponent in dead. Tricky to do whilst defending yourself from your opponent's blade, but necessary treatment.

So last night, Schola Night, the Python imposes some sparring. We start of with drilling, of course. Then some formal sparring - sparring for the technique not the victory. Then I up the energy and start to award victories. A good antidote to the drilling as this usually forces participants to search for that balance between being both both wary and aggressive. Then the Python rewards us all with some melee. Two versus two. Three versus three. You get the idea. A whirling mass of bodies and blades designed to confuse and bewilder participants to force folk to exploit repertoire whilst totally overloaded. Most fun and most educational.

We near the end of the evening and we have a last three on three. But we're short of a shinai so the Doctor tosses his weapon to a begginer and delves into his bag for his rondel. His thrifty three stave shinai rondel made from recovered shinai parts. Imagine a shinai with a short handle and an 8 inch blade. Of course if your going to enter a melee wielding a toothpick whilst everone else is swining longswords you do the only sensible thing - you stand at the back. You hang back until blades are met then sneak in to dispatch to otherwise occupied.

But the Abomination has other ideas. He wants my head. He forces his way through the throng and now I'm facing the Abomination's longsword holding only a knife. Bugger. But what does he do? As anticipated does he take a mighty swing at me, forcing me to block in halfsword with an eight inch blade? I wave goodbye to my remaining working fingers and await for the inevitable coup de grace. And he throws his sword at me. Throws it. What the bloody hell is he doing?

And so the Doctor wards this airborne weapon aside easily and now the tables are turned. The Abomination is facing the Doctor's mighty rondel with only his bare hands for company. So he does the only sensible thing and charges at me. I meet him head on and we enter into the FUT* - essentially a standing grapple. I get my weapon hand free and I stab him in the stomach. Good and hard. He gives me the satisfying oof! I desire. But he keeps going. So I stab him again, and again, and again. I'm building momentum. He keeps fighting and we go to the floor. I struggle to the top and stab him some more, and some more. He grapples me further - this is not that unrealistic as folk can keep fighting with a fair number of holes in them. In fact, they may not even notice their injuries until later. I struggle upwards and assault the head. Bang! bang! bang! on the mask faceplate. He defends his head. I'm on a roll now. What newsreaders would describe as a 'frenzied and sustained attack'. I can't stop. I stab and stab and stab. I grapple around on the Abomination and keep stabbing, driven by the satisfying little oofs! I force out of the Abomination.

And I can't stop.

The Abomination is plucky and keeps fighting. But eventually he is so covered in little dings that he is forced to concede. And I'm force to conded that I had trouble stopping.

Sorry Abomination.

I was overwhelmed by bloodlust.

I am so very very worried. But it's my own fault. I only have myself to blame. He has noone to look after him. No one to guide him through the trials and tribulations of life. Getting in with the wrong crowd was always a possibility, but I thought he'd be mature enough to resist. But never in my wildest dreams did I think his corruption would happen so very quickly. I turn my back for one minute and what happens? He's got in with the wrong crowd. Hanging out with unsavory types I reckon. It can happen to any young man without a guiding hand to steer him away from the pitfalls of life. But he's gone astray. The signs were all there I suppose. I should have spotted it sooner. And then he dropped the biggest hint. He came out. La Bete has bought a tricorn hat. Okay, okay, we could explain it all away with a laugh and a joke and put it all down to youthful experimentation. We've all been young before. We've all tried these things out. It's really no big deal in this day and age. He should be not only permitted but also encouraged to express himself. We don't condem and we don't condone. But there is a limit. There is more. Much more. He's hooked up with undesireables. Folk who engage in degenerate practises. Dont these people know how impressionable he is? Oh, they'll excuse themselves of any blame. Claim he's a grown boy who can make his own decisions. But they surely know that they'll lead him astray with their flamboyant lifestyle and fancy repertoire. La Bete is threatening to become embroiled with a bunch of rapiersts. There, I've said it. All my good work, ruined. He knows he's not built for it. He'll just hurt himself, as he is hurting all of us. Perhaps it's me. Perhaps I have been too harsh with him in the past. It's a rebellious phase, surely? He's just doing it to punish me. He'll grow out of it, won't he? But he's threatening to purchase a frock coat. And who would have expected this from la Bete? The biggest and toughest of us all? But the shame upon Schola will be bearable. After all at a time like this we shouldn't think of ourselves, for it's la Bete we should all be concerned for. We can only hope to nip this phase in the bud before it's too late - before he claims to feel far more comfortable in a flouncy frilly shirt.

Reasons to learn sword fighting #6: Put quite simply, it might once again become popular.

Picture the scene, a bright fresh Saturday morning beams down upon a vast swath of fans as they stream towards the sports ground local in their London borough. Bright, excited, smiling faces framed by wooly hats and scarves sporting favoured team colours. Proud fathers carry excited sons upon their shoulders as they make their regular Saturday morning pilgrimage to the ground. You can't merely watch a match on the telly, the experience would be far from the excitement of a live match. And besides, attending every match is their whole lives. Their shared love for the discipline a bond betwixt father and son. And this father's father, and his father before that. Sporting heros have come from around here for as far back as fathers can remember. Without the excitement and pagentry of the weekend barriers the local community would be less culturally rich by far.

The young boy has collected every single sticker for his album. Stickers of his heros beaming at him in his club colours. His favorite is the Abomination clad in black and gold. The young boy's mother dissaproves of this choice of role model, for the Abomination won his name the hard way with predeliction and peccadillo that most parents would not want their children emulating in later life. Such vile behaviour is reported for all to see in all the tabloids but the Abomination's reputation is simply enhanced by such reportage. The boy's Father silently permits such a choice, for secretly he too wishes he could live the lifestyle afforded by such mastery of the longsword.

And besides, the young boy is not listening to his mother. The Abomination cleared the field in last year's tournaments so to the lad this man is a sword fighting God. It's spring, it's the start of the season and today the barrier's itinerary has the Abomination facing some newcomers as a pre-season warm up. It should be slaughter. In addition the Doctor will be present, facing Mad Skillz to compete for the first round of the season. The season will be long and arduous for the national league is a huge pot to play for.

The whole national league is run by the comittee. And this discipline does need a comittee for the sea of corruption, drugs and sexual favours that follow this sport needs coordinated somehow. Yes, some sporting unions seem to prefer scandal and corruption to remain a hidded part of their underground dealings. However, the comittee long ago realised that if such antics were rife amongst the glamour, glitz and huge rewards associated with sporting prowess then they may aswell control it, profit from it, show it off as a virtue. In fact, every year prizes are awarded to the most corrupt of officials - it's historical. But in the main the comittee manage with pretty much a hands off attitude - apart from when it comes to the entourage of groupies and starlets that follow the discipline, perks that the comittee regard as simply all part of the fun.

