FoldsFive

The SFX Weekender 3 - Knights of Prestatyn - Day 1

2012-02-09T21:40:00.001Z

(Intended to be posted when we came back; real life got in the way so forgive the odd tense)

Thursday

We arrived back in Coventry from the third SFX Weekender a few hours ago, all of us tired, ever-so-slightly hungover and in need of decent edible food. Now the wristbands have been cut off, it's time to take stock of our experiences there.

We'd got a good deal on VIP tickets because we went last year, so it cost very little for the six of us to go - so Thursday evening saw us all packed off and heading Northwest up the M6 to Pontins at Prestatyn. It was mid-evening and dark when we drove onto site (fuelled only by a necessary McDonalds acquired at Services) to find ourselves confronted with a queue of ridiculous length. We'd been forewarned in advance by SFX emailing me to request that only the primary booker (yours truly) join the queue to avoid congestion, so the others went off into the Queen Vic (the onsite bar) to grab a drink whilst I queued. And queued. And queued some more.

If you're anything like me you'll find that any queuing experience is made infinitely better by it being in the freezing cold, by not being given any actual indication as to how long you'll be queuing and is then perfectly topped off by the presence of some drunk whiny emo manchild in front of you with a backpack who insists on drunkenly reversing every couple of minutes and bumping into you. Funnily enough the free gift for those queuing of a keyring bottle opener and a piece of card that made a Tardis noise when you opened it did little to raise my mood.

After around two hours (with a few visits from my friends to grab a sip of beer) we were inside the building. Warmth at last! But unfortunately the queue then proceeded to continue inside the building, doubling up on itself. Whiny Emo twat and his friends jumped the queue and went straight to the main counter to pick up their keys but in this case I was happy for them to do so, because If I'd been forced to spend another half an hour listening to his inane bleating I'd now be in prison for assault. Tara was now queuing with me and she was, if anything, even more irate than me and she'd only had to put up with the twat for about half an hour.

There really was no excuse for it. The organisers must have known from the very types of tickets they sold how many would be arriving on the Thursday night - and a 2 and a half queue can not be judged by any stretch of the imagination to be an 'Express check-in service' unless you are in fact God and your perception of time is different from normal mortals.

And all through the 2 and a half hour queuing experience I was dreading what our accommodation would be like - after the concentration camp vibe of Camber Sands at last year, I was dreading living in the same squalor again for another three nights - but as it turned out when we arrived there (after collecting our lanyards and a quick pint) it was actually half decent. This VIP lark would appear to have its benefits after all.. or so we thought.

Having unpacked we hit the pub again. An amusing end to the pub experience was Tom having a mini rant to one of the bar staff about being turfed out into the cold when she told us to take our drinks out, to only find that leaving the pub in fact put us in the screening zone - (another room in the complex) showing Halloween which also had a bar! We sat down with our drinks with a terrified Fran (who isn't mad keen on horror films) and then called it a night.

Friday tomorrow...

Thanks to James Stace for the Knights of Prestatyn pun

Who you gonna call? B&Q and Dickies Workwear, mostly.

2012-01-26T20:19:00.001Z

The challenge? To construct a Ghostbusters fancy dress costume for my dear wife at very short notice and within a reasonable budget. The third SFX Weekender is nearly upon us (review of the second one here, blog fans) and my costume is sorted out - just in time (more on that next week - it arrives on Monday and I'm incredibly excited).

Googling 'how to make your own ghostbusters costume' is depressing for multiple reasons. One, because all their attempts are infinitely better than anything I could produce, and secondly it reminds me of how much time I wasted on the Master Chief outfit which still remains mostly unfinished - except for a quite impressively accurate and sturdy helmet. There are some incredible pieces out of there made by people with way too much time on their hands - masterpieces of fibreglass, electronics and steel and all 100% movie perfect.

Still, our budget and time doesn't allow for such frivolities. We have to make the costume for next to nothing in next to no time, hopefully from bits and pieces I can find around my house. And it has to be sturdy enough to wear and at least vaguely resemble the one from the films so people know what it is.

First port of call; the hardware shop on the highstreet for what will be the basic framework. And in this case, due to size, sturdiness and shape we decide on one of those large plastic contains that you'd use to shove kids toys in. I have black vinyl primer spray-paint left over from the Halo build, so that will at least make it the right colour (and the thick coating of vinyl paint hides a multitude of sins).

A week of work on it later (with the necessary purchase of some components from poundland - namely Lego bricks, A4 foam sheets, cycle lights, multipack of Seabrooks Beef crisps*) and the additional of ribbon-cable, red and blue UTP cable and a plastic garden planter and we've got something quite reasonable. A cardboard housing made from a sprayed nicorette lozenge box neatly houses the cycle lights and I'm actually quite impressed. From various fan sites we find a sheet of A4 labels matching those from the actual proton pack and they complete the thing nicely. A bit of weathering by applying silver pen or paint to edges to make it look used, and it's virtually finished.

But of course the kit doesn't just consist of the proton pack. We need a proton gun (or "proton wand" as the nerds seem to call it). The housing that this sits in can't be made via anything we've got lying around the house, so I have to make it out of cardboard, masking tape it over completely and then papier-mâché over the structure to make it sturdy enough. An overflow pipe painted black shoved through it and held in place by rolled foam sheets means it's not going to wobble around two much, and then it is just a case of detailing on this and attaching it to the backpack via a length of plumbing pipe. The tip of the gun, sorry "wand" will be a poundland lightsabre torch held in place via some plumbing gubbins purchased from B&Q.

A welding torch ordered from some place on Amazon and a Dickies zip fronted grey overall will complete the look - all that remains now is to print out a ghostbusters logo and name badge on some transfer paper (already in my huge paper collection), apply said iron-on designs to some white fabric and then sew it up in the appropriate places.

And there you.. bingo. One Ghostbusters costume. Total price - 45 quid.

£9 for the Goggles
£6 for the plumbing tube (although we found it for half that in Wilkinsons - curse me being in a hurry)
£2 for the overflow tube
£2 for two sets of cycling lights (one for the proton pack, one for the wand housing)
£6 for the black paint (which I needed a lot of)
£1 for the planter
£27 for the overalls (including delivery).

So, the goggles and overalls are the most expensive bits and had we had more time we probably could have found a way cheaper alternative. I ain't afraid of no ghosts.

* Seabrooks Beef crisps are not vital for the operation, but are thoroughly recommended.

Dear George, Re: Star Wars (a.k.a. Too long; didn't read)

2012-01-20T23:35:00.002Z

The head of George Lucas recently emerged from the snug, warm confines of a checkered red and black lumberjack shirt to announce that was retiring from commercial film making. Based on the fact that the majority of the best Star Wars films weren’t even directed by him anyway (God bless you, Irvin Kershner), I personally feel that this is no great loss. However, as part of this same interview, he defended his need to constantly tinker with the films that made him famous.

“On the internet, all those same guys that are complaining I made a change are completely changing the movie. I’m saying “Fine. But my movie, with my name on it , that says I did it, needs to be the way I want it.”

“Why would I make any more”, Lucas says, “when everybody yells at you all the time and says what a terrible person you are?”.

Rumours that filmed footage of this interview was taken away by George so he could re-release it in twelve years tweaked to have him sixteen feet tall, wearing a nicer shirt and entirely computer generated are apparently untrue.

So, going by the logic that I was on the Lucasfilm Christmas card list (currently framed on my landing wall, FoldsFive fact fans)for ONE WHOLE YEAR , I like to imagine that Mr. Lucas frequently reads my blog. Although I doubt he does. I know of at least one person with the surname Lucas that reads this blog, but he's not called George. And even if he met a potential blog visitor called George it wouldn't be quite the same.

But, in my imaginary universe in which my blog is in the slightest bit important, here's an open letter to George Lucas.

Dear Mr Lucas.

In many ways I have nothing but respect for you. You fought tooth and nail to get your original vision released in 1977 despite ridiculous opposition from the Hollywood studio system and a plethora of your peers telling you it would never work (discussed at great length in the absolutely excellent read "Easy Riders Raging Bulls" by Peter Biskind), and you ended up (against all odds) releasing the one film that got me interested in the whole world of Cinema. As the words “A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away” filled the screen accompanied by the beautiful orchestra stab and then music of John Williams, the six year old me was utterly enraptured and it began a romance with the art of filmmaking that blossoms and thrives to this day.

As a six year old child who had never seen anything other than Disney cartoons at the cinema before, I imagine I sat there open mouthed until the Death Star was blown up, everybody got a lovely medal (except Wedge and Chewie for some reason. Bloody diabolical.), C3PO and R2D2 got a lovely shiny polish and the end credits rolled. I'd ask Dad (who was the one who took me) if thats what I did, but he can't remember. He's genetically incapable of watching a film at the cinema without falling asleep midway, and doesn't remember watching anything in its entirety at the pictures since Ben-Hur.

George (and I really hope you don't mind me calling you George), you got me excited about cinema. Despite the fact it could be argued that Star Wars Episode IV was a perfectly self-contained film (they didn’t put the IV in the title in its original cinema release) as soon as I heard about a sequel, I was excited again. This from a boy who barely knew where the cinema was, let alone be expected to care about films that hadn’t even been released yet.

And The Empire Strikes Back? That was even better, George. It’s way up there with Aliens on the very small list of sequels that are better than the original – (Although I still feel unfair rating Aliens over Alien when they’re very different films. Alien is a haunted house film in space – Aliens is a Vietnam war film.... in space).

The 9 year old me struggled to comprehend how it couldn’t have a happy ending. The good guys are supposed to win at the end of a film, right? Han is lost, maybe for good, and Luke found that he couldn’t get away with not buying a Fathers day card next year – all miserable downbeat stuff. But the 9 year old was also wise enough to know the story wouldn’t finish there.

And then onto Return of the Jedi – Arguably the worst movie of the original trilogy, but still a damn fine film. A satisfactory ending, one of the best space battles ever put to film, Chewbacca making tarzan noises whilst swinging through the forest of Endor and Stormtrooper helmets being used as drums by Muppets.. What more could you ever want from a film? There. Story all done. Empire completely destroyed and the good guys win.

But the beauty was that the tiny spark of the love of cinema I got from Star Wars Episode IV: A new hope has changed my life, and I've seen some truly beautiful and life changing pieces of work since. And Terminator: Salvation as well, but I can't blame you for that. I've wept openly at It's a Wonderful life, Schindlers List, Silent Running and the first ten minutes of Up, and have sat open mouthed at the sheer majestic cinematography at King Kong (the original, mind), Citizen Kane, Mississippi Burning, the list goes on.

And you are of course, absolutely correct in your assumption. The Star Wars films, all six of them, are completely yours. And yours to do with as you will.

But every single change you make to the original trilogy, which I'd argue (even though, as you've previously gathered, may be slightly rose-tinted through what Star Wars means to me) is as close to cinematic perfection as you'll damn get, it spoils it for me. Diminishes it.

George, as a child I never got upset about the scene in the cantina where Han shot Greedo in cold blood. Even as a naive 6 year old, I understood that that was the nature of Han Solo. He was a villain, a scoundrel, a pirate. And admit it, even when you amended the footage to get Greedo to shoot first, you never got it to look quite right, did you? It was about as authentic and realistic as my pixelmashes that I constantly bang on about.

I also never thought that Mos Eisley seemed a bit empty either, but you still felt the need in later visitations to make it as crowded as you possibly could. And the less said about that new Jabba footage in episode IV the better. I did however appreciate the fact that you didn't remove the bit where the Stormtrooper bangs his head in the Death Star - in fact you did the unexpected thing of adding a sound effect to said footage. Brilliant.

*doink*

Don't get me wrong - I like some of your changes. You made Bespin look like a real place, your guys did some expert work on removing all the matte lines around some of the weaker pieces of model work and I even like the fact that Ewoks blink now. I'm slightly annoyed that it removes my over-used phrase of "Cold dead unblinking Ewok eyes, like a shark" but I can live with that. The Sarlaac pit ended up looking a bit like Audrey II from Little Shop of Horrors, but I have to grudgingly admit that it still looks good.

But please stop fiddling now. I know you're bringing Phantom Menace out in 3D just to grab some more desperate dollars from peoples pockets, but please.. I implore you.. try something new. If you're not going to direct or produce any more, why not give some of your billions to decent up and coming filmmakers who have the same passion and vision for a project that the younger (and skinnier and skinter version of you) had back in 1977?

But please leave Steven Spielberg alone when he makes the next Indiana Jones film. Your influence and scripting on Crystal Skull was, quite frankly, a right bag of wank.

Yours sincerely,

A Fan

Goodbye to Rob

2012-01-16T12:25:00.005Z

The other day, I wrote a blog post about having lost a hero. Mainly, it was decrying Morrissey and seems to have succeeded in winding up his fans. I didn’t realise that on Saturday, I would actually lose a real life hero.

Rob Windsor, friend, comrade, all round good bloke, lost his battle with cancer on 14 January 2012.

I’m not going to go into all the good that Rob did, that would be another complete blog post in itself and also, others will do it better than I ever could. This is about my memories of him.

I first met Rob when I was eight or nine. He was spearheading the anti poll tax movement in Coventry and my mum, being a political sort, went along to the meetings held in the West Indian Club in Coventry, taking me with her. Looking back now, he was a skinny, scruffy looking bloke with a lot to say. In recent times, the skinniness and the scruffiness had subsided, but he still always had a lot to say. His speeches were captivating, whenever he spoke, you couldn’t help but listen. Articulate, intelligent, rousing, inspiring. He was a key political influence in my life, along with my mum and Dave Nellist.

Another thing which struck me about him was, even though I was a kid, he spoke to me the same way he would speak to anyone, he didn’t speak down to me, he treated me the same as everyone else. He was warm, friendly and funny. He always spoke to me, he always spoke to everyone. I’d see him campaigning on one of the Socialist party stalls on a Saturday afternoon in town and we’d always have a chat, never forgetting to ask about my mum and how she was.

I knew he was ill. I work at the hospital and one day I’d popped down to the shop for something and there he was. I was surprised to see him and we chatted about how he was, what was going on and why he was in. I told him I did hospital radio and that I’d get him a song played if he liked, but he’d been discharged before my show was on. He ‘phoned me though to say thanks and to just play something anyway, the Stone Roses, I think he wanted.

The last time I saw him, he was still battling; politically and literally. I was striking on November 30 against the ConDem’s pension cuts and had gone along to the rally in town. We had a brief chat about nothing much in particular and that was that. I didn’t realise that would be the last time I’d see him.

You have a lot of heroes growing up be they film stars or musicians, or even your parents. I feel proud and extremely lucky to have had Rob as an actual real life hero who was a comrade, a fighter for what’s right, who fought until the very end and most of all, a friend.

My condolences go to Isla and the rest of Rob’s family, friends and comrades. We’ve lost a true hero.

(Edit: The official obituary for Rob as released by Coventry Socialists can be found here).

How to be a successful racist

2012-01-13T17:55:00.001Z

On Opinionated Artists

2012-01-13T14:00:00.002Z

My wife Tara wrote a piece for this very blog yesterday about her former hero Morrissey (which has had the expected result of Morrissey fans questioning her intelligence and writing annoyed articles about how annoyed they're not) which prompted a blog post by my good friend Steven Chicken from his excellent, albeit rarely updated (and on this occasion, somewhat inaccurately titled) blog "Thoughts on the world of Sport" which, with his gracious permission, I've reposted here as I thought it appropriate and a clever and thought provoking follow-up piece.

Over to Mr. Chicken...

I was just reading a blog post by the lovely Tara, in which she divorces herself of a former hero, Morrissey, because of his increasingly outlandish and boorish opinions.

At the entry’s close, Tara writes: “Farewell Morrissey. You ruined it with your stupid ill thought out opinions. You’re a pop star, no one wants to know what opinions you hold*. Just write some fucking half decent songs and stop being a dickhead.

“*See also: Thom Yorke, Michael Stipe, Bono, Nicky Wire and Chris Martin.”

I’m not one to argue with the idea that Morrissey is a dickhead. From what I understand, that’s part of the appeal for some people. But it does raise interesting questions about whether the political or moral attitudes of artists should impinge on our enjoyment of their work.

The most extreme example, of course, is that of Gary Glitter, whose festive hit ‘Rock And Roll Christmas’ is presumably now all but banned from Christmas compilation albums after his conviction for paedophilia.

Smashing Pumpkins’ Billy Corgan is another case in point; once a spearhead of the disenfranchised youth music scene in the late 80s and early 90s, the bald singer is perhaps now more famous for his paranoid rants and unbearable Christian proselytising.

I have had to ask these questions of myself in a rather different field recently. As a lifelong Liverpool fan, I have found it increasingly difficult to support the club over recent weeks after the damning verdict on their star striker, Luis Suarez, for using racist language towards an opponent; and, more particularly, in the club’s undignified and embarrassing response to Suarez’s ban.

Should these things matter? Should we allow the views of an artist or sporting institution to affect the way we digest their work?

One could write an entire thesis on this, but in brief: it is unavoidable in some instances, and I believe the tipping point comes when the perpetrator’s ‘crime’ has come to define them so vividly in your mind that they become inseparable from it and you find everything related to them to be insipid, including their work, even if previously you had enjoyed it.

Personally, my memories and sentiments towards Liverpool are too vast and too deeply entrenched for the Suarez saga to turn me off the club, but I can see how it could spill over into resentment – as has happened with Tara and Morrissey.

That should not stop musicians from voicing their opinions, though. I hesitate to say that the music scene needs more characters, as that word itself has become a euphemism for “wanker”, but...well, it does.

Naturally, there are boundaries and there are people so deserving of censure that it is only right that they are pushed out of public life. Up to that line, however, I’d rather have the opinionated, wanky, bizarre or just downright offensive ramblings of Nicky Wire, Thom Yorke, Lady Gaga or Morrissey (respectively) than the vapidity of Joe McElderry or Alexandra Burke, the cold cynicism of Rihanna or Beyoncé, or even the ‘let the music do the talking’ of perfectly good bands like Fleet Foxes or Metronomy. At risk of sounding like an American TV executive, I like a bit of attitude.