There's even talk of a pit on this Saturday. A pit so early in the season is unusual, but there are some grudge matches from last season to settle. And so a deep pit is dug on the borough green and temporarily lined with a rough stone wall. The participants will be frogmarched to the edge of the pit and thrown in, their weapons thrown in after them. Only one man will leave. The manhandling of players to the pit is only ceremonial of course, the player's faux struggles played to the crowd to indicate and affirm the reluctance of any sane man to participate in such a bloody duel. However, spurred on by the cheering of the crowd and the promise of riches players are usually desperate to jump into a pit and shed blood for the adoring, baying fans.

In addition, learn.

And did those feet in ancient time
Walk upon England's mountains green?
And was the Holy Lamb of God
On England's pleasant pastures seen?
And did the countenance divine
Shine forth upon our clouded hills?
And was Jerusalem builded here
Among these dark satanic mills.

Schola, learn for Dijon, for you will need to know it.

Swords of Schola stop your dreaming
Can't you see their spear points gleaming
See their warrior's pennants streaming
To this battle field

Swords of Schola stand ye steady
It cannot be ever said ye
For the battle were not ready
Stand and never yield

From the hills rebounding
Let this war cry sounding
Summon all at Schola's call
The mighty force surrounding

I type away on the journal, reporting events the best I can. Hoping my efforts to fully reveal the sense of the verve and excitement that it is to be Schola. The world of the online journalist is full of total amateurs, and so one feels that one's own efforts should be sufficient. And then I come across this fellow. This is the journal of the fellow who evedrops on the tube.

He can write. He can write in such a way that I keep reading. Most good.

And immediately a conversation in the Schola forum gets the Doctor's brain wheels creaking. I expect that much of the discussion on this new forum will find itself eventually reflected in in this little journal - t'is the way of things.

So, thought for today - is the pure interpretation of what is written in the manual enough? Is interpreting and performing that interpretation as precisely as possible enough to fully illustrate the swordplay therin?

Okay, this might sound a rather odd proposition, but bear with me. Of all the sports and martial arts the Doctor had indulged in the accurate application of repertoire as it is writ was never enough to reach my goals. For example, if this were the case then any sport fencer who could simply apply the right technique as the right time the most accurately would be victorious.

But success from such a logical approach was never quite the case. Such aderants to proper technique and those willingness to believe that this alone was enough to yield success are often called 'technical fencers'. And although technical fencers were often Second, they were never often First. The guys who won consistently added a little of themselves to their fight. You could actually see their personality expressed in their performance. In fact, their fight almost seemed as much about expressing themselves as it was about victory. And in expressing themselves they expressed the repertoire needed to win.

You've all heard some folk described as having a natural talent. But were all these naturally talented participants all uniform? Are they literally clones of one another? In the disciplines I have participated in and enjoyed I have found this not to be the case. I have often found that those who outperform others express a certain individuality. They have interesting personalities. They are sometimes the most interesting folk to be around. They are often quite popular people on the scene. They often have the most 'prescence' in the room.

And so which came first - the success or the personality?

Which brings me all the way back to illustrating the repertoire as it is writ. Is this enought to simply fight in a manner that illustrates what is written in the treatise? Of does the repertoire need a personality to mould it into a martial activity? Is the repertoire just an empty shell until there is a force of personality behind it to drive it on?

Schola now have their very own public forum. For the time being you can find it here.

Kynes :	Your suit is fitted desert fashion. Who told you how to do that?
Paul Muad'Dib :	No one. It... seemed the proper way.
Kynes :	That it is. (Aside) He shall know your ways as if born to them
- Dune, 1985

So this Schola Sunday we worked upon our mojos. The Python, the Doctor, Mad Skillz and, of particular note, the Knife Thrower. I've not sparred him much nor have I seen him spar much. However this Schola Sunday I was rather impressed. Okay, so the repertoire is not extensive, but strictly speaking it doesn't really need to be. More importantly he had the correct approach. He was aggressive, but thoughtful. He advanced, but behind cover. He imposed himself, but was wary of his opponent.

But most notable were the prescence of a few natural instincts for sworplay. Repertoire that is simply part of how the Knife Thrower moves and thinks that support his efforts at applying Fiore's techniques and defeating his opponent.

His distance that is about right. His reflexes are fast. He understands the objectives. He executes parries that are not only effective, but natural to him. As such natural supporting repertoire is unhindered by much decision making they are fast and decisive.

For example, although not part of Fiore's repertoire the Knife Thrower actually executed a sweet little septime parry against a low attack from the Doctor. Now, strictly speaking he should have simply elected to cleave my head in two whilst my weapon was not covering me. However, this parry was very fast, worked nicely and thus stopped him from geting hit - rule number one. I think this is good. If later he finds that such natural movements are to his disadvantage or insufficiently Fiore for his liking then he can always take steps. But in the meantime I figure he should use them to support his performance and feed his mojo.

'...Austin Powers has "mojo"...The mojo is the life force, the essence, the libido, the right stuff.' - Dr Evil. 'I'm sorry, Austin, I'm afraid it's true: you've lost your mojo.' - Basil Exposition. 'I can't fight them without my mojo.' - Austin Powers, The Spy Who Shagged Me.

It is indeed true that despite our best efforts to keep training throughout the cold, windswept, wet winter months we all lose our mojo to some extent. We have behind us a head full of repertoire and a whole lot or training to transform this repertoire into mighty fighting prowess. However, one more ingredient is required - our mojo. And no matter how much repertoire one has internalised a lay off will most certainly diminish your mojo.

The winter season can tarnish the shine one one's fight. By the emergence of spring the bones are creaky, one's hand is weak and one's arm is slow. And so one must work to get one's fight back to tip top condition. You must sweep out the cobwebs. Try out all one's repertoire anew. One must exercise one's sword arm thoroughly against a wide wide variety of challenges - from exercising good accurate form against a beginner or two to battling the biggest toughest bastard you can find.

Your mojo is that fresh vital thing in your fight. Your mojo fuels your confidence. Good mojo make you invulnerable to the pains of competion. Thirsty to consume more challeges. It lifts your chin and tells you that no matter who you must face you will beat them. Simply put, your mojo is your confidence - confidence hewn from practise.

I don't care how much technique you know or how precisely you can drill it, if you dont fight with a good healthy mojo then you can be beaten by the most cackhanded of beginners. I've seen it happen to folk. I've had it happen to me. It's a horrible sight and the cure is simple. Many years ago I was having trouble during a competition and was advised by our resident giant German epeeist, Lunge! And think of your bollocks!'.

Wise words indeed.

We have 6 weeks until Dijon and I can feel my mojo returning from its winter slumber.

This week's Schola Night featured a new fun drill cooked up betwixt Python and Doctor. We drilled longsword on threes. Two attackers one defender in the middle. We arranged ourselves in a line, one fellow in the middle, one to the front of this fellow, on to the back. The our attckers started to present attacks as we would in our pair drills, one after the other. Thus our poor defender in the middle must constantly turn 180 degrees to fend off the next attack.