Of course, it’s all the better if that manifests itself as an interesting quirkiness (The Fiery Furnaces, The White Stripes), elaborate showmanship (Kiss, Take That, Janelle Monáe, Of Montreal), or simply being really really genuinely nice (Elbow, Dave Grohl). But in an age when pop culture is becoming increasingly beige, I’ll take what I can get.

Current Vacancy: One Hero. Must not be a twat. Apply within. Previous Applicants and Heroes need not apply.

2012-01-12T12:43:00.006Z

Last year, I lost a hero of mine. He’d been a hero since I was about seven or eight, although I’d been a fan of his since I was four. Am I sad about it? Well, yes and no. Yes, because I think he was one of the finest lyricists of his generation; there’ll never be another quite like him. No, because at the ripe old age of 32, I finally gave up on Morrissey, seeing him for what he is, an outspoken controversial vegetarian propagandist bellend.

Yes, that’s right. I hereby denounce Stephen Patrick Morrissey (as wanky fans and hero worshippers across the globe constantly refer to him as) as a hero of mine. I’d come close a few years back when he appeared on the Jonathan Ross show and was an utter fucking prick, but I let him off, brushing his arrogance and pomposity as ‘it’s just Morrissey, this is what he’s about, this is him’.

For years, I tried seeing reason in some of his controversial statements, I denied he was racist (because I didn’t want to think that a hero of mine could be racist) and defended him in various arguments about Morrissey and the Smiths that I’d had with people (well, mainly David whose feelings on the bequiffed knobber have been previously documented). But his statement during the aftermath of the Norway murders carried out by right wing lunatic Anders Breivik was completely unforgivable.

I am all for free speech. Sometimes, if you give someone enough rope and they can hang themselves. So to compare human life to the lives of animals that are, essentially, bred for food is mental. Yes, the animals may not be treated too well which is heinous, but to trivialise the slaughter of 68 people, is horrific and irresponsible. And one of the things which shocked me about the whole situation was reading some of the comments the die hard Moz fans were putting on comments sections of the articles on the internet, supporting his statement, laughing that he’d courted this controversy and how he’d got everyone’s knickers in a twist. Well it cost him a fan, not that I’d be a fan he’d want, I eat meat, I wear leather and I’m not racist. The scales have fallen from my eyes and all I see now is a sad middle aged man who seems to be writing some sort of ‘How to be a Pompous Controversial Arse’ manual.

It pains me a little, I’ll never see him live (although if he were to make some sort of ill thought out statement such as the Anders Breivik one, I’m probably better off), and if the ever surfacing rumours of the Smiths reforming were to actually come off, that would be heartbreaking, but I just can’t do it. I don’t want that idiot getting any more of my money for spouting his bullshit.

Farewell Morrissey. You ruined it with your stupid ill thought out opinions. You’re a pop star, no one wants to know what opinions you hold*. Just write some fucking half decent songs and stop being a dickhead.

Now, who’s for KFC?

*See also: Thom Yorke, Michael Stipe, Bono, Nicky Wire and Chris Martin.

Invitation to Tweet

2012-01-06T13:35:00.003Z

I don't know about you, but if you're white like me you're undoubtedly sick of all the racism you have to confront on a daily basis. If I'm not being complained at for stinking the room out when I eat my national dish of fish and chips, I'm being stared on when I'm on public transport as my glasses, short pepper-and-salt hair and light grey jumper (and otherwise seasonal clothing) clearly indicate I'm some manner of terrorist. Thank God I'm lucky enough to have a job, because us whites find it next to impossible to get work these days due to outdated attitudes which I thought were left behind when white slavery was abolished back in 1833. Did our civil activists die in vain? Did the "I have a dream" speech of Colin Derek King (Jr.) fall on deaf ears? We don't seem to have moved far from the days when us whites had to sit on the grottier end of the bus and eat and drink in segregated spots designated for us - The days when we had to live in fear of men in black hooded robes coming and lynching us whilst setting fire to crosses in our gardens.

But of course that is all utter bullshit. As a white middle-class male the only prejudice I've ever had to face is being called "four eyes" (which is because I wear glasses, I hasted to add, and not as the result of an unfortunate mutation. Those mutants really know prejudice - I've seen X Men). If only there were some way that I, as a pampered white skinned individual lucky enough to be born as a native of an over-privileged society, could get uppity and pretend that I've been racially abused - for the first damn time in my life.

*Cue Steptoe and Son music*

And then Diane Abbott saw fit to tweet the following:

Naive? Certainly. An ill-thought out thing to post via a medium not well known for its preservation of context and subtlety? Oh, Absolutely.

But is the tweet Racist, as it's being claimed? I'm not so sure. Of course I'm not stupid enough to believe that as a white man that I am immune from racism - of course there are sections of society that hate my race and everything it stands for. There may be even be subsections of humanity who, even I type this, are plotting the demise of spectacle wearers as well. Maybe I'm that far removed from prejudice that I can't even see it when it's blatantly staring me in my pale bespectacled face, but I suspect not.

It's easy to claim the old "taken out of context" defence, but in this case I think it's justifiable. The majority of the news stories about this conveniently forgot the hash tag of #tacticsasoldascolonialism which, if you know anything about the mysterious world of twitter, is most of the context thrown out of the window straight away. Or they simply ignored the conversation that led up to this remark from Abbott. Reality can throw up terrifying things we don't want to hear about, if you filter it sufficiently.

Don't get me wrong - I'm not a fan of Diane Abbott, and this certainly isn't the first misguided thing she's said, but I rather think it's been blown out of all proportion. It's difficult to put your point across in the limited space of 140 characters, so maybe Abbott shouldn't even try - it just might not be the proper medium for her. Although one suspects she'll be ultra-vigilant about every single tweet she makes in future, based on how many column inches (and calls for her resignation) this one received.

I think what has most amused me about this whole story is that I often frequent EDL facebook pages - sometimes to wind them up, but mostly to laugh at the nonsensical vitriol filled bile that they expel - and they're all absolutely up in arms about it. The dangerous thing about this rather poorly thought out tweet is that it's given justification to their worst fears - that the white man is being subjugated in his own country. "How dare she be so racist", they cry, before following it up with several dozen racist paragraphs about muslims (who, for reasons I'm still not entirely sure of, are almost without fail grouped under the word "paki") without any sense of irony.

But what do I know, eh? As long as "the man" keeps me down, I'll never have the benefits of free speech anyway... Am I right, brothers?

You say you want a resolution

2012-01-02T21:58:00.002Z

Happy Reset-to-January-and-increase-year-number-by-1 date! It's that time when after over-indulging on Christmas pudding, stuff made by Chocolatiers, nuts (if you were lucky enough to find any anywhere due to the worldwide Brazil and Hazelnut shortage) and drinks that you only ever touch at Christmas (Baileys, Port, etc) for two solid weeks, you half-heartedly decide that on December the 31st that you'll go on a diet which then proceeds to last until either 6 p.m. on January the 1st, or, if you're extremely strong-willed, until 1:16 p.m. on January the 23rd.

We all do it, every single year. I'm as equally guilty of making New Years resolutions that I can't possibly keep, so every now and then I like to spice things up and reassure myself by making ones that I couldn't possibly not adhere to - unless I somehow fuck up really badly.

1. Do not - and I repeat do not - join a Morris Dancing society. This sounds like a cinch, but all I can see is be careful about getting exceptionally drunk in real ale pubs you're not familiar with. Imagine me waking up on that fateful morning in 2008 to find myself in a white shirt adorned with shimmering red and green ribbons, jingling gold bells attached to green ribbons wrapped around my legs and the bitter aftertaste of Bollockswillers Old Peculiar in my throat.

2. Do not join a Folk Singing group. (Again, occasionally possible to fail - see 1 above for the circumstances).

3. Do not die. (Again, I'm sure you'll appreciate, it's possible to fail this one but the beauty of this one is that I guarantee it doesn't come with any associated accompanying resolution-failure guilt). And the beauty of this one is that if I actually do stick to it, I'll have achieved immortality. And then when I realise I've achieved this, I'll have to add a secondary resolution of "avoid other immortals bearing swords".

4. Obey all the standard established rules of physics and time. Feel free to take me up on this if you see me not sticking to this one, but I'm making quite an effort to move forwards through time at the rate of one real world second for any second of my life, adhering to gravity and all its pesky effects.

5. Do not be responsible for any major military conflicts. Along with 3 and 4, I can honestly say I've achieved this resolution every single year. And providing my plans come to fruition and Julian Assange keeps his damned mouth shut, I should (fingers crossed) manage it this year as well.

Sarcasm aside though, If you have made a resolution, I sincerely wish you the best in your endeavours. As per my recent post, I've neatly side-stepped all that pesky resolution malarkey by stopping smoking before 2012 even started, and it's all going surprisingly well so far. I wish you and yours a very happy and fruitful New Year and providing I can keep to rule 4, I'll see you all at the other side of it - maybe we'll both be thinner and healthier before we subject ourselves to the over-indulgence of this years Christmas Season.

2011: That was the year that was

2011-12-20T17:30:00.001Z

So, as Christmas hurtles towards us like a tinsel coated bastard, it's a good time to sum up the year that shall be forever referred to as 2011 (or at least until the Mechanoidatron Empire eventually gather up enough military might to finally invade, when it shall than be referred to in the annals of history as "Invasion Year minus 8").

It's been the year of my first wedding anniversary to the lovely Tara, when we finally got a chance to drink the bottle of champagne (courtesy of Neil and Lisa) which has been hogging our fridge waiting for 12 months of wedded bliss to elapse.

It's a year that I've felt poorly for most of, the year when I decided to blog a damn sight more often, and also apparently from looking back over the post I've made is the year I discovered that racists exist - and that the fact that they exist seems to anger me quite a bit. It's also the year that I started making a suit of Halo Master Chief armour with quite a bit of enthusiasm that has subsequently dribbled away leaving me with nothing but an (admittedly rather natty looking) helmet for my troubles.

And finally it's also the year when despite the number of followers of this blog not really increasing (despite the number of hits almost doubling) it seemed like my posts are getting shared around a bit more now via Facebook - infinite festive thanks to Matt, Petrina, Darren, Neil and Lisa (and a fair few others - you know who you are) for spreading the word.

2011 has been a good one for films - Trollhunter, which managed the rare feat of making handheld shaky-cam "found documentary footage" films (Blair Witch, Diary of the Dead, et al) interesting and relevant again, The Guard (The ever entertaining Brendan Gleeson at his very, very best) and the biggest surprise of the year - Rise of the Planet of the Apes. Now, ROTPOTA, to give it an unwieldy acronym I'll never use again, was a genuine delight. I'd expected it be good (or at least better than the Tim Burton abomination, at any rate) but was blown away by how good it actually was. That rarest of films in that is fully self-contained, but I really wouldn't object if they made a sequel - Kind of an Anti-Matrix, in that regard. Thor and Captain America passed the time, but felt more like extended trailers for the forthcoming Avengers film than movies in their own right. And last but definitely not least, Tucker and Dale versus Evil was a little low budget hidden gem that sprung up out of nowhere and was both original and entertaining and only let down by a derivative ending. One of the biggest letdowns of the year was the prequel to The Thing - having read dozens of articles in various film magazines about how the makers were going to stay true to the original with physical effects rather than heavy CGI the end result ended up being nothing but a Dead Space 2 CGI-fest that felt like a beat-for-beat remake rather than a true prequel. Only the (admittedly very good) footage during the end credits bore any lip service to it being set before the John Carpenter version at all.

2012 will bring us The Dark Knight Rises (I've seen the Batplane in real life, you know), the aforementioned Avengers and Prometheus - Ridley Scott's return to the Alien franchise with a pseudo-prequel. All look great.

This year has been an absolutely brilliant one for games - and most of them were sequels. Highlights of the year were Arkham City (which managed the incredible feat of being even better than Arkham Asylum), Uncharted 3 - brilliant to look at, good to play but ultimately but short-lived with no real replayability other than the multiplayer aspect that I'll probably never touch - and obviously Skyrim, which is still stealing most of my life (Level 42 and trying to stave off the inevitable end game). Portal 2 is also more than worthy of mention, as are the ipad games Infinity Blade and Jetpack Joyride. The latter in particular in an absolute life-thief and is more guilty of the "one more go" phenomenon than any game I've played for a long, long time.

Considering how little music stuck out for me in 2011 means that I either haven't listened to quite enough of it, or nothing really outstanding was released (other than the fact my sole music review of Colonics second EP still stands). And in all honesty they split up, so it's probably for the best if I don't do music reviews.

So, all you lovely people - I hope you all have a wonderful Christmas and I'll see you on the other side of it for more relentless blogging. Eat, drink, be merry, be kind to another and all that jazz. Here's to an outstanding 2012 for all of us. Fuck the Mayan prophecy about the world ending - they don't know what they're banging on about. Shit film anyway.

Nobody likes a quitter

2011-12-14T17:37:00.000Z

Disgusting and expensive habit, this smoking business. And it's time to stop. The one thing I'm great at is quitting smoking - I've done it so many times now I've lost count.

It was smoking that killed my mum - even when she'd been brought back from death and had regained conciousness and was being wheeled towards the room where she'd spend her last days, her lungs shrivelled and atrophied to the point where she was solely being kept alive by an experimental machine, she was craving a cigarette. The first night she was in I tried to stay with her but ended up getting angry and incredibly irritated because she kept insisting she was going outside for a cigarette even with me insisting that she couldn't possibly because it would kill her, even though in all honesty the fags had killed her already. On the last night I saw her alive and hugged her goodbye, knowing pretty damn well that I wouldn't see her again, she moaned at me that I smelt of smoke. And laughed that she'd given up because she hadn't smoked since she'd gone into hospital. But the cigarettes had done their damage and she was dead less than half a day later.

Reason 1 to quit smoking; I don't want my last days to be spent stuck in a hospital bed riddled with cancer and breathing difficulties, with Tara and (with any luck) my kids discussing out of my earshot whether they should just switch my life support off. With me attached to a bit of hospital machinery so brand new that I'm a guinea pig for every trainee nurse learning how to use this fancy new bit of kit.

Mum and Dad have both smoked as long as I've known them - I used to be vehemently opposed to it, even refusing to pop over the road and buy them cigarettes. And I left it damn late to start smoking as well - I was in my early twenties half way through University before I even let one touch my lips. Old enough and wise enough to know better.

When my dad is quiet you can hear it in his breath. Lungs forced into overdrive, his breathing raspy and laboured. At times when I stand up or sit down it seems like somebody has attached a sensor to me that detects said movements and plays the sound of my dad grunting, and it seems I'm following suit at times with the breathing as well. Fair play to him though, he's been cutting down recently through willpower alone and I honestly think he might be able to give up the fags permanently.

Reason 2 to quit smoking; Because how is Dad going to be able to give up if every time we go out I'm constantly popping out for a cigarette and reminding him what he's missing? I'd like my dad around for a good few years yet, and us both still smoking isn't going to help with that.

It's not a cheap game either. I smoke around 20 a day and at more than six quid for a packet of my chosen brand of fags, thats more than two grand a year I'm paying to some big faceless corporation to shorten my life.

Therefore, reason 3 to quit smoking. The vast expense. I could get myself something really nice for two grand, and it won't kill me doing it. Unless of course I buy myself two grands worth of poison - but I suppose I'm already doing that, aren't I?

It's not going to be easy. Much as in there is no such thing as an ex-alcoholic, there's no such thing as an ex-smoker. Even after I'd given up for eight months back a couple of years back, there wasn't a day went by without me craving a cigarette. Whilst I'd given up, I've purchased packets of cigarettes, smoked one, thrown the rest away and ended up rifling through the kitchen bin to retrieve the packet to finish the rest. Perhaps this is one of the reasons for this blog post - so when I get the craving I can read this again and remind myself why I gave up in the first place.

So, here goes. Attempt n at quitting. One last one won't hurt though, will it?

No! Must... resist... urge...

Jeremy Clarkson - "My work here is done".

2011-12-01T16:33:00.001Z

The 51 year mission of Jeremy Clarkson was deemed an "absolute success" by the man himself yesterday as calculations revealed that he has now managed to achieve his admittedly lofty goal of offending every single fucking last human being on the planet.

"I'd been preparing for around 38 years when I first saw my opportunity at the Birmingham Motor Show. It turns out that the people on the Hyundai stand didn't like me saying they ate dogs, but BMW upsettingly didn't seem that bothered by me calling them Nazis. Even me doing that mock Hitler salute when reviewing a Mini that I thought seemed a bit German didn't offend quite as many people as I'd have liked."

"I was quite pleased at the tactical nuclear grade offence I caused to the National Institute of the Blind when I called Gordon Brown a one eyed Scottish Idiot", Clarkson chuckled, "and I didn't even think that they watched telly. Blind idiots."

"It got quite easy after that", Clarkson reminisces, "Lorry drivers all murder prostitutes, anything made by Rover, Vauxhall Vectra drivers, all an absolute doddle. Complaints flooding in to the BBC, but they know how much business I do for BBC Worldwide, so fuck all is done and they all got shredded and used to line Hammonds cage - but then the big one... Mexicans are all lazy. Boom! Back of the net! 113 and a half million people royally fucked off in one go! But no complaints, because they were presumably all too lazy and having siestas or whatever it is they have to even bother to write in. And probably can't write anyway. Mexicans, eh?"

"Let's see.. I've offended the gays, offended the Welsh by saying that they should abolish the language, ooh, all kinds of things. I've almost lost track myself. Have you seen what they're saying about me online? Christ, they hate Littlejohn and Liz Jones with a passion, but fuck me - loads of people think I'm an absolute cunt. And I got into trouble for saying that once, as well. Had you heard?"

"Anyway", continued Clarkson," I digress. My arcane team of secret advisors that live in my loft revealed to me that I was nearer to my goal than I'd ever imagined.", Clarkson continued, "Turns out that there were only three people left on the planet who I hadn't offended, and they were all Public sector workers. One quick naughty comment on the One Show about how anybody striking should be executed in front of their family, and Lindas your tranvestite uncle. Mission accomplished."

Clarkson sits back in his chair, grinning. When asked if he had any future plans, he was quite open.

"I'm going to build a magic spaceship and travel up to Heaven and piss on God."

Racist named and shamed; Tram wishes to remain an omnibus.

2011-11-30T16:03:00.001Z

I can't help but have noticed that the world slid another 0.002% towards complete and utter meltdown over the last couple of days when some daft bint decided to be openly racist on public transport. A clip got posted on youtube, got several billion trillion gazillion views and then found its way onto the news. And then the "woman" (and I use the word in its loosest term) in question, Emma West, got arrested. It was like a really dull technology heavy episode of CSI: Croydon.

And "Tram Bigot" also sounds like the sort of random password you'd get on the back of the cardboard case of old AOL disks through the post.

If you haven't watched the clip yet then be prepared for some very harsh language. To her credit, her colour recognition skills are second to none. Like some kind of pigment fixated variant of the Count from Sesame Street, she happily (and swearily) points out the colour of pretty much everybody sitting around her, as though that were an insult.

In all seriousness though, she's vile. What chance does her poor son have in life with that as a role-model? He even has an action figure doing a Hitler salute. Don't tell me that he doesn't have issues. Poor little sod is probably going to get the Josef Mengele variant of the Operation board game for Christmas.

So, so far so good. Justice prevails. Woman breaks law and gets arrested. Good job all round, Mr. Plod.

But then it starts getting weirder. Logically, the number of "dislikes" on the video goes up rapidly (this video is the only every kind you'd post and actively want people to dislike it), but for every five "dislikes", it gets a "like" as well. Only one, mind, but still one too many.

And the most common reason for people liking the video and in some cases proclaiming her as a brave patriot? "Well done her. She's daring to say the things we're all thinking."

Well now, sunshine, imma stop you there. If the youtube likes and dislikes can be taken as a guideline, then this definitely isn't the case. And she certainly isn't saying the kind of things that I'M thinking, otherwise it'd be a considerably duller video with her banging on about what christmas presents she's going to buy for people, how to level up her alchemy skill quickly in Skyrim, whether those Breville One-cup hot water dispensers are worth getting or not and whether to have curry or chinese as her next takeaway. Ooh, or maybe pizza. The only slightly racist element of my thoughts might be me accidentally referring to the 'chinese' as 'the chinky' but I'm trying to stop that, honestly.

Emma West isn't a brave patriot protecting us against the vile scourge of foreigners. She's exactly the sort of person that makes me ashamed to be human, let alone English. There is more honour in the restraint that her fellow passengers show than from one single word of the foul racist bile she's spouting.

So, let's not tar us all with the same brush with that sweeping sentence, shall we? The people I know and choose to hang around with don't think like that. Assumptions like that are invalid and dangerous and don't work, except for the sweeping generalisation I'm going to make now.

If you clicked 'like' on that video, you're a fucking idiot.

Why Skyrim isn't perfect, but it's pretty damn close.

2011-11-21T18:30:00.000Z

If you open your Skyrim box and remove the carefully folded map - which, unfortunately, as with all maps, you'll have to thoroughly unfold thus meaning you'll never be able to fold it to fit back into the box every again - you'll notice what appears to be a small piece of sellotape in the top right hand corner. This is holding a very small piece of thread in place. This is important - despite its small size the thread is constructed from one of the strongest materials known (shy of the membrane of your average racist that stops reasonable thought getting through from the outside world) and you will need this whilst playing the game. You know the disbelief you've been experiencing whilst playing it? This thread can be carefully used to suspend said disbelief, and you'll need it a lot. What do you mean it's not in your box? Should have got the Collectors Edition which also ships with a robot double that you can send to work so you can happily keep on playing Skyrim.

Holy shit. Where'd my head go?

A week in it is apparent that Skyrim is still brilliantly addictive and utterly absorbing, but occasionally - just occasionally - the technology can't live up to the ambitiousness the developers were aiming for. A weird quirk (such as a graphical glitch or the like) will suddenly send you kicking and screaming out of FantasyWorld and into the mystical land of "What the hell?". But you quickly learn the oddities and anomalies of the world, and they almost become a feature of the game. Every inhabitant of Skyrim must simply be used to the way the world works, although to be fair they don't seem to have very good memories anyway.

YOUR SKILL IN BLOG WRITING HAS INCREASED TO 33.

BISKIT CRABSBANE: (the player): Good evening, shopkeep! Prithee and verily to thee, etc. May I enquire as to what wares you can provide me with?
HÈNN REESCAT: (the computer controlled shopkeeper): Hail, adventurer! We have a variety of wares but first let me tell you about some bandit trouble we've been (skip conversation). They hail from the mountains of (skip conversation). They took my wife not three days back and shoved a halberd right up her (skip conversation). And this hernia, it's become a right (skip conversation).
BISKIT CRABSBANE: ...
BISKIT CRABSBANE: Oh, you've finished. Right. I'll have two potions of minor healing, a potion of resist cold - Ooh, Lemsip. I'll also take a silver breastplate and that magical torc you have. Here is my hard earned gold that I've mostly found by rummaging through dead peoples pockets, sometime stooping as low as gathering it from funeral urns, for some reason.
HÈNN REESCAT: Fare thee well, adventurer! Have a nice day! Come back soon!
BISKIT CRABSBANE: Ah, I appear to be carrying too much stuff to actually move out of your shop. I'll just sell you some of this stuff and will just drop the low value stuff on your floor so I can actually walk. I trust you're okay with that?
HÈNN REESCAT: Fare thee well, adventurer! Have a nice day! Come back soon!
BISKIT CRABSBANE: Riiiiiight. Bye then.

It might just be me, but shops tend to end up with their floors scattered with random unwanted shit. Why the hell did I pick up those two tankards and that broom anyway?

"I'm on a horse. A flying horse. Over which I appear to have no control."

BISKIT CRABSBANE: Excellent. My goal is now in sight. I've managed to emerge in what is clearly the end room of this dungeon in good time. My companion is still somewhere near the entrance after he didn't seem to be able to navigate over a rock I happily leapt over, but at least that stopped him triggering every single trap on the way from there to here. If I just step out into the centre of the room then...
DREADLORD GUBBINS: Demonic laughter! Aha! Who dares spoil my sleep, the sleep of the dead? For three thousand years I have (skip conversation). My powers are vast and (skip conversation). You shall not wrest from me The Sword Of Powerful Capital Letters this day because (skip conversation).
BISKIT CRABSBANE: ...
BISKIT CRABSBANE: Oh, you've finished. Right. I'm popping a Flame Atronach in yo' ass! And spending mere seconds drinking loads of resist cold, resist fire and various combat related potions! Because I've learned loads of magic and stuff just by briefly glancing at the first page of some books! Flame on!
DREADLORD GUBBINS: Shitehawks! I appear to have found myself unable to actually move around this piece of scenery. You best play fair and not take advantage of me standing perfectly still and not being able to attack you by - Ow! Owwww! You bloody cheat! Owww! (dies)
BISKIT CRABSBANE: Aha! I am victorious! And I will pilfer your stuff and find a lever which will open a door to the outside world. Be nice if I'd found that before and it actually opened from the outside. Still, I'm sure you had a perfectly good reason for installing it. All you Dreadlords seem to be mad keen on them.

But despite the bugs and the glitches? It's still brilliant. You end up forgiving the bugs because the game is so damn great and you can certainly see what they tried to achieve - and it's so very very close. I've still (after what seems like hundreds of hours of play) only narrowly scratched the surface and my quest log keeps growing quicker than I can clear it. I'm going to have to give up having conversations with randoms because they end up asking me to find their lost dog/family heirloom/face, etc. Just reading a book can open up a five hour quest as you try to solve the authors murder. Oh goody, another quest. And what do you know, it's over the other side of Skyrim. Time to buy those new boots and start walking. And I just know I'll end up with a satchel full of rubbish stuff when I'm finished.

YOUR SKILL IN BLOG WRITING HAS INCREASED TO 34.

People made 0.000017% more vaguely aware of stuff through copy-and-pasted Facebook status, predictable study reveals.

2011-11-21T17:00:00.001Z

Somebody in a stock photograph generally being
made more aware of stuff.

The International Institute of Stuff (formerly the International Institute of things, and ooh numbers and shit) today published the results of their groundbreaking research into Facebook behaviour, a result of almost 8 minutes of study.

"We're currently having the research verified by the International Consortium for Checking Stuff, but if the results are accurate they make for shocking reading", revealed The Director of Stuff Kevin Gusset (BSc).

"We'd previously thought that copy and pasting a status and asking your friends to do the same had no actual result or bearing in the real world, but if these statistics are correct then this simply isn't true. People in general, as a result of this, are in fact made 0.000017% more aware of stuff."

Gusset elaborated, "At any one time there are up to 8 million bits of stuff that people are simply unaware of or, more frequently, simply don't give a flying fuck about. By the diligent work of hundreds of individuals copying and pasting stuff reminding us how some people are ill, some people love their dads, some people have died of stuff, etcetera, this stuff gets back into the public domain. And in the case of some of these bits of stuff, it's actually much simpler just to copy and paste a Facebook status than it is to do actually do something constructive about it."

Gusset continued, "And of course, it's vitally important for some to post this stuff so they actually appear like they care about whatever they've copied and pasted. And you know, haven't just simply done a Control C and Control V in a status box, and then forgotten about that bit of stuff completely. These people provide an extremely valuable service in clogging up peoples news feeds. This stuff needs to be circulated. With modern technology, the internet is simply too fast. It's necessary that people find ways to slow it down in whichever way they see fit, even if this means turning a Facebook news feed into something resembling little more than a prolonged blog about how shit life can treat people sometimes."

"And let's not forget that the most critical part of this", he continued, "is to openly confront and challenge the morality of your Facebook friends. It's simply not enough to copy and paste this stuff, but you must also dare them to do the same. Even if this just means taking a random percentage you've just made up and saying that only that number of your friends will actually dare to put this as their status. As though copy and pasting some dull-as-ditchwater bleeding heart status makes you a braver and more thoroughly rounded person. This is the key to the viral nature of this boring shit."

"And lets not forget", concluded Gusset, "the secondary service that this copy-and-pasting achieves. An entire subgroup of individuals whose sole purpose is to mock those who copy-and-paste. It's like the Circle of Life. Or more precisely, the Circle of Stuff."

FoldsFive, Dragonslayer

2011-11-14T12:36:00.001Z

"Oh shit. Oh shit. Oh shit."

Verily (and other such olde world phrases), gather ye round and hear my tale of adventures great, derring-do and derring-don’t. I am David K’ort, Thane of Jak’Danlz, only heir to Dread Lord Bernard, High King of Khrr’lsberg and scourge of Belgium, and this is my story. Enjoy your ale responsibly but remember it’s a sipping beer and not designed for quaffing.

Skyrim may sound on the surface like a very specific sexual act carried out by members of the mile high club, but is in fact the sequel to the RPG Elder Scrolls: Oblivion (which is in itself a sequel to Elder Scrolls: Morrowind). Much like its predecessors, it takes place in an open fantasy world which you’re allowed to explore at your own pace in the manner of your choosing. Oh sure, it has the traditional ‘Only the one spoke of in legend can save the world and, by the way, that’s you’ plot, but there are plenty of sub quests and distractions to keep you busy for hundreds of hours without you even needing to go anywhere near that.

It opens with your as yet unnamed character being carted off for execution. Said execution is unsurprisingly interrupted (which is lucky, otherwise I’d be wondering why I spent 40 quid on a cut scene) by the emergence of a dragon which fries everybody it can see enabling you to perform a daring escape (for ‘escape’ read ‘tutorial’). It of course emerges that you have a great destiny, blah de blah, so far so every fantasy trilogy you’ve ever read or glanced at on geeks bookshelves.

And you’re then let loose in a huge fantasy world racked by Civil War where if you can see it, you can travel to it. Much like Oblivion this is slightly overwhelming at first, but the pure joy of this game comes from exploring Skyrim which hosts a cavalcade of dungeons, ruined temples, haunted caverns and fortresses. Admittedly once you’ve discovered a location you can travel there with a few key presses, but this defeats the object. The fun is in wandering off the beaten track and discovering the secrets of the world for yourself.

YOUR SKILL IN BLOG WRITING HAS INCREASED TO 31.

"Have at thee, tiny crab! That's for giving it all that!"
*does comical pincer hand movements*

It’s not without bugs (by which I don’t mean the Horned Skull-Beetle of the V’poresh Mountains which I may have invented). Characters will happily speak over each other like they’re on the set of Iron Man and I met one poor woman in a town who had found herself unfortunately phased into the wall of her house. I chatted with her for a while and she didn’t seem bothered that she was tethered to the spot with her face sticking out of a wall though, so no harm done. Dragons will swoop overhead and people won’t even react, despite the fact that the game presents them as some World destroying threat.

But oh, those dragons. They’re Skyrims major selling point, and they’re brilliantly realised. If you’re lucky you’ll hear the familiar screech of one of them in the distance, circling some distant misty mountains and marvel a while at the sheer majesty of the beast. If you’re unlucky it has spotted you first – you’ll hear the sound of huge leathery wings shaking the earth, catch a glimpse of its vast shadow and then you’ll be flambéed (thanks to all that Nord Mead you’d ingested) inside your armour. If you’re really unlucky it has dragged a mate along as well, meaning you'll end up as some kind of dragon pull-toy.

A hoary old fantasy plot dictates that it is your destiny to be a Dragon Slayer but I’ll be honest in that I haven’t managed to do so yet without assistance. Why couldn’t the ancient tales have dictated that a legendary Crab killer would walk the earth? I’m awesome at that – the scourge of Crustaceans everywhere. If you’re in luck the dragons flame or ice breath will also irritate some innocent Giant who was previously just minding his own business herding his mammoth who’ll then wander in like a pissed off 60 foot tall Phil Mitchell and give the dragon a piece of its mind. And the large tree it uses as a club.

YOUR SKILL IN BLOG WRITING HAS INCREASED TO 32.

Your unique talent as a Dragon Slayer gives you the ability to learn new abilities from vanquished dragons souls in the form of allowing you to learn previously discovered magical words which form a Shout (“Get! Orf! My! Land!” – that kind of thing). These shouts bless you with superhuman abilities – the ability to move faster than sound, to freeze time, to breathe fire, etc.

My character in Skyrim is an angry ginger lady called Tara who is quite skilled at fighting and cooking. For the benefit of the Court (no pun intended), I’d like to point out that any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

If I had any criticism of Skyrim at all, it'd be that I've been spoiled by the excellent quality of voice acting in both the recent releases Arkham City and Uncharted 3. Many of the Skyrim characters seem like they're attempting sub-par Schwarzenegger impressions delivered with all the charisma of the big Austrian himself. And then you'll meet a cockney. The EDL should take note - this is successful racial integration at its most extreme.

So, in closing. Skyrim is a real time-magnet. It’s beautiful looking and completely absorbing with that annoying hook where every minute of gameplay makes your character that slight bit better but it never feels like a grind. The plot is clichéd but absorbing and (almost) every element of the game feels crafted to the point of perfection. I've been adventuring for hours so far and have barely scratched the surface of this fantasy epic. Skyrim is an icy world so utterly compelling that you'll feel the need to turn your heating up.

Right, I’m off looking for dragons. What’s that shadow abov-

ARRRRGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!

RESTART FROM LAST SAVED GAME?

A timely pre-emptive strike

2011-11-13T17:34:00.001Z

As a public service, I'm going to carry out the selfless act of saving you posting pointless threads on your Facebook pages, based on various things I've seen floating around like an unflushed turd. With all the time you save thanks to reading these simple instructions, you could go out and do something decent with your time like serving soup for the homeless, joining the Samaritans, boiling some chicken bones down into stock or simply walking your sad faced under-walked dog.

No supermarkets birthdays are approaching, and they aren't giving away any vouchers. And even if they do (which is very unlikely), I imagine they'll do it through their own website and not through a Facebook page that has the supermarket name hidden in somewhere which is probably spelled incorrectly. And said Supermarket certainly won't ask you to fill out a questionnaire for a completely different company before promising you said vouchers which will never, NEVER arrive. You may as well click on a link reading 'The secret to eternal life is here! Click here and fill in a questionnaire for NPower for the answer to immortality!'. And knowing the majority of you, you'd happily do that too. I've told you about this before - add Sophos as a friend on Facebook if you're the kind of gullible goon that clicks any one nonsense in the vain hope of "free stuff".

Yes, Amelia Lily is back in the X Factor. And more to the point, this was announced on their website a fair amount of time before the polls closed. And no, this shouldn't come as a great shock to you telephone voters - after all, you have spent several years now paying for the publicity and marketing for a band that you end up buying the singles for. X Factor is and always has been a great big con. As you were.

"Ow, you've caught my skin!"

And finally, the most important one. And I'll have to sadly engage my politics head for this one. Yes, the EDL were arrested on Friday (11/11/11) without having committed a crime. However, fair play to the police on this one because they were arrested under the prevention of Terrorism act. And why? Because Theresa May spoiled all of their fun on Thursday by proscribing MAC (Muslims against Crusades) thus giving the EDL nobody to fight in the playground with when they'd already booked their coaches to the Cenotaph. To this end, the admin on the EDL page made the absolutely genius Moriarty-esque move of threatening the Occupy London lot on Thursday. Just after threats had been made stating that some of the EDL had guns. So sadly a pissed up drunken rabble spoiling for a fight didn't get the chance to do so - they were simply frogmarched onto coaches and arrested. Sad that a group that claims to speak for our fallen soldiers saw fit to demean the day in such a way.

The EDL pages are full of links to claim against the police for their so-called brutality. To this end if you're able to translate bollocks into English, they may well need you as an employee. In all honesty, much like when the EDL claimed whiplash for 78 people in a coach accident which only held 25 of them, the police will now be inundated with several thousand poorly written claims of police brutality from a pub of several hundred. Two tier system, etc.

There, three threads you need never post about. No, it's okay. No need to thank me.