It was rather fun, as we had to learn how to transition from one guard to the next as we turned to face out next attacker. In theory it sounds easy, however once we had quickened the pace it was surprising easy to get into a tangle. As the wallop upon the top of my head is testament. And from whom did I receive this blow?

'Is this a dagger which I see before me, The handle toward my hand? Come, let me clutch thee. I have thee not, and yet I see thee still. Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible To feeling as to sight? ' Macbeth

Oh yes indeedy it most likely is, hence safety is of paramount importance to Schola. For example some weeks ago the Python was packing away his massive and sharp rondel dagger after a good long satisfying stroke and elected to pop a cork on the incredibly sharp point. Very safety concious.

But unfortunately during his efforts to make his mighty weapon safe he slipped and almost hacked off his thumb. Somehow this hole effort to cork his rondel seems a little wasted, for it now seems that he would have been better off using this cork to plug up the now gaping and gushing bloody hole in his thumb.

And to add insult to literal injury, yesterday he managed to drop this massive dagger point first into his thigh. The Python's list of self inflicted injuries is growing daily. Perhaps this self harm is a cry for help. A cry for help that sounds something like,

And what of la Bete?

Who is going to look after him now? The only option that seemed humane was to release him back into the countryside from whence he came. And so out to the far West of London he has gone, to live in a large barn in the midsts of the English coutryside. Can he look after himself now? I do hope I haven't domesticated him too much for he will now need to forage for food on his own. I do fret, for I think he's moved too far from the body of the Kirk. Too far into the wilds of the countryside. Too far from contact. Too far from sight. Too far from decent kebab shops. How can Schola can keep a proper eye on him? Instead he lurks in the countryside stealing chickens and scaring unwary ramblers. And what of the local villagers? They haven't been warned. They couldn't be warned. For la Bete's safety we couldn't allow them to sharpen pitchforks and drive him from amongst them. So for the time being he will hide out in his barn. Up amongst in hay loft he will nest. Hidden from sight. Safe amongst the hay bales, far from prying eyes.

The cottage is no more.

Okay, in this I don't mean that in our retreat we have razed it to the ground, but simply that the cottage is now merely a cottage. This is a most sad day, for we have had a super time. A traditional bachelor experience. Beer in the fridge, violent movies on the telly, rude magazines to fill the commercial breaks. Just peachy. I would be all the poorer without this experience if I had not elected to live with our Bete.

But the Doctor is not getting any younger and so has succumbed to the lure of a lovely young lady of his aquaintence. This chap can't be a bachelor forever and so has to follow his heart to North London.

I've movied house every few years, and in every case I have wanted wholeheartedly to leave and have looked forward very much to my new residence. But this occasion was different, for a large part of me really did not want to leave la Bete and give up that life. My inner bachelor was having so very much fun. But if my choices in life are restricted to either something great and something wonderful then I must be a very lucky fellow indeed.

Barry Fife, dance coach:	Where do you think we'd be if everyone went around making up their own steps?
Scott, student:	Out of a job.
- Strictly Ballroom, 1992

Surely one day all this swordplay will be a multi-million pound industry. You'll see. Once all the cool kids start to spar on the streets then big corporations will sit up and take notice. That's when this whole buisiness will become urban and cool and lucrative, mark my words.

But in the meantime, what is the current state of play? For the enlightenment of all those as yet unborn street smart youth sword fighters I will attempt to record your history.

As is the case for many activities when they are actually new and cool, before the executives get in on the action, much of swordplay is amatuer. I love amateur disciplines. Without the pressures of corporate sponsorship we are free to combine vicious competition with friendly collaboration. To thrash the living daylights out of your opponent, and then explain to him how he can prevent you from ever managing such a feat again. And in this collaboration much discussion ensues, ideas are exchanged, disagreements arise, arguments break out. Round and round these discussions go, arising frequently, thundering across our landscape, the rain of information pitter pattering upon our heads. But so long as nothing is at stake except the discipline itself then the worst you can be is just plain wrong. Thus despite this storm progress is always made, some consensus is reached and we all benefit.

But fortunately not a uniform consensus. The great beauty of our discipline is the freedom to innovate, to research, to explore. As we have many original written sources to hand this seems a freedom that at present seems open to everyone who participates, not just a lofty few. If an objective eye compared our eclectic endevour to the crisp white ranks of Sport Fencers or the disciplined horde of Kendoka one might think us a rabble. A disorganised rabble with a wide variety of ideas in a mismatched patchwork of gambeson.

But the Scientific Method is alive and well within European swordplay. Darwin was right - it's variety that makes our discipline strong, conflict is our engine, discourse our union.

But what of the future? What happens if a discipline does become an ongoing commercial concern? What if livelyhoods depend upon rigid consensus? How will our mongrel survive? Is this how the McDojo arises - each coach promising success to participants with their jealously guarded and patented repertoire? Secret moves designed to ensure victory in sparring? Is this how it was in the old days when the success of one's repertoire could be measured simply by the mortality rate of one's students?

Testing ourselves with such slaughter is now frowned upon. But it is here that our modern technologies save us for the internet allows us to communicate freely with swordly folk from around the world. And success in our modern discipline does not seem to be measured simply by success in the fight. For successfully contributing to the extensive discourse that is a feature of our discipline is also much prized. A feedback betwixt the phyiscal endevour and the intellectual rigour that must match success in the field to the instruction and objectives gleaned from historical documentation.

But how does the profit motive influence this feedback? To what extent is innovation and exploration stifled by the profit motive? To what extent is maintaining ones interpretation fixed, unmoving, and preserved in amber important to convincing ones paying students that you are right, and always will be? How is discourse turned to argument? Innovation turned to heresy? A change of heart turned to accusations of incompetence? Failure on the field of play turned to failure of ones buisness? A change of opinion turned to doubt over future publications? Encouraging others to learn turned to encouraging others to exclusively learn your material. Encouraging others to learn safely turned to tightly controlling and slowing their paying progress.

For those who do not live in London, the sound of the hustle and bustle of its beating heart can be heard here.

I'm not kidding, just read the whole lot in one sitting and you'll know exactly what it's like to live here. A sort of virtual holiday in the big metropolis, your could say.

This week's Schola Night was a most busy one. Methinks we actually had about as many folk swinging swords around in the clubhouse as we possibily can. To negotiate the hall one had to duck through a veritable forest of wooden wasters.

But before we got to longswords the Python one again started us on daggers. I figure this is a most productive approach. In additionm after a bit of dagger drill drill drill the Python has been introducing dagger sparring into the evening. In fact, sparring in two by two, and no more.

And this may seem a little odd. It may seem a little odd because it takes about half an hour to get through the entire club. Half an hour where most folk are simply sitting, watching and waiting for their turn. A waste, you might think?