America: The Verdict

2011-11-09T21:58:00.003Z

So Tuesday morning saw a quick pop around the shops to pick up some gifts for family and friends, a quick pint at a great bar called Bayards Alehouse near to the apartment (where due to us wanting to get rid of coinage, the pleasant bartender ended up being tipped big time) and then back to switch on the dishwasher and drag our cases onto the subway, onto the JFK Airtrack and then onto the long flight home...

After magically time travelling five years into the future care of Aer Lingus, we're all finally back in one piece. It was a long night - I think I managed about 20 minutes of sleep on the flight, but managed to watch "The Trip" with Steve Coogan and Rob Brydon (rambling but excellent) and all but the last twenty minutes or so of Cars 2 (passed the time, even though Michael Caine must have phoned his voiceover in).

I didn't catch the end of Cars 2, because much like with the flight in the in-flight entertainment is interrupted by the (now looking very old) Roger Moore begging you to donate money to UNICEF. I'll also guiltily admit that this is probably my own fault because I watched the first ten minutes of Transformers 3 - but hastily stopped when I remembered Michael Bays directorial style and that when the first female character appears you're basically shown everything shy of her vagina. Embarrassed man worrying about people (and suddenly remembering that he is supposed to like good films) looking at his screen changes movie.

Time for a longer post about America now, to close the chapter on this epic adventure. My posts whilst on holiday have been brief because the blog app for my ipad2 simply stopped working (thanks a fucking bunch, Blogger) so I was forced to do it on my Android phone - which isn't the ideal tool to write lengthy blog posts on. And it forces the photographs to be crappy low resolution versions of the originals.

So, for those of you who haven't been reading my relentless blog posts of the last week, my beautiful wife and I and fellow FoldsFivesketeer Tom and his lovely fiancé Fran have been to New York.

It's been a hell of a week - literally, the holiday of a lifetime. Highlights? Too many to speak of. Standing on top of the Empire State Building looking down on the city, seeing Batman being filmed and getting to stand beside the Batplane, standing in the shadow of the Statue of Liberty, seeing how much food New Yorkers can stuff down their remarkably slim necks - all incredible experiences which I'm still trying to properly digest.

Other impressions that New York has made on me over the past few days.. New Yorkers? Incredibly polite but short on manners. They'll wish you a nice day but they won't hold a door open for you. The food portions (as predicted) are stupidly large and yet New Yorkers remain trim and beautiful - probably because of all the jogging they do and the fact that none of them seem to smoke. Or at least smoke their own cigarettes at any rate, from the number of times that a New Yorker asked me for one.

The Village is a lovely place, a great little community. We found the best breakfast in the Hudson Diner with the loveliest staff and absolutely fantastic food (complete with a waitress with the most New York accent of all time - it was "cworfee" and "badda-bing" all the way). Free O.J. and free top ups to your coffee as soon as it ran anywhere near empty.

The weather was fantastic. What New Yorkers thought was cold was beautiful for us Brits - not a drop of rain all week, and Tom and I had prepared for a New York Winter with warm jackets. That was a mistake. It's raining in New York tomorrow (Thursday) so we couldn't have timed it better.

Taras cousin Jenny and her wife Lisa were fantastic hosts - they live in DC but were also holidaying in NY - We had a hilarious time on our first night at Boots and Saddle, a gay bar a stone(wall)s throw away from our apartment in which I got to see a disinterested go-go boy with a pubic beard and a shit baseball cap dancing around in his Y fronts. And some guys checked both Tom and I out, which made our nights. WE'VE STILL GOT IT. The Stonewall Tavern was very subdued in comparison.

The apartment was large but we hadn't been warned that it been constructed over a magma pit. The streams of molten lava running under my bed should have warned me, but I didn't take heed. It was absolutely BOILING. Sleep was impossible without constructing a complicated array of curtain and air-conditioning, and said air-conditioning sounded like an growling bear hovering over the bed. Which was okay, because the apartments washing machine sounded like a nest of angry hornets. So the choice appeared to be burn to death in your sleep, or stay awake and be freezing cold.

The New York subway system (which appears to run parallel to the aforementioned Magma Stream in terms of heat) is a brilliant way to get around the city, but also appears to be an open advertising spot for anybody who feels like it. Over the course of the week we've had homeless noisily declaring their skintness, college rap bands trying to send CDs and kids trying to send boxes of sweets. All of which get ignored and then move on to the next subway carriage or the next train.

Tipping culture is odd for a Brit, because we're simply not used to it. But this is a city (in fact, a country) which relies on it. I've been known to tend a landlord to "have one for himself" when buying a pint, but wasn't quite used to the dollar per beer rule - not the paying of it, you understand, but how to actually pay it. "Erm, I've had four beers. Have four dollars for yourself."

My sarcasm is heavy, considering I had an absolutely fantastic time. It truly was the holiday was a lifetime, especially at those prices. Those of you who've whinged at me blogging about nothing else all week can rest assured that it won't happen again for a very, very long time..!

And I got to stand on a manhole cover with steam coming out of the sewers. Cup of cworfee, I'm walking here, sunny side up, etc.

EDIT: But I almost forgot - the final Hot Dog tally. This might look like a poor tally, but you really should have seen the amount of food that my Northern friend shoved down his gob. What he failed in Hotdogs he made up for with food in general.

Manic Monday

2011-11-08T12:00:00.001Z

So, it's Monday and we are slowly reaching the end of our New York experience. A slight hangover from over indulging slightly courtesy of the Jekyll & Hyde pub and a nearby off-license last night, but we are shortly off on the subway heading towards Central Park.

We spend the majority of the afternoon walking around it, amazed by how large the bloody thing is. There seem to be two kinds of New Yorker here - you're either a jogger, or you're walking your dog. Or in case of the guy we see on roller skates being pulled along by his dog, a weird hybrid of both.

It's a beautiful place and incredibly well maintained. We walk through Strawberry Fields, take a rest beside the Great Lake and see both geese and a turtle sunning himself on a rock. We walk past Jackie Onassis Reservoir and eventually get out of the park and have a well deserved pitcher of Blue Moon in a sports bar we find down Madison Avenue.

We've already decided where we're eating this evening. Down Bleeker we have seen a permanently crowded pizza place and Fran has looked it up online to find its been voted something like the 28th best in New York. After Fran has had a manicure and pedicure in a place right next to our apartment, we get seats there and are treated to a truly incredible New York pizza.

From there we head to the famous Magnolia Bakery for a slice of cake, and then to the Slaughtered lamb, the sister pub of Jekyll & Hyde. By now we're all flagging - our legs are tired and we're all on the verge of falling asleep so call it a night.

And thats how I spent my Monday in New York. We have half a day here tomorrow, and then it's back on a flight to Blighty.

Lady Liberty

2011-11-07T22:26:00.001Z

A quick breakfast at the brilliant Amys Bread (recommended by Fran who has their cookbook) and then off to Battery Park to catch a ferry to The Statue of Liberty.

After getting through security (at security level MARSEC 1, security status fans) we were there. Apart from a delay caused by Tara having too much metal in her bra to get her through her security check. Thats right - my wifes breasts were nearly responsible for an international incident.

The statue is incredible, and the Manhattan skyline visible from it equally so. A quick cup of liptons tea (got to keep the English end up) and then on to Ellis Island for a museum tour about immigration.

Fran and Tom went out for a meal to celebrate the second anniversary of then getting together, and we found somewhere to drink.

We'd spied an awesome looking place a few days before and decided to give it a try. Jekyll and Hydes is a horror themed bar and sold a great variety of drinks and cocktaiks. The bartender was friendly, and I'd thoroughly recommend it.

Brilliantly the toilets are hidden in a book lined corridor where you have to push the panels to find them.. We are trying its sister bar The Slaughtered Lamb this evening (Monday).

So, an excellent Sunday in NY. I am falling in love with this city and it'll be a shame to have to leave on Tuesday.

Times Squared

2011-11-06T16:07:00.001Z

Times Square is impressive enough in day light, but by night it is completely breathtaking. There are so many screens and lights it is as bright as day. And the number of people, good Lord.

We were in Broadway doing the done touristy thing of seeing a show. We went to see Priscilla - Queen of the Desert, and it was magnificent. I wasn't sure how well the movie would translate to stage (and was also slightly concerned that I was knackered and would be asleep before the interval) but need not have worried.. The cast were excellent, and the songs and set were awesome. So what we lost in seeing OccupyWallStreet was certainly made for in the Camp we witnessed onstage.

And then on to Ellens Stardust diner, the waiting staff of which are all broadway wannabes. Hence when they're not serving you food and drinks, they're standing on tables and singing. Loads of talented kids all looking for a break.

So, another excellent day in NYC.

Magnus Rex

2011-11-05T22:29:00.001Z

So after a Hudson diner breakfast (during which I established several facts.. Firstly, despite my sweet tooth my stomach cannot cope with pudding for breakfast and secondly that Canadian Bacon is delicious) we took the subway to check out OccupyWallStreet.

However, upon arrival, we couldn't get to them. The police were blocking every street. We walked around trying to find any way to get in and suddenly spotted something quite odd.. A Gotham city police department car parked on the road.

So, a golden opportunity for photographs.. And then I twigged. I had read in passing that Christopher Nolan was shooting some scenes in Wall Street for "The Dark Knight Rises" and it looked like that might be happening right now.

We turned a corner to find ourselves behind a corden with some several hundred extras behind it dressed as GCPD cops and SWAT. Some guy had the thankless task of trying to keep onlookers on the pavement and out of shot.

After a short while shooting began. Literally. Gunshots were heard from Wall Street and then all the extras ran towards it. So I'll know what scene to look for in the film when it's released.

All exciting stuff. Then topped off when a lorry driver saw us taking photographs of Dressing rooms and told us the batmobile was in a car park round the corner.

Tom and I were both as excited as little kids when we told Fran and Tara the news. We headed in the direction we'd been given and there it was.. A full sized batplane.

The batmobile itself was under tarpaulin, and the two guys there (one of whom was Scottish) allowed us to take photographs.

I was wearing my batman socks, so it must have been fate.

No, I said ping pong balls not King Kongs balls

2011-11-04T18:29:00.001Z

So, our first day in NY and what a day. I certainly have found out why New York is referred to as the city that never sleeps though.. Even the smaller coffees are the size of a childs head.

We've been ticking off tourist experiences without trying to appear too touristy... Although we must stand out a mile because we are constantly offered bus tours. Mental note: Don't have a visible map.

An incredible breakfast of eggs (sunny side up), bacon, toast and grape jam and then onto the New York subway.

And then a walk to the Empire State Building to take the elevator to the very top. A gorgeous building and the sight from the top is utterly breathtaking. I'm scared of heights (or more to the point, in the words of Douglas Adams, scared of depths) but its too amazing to be scared.

Then to the New York public library (the opening of Ghostbusters, fact fans) which had the most incredible art exhibition to celebrate its 100th anniversary, and then to an Irish bar where we were asked if we were in New York for the marathon. We've just ordered two pints of Guinness and two pints of Harp.. What do you think?

Then touristy time by wandering around Grand Central Station, which is beautiful.

Then to Times Square.. Crowded but impressive, especially if you like huge screens advertising Call of Duty.

And that concludes the update. It's now half six and we are off out to eat a fuck-off steak. My piss poor appetite has apparently recovered when exposed to USA air.

Catch you tomorrow!

I'm walkin' here!

2011-11-04T13:24:00.001Z

We arrived at JFK a little after 2 pm local time and thanks to having gone through immigration at Dublin it was just a case of grabbing our bags.

The dirty smokers stood outside and noted that "passenger Farrell" (see previous post) came out for one as well.. Although Frans attempt to grab a sneaky photo was thwarted when he turned around and saw her and she gave up.

Good job too. Farrell has a bad reputation with Paparazzi.

An airport shuttle took us to our apartment on Christopher Street and we were introduced to New York roads. A nightmare.. A cacophonous array of honking horns and gridlock. And I swear I've driven around some of these places in GTA IV.

The apartment is lovely and after a quick freshen up we went out to get some food at Little Havana, a cuban place with delicious paella.

From there to a gay bar with some bearded chap dancing around in his pants and then to the Stonewall Tavern and then to bed.

And then me waking up at 4 am. Hurray for jetlag!

So we are shortly leaving for breakfast and our first full day. I'm either having something on Rye or a pudding masqeurading as a breakfast. When in Rome and all that.

"The plane is pressurised for your convenience"

2011-11-04T07:50:00.001Z

The flight there..

The handy screen in front of me tells me that the Airbus I'm in is travelling at a height of 33 thousand feet at around 600 miles per hour and there are 2626 miles between me and New York. I'm writing this in the air to post later.. Don't worry, I'm not trying to screw up all the navigational equipment.

What the screen does NOT me is that Colin Farrell is sharing the same Aer Lingus flight. Which should make me ver nervous indeed, knowing how adept he is at killing fellow passengers with a well aimed peanut.

We had a very early start this morning with the first leg of our journey (Birmingham to Dublin) at stupidly-early-o-clock. The rigmarole is having to go through American customs took up most of the time we spent there (resisting the urge to hint that Tom was carrying explosives) and then it was onto the mighty airbus we're all sitting in now, some (checks screen) 5 hours and 36 minutes away from JFK airport. A complimentary bag of salted pretzels to acclimatise ourselves to Americana, and lunch will shortly be served.

I wish that, despite the fact it was around seven o'clock in the morning, I'd had a beer at Birmingham Airport now. I hear that there is officially no shame in doing so, because Airport bars exist strictly outside the space time continuum.. A kind of Limbo, if you will.

... And now it's several hours on and we're about an hour and twenty minutes from New York.. A mere 485 miles away and 39 thousand feet below us. We've had lunch (a choice of beef bolegnese and pasta or some kind of chicken stew.. i plumped for the beef) and I'm currently entertaining myself by chewing on a nicorette. Just Maine and Boston to fly over and the British Invasion begins...!

But by golly do I need a cigarette. And a beer.

Watching the Big Apple turn over

2011-10-31T07:31:00.003Z

The legendary Frank Sinatra (a.k.a. "Ol' Maggoty Eyes" © Peter Serafinowicz) was so big a fan of New York that he wrote an anthem that would forever be associated with pissed uncles and aunts high-kicking and doing in their hips at weddings for decades to follow. It's a city that is supposed to be so good they named it twice, but Wikipedia and Google Maps seems to disagree.

It's been a while in the making (after years of saying we'd do it) but later this week sees us propelling ourselves through the air in a most unnatural fashion to go that self-same city. The city that never sleeps, the muse of Woody Allen. Fellow FoldsFive conspirator Tom plans on eating 45 hot dogs (averaging around 9 a day) and his fiancé Fran has created a custom google map highlighting the location of every dress and shoe shop and is busily learning the phrases "I'm walking' here" and "I'll have a cwup of cworfee". Tara has undoubtedly book marked all the Irish bars of which I hear there are at least two or three (and I'm guessing her Irish accent will become infinitely more pronounced when she's out there) and my own American dream is a simple one.

I just want to see a manhole cover with steam coming out of it.

Oh, and perhaps see Spiderman.

I'm ridiculously excited.

Naturally, thanks to the wonders of my iPad and wireless internet in our apartment, I'll be providing a blow by blow account of our travels with a handy "Tom Hot Dog-o-meter" keeping you abreast of how far Tom has travelled towards his 45 hot dog dream. A link to the JustGiving page to sponsor him will be up shortly, and I know you'll all be desperate to contribute to allow Tom to fulfil his ultimate ambition in life *

* This is a blatant lie. FoldsFive definitely does not endorse the misuse of charity pages to allow a Northerner to indulge in meat based comestibles.

The Jarrow Crusade

2011-10-24T17:04:00.001+01:00

My name is Geordie McIntyre,

An' the Bairns don't even have a fire

So the wife says "Geordie, go to London Town!

And if they don't give us half a chance,

Don't even give us a second glance

Then Geordie, with my blessings, burn them down."

The Jarrow Song - Alan Price

Much like Tom in his glorious last post, I'm not political. Oh sure, I vote - It'd be criminal not to (remember that, kids - CRIMINAL. People have died so you could) but in pub conversations about politics I tend to try to steer it back to safe territory - computer games, films, my lovely face, Isn't the beer expensive in here, what's that smell, that kind of thing. Tara is the political Court - as in thats her surname, not as in she's a building where political activities are carried out. Can I use the word political any more in this single paragraph? Political. Political. Political. It would appear I can.

Anyway, politics. Yesterday the Jarrow March came to Coventry. My wife has been telling me about this most of the week - despite me saying I'd go with her, I think she thought I'd back up given half an opportunity. I have a habit of doing this. However, my interest was also piqued by an article about it on The One Show (where it got the full support of The Fonz) so Saturday lunchtime saw us turning up at the steps of Coventry Cathedral (along with Taras mum Liz and her brother Glen) with the Socialists at the start of the march.

Photograph reproduced with kind permission of Teresa Daniels

For those of you who don't know, The Jarrow March was a protest march in 1936 - a protest against unemployment and extreme poverty suffered in the North East of England. Some 207 marchers travelled from Jarrow to Westminster (a distance of nearly 300 miles) to lobby parliament.

And so 70 years later sees young people doing the same. A march for the right to a decent job with decent living wages, a march to see an end to exploitative cheap labour apprenticeships and a march to make university education affordable for all. Even a political ignoramus like me can't help but see these to be very worthy causes indeed.

Ironic that the site chosen for the start of the march was taking place directly opposite a Coventry University Open Day - of course a day for prospective students who will be the first to face the huge hike in tuition fees for 2012.

The march (which had a great turnout - much larger than I'd predicted) took us from the Cathedral Steps into the centre of town where we stopped for people to explain to the confused crowds what the march was all about - then it was onwards to the Methodist Hall for a rally and, almost as importantly, a cup of tea.

All through the march and the rally afterwards I was quite taken aback by the sheer passion of those involved. Their cause and words were eloquent and fired with a genuine level of care I'm ashamed to say I could never muster up when I was a student. I genuinely hope that this Jarrow March achieves better results than its predecessor - in which all that happened was the participants were given the money to get back home.