But no. We learn not only by doing, but by copying. I have been a beginner many times before in many different disciplines and I remember the whirl of repertoire one must understand and apply. I remember being so busy with the how, I never had time to consider the why. And very busy one can be when one is learning something new. It's tiring. I've found one can learn alot whilst under pressure. But I also figure alot can be learned by relaxed, idle observation. For much why can be gleaned by simply watching another succeed. Or fail.

Two days to go. Two days until the Big Move. For after the weekend Schola Barracks will be no more. Continually manned for nearly two years, this bulwark against potential Londonbound invaders is to be abandoned and the resident yeomanry disbanded. It's a sad week indeed. The cottage is a hive of activity, and is currently filled with cardboard boxes wrapped in tape, sensitive war-wininng equipment has been carefully boxed for transport and important documents* are being shredded lest the enemy get hold of them.

But fear not, for swords have in no way been turned into ploughshares. Oh no. Weapons have been packed away for transport to our foreign adventures. The Schola Empire continues to grow, and if we are to protect our aquisitions we must send our troops overseas. And to travel overseas we must have luggage up to the task.

In particular, the Doctor has managed to get all of his kit into one of these. As we will be travelling to Dijon by train this year humping all of my kit across France is going to be a pain in the rear. Or more accurately, the shoulder. So the Doctor has fallen back upon one of our oldest inventions - the wheel.

Although it's strength and durability is yet untried in the field this luggage seems pretty good so far. As it is designed to support an entire set of golfclubs plus bag it's like a huge reenforced fencing bag with padding, straps, buckles, handles and most importantly, wheels. The base is semi rigid to store one's more delicate necessaries such as film equipment and followspot. One can get completely solid luggage, however I figure that I may one day want to slide this bag onto the back seats of a car owned by some kindly soul who has offered me a lift. Even worse, such back seats may indeed already be inhabited by the bony knees of unsuspecting Scholas. So, a soft padded bag seemed a more humane choice of luggage.

All for the knock down price of 60 quid. It was a bit of a trek trying to find one that was sufficiently cheap for the Doctor's tastes. However a good long wander around London on a Saturday afternoon found just the job in Nevada Bob's Golf Shack in Selfridges.

The Doctor have received some lovely news. His sister is getting married. Most pleasing. Her fiance wants to lay on a lovely great big wedding in a Scottish castle. This one perhaps. Great, I think, a real life castle.

Then it occurs to me that there is a down side. Picture the scene - the Doctor has had a few, he's having a jolly fun time, he's stumbling around a castle indulging in a little merrymaking, and he discovers something like this. Well, what do folk expect is going to happen if you get the Doctor together with free booze and a room full of medieval weaponry?

This week's Schola Night was rather fun. The Python has favoured dagger drills to start Schola Night for the past few weeks and this week decided upon a bit of sparring. So, up we stepped two by two and set to with daggers. I dont think I did particularly well, however the rest of the class seem to be slowly incorporating some decent Fiore dagger repertoire into their fight.

Talking of daggers, whatever is one to train with that will siffuce as a dagger but will not injure one's partner. Well, a nice cheap simulatour can be wrought from simply a rolled up magazine and some duct tape. I'm not kidding, roll up the magazine and wrap it in tape. Simple. Most significantly the magazine flexes just enough to prevent horrid injuries should one either catch it between the eyes, or have it used on you to block a blow. Nice. Cheap. And if you wrap it just right you can undo it after training for something to read on the way home.

However, if you're looking for something a little more fancy then look no futher than the pile of broken shinai around one's ankles. Schola seem to go through shinai quite quickly. We reckon its because we were purchasing a grade too light. However, one can take the remains of one's shinai, and use only three staves to fashion oneself a rather fancy little rondel dagger.

Thrifty.

Okay, so perhaps it's a little stiff to spar with any particular gusto. However, this robustitude is perhaps offset a little by the fact that one can fill the leather end cap with rubber.

Despite the fact that the cottage contains two straight chaps life can still get a little George and Mildred. Oh, nothing untoward goes on. Oh no. Not at all. It's all very manly. Talk about girls all the time we do. Constantly in fact. Oh yes indeedy.

With all the arrangements for our impending move the Doctor has been unable to get to the gym much. However, I'm sitting here and I'm beginning to believe I may actually have lost a little weight. My clothes feel different. My shirt feels just a little looser. I think I'm wearing his shirt. La Bete is a little larger than me and it looks like our washing has become a little jumbled.

'Spent the day in another man's shoes...', the saying goes, and you'll know your chum all the better.

Life can indeed be tough. Imagine, you've built a career from nothing. Using your own natural talents you pulled yourself up from nothing to become loved by millions, rich beyond your dreams, desired by women and envied by men. You are considered the coolest guy who ever lived. But life can indeed be tough, for you've had a run in with the law. You credibility could be at risk. Stakeholders in your fame and fortune could turn thier backs should your brush with the law also taint them with the stigma of criminality. After all, what would the investors think?

However, it pleases me to see from this amusing website that even under the most embarassing of situations some ice cold kings can still keep their cool.

Laid back. Debonair. We really should make him a member. Votes please for Steve McQueen to be awarded posthumous membership of Schola.

Excuses, excuses.

Some time ago Schola made a trip to Slimelight and a good time was had by all - particularly Priscilla. An account of his behaviour can be found on the 7th of March 2005. Suffice to say he claims that his activities in no way reflect his usual habits and the whole buisness was one big 'mistake'.

And so with another trip to Slimelight planned, Priscilla is once again up for some fun. But this time with caveats. See, Priscilla claims to have had 'eye surgery' recently. As a result he might not be able to see as well as he would like for a few days. Thus, he has informed us all that if they see similar activities this time around then it is simply the result of his visual difficulties, as he wont be able to distinguish quite so well between the sexes and the whole buisness may once again be one big 'accident'.

Gloves are the one piece of kit where one sees most variation. I suppose this must be the one area where personal preferece come most strongly into play. Getting a hard hit to the hand can be jolly bloody painful, and could put you out of action for a long, long time. So, folk seem rather motivated to find gloves that suit their needs precisely.

And the seriousness of a hand injury does motivate some folk to swathe their hands in as much armour as they possibly can. Some wear massive ice hockey or chunky lacross gloves to avoid injury. Huge padded power fists that do rather make one look like a space marine, or Hellboy himself.

As tempting as this may be, I figure it is not quite the correct approach. For if one is fighting with longsword one must more than likely manipulate things other than the sword itself. One may wish to punch, to grab, to grapple, to draw a rondel dagger. A large glove can only get in the way of such repertoire. It's jolly hard to execute an arm lock or grab a knife with fists the size of melons. In addition, if one also wishes to dally with a little basket hilted fun, a large cumberson glove is rather unlikely to fit inside the basket guard at all.

Some folk look to metal gauntlets. After all, our historical brethren solved such conundrums many many years before us, and under more terminal prospects. So well fitting metal gauntlets may seem to provide that balance between the cumbersom and protective. But again one may wish to punch and grapple. Despite the miracles that can be achieved by nodern reconstructive surgery our modern discipline is perhaps less forgiving to the injuries that can be sustained from a punch in the face from a metal gauntlet.

And so Schola have found that one must go that little bit lighter. Something protective but minimises the hand's footprint, so to speak. Some prefer those gloves for miltary or police work that are sold by companies such as Galls. The Python himself has sported a pair or riot gloves for many years, with no complaints.

Unfortunately they dont manufacture such gloves any more, but the Python suggests the following list of gloves may be of use.

• Ringer's Short Wrist Extrication Gloves
• Mechanix Wear M-pact2 Glove
• Galls Elite SWAT Gloves
• Ringer's Long Wrist Extrication Gloves
• Damascus Interceptor Duty Gloves
• Shelby Xtrication Gloves

To add to this list of potentially useful gloves Mad Skillz also suggests Field Hockey gloves may fit the bill. And indeed they do look rather good. Or particular note is the hardened fingertips. The Doctor has been hit on the very end of the finger many times, and it hurts.

But the Doctor still prefers Motorcycle gloves. They nearly have all the padding you need, and most importantly they are cheap and very widely available. And if they don't quite have all the armour you need, you can always modify them a little. But most importantly, the Doctor believes that a pair of black leather motorcycle gloves makes him look so terribly cool.

If you are looking for gloves I hope this review gives readers an idea of current Schola thinking on the topic. But do remember, padded protection is only a last line of defence should things go wrong. After all, it's the repertoire that should protect your hands, not the kit. In addition, Schola have found over the years that too much protection can be detrimental to your technique. For to be completely invulnerable to harm can lead one to miss or completely ignore hits upon onself. Thus one's training armour becomes one's defence and your repertoire suffers.

Now and again amongst all the rambling discourse I like to include a journal entry that is actually of some use to those readers who may indulge in swordly endevours. Today's the day.

Schola have spent the last year or two musing about the sort of safety equipment that might be of use to our community. Equipment that is not only up to the task of protecting us, but also cheap, widely available, could be hand made if required and makes us look reasonably smart.

Yes, I know that our protective gear is primary employed to keep us safe. However, regular readers will know the Doctor's opinion on the general look and feel of our emerging modern discipline. It seems clear to me that other disciplines have conciously or unconciously developed safety equipment that looks pretty damn cool. Furthermore, I figure this does a great deal to reflect the character of the discipline itself and also does much to attract folk to participate.

But I'm not a big fan of the bright shiny plastic Power Ranger armoured look favoured by some. Remember, the point is oft used in longsword, and steel sparring is an occasional indulgence. Thus if I wouldn't fight Epee in a particular protective kit then is doesn't give the all the protection I need. And plastic armour leaves massive gaps in all the wrong places - armpits elbows, necks etc. It is also a little bulky for my tastes and can rattle around in a most distracting manner. But the Power Rangers are quite right that such armour is widely available and reasonably cheap. But it makes one look like some sort of killer cyborg from the future, which I think pulls the whole endevour a little too far from the historical roots we try to reflect.

Thus I do rather favour a well made gambeson. Yes, it breaks the rules a little as a good one can be a little expensive and a touch hard to find. However, I think the expense is outweighed by the advantages.

But not to thick and not too thin. The gambeson can be a little warm in summer, so one doesn't want something that will stop a charging bull. Hard plastic armour can make one a little invulnerable. A little fearless. I prefer something just thick enough to take the sting out of a blow and no more. If additional armour is desired in all the essential places then it can be worn under the gambeson. Reason being that the gambeson does a nice job of keeping it all in place and covering the whole lot up to keep you looking nice and tidy. Such additional armour includes bracers, plastic chest protection, elbow pads, and of course a box for the crown jewels. But the jury is still out on how to protect the collar bone. This is an area that Power Ranger armour protects very well. The gambeson perhaps not so well.

In addition, one prefers to fight in something with a little of the styling that may reflect the historical period from which my repertoire is drawn. The gambeson does this rather nicely, and a tailor made one more so. But lets not go over the top. I don't want to be wearing a costume, so we bring things bang up to date with some nice black combat fighting trousers and boots, under which we wear some ice hockey knee and shin guards if necessary.

This old/modern ensemble is topped with a 1600N heavyweight sport fencing mask. Readers will already know my thoughts on using escrima masks to fight with swords. However, it is true that fencing masks do not provide the head padding that escrima masks do - particularly over the back of the head. Rest assured, experiments are ongoing.

And this rambling introduction leads us up to one area where no consensus is present.

Gloves.

Okay, okay, by now some of you may be wondering what Mr Swift may all be about. It's a whole lot of nonsense really, but fun to write and does actually have a sort of point to it. Our Python has the formal material well covered and we hope to have a brand new section on unarmed combat by our la Bete sometime soon.

This leaves the Doctor free to let his mind wander.

And sometimes it does wander into darker places. See, we can't fight with sharps to the death. So, to me swordplay could get a little sterile. A little clinical. All a little too clean.

Some time ago some fine sworldy fellows visited their local abattoir and purchased themselves a cow. They then took the cow apart with swords and an axe, and reported in full. A most gross exercise, perhaps. But I found it interesting nonetheless. Suffice the say, the part of the report that stuck in my mind was this.

Don't wear clothes that you ever wish to wear again.

Thus this gory prospect suggests that all our friendly sparring swordplay can lose the connection to the somewhat unpleasant consequences that occur when you hit someone with a sharp sword. So, I figure if cleaving someone in half and describing the bloody consequences in this journal is somewhat frowned upon and will get me into trouble, then someone else must do it for me. Hence Robin Swift was born.

Okay, so I don't have much in the way of any experience in the outcome. Yes, I am a Doctor, but my knowledge of anatomy really only extends as far as that which Galaxy publications has taught me. But with a strong enough stomache and a bold enough pen perhaps one can make some vauge technicolour guesses. Are there any medics out there who might like to help me in my attempt to paint the reality of our discipline using the fiction of cartoon violence? The death. The pain. The gore. The degredation - all wrapped up in a mildy interested back story which I shall reveal in due course.

I'm sorry if folk find this all rather gratuitous and somewhat removed from our modern endevour. But, after all, what else is a sword for?

Quietly they assemble upon the beaches of Southern England. Sombre faces look out across the calm waters to France. For but a moment each Schola is left alone to contemplate mortality, fate and courage. Will they have the resources to do their duty in the comming storm? Once in France will they rise, or fall? But in that headlong charge to Dijon all thoughts of self must be shed for the glory of Schola Gladiatoria must be paramount.

For Dijon awaits.
D-Day awaits us all.