So, a refreshing breath of fresh air and quite an eye-opener. After a couple of weeks of taking the piss out of the knuckle draggers in the EDL, it was genuinely moving to see disenfranchised youth passionately and intelligently involved in a cause that is certainly worth getting behind.

Oh, the weather outside is frightful

2011-10-21T22:32:00.002+01:00

I'm not always a fan of talking about politics. Well, other than when I'm sitting in the pub with friends like James and David anyway. However a recent rant stems from the result of the summit with the 'big six'. That might sound like a line from So I Married An Axe Murderer, but rest assured the members of this sinister mob don't include Colonel Sanders or the Q-Monster.

It's the six big energy suppliers, namely British Gas, Eon, EDF, Npower, Scottish Power and Scottish & Southern. Or 'The Bastards' as they could be called.

Some of these companies have, or by using agencies have indirectly used bordering on illegal methods of touting their wares with door-to-door salesmen offering cheaper bills by direct debit. "Sure, Mrs. Jenkins! We can lower your payments to 6s2d a month!". What they don't tell you is that twelve months later when they finally pay someone to read your meter you'll get a bill for hundreds and hundreds of pounds.

I don't want to get into the whole privatisation of public services argument, I have a strong belief that essential public services like water, gas, electricity, roads, railways should be publically owned and not sold off to the lowest bidder who will make a packet in the short term but cost the public in the long run. Remember Railtrack? They paid out millions to shareholders over years and years, saw share prices rise, but arguably made those profits by reducing maintenance for the short term gain. When they went pop after mismanagement and a number of high profile accidents, we had to pump millions in to keep the railways going.

What I'm trying to say is that having to make a large profit out of an essential service sits uncomfortably with me.

So why am I so pissed off with the energy suppliers? I'm not, particularly. I'm more pissed off with the lack of control we have over them. The energy suppliers have a duty to their shareholders. Put a child in a sweet shop unattended and what will they do? But that's OK, because we have Ofgem don't we? Yep, we do. The same Ofgem who revealed up to 800% increases in profits taken from our pockets in a couple of years. I was well chuffed when the energy supplier summit was underway this week. Here's the chance for Chris Huhne to sort them out. Taking the piss, they are. Go get 'em, Chris! You've got the facts on your side, give 'em hell!

A wet lettuce

The result? Wow, what a result! It's not the fault of the 'big six'. Guess who's fault it is? Yours.

You didn't check out the competition did you? Why not, are you some sort of idiot?

I did a bit of work to try find out who the best provide for us is. I'm not talking about using comparison sites (of which there are many, and they seem to give different results - commission?)

It's almost as though the government don't mind an energy supplier cartel because it nets them millions in tax.

This is a very serious issue, especially for the proportion of our society are living on the bread line and have to choose between heating and food. I hope that this winter there are few or no elderly people die of hypothermia. So let's look at what the energy secretary wants the elderly and infirm to do along with the rest of us.

What Chris Huhne is implying we're stupid for not doing:

All you have to do is go through your bills for the last few years, and work out your average usage for the last couple of years or so in order to estimate your usage for the next few months. That should take about two to three hours, that's if you've kept all your bills. Then you have to work out your primary and secondary usage as they're priced differently. What's that, you don't have actual meter readings? They're all estimated bills? Oh dear.

Don't forget you have to do this for electricity and gas too.

Then armed with these figures it's just a case of going to the websites of the 'Big Six' and looking at their rates. As an example, Eon have 39 different tariff selection screens on their website. So let's play it down and say there's only 35 on each site.

Big girl's blouse

So you have to look at 210 web pages and obtain the rates. Some are duel rates so you'll have to take that into account. Write down the prices for each of these two hundred plus tariffs.

Now you have to look at the other discounts. Can you save by paying direct debit? What about dual fuel savings? Paperless billing? Oh, and don't forget standing charges.

Right, you've done all that. Brilliant, you're half way there! Now all you need to do is plug in your usage rates from earlier, estimating what you'll use in the next six months (remember keeping all those bills and making sure they actually took your meter readings?).

Grand, job almost done! Now look at the bottom line. You'll need to look at all the permutations of gas only, electricity only from each provider and find the cheapest for each. Now you're left with 6 rates for gas, six for electricity and six for combined for your specific usage.

Now look at these together. Compare all 36 options, plus the 6 dual options. Once you have all 42 combinations down then choose the cheapest one.

Pussy

This will be fine for the time being but don't forget that the energy suppliers change their rates every few months, so you'll have to do this around twice a year. That's if they all change rates at the same time, but they tend to raise their rates one after another. It's almost like they're seeing what they can get away with, isn't it? So it's safe to say there will be 6 to 12 price changes in the year, so keep your figures so you can repeat the process accordingly.

You might want to do this with some of the other providers as well, not just the big six.

Now then, that wasn't difficult was it?

Vandals vandalise. Get Jailed.

2011-10-14T09:03:00.002+01:00

I'm getting this one in before you idiots fucking start. On the whole my Facebook friends list seems to have naturally whittled itself down (survival of the mentally fittest, you know) so I'm only left with the smart clued up ones (other than a brief unfortunate blip about free iPads being made available after the death of Steve Jobs circulated by a few of you, but I'll forgive you that).

I'm desperately trying to stop this blog page becoming some kind of soapbox for anti-fascist political rants, but something has recently started circulating that worries me. Because it is ill-informed and dangerous.

Here's the offending piece currently doing the rounds:

In May 2010 Tohseef Shah spray painted a British War Memorial with "islam will dominate osama is coming" he was fined £50 & walked free from court. In November 2010, Emdadur Choudhury burned a Poppy during the. 2mins silence. He too was given a fine, £500 and walked free from court. Today, 2 men have been sentenced to 12 months in prison for spray painting a Poppy on a mosque. Pass this on if you think its a disgrace.

It's a two-tier system! One law for them and one for us! You already know my view on individuals who burn the poppy (to save you looking and as a synopsis "I don't think it's nice") but let's look at the facts properly here.

Hateful as burning the poppy is, the law doesn't have an immense problem with you burning something that you've purchased. Likewise, the British War Memorial isn't classed as a place of worship, for which defacement has its own legal precedent. Still, 12 months is a little harsh for painting a poppy on a mosque isn't it?

Let's use the magical power of the internet - remember that one I told you about a while back? That if you see a dodgy link on Facebook that simply typing the name of the link and the word 'scam' into google will tell you whether it's actually dodgy or not? This magical power is a little bit like that. "Fascistis Expeliarmis".

The internet is referring to the two gentleman responsible as the Durham Two. They're a bit like the Tamworth Two, only slightly more halal.

Anthony Smith, 24 and Steven Vasey, 32 (both old enough to know better) are EDL members. The spray paint on the Nasir mosque was the last of three pieces of delicious vandalism they'd carried out in what the media commonly refer to as a "spree". What the Facebook post doing the rounds conveniently fails to mention is that they also vandalised a Miko store and a local Guest House, both Asian-run businesses.

And pleaded guilty of all charges.

12 months seems really quite reasonable now, doesn't it? Of course it won't stop the ignorant and hard-of-thinking bleating that the law is unfair and unfairly favoured against white working class idiotic racists.

Messages that the circulate like the one above, despite invariably being incredibly poorly spelled (and grammatically weak) are dangerous. These people want you to hate the muslims - and after that, they want you to hate everybody who isn't like them. By only providing you with part of the facts they're inciting hatred via the simplest of acts - a little bit like the burning of the poppy that they found so abhorrent. If you're the sort of person who still thinks that 12 months is a little harsh for three counts of vandalism then you're an idiot. No argument. An idiot.

As a closing note on this top, the Imam of the mosque was quoted as saying, "I wouldn't have minded them spraying the poppy on the mosque but the issue I have is that they did such a sloppy job. The perspective was all wrong for a start, and there are 3 'p's in Poppy" *

And finally rumours are doing the rounds that the Daily Mail is ringing around Primary Schools asking which of them are doing Nativity Plays this year. This is undoubtedly the basis of a headline they'll be running around December in which they'll make up some statistics complaining that this country is becoming less Christian and more Muslim. That's what the Daily Mail do. I'm only warning you of this as a friend, because if I find myself having to write a blog piece complaining about you passing this one around, I won't be happy.

* Quote may be fictional for humorous purposes of comical closure to blog post.

A letter to Branston

2011-10-12T16:19:00.001+01:00

David Court

Address Here

Email: davidjcourt@googlemail.com

12th October 2011

Dear Richard Branston,

If you’re like me, you may have spent many sleepless nights wondering who would emerge victorious in a pitched battle between a jar of Branston Pickle and an ipad2. Well, as the result of a highly technical scientific experiment (alternatively known as “an accident in the kitchen resulting from a poorly stocked kitchen cupboard”) I can reveal that despite being almost half the weight of the ipad2, the glass screen of the ipad offered little to no effective resistance against the tightly compacted glass shell of said Branston Pickle (small chunk, 360g) falling from a height of approximately 31 inches.

Observe the diagram below;

You will see that the jar of pickle has chosen its combative tactics carefully – attacking the ipad2 in its most vulnerable spot (via a manoeuvre in wrestling commonly known as the “body slam”) namely the weak glass front. One might think it foolhardy of the pickle to confront its foe so recklessly head-on, but I suspect that had the pickle attacked the metal rear of the ipad2 then the results would have been very different.

You would have thought that with both products sharing a common bond of Apples that the battle would have been merely for show, a play fight as it were. But this was sadly not the case. The ipad2 was mortally wounded in the aforementioned conflict, still working to an extent but as a shadow of its former self.

Observe how even in victory, your product cannot help but gloat over its downed foe.

Indeed, my contents insurance has already seen that the damaged ipad is currently undergoing critical medical treatment – it will certainly heal, I’ve been assured, but I suspect the mental scars will remain with it forever. Or until it gets discarded when the ipad3 comes out. The irony that said device was mortally wounded on the day when Steve Jobs died is not lost on me.

So, I congratulate you on the hardiness of your products packaging, and indeed for the quality of the product itself. You can rest assured that your fine product is more than capable of handling itself in a battle against household electrical items.

With kind regards,

David Court

Curse you, poorly stacked-on-the-shelf Small Chunk Branston Pickle!

2011-10-07T12:48:00.000+01:00

I'm going to write a letter to Steve Jobs about the quite frankly disappointing lack of protection that the ipad2 screen offers against a glass jar containing vegetables in varying proportions, chopped dates and apples falling from a height of approximately nine inches. He'd better reply or there will be trouble...

Half the price that the ipad cost in the first place to get it fixed at by Official Apple Support? Come again?

See how the victorious Small Chunk Branston Pickle (360g) looms over the ipad2. gloating.

I'm not racist, but...

2011-10-03T20:38:00.002+01:00

My eyes have been slowly opened up these last few weeks. My semi-political posts in the post haven’t been born from any great knowledge in the subject (as would be quickly apparent if you either know me or have read them) but from an anger and frustration at the increasing idiocy in the world around me – almost invariably built around the ease with which your average idiot can descend into racism and bigotry. And how easy it is to convince said idiots that all the problems in the world can be blamed on a small group of people.

They're stopping you wearing your football shirt!

All muslims want to burn your poppies!

Actually, forget that! They don't want you be able to buy them at all!

Oh, sure. I knew of the BNP and their Silas-Greenback lookalike Führer Nick Griffin, and a little of the English Defence League. But hadn’t really paid much attention to their online brand of bigotry until I came across the group Still Laughing at the English Defence League. It's comprised of a good group of people, is entertaining, frequently visited by inarticulate trolls and is quite, quite terrifying.

I hate to generalise. People who generalise are invariably idiots (see what I did there?) but in the case of the EDL I’ll make an exception. In all my 40 years on this planet I’ve never seen such a half-baked reactionary set of poorly thought-and-spelt out nonsense exchanged ‘twixt brain and keyboard.

It’s said that civilisation is only three meals away from anarchy(1). This could be expanded upon to state that the average EDLer is only one burning poppy picture away from furious red faced apoplexy.

The EDL scare me on a fundamental level. Not because of their growing numbers, because the vast majority of decent people still and always will find them and their politics utterly abhorrent. Not even because almost without exception they lapse into threats of physical violence at the drop of a St. Georges cross adorned hat, because that doesn’t come as a great surprise to me – after all, what else to expect from an organisation that sprung out from the fine ancient English tradition of Football Hooliganry?

What scares me is that much like the Terminator you cannot bargain with them, and you cannot reason with them. What scares me isn’t so much them as a group but how damned easy it is to feed certain groups of society bigoted lies and have them lap them up like some manner of racist thick shake. In much the same way you’d find it impossible to ever encourage me into being a bigoted xenophobic racist (even with the promise of free cake), it’s equally impossible to convince them of the folly of their ways.

In the eyes of the EDL, to disagree with them is to side with their enemies. They’re defending the hard working honest people of Great Britain which I'd like to think would typically include me, but because I don’t agree with their right wing politics I’m a member of the MAC or UAF. And I’m one of the great unwashed. And a Communist. And on the dole. Yes, those who oppose the politics of the EDL fit very neatly into their giant fascist Venn diagram - the same default responses always emerge. Every single time.

They’re not racists, they claim. Islam isn’t a race, after all. It’s a religion. But simply scrape beneath the surface of this bold claim and this statement is simply the murky foul scum holding the surface tension in place of a stagnant pool of paki-bashing. Their claim of hating extremist Islam (which is fair enough, I hate it as well. I hate all extremists from either side) is a cover for hating Islam in general which is in itself a cover for the same old racist chants that have been around since the National Front and Combat 18 that they can’t separate themselves from.

They’re not associated with the Nazis, they claim (although if they simply admitted they were, it would explain why they hate Communists so much) but doing a google image search to find an EDLer performing a nazi salute is as easy as finding photographs of Jordans tits.

They're fed a constant source of propaganda and lies, which acts like some manner of perpetual motion hate generator. "It's a two tier legal system" they cry when they're arrested for criminal damage or racial hate speeches - breaking the laws of the land that they claim to value so much.

The EDL have supposed pages of their own that encourage debate, but this extends only as far as debating the detail of things they agree with. Posts that they disagree with are deleted as though they never existed, with the Admin of said hate sites gloating that they've won the argument. It's the online equivalent of burning books.

Don't claim you're defending my rights. Don't claim you're protecting my country. My forefathers fought and died beside the Muslims you hate so much to stop people like you subjugating people based on religion or colour. You do not speak for me, and nor do you speak for anybody with any sense. You see enemies - I see friends.

Yes, it’s easy to laugh at them. Altogether too easy. But it’s a nervous laugh.

(1) Tried to find the proper source of the ‘three meals’ quote but couldn’t get any more detail than this being attributed to Arnold Rimmer of Red Dwarf fame. And that hardly gives this whole blog piece the intellectual gravitas it demands.

Dear Coventry City Council Parking Services

2011-09-28T19:39:00.000+01:00

Sent: 28 September 2011 17:43

To: coventrydirect@coventry.gov.uk

Subject: Visiting my mum.

Coventry City Council

Parking Services

Dear Sir,

I live five minute's walk from a Morrisons supermarket, but I choose to do much of my shopping at local shops wherever possible. I really really like shopping somewhere where the staff care and are more personable, helping you our wherever they can. For example, this afternoon I needed some spices as I'm going to see my mum this weekend. She gives me a shopping list as she lives in Flamborough so it's quite a trek to Coventry's Foleshill Road where the best deals are on Asian foods. By the time you've taken into account the petrol you'd be considerably out of pocket. She also likes shopping locally but can't due to where she lives. She's well jealous that I can pop in the car and nip to a place where all manner of world foods are available. Growing up in Bradford she, like me, is used to having that convenience, and now she doesn't have that option. That makes her sad, and when my mum's sad then so am I. So that's why I try to make her happy by bringing a lovely parcel of exotic spices when I visit. I'm sure that you don't like it when your mum's sad, and I'm sure you'd do the same to make your mum happy too. Mums should NEVER be sad.

Anyway, I'm digressing. So this afternoon I went to the Foleshill Road to get some things and support my local small businesses. Unfortunately when I arrived there were no parking spaces, so I had to park on a single yellow line. Naughty I know, but I was only going to be five minutes and I have to get my mum's things. Remember how sad I told you she was when not being able to use local shops? Well not getting a package from her son would probably make her even sadder. She might even cry a bit, and we wouldn't want that.

So into the shop I went. They're so helpful there - I couldn't find a small pack of black cardamoms, a member of staff saw me looking and pointed me in the right direction. So kind! I like it when people are kind, don't you? I also needed some urid daal and couldn't find that. I need that to make my Chettinad pepper chicken. It's lovely, if you like I can give you the recipe. It's easy to make and it tastes delicious. I like to put lots of chilli in mine, but you might like it milder. It still tastes lovely either way.

So on leaving the shop with my carrier bag full of food I found I'd received a parking ticket (ref. CV01995942). "Oh no!", I thought. "That's not really fair!". It was either park there or make my mum sad, and after all my car wasn't causing an obstruction - it was right by a large van which was delivering stock to the shop I was in. They're essential to the shop's running, and in a way so am I. It's not as though there was anywhere else to park. I started to wonder how my mum would feel about this. I might not even be able to go see her now, after all £35 is a lot of money. Oh no, now I'm imagining my mum crying again. I'll move swiftly on.

I paid the ticket and just have to hope that I can afford the petrol to take these delicious spices to my mum's. Did I say she lives in Flamborough? It's a long way away and I can only stay two nights. You'd like my mum if you met her, she makes an amazing curry.

When I see her I'm sure she'll wonder if Coventry Council are looking at helping the small businesses there by easing parking restrictions or building a small car park?

It would also make me very happy if you would be able to refund my fine, this would no doubt make my mum happy too and she probably wouldn't cry any more. Also, just in case you want it here's the recipe for Chettinad pepper chicken. You can get all the ingredients on the Foleshill Road (don't bother looking in Morrison's, they don't sell half the stuff!)