Alternatively, we are going to drink our way across France to spill out of train, 'plane or car onto platform, runway or tarmac. We will then stagger our way to the nearest bar to bolster our flagging resources. Once more upright attempts will be made to don armour and find swords whilst arguments break out on the wisdom of fighting whilst drunk. All will most likely retire for a snooze. Once refreshed, we shall release our storm across Dijon.

Assault Group Sword will lead the way a few days before the main advance. A reconnaisance team approriately led by The Python, accompanied by his crack troop the Sylvanian. We are counting on Sword to secure the beaches, for Assault Group Juno will be close behind. Perhaps late on Wednesday night The Doctor, Mad Skillz, The Knife Thrower, Tweedle Dum and Tweedle Dee will follow up with the essential war winning supplies - lager and Ginsters pies.

Once hostilites have ended and Schola has achieved its military objectives we will retreat in reverse order. Other Assault Groups may leave on the Sunday, but Juno will remain until the Monday to cover the general withdrawl. The withdrawl of Juno will be covered by Assault Group Sword to ensure it's safety. Once Juno is safe the Python is charged with the tricky task of retreating Sword through potentially hostile territory and back to the safety of Old Blighty.

But the battle plan is not entirely set.

It is as yet unknown how the Abomination plans to join the assault, but suspicions abound that he and the Leather Nurse may once again attempt a flanking manouver from the North. Watch this space for further updates.

Some doubts remain whether or not La Bete and The Parolee will make it. However, places within landing craft Juno can be reserved should they be freed from other essential war duties to join their comrades on the beach.

Regular readers may know that I am currently working my way through the most excellent Sci Fi series Babylon 5. It all started here, but this story is so epic that it continues to this day.

Of particular note are two characters - Londo Mollari of the grand Centari 'Republic', and G'Kar of the Narns, cruelly invaded and oppressed by the Imperial Centari. But despite occuping opposing sides in a long long war, both characters actually seem to represent two sides of a single character. Each half continually at odds, at one another's throat, but each half dependent upon the other for support. Each wanting the other dead, but each seeming not to want their wish granted.

It is a most satisfying interaction for which they cast a pair of fine actors to negotiate the rigours of such a task. An interaction which seems to be included to reflect, detail and humanise the wider conflict that Babylon 5 essentially describes.

Well, it seems that Andreas Katsulas who plays the character G'Kar died this week.

Most sad news.

Schola Night was a nice one. It is indeed rather pleasant to have a good big healthy club. Lots of folk to train with, lots of folk to party with, lots of folk to fight. But yesterday was Valentine's Day, and the low turnout to training did once again demonstrate that just sometimes it is actually rather nice to train will a smaller crew.

It gives the Python a little breathing space. It gives participants a little space to swing their weapons, to stretch their legs. It gives us a little space to hold impromptu discussions on whatever springs to mind. It makes the whole event rather more personal. Unplugged, one could say. A very pleasant evening's training was had by all.

And at the end of it the Doctor got the opportunity to indulge in a little sparring. Sparring with the head of SG-2 no less. I've not met the fellow before, and a very pleasing bout it was. Once again I'm endevouring to simplify my repertoire, but retain repertoire that is accurate. And most effective it was. My footwork forwards is still a little slow, but it's coming.

But the evening got me thinking. As it was Valentines day, were atendees mostly single and therefore free to attend - suggesting that those absent were out with their partners? Or were most attendees part of a confirmed couple, and thus not in need of a mere annual romancefest - suggesting that the rest of the club were out desperately wineing and dining prospective love interests?

Dijon has been announced!

4-7 May 2006.

Great. The highlight of the year. Much teaching, fighting, boozing, carousing. A grand line up of seminars is planned, in between which I will endevour to get as much sparring in as I possibly can.

Last Schola Night was a portentious evening, for Schola were being evaluated.

A couple of fine fellows from the BFHS popped along to visit us, to determine if Schola were appropriate to join their organisation. I thought it'd be fun for us if they joined in, after all they are a couple of skilled fellows exposure to whom would only serve to widen our member's understanding of the swordly community at large. But unfortunately as they were present in an official capacity, they were unable to join in with the class. Shame really, but mabey next time chaps?

And their evaluation? Well, we'll no doubt find out in due course. They seemed to enjoy watching the Python's lesson, and the assembled Scholas did drill and drill with gusto and accuracy. Okay, okay, so I kneed the Knife Thrower so hard on the guts that he nearly puked. Perhaps that wasn't quite what is entirely expected in an interview. Just a bit of manly fun, is all. The Knife Thrower loves that sort of thing, honest*. But at least they got to see what is behind all the rolling around on the floor trying to tear one another's arms off when they witness Schola's repertoire at events. See? All this kicking, punching, wresting and general violent mayhem is perfectly historical, and is backed up by the tretise. Those medieval swordsmen were big into this sort of thing in those days. You could even say that their lives depended upon it.

I was very pleased that our evaluators joined us in the pub after training. After all, membership of Schola isn't all just mindfull violence. There are other rich cultural experiences to enjoy.

All that heavy drinking, for example.

Okay, the weekend has encouraged further airport novel type musings. Yes, yes, I figure that this sort of thing is far far more fun to write that to actually read. However, indulge me. Feel free to skip it - but just don't let me find out. If I ask, just pretend you have.

So, where was I? Oh yes...

The Brokers always met Swift in the same location. It was convenient, familiar, and Swift trusted the Brokers not to use this predictable arrangement to his disadvantage. In his own quest he had served them well, so he thought it unlikely that they would endanger his services.

The pub was very old. Possibly one of the oldest in London. It squatted between modern buildings on the banks of the Thames, witness to many good times and many bad. Over the years it's character had changed frequently, from a lively family meeting place to a den of iniquity to be avoided by all but the hardest of Londoners. A long alleyway stretched down the side of the building, lined along one side with the warped beams of the old building and along the other with the fresh concrete of a bold young office block. The long alleyway ended abruptly at at short jetty on the water's edge. The slimey black-green wooden beams of the jetty had often been a discrete, hidden point of disposal for many unfortunates over the years.

Swift relaxed as he entered the familar space. Through the dark smokey haze he spotted the Broker at his usual table smoking the final inch a large fat cigar. This powerfully build man wore a black three piece suit and black shirt, a dour countenance that was punctuated by a bright yellow silk tie, a shock of closely cropped hair and a short red beard. The Broker's bowler hat sat on the table, by necessity far from the Broker's ashtray. The Brokers always cut quite the dapper figure, but this one also exuded a seething menace that even Swift would be unwilling to test.

He didn't smile as Swift approached. He never did. Instead he greeted Swift with a large gin and tonic that he pushed across the table towards his guest as he sat down. Despite Swift's punctual arrival The Broker's own drink was already near finished.

'Evening', Swift greeted the Broker with a disarming smile.

The Broker did not return the greeting. Instead he followed the gin with a slim carboard folio that he also pushed across the table with a stubby finger.

'I think you'll like this one', he growled, 'He suits you rather nicely'.

And with that the Broker stood up, a fresh cigar appearing in his hand as he stood. He paused for a moment to light it. Satisfied with its smouldering, he scooped the bowler smartly onto his head and marched his way to the pub exit. Swift watched him leave, smoke trailing in his large wake. Of particular note this Broker sported a long black cane topped by a shining silver knob. The cane swung with a flourish to and fro beside the Broker, only occasionally hitting the wooden floor with a dull ominous thud.

Ever noticed that some things have a certain visceral appeal? Things that need no particular explaination. Camp fires for example. Humans have been staring into camp fires for thousands and thousands of years. It therefore doesn't suprise me that this is a pleasureable, comforting activity at a the most base level. I know of another.

Flags.

Folk, particularly men, do rather love flags. To have some large object of their identity fluttering proudly over themselves in the field is most pleasurable. They love it. They can't help it.

Schola need a flag.

A huge one. A deep black field upon which a mighty golden lynx glares surrounded by gold laurels of victory.

An exhausting weekend for the Doctor. Wineing and dineing combined with bagwork and much swordfighting. Bloody knackered I am.

So, how did Schola do? Well, bloody well I think. Present were the Python, the Doctor, Tweedle Dum, The Prince of Cats and Mad Skillz. In particular Mad Skillz seems to be really progressing. He gave me quite the run for my money. Actually, in fact, I had trouble getting near him at all. Very nice. It is also of note that the beard that Mad Skillz sports has changed a little. It's slowly going a bit 'Obi-wan'.

I now believe his beard and his longsword skills are somehow connected.

So, what sort of things are folk concetrating upon? Folk seem to be working hard upon their defence - trying to avoid getting hit, using the cross to ward blows, trying to attack down covered lines. In the main it seems to be working. However, there were general grumblings about footwork. Folk are executing their bladework well. However, some don't seem to feel that they can advance quickly enough to take advantage of the advangtage their bladework may have wrought them to exploit their opponent's momentary exposure.

And I would be inclined to agree. My forward gear is a little slow at the moment. But do not fear, my reverse gear is working as well as ever. In fact, I can retreat far faster than I can advance.

'...when the opportunity presents itself, I do not hit. It hits all by itself.' Bruce Lee, Enter the Dragon

Mad Skillz calls it The Edge.

The Doctor calls it No Style.

For some understanding and formally drilling the techniques as they are writ is the ultimate goal of their studies. For some it is just the beggining.

However, it is all too easy to fall into the trap one lays for oneself by learning so very much technique. It's easy to believe that if you get enough technique into your head then you should be able to exploit it all to defeat an uncoopertaive opponent. But rather often once you get there you can find that this is simply not the case. I've witnessed this as a source of considerable frustration to Intermediates, as Beginners who are exploiting no particular technique at all can seem to somehow have an edge. Only after an exchange has ended does one remember the technique that would have brought victory. More frustrating, one realises how to proceed immediately, you can see it in you mind's eye quite clearly, but just not quite quickly enough. The moment passes and one continues to trail behind your opponent's furious progress.

And under such circumstances perhaps the best approach is to try and forget the whole thing. Try not to conciously apply one's repertoire at all, but simply let the repertoire apply itself. I know, it can be hard to notionally discard all of one's hard won repertoire - technique that one has sweated over the interpretation and sweated over the practice. Technique that should bring victory should one believe that swordplay and chess are somehow one and the same. But perhaps once one has the principles in place it's time to connect The End right back to The Start and try to forget one's repertoire altogether.

Bruce Lee turned the concept into a bit of a cliche, but I figure it is generally true that to reach The Edge is to internalise one's repertoire so much that one is barely aware of it at all. One is not exploiting one's repertoire and technique to fight, one is just fighting. Your movements seem natural and decisions are barely made by you at all. It's all a horribly pretentious topic but one that I think is worth musing about.

One can have momentary flashes of No Style. For example, last Schola Sunday the Python disarmed his opponent perfectly as it is writ, but has no idea whatsever how. He has barely any memory of it at all - the opponent's weapon was simply in his hand.

However, I find that for me to stand near The Edge for more than a few moments is rare. In fact, by definition to try is counterproductive. I've been all the way there and sustained this state for a few minutes probably only once or twice. Typically this happens whilst sparring at events rather than when I concentrate upon my repertoire in class. In particular it helps if one's opponent is also rock hard and defeat is a very real posibility, but despite this one has the confidence in one's repertoire to just apply it anyway. In fact, usually a really big hangover is sufficient to distract one from the confining structure of technique. And as hangovers are an affliction the Doctor must suffer quite frequently, then the chances of him seeing The Edge are all the greater

And No Style is a most magnificent feeling. One's defence is automatic. One's offence is always well timed. One is victorious with no effort whatosever. One's body seems to deal with the tactics, whilst one's brain is free to muse about the strategy.

It's wonderful.

The Knife Thrower has found himself.

Up to now he's stepped fairly lightly. Applied technique carefully. Tried to get things just right. Just so. Of course, this is to be commended. But swordplay requires a little more. And the Kinfe Thrower seems to have found it. And he indicated his discovery in flamboyant manner.

He punched me in eye.

Yes, his training seems to be increasing in gusto. So, after a little more training I simply threw him to the Parolee who seemed to do a good job battering The Knife Thrower to a pulp. Don't mess with the Doctor. I know him - he's a bastard.

The Python figures his introduction of far more rondel dagger work into proceedings is the key. Folk can be nervous when waving 3 feet of wood around. It seems that dagger drills allow folk a little more natural control. A little more confidence. And so folk will drill with much gusto and enagage in a more martial approach when they have the confidence to do so. And nothing is wasted, for all this dagger work feeds the sword repertoire quite nicely.

All the same, the Knife Thrower is a big big lad. The Knife Thrower punched me in the eye. The Knife Thrower is on my List.

No. More. Mercy.

In fact, the Doctor had a rather busy evening, for in the Python's illustration of repertoire the Doctor was punched, kicked, wrenched, twisted, poked and prodded all bloody evening. This morning I am a bag of bones and bruises. With a sore eye.

Further to all this dagger work the Python moved onto a new phase in our drilling. Full speed, uncooperative, drilling with masks, gloves and weighted shinai. A drill is presented and we are expected to execute this drill against repertoire presented by partner. However, although our partner's repertoire is scripted to suit the drill, our partner is uncooperative. He is doing his bloody best to actually hit you.

Things got very fast very quickly, but I really did feel quite the benefit. From the formal, precise drilling of technique we need some sort of bridge to the use of this repertoire in a fast moving uncopertative environment. A formal bridge that focuses our efforts upon the repertoire of interst. And so we drill in a fast moving uncooperative environment.