1tbsp oil or ghee (you can use less if you're watching your weight, it works fine with 1tsp)

1 1/2 tbsp cumin seeds

8-10 dried chillies

3tbsp coriander seed

1 1/2 tsp fennel seeds

1 1/2 tsp black peppercorns

1 1/2 tsp white poppy seeds

Add these to a small amount of hot oil and fry briefly until lightly roasted (about 2 mins). Grind into a powder.

Put this in a blender and add 5-6 tbsp water and:

5 chopped cloves of garlic

20mm ginger, peeled and chopped

1/2 tsp turmeric

1 1/2 tsp salt

Blend into a paste and put to one side.

The take:

4 tbsp oil or ghee (I use less, my mum is watching her weight. 1tbsp is fine)

3 bay leaves

5 green cardamom pods

1 tsp cinnamon

1 tsp fennel seeds

3 cloves

1 1/2tsp urid daal (remember the lovely assistant in the shop?)

Fry this briefly until the daal starts to go a pinky red colour, it takes about 2-3 minutes.

Add to this:

15-20 curry leaves

2 diced medium onions (I like to cut it thinly into half-rings, but you could dice it if you like)

Fry for about 5 minutes until the onion's gone soft. The add the spice paste you made and a chopped tomato and about 500-600g chicken. I use a whole jointed chicken.

Give it a good stir round for a minute or two, then add about half a pint to a pint of water and simmer it away for about half an hour.

After half an hour, turn the heat up and reduce the sauce until it's going thick.

You can serve it with rice, bread or even on its own.

Yours Faithfully,

Druid

Muslamic Ray Guns

2011-09-27T17:42:00.001+01:00

Inspired by this

Review: Deus Ex Human Revolution

2011-09-25T21:09:00.000+01:00

After his recent ranty blog entry, David felt he'd used enough of the world's supply of words on Deus Ex: Human Revolution, and so kindly asked if I'd like to post a review. I would, and here it is.

Knowing the game was coming out, I downloaded the original Deus Ex through Steam and had only just completed it a few days before playing Human Revolution. Considering that it's a twelve-year-old game and I loved every minute of it, the sequel (well, prequel as seems to be all the rage these days) had a hell of a lot to live up to.

Deus Ex: Human Revolution is a first person shooter set in 2027, some 25 years before the original game. You play Adam Jenson, a soldier working for Sarif Industries. Sarif make human augmentations - mechanical and electrical enhancements such as bionic arms, legs, eyes, spleens, eyelids etc, ready for implantation into rich customers. The technology is new and there's understandably debate on the ethical issues attached to voluntarily having your legs lopped off and replaced with massive pistons. Imagine the debate about Oscar Pistorius but with a bit more bile and a few more riots and murders.

Sarif Industries is attacked by, it's assumed, anti-augmentation activists. Jenson is all but killed, but like the Six Million Dollar Man and Alex Murphy, he has various bits of metal and electronics implanted while he's in a coma and wakes up as an augmented human being. The fact this was beyond his control is an interesting plot device, allowing you as the character to decide your feelings towards augmentation and whether it's of benefit to mankind or not.

The city districts are impressively detailed

If you've played the original then you know the rest. You travel through the game visiting various areas in an attempt to get to the bottom of the attack on Sarif. World power, the Illuminati, media control and the rest of it. It's all a bit clichéd but is done incredibly well and is mostly believable.

Eidos have done a wonderful job on the visuals and audio. The city streets look grimy and realistic, the NPCs aren't just props, you can talk with them, much like the original.

Speaking of which, the game borrows an awful lot from its predecessor which is a good thing. Some of the best parts of the game are similar, such as deciding whether to use deadly force or a more stealthy approach. Whether to spend experience, or 'praxis points' as they're called (gained gradually as you gain experience through the game allowing you to upgrade your own augmentations) on better armour, aiming, sneaking ability or hacking perks and so on.

The plot and side plots along with the general game mechanics are arguably the game's strongest feature. I don't think any game has done it this well since the original Deus Ex, and that's saying something. Quests are believable and (I understand) do have an effect on the game's conclusion, and judging by my conversations with David, some are easily missed.

The transition of the game from the old PCs of 2000 to the consoles of 2011 has not only retained the feel of the old control system but it's simplified it. You use one button to use cover, and it works very well indeed.

Don't steal Adam Jenson's hotdesk

The AI is much better than the likes of Crysis 2. I never saw a single man running into a wall. Enemies don't just carry on milling about and forget they've just been shot in the leg after thirty seconds. "Hmm, he must have gone. Not my problem.". YOU'VE JUST BEEN SHOT IN THE FUCKING LEG. YOU ARE NOT LIKELY TO IGNORE THIS. A body left in view of a camera or sentry will cause the alarms to fire up, bringing troops to that position. Footsteps alert guards. It's similar to the Metal Gear games, and it's done really well. I suppose I should mention that the title screen is very similar to MGS: Snake Eater as well. Very similar and again, very well done.

The ditching of skills from the original and simplifying augmentations however has reduced how valuable upgrades feel. By three quarters of the way through the game I'd done pretty much all I wanted to do with my character. By contrast, when I'd completed Deux Ex a few weeks ago I'd only maxed out three skills and three augmentations out of a total of about 25. There's far less emphasis on exploring in the new game, and two upgrades will allow you to jump as high as you can and lift whatever you can enabling you to access any hidden area blocked by a physical barrier. Basically it's a no-brainer what to use your first couple of praxis points on. I didn't like this, but it only really bothered me when I had to decide what to upgrade.

A major part of the game is the hacking into computers and security systems. Now I always thought that hacking involved sitting at a computer in a dark room in your pants surrounded by empty pizza boxes and pop cans. Apparently not though, it involves keeping your clothes on, pressing a button on a computer then moving a cursor around a series of nodes and pressing another button to capture them. A bit like the end of the Adventure Game but with no Gronda Gronda. I suppose you could do this in your pants if you like. This hacking mini game is possibly one of the weaker aspects of the game for a couple of reasons. Firstly because of the ability to save anywhere it's not that tense, so if you wanted you could save the game right before you attempt a hack and not worry if you fail it. The second thing is that even if you don't need to hack into a security alarm, for example, or you already have the code, you feel compelled to hack it anyway as you gain experience for doing it. I suppose a third thing is it's not that difficult to hack when you've upgraded a bit.

There are a number of throwbacks (or throwforwards?) to Deus Ex. Radios play music from the original, and there are a couple of familiar characters (Manderley, Debeers). The end credit music is the original opening music from the first game, this made me smile geekily for a good minute, and the posters for FFXVIII made me smile too.

Many areas are well designed to suit a stealthy approach

The game apparently allows you to judge NPC's characters and manipulate conversations to suit. This excited me, but after having upgraded this augmentation I was left scratching my head. There are very few times you can use it, and even after those I hadn't got a clue what was going on. Lights flash under 'Alpha, Beta, Omega' and there's a little graph and icons pop up, there's another gauge under that, more flashing lights and spinning 3D pictures. It looks like one of those faux-science CGI parts of a shampoo advert crossed with an aeroplane dashboard. I can't fly a plane, I'm losing my hair and I can't understand the Deus Ex: Human Revolution social enhancer. I even started writing down responses and codes on a piece of paper to try figure it out. I couldn't.

I don't want to really say much about the boss fights, save to say they're shit and pointless. After sneaking about, upgrading my stealth and buying only non-lethal weapons I don't want to be locked in a room with a man with a big gun who doesn't seem to be affected by a tranquiliser rifle (which had been working fine up to this point). That particular boss successfully threw a grenade at a wall and blew himself up on my tenth attempt. Thank fuck. If anyone from Eidos happens to read this, then my advice would be that if you have to outsource a team to do your boss battle programming then maybe you should consider why you want bosses in the first place. If you must have them then take a leaf out of MGS: Snake Eater and make it possible to knock them out.

The experience as a whole is brilliant. Walking past street gangs in a dimly lit car park or crouching behind an office desk as guards scour the room following a failed hack attempt. The game is thoroughly enjoyable and looks amazing. The niggles above are little compared to the overall feel of the game, and don't spoil it. I enjoyed playing to the point of staying up until the early hours this morning in order to complete it, something Fran was well chuffed about (note to self: half four in the morning is not a good time to talk to your fiancée about computer games). I give this game 36 Druids out of 41.

Dear Game Developers, please stop.

2011-09-23T17:00:00.000+01:00

Hello, Foldsfivesketeers! This blog has had a phenomenal hit count since last Sunday as a result of this hurriedly written angry under-the-influence-of-ale blog post (subsequently reprinted on the very worthy EDLNews) so many of you may be relatively new readers. I'm sorry to disappoint you, but it's downhill from here on in. There are relatively few angry human injustice rants to be found here - but oddly enough the ones I do seem to wind up in the top ten popular posts - cast your eyes over towards the right. It's mostly geeky stuff about videogames or board games or the Master Chief costume I've started but will never finish.

The below new post is an example of a typical FoldsFive one. Sorry.

My least favourite part of the film Return Of The Jedi is when Luke Skywalker, tricked by Tattooine crime lord Jabba the Hutt, falls into a hidden pit under his throne room and is forced to confront the Rancor. You probably remember the scene well - Luke runs around randomly and punches the Rancors knees a couple of times before the Rancor delivers a killer blow, decapitating Skywalker. And when Luke is resurrected, he tries the same activities again but this time the Rancor beast gets stuck behind a rock so Luke survives a little longer. And then on his umpteenth attempt, he comes across a small stone which he uses to activate the gate mechanism which slams down on the Rancor, killing it. And Luke gets a big enough XP bonus to level up and purchase the "Catch lightsaber thrown by R2 unit" skill which saves his life on the next mission.

Or that's how it would have played out had a video game designer had his wicked way with it. A fucking boss fight. A FUCKING BOSS FIGHT. I hate Boss fights in video games so much I'm going to say it again in as large a font as Blogger will allow.

I fucking hate Boss Fights.

This whole blog post has been inspired by Deus Ex: Human Revolution, which I'll review fully in due time. For the most part, I'm really enjoying it. The ability to develop your character in exactly the manner you require is excellently done, and one of the games great strengths. And this ability to tweak your character to suit your gaming style (stealth and hacking in my case) is also the games downfall when it comes to the inevitable scourge of modern gaming - the boss battle.

"Hi there, I'll be your Boss for this evening. I'm a bullet sponge, so please
be sure you've got plenty of ammo and a big gun. Although nothing has
hinted at you to be prepared for this."

Funnily enough the ability to hack into computer systems and sneak around doesn't really work very well when you're in an enclosed arena facing some manner of man tank carrying around a weapon that packs four times the punch of Blains chain gun in Predator. Suddenly you regret not having built up your combat statistics, because you're going to die. A lot. And when you eventually defeat said man tank, it's more through luck than skill - provided your controller has survived the sixty or so times it's been hurled to the floor or against a wall accompanied by you screaming "Fuck! Fuckity fuck fuck!".

I'm currently stuck on the second boss battle in Montreal, and am seriously on the verge of quitting altogether and part-exchanging it. The boss battle isn't fun - just an exercise in frustration which seems out of odds with the rest of the game.

(EDIT: Beaten the second boss now through a skilled combination of luck, mines thrown in panic and running away shrieking like a girl. I'm a true hero. Have subsequently found that the boss battles were outsourced to a different development company, hence their different feel).

So, the definitive list of my opinions on Boss Battles and how we should remove this scourge of gaming. Which will be ultimately futile as no Games Designers will ever read it, almost as pointless as my letter complaining to Orange about how shit the HTC Mozart 7 phone was weeks after I'd passed my deadline for returning it. Solely an excuse to vent.

1. Don't have them at all.

They're a lazy videogame trope, something that should have been left in the eighties with the final boss in Phoenix. It would seem that when games proudly proclaim you'll get 40 hours of gameplay out of them, 30 of them will be spent dying fighting bosses. At best they're in there for a sense of satisfaction as you get to kick the crap out of the lead bad guy, at worst they're the gaming equivalent of a brick wall that you'll be hurtling yourself against for longer than you care. Find yourself in a room crammed with all the guns you've been looking for the whole level and loads of health packs? The boss himself will be around the corner wondering why his minions insist on leaving these goodies lying there for you - he'll have words with the Minion Union next opportunity he gets.

2. If you have to have them, do something original.

Bosses are rarely original in video games. They tend to all stick to the same simplistic rules - they'll either soak up the majority of your ammunition before keeling over, or they'll have some ridiculous weak spot that will only be excused when they've taken enough damage that you'll need to pummel away at exactly three times. EXACTLY THREE TIMES. They won't learn from their mistakes - indeed, they'll follow the same pattern until you force them to cash in their chips. Find yourself in an arena with walls that look like they'll collapse with any impact? Wait until the boss charges at you and sidestep away from them so he collides with them. Every. Bloody. Time.

3. If you have to have them, keep them true to the spirit of the game.

Or "You're only a human in a suit. Why does it take 200 shots to kill you?". Batman: Arkham Asylum is a brilliant game, which I may have mentioned in the past. However, the Boss Fights (much as the ones in Deus Ex) feel like they've been copied and pasted from a different one. The battle against Poison Ivy feels like a boss battle from Super Mario, and the less said about the final Joker battle the better. You've spent the game pitting your waits against the maniacal and devious Clown Prince of Crime and your final encounter just involves shooting him a number of times. How many times do you have to shoot him, you ask? Believe me, you already know the answer.

There are, of course, exceptions to every rule. It is possible to do Boss Battles well in videogames (and we're not including Shadow of the Colossus in this, because the game is nothing but one huge series of boss battles. Without the boss battle aspect it'd be a pretty platforming RPG with no baddies). The Metal Gear series also does them well, so I'm told by FoldsFive contributor Druid.

The aforementioned Arkham Asylum has a segment where Batman has been poisoned by the Scarecrow and the boss fight takes place in Batmans consciousness - it's original, not game-breakingly difficult and more to the point is entertaining. Shame that the rest of the boss battles in it are either dire or copies of exact bosses you've fought earlier. Let's hope that the sequel Arkham City addresses this.

But these are rare exceptions. The videogame boss fight is a horrible cancer at the heart of our gaming entertainment that must be stopped. It's a replacement for decent longevity in videogames, and each boss fight is a lazy poorly done exercise in frustration, and a replacement for originality.

Poppycock.

2011-09-18T22:40:00.002+01:00

Those of you who persist in performing that evil activity of social networking on Facebook (solely reserved for people organising riots, dontchaknow) may have seen the following status update being bandied about today. (On the subject of which, isn't it unfortunate that the word 'bandied' itself isn't bandied around every often? Just saying).

Anyway, the status update;

I've just heard some really shocking news. The Royal British Legion are not selling poppies in certain areas on Nov 11 this year. This is because some minorities say that it will upset them. I say sod off ... The poppy is a symbol of reverence for our fallen heroes of all the wars the BRITISH military have fought in. BRITAIN STAND UP AND SAY 'WE WANT THE POPPY SOLD EVERY WERE IN THE UK'. THIS IS OUR RIGHT TO REVERE OUR FALLEN.. PASS IT ON.

Now it obviously goes without saying that any Facebook status that starts with the phrase "I've just heard some really shocking news" is instantly followed by a statement that is 100% bullshit. The same also goes for the phrase "Local Councils aren't allowing.. etc, etc."

There is a very slight element of truth in the status, but the reason given is utter tripe. Remember when you weren't allowed to wear England Tops during the World Cup? Oh no, you won't remember that because it never fucking happened.

The Royal Legion will not be selling poppies in certain areas on November 11 this year. Actually, that goes without saying. Mars will remain devoid of poppy sellers, as will the majority of planets in the Western Spiral Arm of the galaxy. And Gas Giants are well out - the charity boxes tend to ignite in the atmosphere. That's why you don't find any Oxfam collectors out there.

Reality check - IT IS NOTHING TO DO WITH MINORITIES SAYING THAT IT WILL UPSET THEM. Charities have to apply to the local councils for permission to collect, and the Royal British Legion simply didn't do it in time. A decision that has - get this, fact fans, subsequently been reversed.

However, the following status wouldn't mean that we could blame the minorities for everything again.

I've just heard some really shocking news. The Royal British Legion are not selling poppies in certain areas on Nov 11 this year. This is because somebody in charge of making the applications was either too lazy or forgot about a deadline. The poppy is a symbol of reverence for our fallen heroes of all the wars the BRITISH military have fought in. You know, that war to ensure that minorities weren't being oppressed by groups who sought to subjugate them. Much as what happens when ignorant Facebook statuses blame minorities for all the worlds ills. BRITAIN STAND UP AND SAY "WE WANT THE POPPY SOLD EVERY WERE (sic) IN THE UK. Oh, it will be. Sorry. As you were.

Research, kids. It's the key to stop you looking like a racist. But keep spouting that shit, because it gives me something to get angry and blog about.

Oh, and that "Winterval" you all got upset about? Never happened.

"Better to be silent and be thought a fool, than speak out and remove all doubt."

Abraham Lincoln

Katie Price Clothed Photos Leaked

2011-09-15T17:37:00.003+01:00

Model Katie Price (a.k.a Jordan) has reportedly become the latest celebrity to fall victim to apparent leaked fully-clothed photographs from her mobile phone, which appeared on a website on Wednesday.

The series of photographs, which clearly show Katie Price or a lookalike (or are potentially clever works carried out on photoshop, according to some internet experts) show the 33 year old model either appropriately dressed for her surroundings, not exposing her gigantic terrifying fake breasts that for all intents and purposes look like they should be chasing Patrick McGoohan across a beach, or not looking like a soft-porn version of a Disney princess for once in her ridiculous life.

Scotland Yard have been drafted by the model to investigate according to celebrity news website TMI. However, a Scotland Yard spokesman declined to confirm or deny the investigation other than to say that they'd heard rumours about the case from the UK Deed Poll service in a mistaken attempt by Price to contact InterPol. However, a representative of Ms. Price gave the following statement from the model;

"I fink it's a bleedin' liability", states Ms. Price, "Whats the point of havin' spent a fortune on these bad boys if they aren't in show in every photograph of me? It reminds me of that books that what I wrote in those bits that that other person wrote for me about it. Is it three or four what I've writ now? Luv a duck."