This escalation in our drilling will do much to draw us to the Edge.

Schola Sunday saw a further improvement in Il Duce's repertoire, aided by the Doctor.

Il Duce likes to fight from a long long range. He favours starting his attack with his weapon extended far back. A step forwards is accompanied by a massive, heavy sweeping attack that is typically out of range but only really intended to simply keep his opponent terrified and at bay. This space gives Il Duce the room to sweep his weapon back down towards his opponent down an unexpected line to hack something important off.

Of course, this is not what he always does, but it seems a favoured approach. Spotting what folk favour is a most revealing and useful strategy to adopt. It tells you about their fight. I'll Duce's habits tell us that he very much likes the long range and likes the room to sweep his weapon in terrible arcs. He hates grappling.

The Doctor's Little Book Of Swordfighting suggests that we force our opponent to fight in a manner that they least prefer. This is a somewhat tricky endevour against Il Duce. For to discomfort him you must close. But if you close but fail to control his weapon you are going to receive a visit from Mr Pain.

But I steel myself, meet his blade and close with a thrust whilst maintaining contact with his weapon. Il Duce hops back. He needs the room. He is uncomfortable with blade contact, with winding, with closing. So he disengages, hops back, cocks his weapon and prepares himself to make another poweful attack.

But to defend yourself from the Doctor's advice above you must train in the manner that you least prefer. Become comfortable in the environment that most discomforts you. And so Il Duce and the Doctor elect to fight only with engaged weapons for a time.

And Il Duce does just fine.

He usually dislikes this regime, but does fine. And he gains some success. And he feels comfortable. And epiphany reigns. Once we've finished our exercise he seems a little more comfortable with blade contact. A little more comfortable binding. He remains longer at close range.

With all the discussion of technique and repertoire the Doctor is keen to contribute what he can to the ever growing repository of knowedge.

A discussion on the Historical European Swordsmanship forum at SFI got me musing. And I found myself musing this - the first martial repertoire I ever knew was learned whilst crabbing on the South West coast of Scotland when I was but a wee lad.

See, crabs like limpets so limpets make good bait. But limpets are hardy fellows, stick to rocks and hide under their tough little shells. So, once you've kicked the limpet from his rocky perch you need to get him out of his cone shaped shell. And here's the martial bit. You've got to turn the limpet over and use your strong little thumbs to dig into the edge of the limpet thus gouging the fellow out of his shell.

Now now, settle down folks. For the squemish amongst you, yes, this is as gross as it sounds. But entirely necessary if you want to catch crabs*. I was quite the slayer of limpets in my day, I can tell you. Pop them out of their shells in a trice I could. In fact I did far more damage to the limpet population than I ever caught crabs. Strictly speaking when I strode out the the water's edge in my wellies with my bucket and crabbing line I could be more accurately described as going 'limpeting'. Do I feel guilty for the shameless slaughter of so many innocent limpets? I try not to think about it too much.

And the reason I mention this? When wrestling in the grapple I occasionally find myself reminded of this skill.

But no-one on the HES forum seemed interested.

Who came up with Friends Reuinited? Who? It seems to do nought but cause misery.

For example, in an idle moment I foolishly browsed around this site to discover that one of my Secondary School classmates has just become a Grandmother. No, you read right. Not a mother. A Grandmother.

A Grandmother!

No, no, this cannot be right. Surely. It's gotta be a typo. I ain't that old. But 17+17 does indeed suggest that it's not beyond the realm of possibility.

For the first time in a while the Doctor managed to attend Schola Sunday. Completely changing your life is a darned time consuming buisness that has drawn me away from my fight for a few weeks. So, it was rather nice to once again attend to my martial responsibilities.

And I must say, after a fine day's sparring I approach Season '06 with much optimism and enthusiasm. I suppose the source of my enthusiasm can be illustrated by the footage of our '05 Xmas tournament to be found on featured fights.

For this footage illustrates two things. First, during '05 we have been blessed by a large influx of quality newcomers. Folk who the trained eye recognises as bursting with potential. Most pleasing. It will be fun observing their progress. Second, we have managed to retain a good sized population of folk who are steaming towards competency at a worrying rate of knots.

And retaining participants is as important as attracting them in the first place.

For a good healthy population of intermediates does much to motivate the newcomers and is invaluable for impressing upon potential members the importance of joining in the first place - for surely you could look as cool that they.? And thus surely a positive feedback must start to emerge, a coveyor belt of competency begins to deliver results and if one is lucky an arms race ensues - an arms race that can only be provoked futher by the sort of seasonal intra-club tournament that the Python proposes and our footage illustrates.

Perhaps it might add a certain weight and gravitas to Schola if we awarded posthumous membership. After all, we don't actually have to admit when folk became a member, just that they were.

So, this month's first vote goes to the Duke of Wellington. Okay, so perhaps he may have been away on buisness* too much to be able to attend the clubhouse regularly, but parties at his place wold be a blast.

Votes please.

It's a slow news day today. So, time for Swift to have another outing...

Swift looked out over London from behind the tall glass windows of his apartment. A residence that sprawled across the entire top floor of a tower block that stood in the financial centre of the City. The glass stretched from floor to high ceiling to give the viewer a sense of vertigo should they stand too close to the edge. But not Swift. Standing here on the edge of the building gave Swift the sense of security he always felt when perched ontop of the many structures that drew the London skyline. Away from the crowds, away from the noise and the dirt. Not that he had an aversion to his Londoners. Far from it. However, he found it far easier to focus once perched away from the hubub or their daily lives.

Few knew of this residence, except for his old friend who had owned it before him, and the building janitor who seldom ascended quite so high. A Gentleman's agreement between the two men. And so Swift was left alone to his own devices. Devices that decorated the walls of his apartment. Devices with which he plied his trade.

As he watched London from this vantage point he often found his thoughts turn to the nightlife that crawled out from the darkness. Little was left to his imagination for he had seen it all before. In return they had seen him all too frequently, but to his dismay not often enough to cease their antics. No matter, it was no longer his problem - this was the reponsibility of others now. Swift was no longer after the small fry. London was a big big pond, and in it swam some big fish.

Fish that noone else could catch. Fish that no-one else could touch. Those that had wrapped the world around themselves so tightly that their actions were deemed if not reasonable, at least entirely legal.

Despite the late hour London continued to go about its buisness. A successful outing always gave Swift a charge. He had prepared himself well for this endevour but the shot had been all too easy. And so, as was usual after such a night's work, he prepared to work off this excess energy with some further training.

He once more retired to the darkened roof.

Does he seeth with justice, or just rage?

(An Abominable Aside...

'I've called him Robin Swift.'

That sounds like a three wheeled car

- The Abomination)

Yeah, I know, I know. I'd considered more macho names like Chester Manly, and Roger Hard. However, considering this characters background I wanted him to have chosen some