Peter Andre was unavailable for comment. In as far as we never tried to ask him for one. Although he's tried to contact us seven times already this morning about it.

Dann Baseunit, Showbiz News

The Dossier

2011-09-12T17:43:00.001+01:00

I was getting increasingly irritated with the noise of fingers drumming on the bar until I looked down and realised that the fingers were mine. Instinctively I reached my right hand over to stop them and only then realised how much I was shaking.

The three shots of Jim Beam I’d had to calm my nerves hadn’t helped in the slightest – if anything they’d just made me more paranoid and tense. What happened over the next few moments would make my fortune – or ruin me.

I’d sensed he was there and turned around just to catch him awkwardly outstretching a hand to tap me on the shoulder. He stopped in his tracks and his arms returned to his side. For a few moments his hand twitched, as though he were contemplating whether to extend them for a handshake, but his nerves got the better of him and they relaxed.

“I’m - I’m not in the habit of meeting strange men in bars, Mr. Denny”, he began, “But I’ll admit your phone call intrigued me.”

He wasn’t as I’d expected. From his brave and confident writing that I’d admired for quite a while, I’d mistakenly expected this to be reflected in the man that stood before me. How did this cumbersome clumsy looking bespectacled man ever earn a Pulitzer price?

He looked me up down whilst adjusting his glasses and gestured towards an empty booth.

“Maybe we should go somewhere a little more private before you tell me why you’ve bought me here, Mr. Denny.”

I grabbed the remainder of my drink and sat down opposite him in the booth. The jukebox was right behind us and blaring out some old Laurie Anderson track. My first thought was that we’d struggle to hear each other, but perhaps based on the information I had, the less eavesdroppers that heard, all the better. And to the credit of the journalist, he heard every word I said.

“I think you should start making space on your shelf for a second Pulitzer prize”, I opened, “Provided you’re willing to reward me handsomely for this information. I have conclusive proof that billionaire Bruce Wayne is none other than The Batman”.

There followed a moment of awkward silence. I couldn’t read his expression – either he was completely blown away by the revelation or, more than likely, thought me an idiot.

“That’s quite an allegation, Mister Denny”, he replied once he’d regained his composure, “Of course you have proof?”

“You honestly think I’d take on of the most powerful men in the world without concrete evidence?”, I snapped, “A man, at that, who dresses like a flying rodent and acts above the law, dispatching vigilante justice against those who he sees fit? I’ll admit I’m almost scared to share this information with you, so I’ll have to insist before this conversation goes any further that I’ll be assured full anonymity.”

Another awkward silence. I reached for my glass and took a small sip of Bourbon whilst I waited for the journalist to take the next move.

He looked intrigued but suspicious – and who could blame him? There’s not a week that the National Enquirer isn’t filled with nonsensical unfounded superhero related tales and as far as he was concerned mine was just another one of them. In a rare moment of unfortunate synchronicity, a television on mute in the corner was showing an episode of Maury with the tagline “Martian Manhunter fathered my children!” proudly blazing from the bottom of the screen. The DNA test would prove to be false, as it was with every superhero paternity test of the week. The child would be that of some dumb toothless hick, completely devoid of any martian DNA.

He looked hurt, as though I'd insulted him. "Mister Denny", he said, raising his voice, "I’m a journalist of some reputation, and I pride myself on my sources always remaining a secret. But I’d of course insist that you give me something concrete, because I don’t like being made to look a fool.”

I reached inside my coat pocket, removed a small manila envelope and slid it across the table. My heart raced as he carefully picked it up with his huge clumsy fingers and removed the photograph from within.

He stared at it, and then to me, and then back at the photograph again.

“Is – is this genuine?”, he gasped, and placed the photograph down on the table.

A black and white photograph printed on photo paper – a slightly blurred shot of the Batman lying on his back, eyes closed, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth and the jet black cowl pulled up to his forehead revealing the distinctive features of Bruce Wayne.

“Indeed it is”, I said, smug in the knowledge that the journalist, from his tone, was completely and utterly astounded, “A case of being in Gotham at exactly the right place at exactly the right time, just after Batman there had been knocked off a roof by Killer Croc and was unconscious for less than a minute. Alone in an alleyway, or so he thought. And I had my phone. And just enough time.”

“But photographs can be faked, Mr. Denny. Or his lawyers’ll say it was fancy dress. And I’ll need more than just an out of focus picture to-“

“That’s the worst photograph of the bunch, to be fair. That one photograph, four years ago on a business trip to Gotham, woke up something in me. I began a crusade.”

I picked up my glass and finished the remainder. I allowed the bitter taste to swill around my mouth before swallowing and continuing.

“Armed with this knowledge, everything else fell into place. I’d deliberately try to book business meetings with Wayne when I knew full well that Batman was doing one of those team-ups that superheroes are so keen on in Coast City or Metropolis, or saving the world in those kinds of crisis that seem to happen every summer these days, and he’d be unavailable. When Bane released the footage to the press of him breaking the Batmans back? Wayne was unavailable for months on end on a “skiing vacation”. I dedicated my life to getting as much dirt on him as I could, to the point of obsession. I’ve lost my personally amassed fortune, my job and my wife to this quest over the past four years, and have compiled a dossier with every piece of evidence I could get my hand on. And it’s all watertight. Photographs of him mid-costume change from around the world, shots of Bruce Wayne climbing into Justice League teleporters dotted around the globe, DNA comparisons I’ve taken from crime scenes that Batman has attended which match those of Mister Wayne. Absolute conclusive proof”.

Returning the photograph to its envelope, I gestured to the barman for another drink. The man sitting opposite me was visibly shaken. I’d shared the truth with somebody for the first time in nearly half a decade, and he believed me. It felt good to be vindicated.

Armed with a fresh glass of Jim Beam, I leant back in my chair.

“So, what matters is – do we have a deal?”

“You can take me to this dossier?”

“Absolutely not. Where it is has to remain a secret for my own safety. If you’re interested I could retrieve it and we could go over the contents and take it from there. If you’re not, I’ll find somebody else who is and we’ll never meet again.”

“I’m definitely interested, Mr. Denny. And we’re certainly sure of resources to ensure that you’re.. compensated for your efforts. And for something this big, I can wait around until you return.”

We shook hands and I left the bar as the journalist settled back into his chair. As I walked past the bar I placed the photograph back into my pocket and looked back in to see him on his phone, presumably sorting out how I’d be paid for this huge scoop.

I hadn’t kept the evidence at my flat – if Batman even suspected I knew of his secret (although I was quite convinced he didn’t) a man of his resources could find where I was staying in no time whatsoever, even though I’d done my best to keep my location a secret. Paying for things with cash and not on cards, and the like – the evidence that I'd even left Gotham to come here was small at best. I headed to the subway where I’d had it all kept in a storage locker. Fumbling around in my back pocket I retrieved the tiny metal key as I walked towards the –

A red blur…

-and I suddenly found myself on my back as though I’d been knocked off my feet. In a moment of panic I opened the palm of my hand but to my relief the key was still there. Unsteadily getting back up I approached the locker and turned the key to open it.

And the locker was empty.

And upon returning to the bar, the journalist was gone. Only my drink remained as evidence we'd ever met.

Of course with no evidence I was little more than a crackpot with a theory that I couldn’t prove. And the journalist, despite my insistence, would no longer return my calls. I’d wait outside the newspaper offices to try and catch his attention, to demand to know why I was being ignored, but after months of trying I gave up. I’d see him walking out of the building with a crowd of his colleagues and would push my way towards him but he’d be gone. Vanished into thin air. Every single time.

Damn you, Clark Kent.

I'll get you next time, Gadget.

2011-09-11T18:31:00.004+01:00

I've always been obsessed with gadgets. Four large plastic containers full of things I'll never use again but can't bear to part with sit in the attic as testament to that - A veritable elephants graveyard of Psion III chargers, PDAs, proprietary leads that I can't work out what they ever belonged to, Portable CD and minidisk players, Archos and creative video players, tiny mp3 players with enough storage to comfortably hold a short cough and accessories for pretty much every incarnation of the Gameboy; It's an Aladdin's Cave of gadgets from history. Just sat there gathering dust. If they were ever opened, it'd probably be best to avert your eyes - it'd be like the opening of the Ark of the Covenant at the end of Raiders.

Few of life have ever been life-changing (although Patience on the Psion III was so maddeningly addictive it nearly stopped me eating and sleeping) but the possession of some of them have been epochal moments in my life.

Despite the fact the very first iPod had been released back in the early parts of the decade that shall forever be referred to by cocks as the noughties, I couldn't see the point of them. Ah, how naive that seems now. They seemed overpriced, especially when my local Argos had something with four times the storage space for half the price. Hence me spending a joyous week before going on holiday loading all my albums onto the monstrosity that was the Ministry of Sound HDD 20 GB MP3 player.

Who cares about aesthetics, right? Who needs Apple and their fancy elegant functionality when you've got 20 gigabytes of storage space in a gadget from 2002? And can proudly carry (well, "haul" at any rate) around something that looked like VINCENT from the Disney Film "The Black Hole"? It's a little known fact that if you took all the music that ever existed back then it wouldn't take up more than 14 gigabytes of storage space - 12 if you left out the works of "Yes" - so I was future proofed, right? Was I bothered that it was the size of a VHS case and had a battery that required three strong men to lift? Not in the slightest, for I was living the dream - my entire music collection stored on one (semi) portable device. I could even live with the archaic proprietary software that took around 4 months to import a CD (which I learned was still better than early incarnations of Sonys SonicStage, mp3 fans).

And then three days into the holiday the buttons decided to retire early. Shitty manufacturing took its toll and I suddenly found myself with a huge portable hard drive/shoe box incapable of playing music because the buttons didn't seem to want to respond any more - and hence it went back to Argos, was angrily thumped onto the customer services table and was quickly replaced with an iPod. Less storage, but it worked. Elegant and simple - the only downside being the CPU-hungry behemoth that was iTunes back then. Even touching the keyboard or moving the mouse when iTunes was running made the computer respond with an angry frustrated growl.

And from then it was onto other incarnations of the ipod, an iPod Mini won in a competition and then on to the iPod touch. And then getting rid of that to go back to an iPod Classic because I valued storage space over a fancy touch screen interface (160 GB? I'll never fill that).

And laptops too. When they became affordable some years back (I.e. weren't simply the price of a desktop doubled) I worked my way through a few of those too. My first (outside of huge bulky Toshiba models lent by work) was a crappy Asus barely capable of displaying more than 256 colours without catching alight, and then a considerably better Toshiba (currently owned by my Dad), then to a HP Pavilion which decided to self-destruct two days outside its warranty - and then replaced finally by a Mac Powerbook.

It seems that Steve Jobs is slowly infilitrating his way into my life. I try other a variety of other manufacturers gadgets and then move to Apples variant and it seems to stop there. They work. They do the job. I'll be the first to admit they're overpriced, but when you end up with a reliable piece of tech that works for years that doesn't seem so much of a problem.

And so, to the point. In my traditional style of banging on about apparently unrelated things, and then arriving at the destination we were heading towards all along. You should have had a wee before we left.

The iPad 2. A gadget I've always secretly wanted have never of dreamed of buying but ended up with one due to a phone upgrade to replace a phone I loved, so essentially ended up getting one for nothing.

The tablet market is an odd one in that much like the pot noodle market I doubt it was ever a product that consumers were clamouring for. Unlike, I imagine, netbooks. They've essentially invented a brand new market.

To set the scene - I work in software development for a living, so outside of my works PC have no real interest in doing anything on my home computer that is in any way taxing; I get enough of that during my working day. I just need something capable of browsing the internet, making blog posts and doing the odd bit of photoshop; I don't even bother with the regular having-to-upgrade-my-computer-every-six-months-to-be-able-to-play-games malarkey since I got a console to do that for me.

The iPad is absolutely perfect at that. It's light, works from a single charge for an absolute age, is quick and is convenient enough to carry around. It isn't blessed with an abundance of storage space but just enough that it'll suit if I keep it tidy. I could have gone for a competitors model, why bother? All of them seem to look identical to the iPad anyway and they're all exactly the same price - I honesty can't see the tablet market working for any other hardware manufacturers until they at least make cheaper models or something more innovative than simply be given the design brief of "make it look like an iPad".

And the lack of ability to play Flash content on it? In all honesty that doesn't seem to have made a great deal of difference or impeded my browsing experience in any way.

So, Mr. Jobs. You win. Little by little my tech becomes iTech. Your team have a wonderful knack of making stuff that works. You're all a little smug about it (and it still annoys me when people whoop like chimps when you make a new product announcement) but you're okay in my book.

By which I mean iBook.

Driving the desk to apathy

2011-09-10T02:06:00.000+01:00

Sitting at a desk can be pretty shit. Shit in many ways. You’re not getting any exercise, so those excess pounds you put on over Christmas – three quarters of a year ago – aren’t going anywhere. You’re probably bored out of your mind doing something you’re not that keen on, unless you’re very lucky. That twinge in your hand seems to be getting worse doesn’t it? Perhaps it’s repetitive strain. They don’t have that many years of research to find out the effects of your lifestyle after all. Who knows what years of typing and playing on games consoles do to your joints? Oh god, and you were an early adopter of force-feedback controllers too. That twinge is getting even worse now just thinking about it.

Why not think of something else? Even if you’re not at a desk and you’re coming to the end of the summer in your job working outside, or traipsing hospital corridors, or driving a bus. Looking forward to something is pretty important.

Looking back can be great but it’s normally spiked with melancholy that you’re not there anymore. Ah, that holiday in the sun... that gig a few months ago. Still can’t believe the price of the beer. Damn, why are you sitting there and not in a concert hall, slowly developing tinnitus that’ll take two days to fully go? Actually, now you think about it has it even fully gone now? Damn this desk.

What is there to look forward to? Well there’s always the obligatory Christmas and birthdays. I still reckon that Christmas was invented to make people a bit cheerier while the ice forms on the inside of the windows and you’ve had to pawn the last of your bed linen to pay for coal. Birthdays aren’t as exciting without pass-the-parcel.

What’s better than waiting for events that are forced on you or you’re invited to is arranging your own. Last weekend we went to a friend’s birthday-slash-housewarming party, it was great fun.

Hallowe’en’s on the way. Get a party organised, and dress up. Bonfire night too or what about a late summer barbecue? I bet it’s been ages since you organised a pub night out. The kids’ grandparents are always saying they wish they could see them more, so kill two birds with one piece of irresponsible parenting and family exploitation. Fill some of the gaps in your calendar. Organise a do and give yourself something to look smile about while the minute hand seems to be stuck on ten to five. That little twinge seems to be getting better.

The Guard

2011-09-05T16:34:00.084+01:00

What do you get if you get a grumpy Irish person with a penchant for swearing, speaking their mind and a general disrespect for authority crossed with a straight-laced by-the-book respectible man from a different country? You get my marriage for one, but you also get the new Brendan Gleeson film "The Guard".

In its simplest terms, The Guard is a typical cop buddy movie with two mismatched partners, but this barely does it justice. It'd be like describing In Bruges (written by the writer of The Guards brother, and a similiar film in many ways) as simply being a film about two hitmen.

Brendon Gleeson plays Gerry Boyle, an unorthodox (to say the least) Garda Sergeant working in the remote hills of the west of Ireland. Forced to team up with FBI Agent Wendell Everett (played by Don Cheadle), the two unlikeliest of partners join forces to take down an international drug smuggling ring.

So far, so Lethal Weapon. But, as with the excellent In Bruges, that's not really what this movie is about at all. It's eminently quotable ("I didn’t know you had gay lads in the IRA.", "To be sure, it was the only way to infiltrate the MI5"), hilarious and utterly charming.

Boyle comes across as a racist and offensive incompetent smart alec with a dying mother and penchant for whores and drugs, but behind this front lies a genius intellect surrounded by ineffectual and/or corrupt idiots. Cheadle plays his role deadly straight as the archetypal fish out of water (Crocodile Connemara, if you will), but is a perfect foil for the diametrically opposed Boyle. It's interesting to note that Gleeson and Cheadle became very good friends during the shooting of the film, and this really shines through their roles - two very different people who become the unlikeliest of friends.

The ever reliable Liam Cunningham fronts the trio of drug smugglers who are given an unusual level of characterisation for this type of film - indeed, they have some of the best lines (no drug pun intended).

Overall, I can't rave about this film enough. From the opening credits it feels like a Western shot by Sergio Leone, but has a very unique vibe thats difficult to describe. And as expected, if you're won over by this review, you'll probably find it next to impossible to find showing at the cinema - what with it not being a toy franchise with lots of explosions. We had to go and see it at the local Warwick Arts Centre and were quite taken aback to hear the audience applaud when the film ended - that hasn't happened for me since a pissed up midnight premiere of From Dusk Till Dawn.

Go watch it. Enjoy.

Morality (Press) Play

2011-08-30T16:29:00.002+01:00

This blog-post was either to going to be about one of three things; My verdict on my new spangly ipad2, a review of the excellent Brendan Gleeson film "The Guard" (as seen at Warwick Arts Centre yesterday evening) or a review of Deus Ex: Human Revolution for the Xbox 360. Despite the fact that all three of these are brilliant and have improved my quality of life some 5.1% between them, a throwaway phrase from Tara on Saturday whilst I was playing Deus Ex forced my hand. Which was a cut above the usual throwaway phrase from my wife when I'm playing Video games, namely "Bloody hell" bordered by annoyed tutting.

To set the scene.. Deus Ex: Human Revolution (or "Deus Ex Colon Human Revolution" to use its full only-exists-in-my-head title) is the third game in the series of this science fiction cyberpunk RPG. The first Deus Ex made its debut on the PC some eleven years ago, and was regarded as being quite revolutionary in the fact that the game never dictated a playing style to you. Almost a sandbox game, you were free to tackle the missions anyway you wanted. Want to play it as a straight forward first person shooter? Fine. Wanted to sneak your way around the levels keeping bloodshed to a minimum? Good for you. Want to hack into computer systems and get them to do your dirty work for you? It's not going to stop you. Want to build and construct a huge mechanised suit with the face of Ken Dodd? I'm sorry, there are limits. It was 11 years ago. The game concept was so revelatory (but so bloody obvious) at the time that I'm genuinely surprised that more developers didn't try the same with their games.

Oh, and it had a sequel. But that was pretty rubbish.

But the third one is a fine return to form. It feels very much like the first in that you're just basically dumped in a level and left to your own devices. The plot is deep, thought-provoking and engaging (even if some of the voice acting is a little dodgy) and I can see it taking up dozens of hours of my life.

And that's where the review will end. Buy it. Thats not what I'm here to talk about. I'm going to mention an interesting* element in it, that struck me as unusual.

One of the games earliest missions involves you sneaking into a police station to steal some evidence from the morgue in the basement. If I'd built up my hacking skills sufficiently I could have simply obtained access through a guarded sewer network, but I've taken the stealth route. If I'd spent points on charisma enhancements I could probably have charmed my way into the basement from the Police stations front desk. However, I enjoy the sneaking about and silent takedowns much as I did in the original Deus Ex. I play it much like a bionic Sam Fisher from the Splinter Cell series of games.

The path I've chosen probably wasn't the best for this mission, but the game doesn't stop you. Sneaking about I found access via the roof, but this meant I had some five floors to navigate my way downwards through the heart of the Police Station to get to my goal. One thing that the architects of most of the buildings in Deux Ex are very keen on is ventilation shafts - probably some crooked backhander deal with a corrupt ventilation company. I'm a claustrophe and wouldn't venture into one in real life, but my character will happily do so. My character spends so much time in ventilation shafts it can't be doing his back any good at all. Hopefully the end credits will show him laid up in a hospital bed with chronic arthritis, making unusual noises any time he has to stand up or sit down.

Now one thing to bear in mind in that Police Stations are very well guarded. The very nature of them means they're traditionally full to the brim with Police Officers. I'm analysing guard patrols - waiting for one of them to split off from the pack so I can knock him out and drag his unconcious body into the ventilation shafts to join his equally well ventilated colleagues. Honestly, once I've wandered through a level there are numerous ventilation shaft parties going on. Occasionally this goes wrong - one of the cops will spot me knocking out his pal as he just happens to turn around at the wrong moment, and then all hell breaks loose.

They spend ages shooting at me whilst I retreat to the safety of, you guessed it, a ventilation shaft. I might even take that opportunity to shoot tranquiliser darts into my opponents knees.

I'm cursing aloud because I'm dying a lot. The gunfights in this game are lethal and despite being an armoured bionic tank, it doesn't take many shots to bring me down. I explain to Tara (just to make conversation, if anything. She doesn't give two hoots) that I'm finding this whole game bastard difficult in that I'm having to sneak around and take people out silently or avoid whole patrols altogether to get to my goal.

"Why don't you just kill them?", she asks.

And for a fleeting moment I ask myself the same question. I've certainly got the ammo and weaponry for it, and a straight fight would certainly be a lot simpler.

Why don't I just kill them?

"But I can't", I think to myself, "They're police officers. They're only doing their job". Now would the game penalise me for killing a police officer? Probably not. Could I have completed the same level in a fraction of the time? Unknown - perhaps if they'd raised the alarm the police station might have been flooded with a horde of them, way too many to kill - but I never found out. If the game had thrown a hint at me that they were all the police were all corrupt and therefore my enemy, I may have played it differently - but ultimately they were just guys doing their job. I was the threat, not them. I was doing something illegal and they were just making sure the law was being adhered to.

But this raises an interesting point. The game isn't enforcing any form of morality on me, I'm enforcing it myself. It's only a computer game - If I ended up killing a cop it's not I'm leaving his wife a widow and his children fatherless. He's only a collection of ones and zeroes with some loose artificial intelligence controlling if he can see me and what he'll do if he does. I'm effectively making the game more difficult for myself through the addition of this artificial skill increase controlled by my own ethical values.

Unlike many games which involve morality and personal choice, there's no statistic holding some numeric value dictating how "good" or "evil" I am. (Mass Effect, great game though you are, I'm staring right at you as I say that). I think this whole good/evil statistic is a thoroughly flawed mechanic, especially when you can see it there as a simple number or series of numbers on the screen. If I throw some credit chips at some poor starving tramp in a space station, is this a "good" act? (+5 Nice Points. Pat yourself on the back). It might seem altruistic, but no, not really. I just know I'll get achievement points if I do it so effectively so the action is a completely selfish one. We're complex creatures and is it right to have good/evil as a sliding scale - I.e. doing good actions increases your "good" score and decreases your "bad"? How many tramps do I have to throw money at to negate that cold-blooded murder I performed just so I could rifle through the contents of the victims office? 5? 10? The tramp might just even up spending my generously handed-over credits on some space booze and killing himself - how can my donation to him therefore be classed as a 'good' action?

Another recent example of morality coming into the gaming medium was in the pretty, well presented but ultimately underwhelming Bioshock. In the convoluted story (which I won't go into here) you have the choice of harvesting something from mutant children to satisfy your needs. Kill them and become powerful more quickly, or spare them and refuse temptation. The game has a number of different endings based on your choice, but I remember the first time I was confronted with this decision. I had to think about what to do for some time before I'd made my decision (to spare the child). Again, only ones and zeroes. Not a real child, so why the delay? It's a computer game. You're supposed to play it to win, surely?

So, Deus Ex neatly avoids this whole condundrum by not judging you for your actions. You're free to play it with whatever moral compass heading you choose. (Interestingly enough, whenever I'm faced with moral decisions in computer games, despite them mostly being role-playing games I always tend to make the decisions that I would make if faced with them. I never go all out to play as a whiter-than-white hero or an absolute bastard, and my end result always comes out with my personality being judged as somewhere between good and neutral. You could argue that it's a roleplaying game and that I should be playing a 'character' as it were, but I'd offer the counter-argument that I am - I'm not the commander of a massive spaceship in real life and it's unlikely I ever will be) **.

The open world mechanisms of Deus Ex aren't quite perfect, but have to make concessions that, after all, it's still a computer game and is supposed to be fun. Much as with the first game, if you're spotted by an enemy they instantly go into a state of alert and seek you out. However, remain hidden for a couple of minutes and they forget you were ever there. "I'm sure I saw something - nope, must have imagined it" one of them says. What? You imagined me suffocating your partner into unconciousness - your partner who, I might add, is now sleeping on top of a pile of other snoozing police officers in the ventilation shaft behind that cardboard box in your office? Should the game keep them alert permanently once you've been rumbled? Perhaps, but it would make for dull - and incredibly difficult - gameplay.

(A similiar anecdote - In Red Dead Redemption one whistle brings your horse running to you, no matter where you are in the world. My dad finds this ridiculously unrealistic - and is absolutely right to do so - but it's difficult to explain that sometimes you have to bend realism to make something fun to play.)

So, should we feel sorry for the poor old Green Pigs as we Angry Birds hurtle towards them destroying their rickety buildings? Writing angry letters to the WWF for the sheer number of endangered species that Lara Croft wipes out in her regular Raiding of Tombs? Should we be demanding to see whether Mario is Corgi registered? Of course not - let the nature of the game demand its own ethical and moral boundaries.

Which is where Deus Ex does it so well. It promotes (within technical boundaries, obviously) a free-form style of play. You won't be penalised for what the developers see as a 'bad decision' or something that deviates from the ultimately linear path that they've created for you. Any stats relating to how 'good' or 'bad' you've been, if they exist, are carefully kept hidden from you and hopefully, just hopefully, during the remainder of the game I'll be faced with a few more moments where I have to stop and step away from the XBox to work out what I'm going to do next. Even if it ends up making the game more difficult.

So, what other games have forced you to actually think about your next action from a moral standpoint? I can't honestly think of that many other than the examples I've mentioned above. Should we strive for that kind of emotion in our games, or is it all a little pretentious and ambitious? I'm interested to know what you think.

* - Your definition of 'interesting' may differ from mine.
** - Jim not making "Jim'll fix it" any more put paid to those dreams.

Websites that should exist; Number 15 in an occasional series.

2011-08-24T13:19:00.000+01:00

Making new friends through music

2011-08-23T15:38:00.000+01:00

It costs £1 for four songs on our local's jukebox, or £2 for nine. How can you get your money's worth?

These days most jukeboxes are the ones which hold every chart hit from the fifties onwards, so here's a handy guide on how to get the most for your money and really please the people who put their money in after you.

Watch as they sing happily along to your song choices, nodding at you, pointing at the jukebox and giving you the thumbs-up. Landlords note: This is also a good way to make money, as people will have to visit the bar another couple of times while they wait for their choices to be played, not wanting to have wasted their money.

There are longer songs than this but you won't find these on a jukebox. Shame that.

TRACK LISTING:

1. The Breaks - Kurtis Blow. Duration: 7m31s. A nice short song to start with. This is a fantastic piece of rap history. I love this track, and it was this which inspired me to make the list after I'd put in on in our local, forgetting how long it was.

2. Sir Psycho Sexy - Red Hot Chili Peppers. Duration: 8m17s. From when they were good. Funky funtimes. Not a single, but often appears if the whole album's on there.

3. Rapper's Delight - The Sugarhill Gang. Duration: 14m36, 6m30 or 4m55s. Another rap classic. Most jukeboxes will only have the single version but you might get lucky.

4. Voodoo Chile - Jimi Hendrix. Duration: 15m. Not the Slight Return, although that is over five minutes long, but track four on Electric Ladyland. Worth a pop.

5. Bop Gun (One Nation) - Ice Cube. Duration: 11m05s. I didn't know, but this was released as a single in the UK reaching position 22, so it should be on the juke box.

6. November Rain - Guns 'n' Roses. Duration: 8m57s. A proper lighter song, as in it should be set on fire. But think of the value for money!

7. This Corrosion - The Sisters of Mercy. Duration: 10m18s. No black eyeliner required. Reached 7th position in the UK charts.

8. Freebird - Lynyrd Skynyrd. Duration: 9m06s. Lighters out again! If you get the single version it's only 4m18, but worth a shot.

9. Lucretia My Reflection - The Sisters of Mercy. Duration: 8m44s. I remember this from a car ride to East Anglia, when it appeared on a mix CD for the car. When it came on for the second time, we had to skip it. There's only so much Sisters you can cope with.

If you find that some of these are the shorter single versions, why not exchange them for a banker like The Beatles - Hey Jude (7m06s) or Oasis - All Around The World (9m31s)? There aren't any official shortened versions of these songs.

Total duration: 93m34s. £1.28/h. Not only will you get an hour and a half's worth of music for two quid, you can guarantee that your face will now be known by both landlord and punters alike!

Batman Live

2011-08-20T00:25:00.002+01:00

The scene: A industrial smog-laden city gripped by fear. Criminal gangs prowl the streets between dirty skyscrapers that lurch up into the sky like twisted stalagmites, the distant sound of a police siren heading (too late, the drivers fear) towards another crime scene. Boarded-up buildings decorate the streets as the populace walk on, terrified for their safety.

Birmingham, home of the National Indoor Arena on the evening of August the 19th, the third of five performances of Batman Live being held there. Which, thanks to tickets purchased for Tara and I for my 40th birthday by my lovely friends Tom White and Fran Grainger, we were going to see.

Batman Live tells the origins of how Batman and Robin got together (not done through a lonely hearts column, as you might expect - "Psychopathic vigilante with costume fetish seeks same").

We walked in to be faced by a gorgeous Gotham city set with a brilliant IMAX backdrop with a moon slowly rising above the skyscrapers. I couldn't see all of the set because there was some large headed idiot in front of me who insisted on constantly moving his vast noggin every time I did the same to crane around it.

The show is effectively an elaborate pantomime with all manner of wirework and pyrotechnics. Definitely designed for all ages, although Tara and I were pleasantly surprised that we weren't the only people there without kids. One of the highlights was a huge circus scene (complete with jugglers, clowns, trapeze acts and the ever-present horses on stilts - what circus is complete without stilted horses?) for the scene in which Dick Graysons parents (The Flying Graysons) were killed for not paying protection money to the mob.

It's not perfect - the choreography on some of the fights was a little poor, the wirework a little overused and the CGI backdrops used on the IMAX sometimes a little weak, but other than that it's a thoroughly entertaining piece of theatre. It's a different take on the origin of Robin (which is already upsetting a lot of the purists who really should get out more) but I couldn't recommend it more. Especially if you've got kids, based on the reaction when Joker gets beaten up by Batman at the end (*spoilers*) when some child near to me was almost wetting himself with laughter.

The costume designs have been based on the Jim Lee Batman designs, and are excellent. Special mention has to go to Mark Frost as The Joker who clearly based his performance on the best portrayal of the Clown Prince of Crime so far, namely that by Mark Hamill in Batman: The Animated Series. He literally steals every scene he's in. Oh, and it also has a supremely sexy Catwoman. And an AWESOME working batmobile.

So, great fun. It's not The Dark Knight and never pretends to be, but it packs a lot of fun and spectacle into two hours and I loved it. Adults and kids alike in the audience seemed to share the same view based on the applause the cast got at the end. (Except for aforementioned Large-Noggined chap who hated every moment of it, which he felt he had to share loudly with those around him. "Risible" was a commonly used phrase. Slightly disappointed that he wasn't so annoyed that he left in the interval and continued to plonk his large meteoroid head in front of mine again, but ho-hum. This is the same idiot that hated it so much he's liked the Batman Live page on Facebook just so he can comment to slag it off at every opportunity - to be met by an overwhelming response of "You're wrong. It was ace.")

Car Scramble: A game for all the family

2011-08-16T12:21:00.003+01:00

We leave in an age where it's expensive to keep children (and sometimes) yourself entertained on long journeys. However, don't despair for within this very blog post is a secret that will make any long trip an absolute joy - unless you're the driver, in which case you're screwed. Sorry. Just listen to some music or something.

And the beauty of this exciting travel game? It's absolutely free and its limited only by the vast landscape of your imagination. All you need is daylight (or low light at the very least), a working eye/spine/neck combination and a car window - and let the fun begin!

The rules are simple - position your head so you're looking through the side car window and can focus on a smudge, dot or scratch on the window itself. If the car window is too clean, I'm sure the owner won't mind if you get a permanent marker and draw a small arrow on it heading in the direction of travel. If the owner of the car does object simply wait until he's not looking and draw it then. If they spot you vandalising their car with a marker, adopt a disgruntled tone and point out that they should have been paying attention to the road and you're lucky you're all not dead - and then run away at the nearest opportunity and find a new friend with a car.

As the vehicle you're safely within begins gathering speed, imagine that said speck is a flying vehicle hurtling parallel to your car. You might think that this game isn't so exciting yet, but the real miracle is yet to happen. If you move your head ever-so slightly you'll note that can change the altitude of the flying smudge. When you've quite recovered from the excitement of that, the fun can begin. Using your skill and judgement "fly" the smudge on the window as low to the ground as possible whilst avoiding all oncoming obstacles.

Here comes the science bit.. Click on any of the pictures for more detail.

To adjust the sensitivity of the controls move yourself towards the smudge to increase sensitivity, away from it to decrease it. You can also use this sensitivity to raise or lower the difficulty of the game.

As an exciting gameplay variant if you're lucky enough to be sitting as a passenger next to the driver, why not try using the road ahead as your playing field? A smudge on the front window (or the carefully drawn back end of a spacecraft) can make an exciting first person flight simulator as you weave in and out of "enemy traffic".

DISCLAIMER: DO NOT PLAY THIS GAME IF YOU ARE DRIVING THE VEHICLE. THIS BLOG ACCEPTS NO RESPONSIBILITY FOR ANY CRASHES/FATALITIES THAT MAY OCCUR AS A RESULT OF PLAYING "CAR SCRAMBLE". NOR DO WE ACCEPT ANY RESPONSIBILITY FOR ANY FAILURE OF NAVIGATION THAT MAY OCCUR FROM PASSENGERS BEING DISTRACTED PLAYING THIS ENTERTAINING GAME.

And why is it called Car Scramble? In honour of the thrilling eighties video game where you manouvered a gaudily coloured vehicle over mountains attacking enemy fighters and bombing stuff. Including fuel dumps, which somehow replenished your fuel. I don't know how either. IT WAS THE EIGHTIES.

Dear "The News",

2011-08-10T21:55:00.004+01:00

I don't want you to take offence at this - I've genuinely been a fan for a long time. You've been a constant companion over the years, from the kindly face and garish jumpers of John Craven on Newsround (who I once saw eating a McFlurry whilst sitting on his bonnet at Motorway Services, actual factual) to the familiar bongs of News at Ten (thats not a cheeky Trevor McDonald drug reference, honest) and even the Starship Enterprise bridge that you now have your BBC newsreaders sitting in. (Honestly, whats with that? When you cut to the weather I'm half expecting Shefali to be beamed onto the set and Huw Edwards to mutter something under his breath about how 'the news cannae take it, Captain').

Yes, we've been friends for some time now so I hope you don't get insulted by what I'm about to say.

Regarding the London riots (upgraded to the England riots on the BBC website yesterday, I note) could you please stop referring to the Rioters as "Protestors"? As far as I can tell (but I'll admit I'm often wrong - not as wrong as I'd be without you in my life though) they stopped being protestors at some stage Saturday evening. I'll be the first to admit you're using the word less and less as the days go on, but could you just cut it out altogether please?

The people who attended the original peaceful protest before it was hijacked and became something infinitely more ugly were genuine protestors. The feral little shits currently wreaking havoc up and down the country are most definitely not.

Unless, of course, they're protesting about not having quite enough pairs of trainers from Footlocker or an X Box 360 - or they're protesting that they really didn't like the fact that a 100 year old family-run furniture store dominated the landscape in Croydon. Or perhaps they're protesting that a Coventry branch of the PDSA that was looted didn't have the jumper they wanted. Or perhaps, and this may be a stretch, they're not protesting at all.

Perhaps you should start referring to the poor innocents involved in this as Protestors. Protesting that they were left to burn in their flats, or protesting that a rabid group of kids were allowed to break into their properties and remove every single part of their livelihood. Before setting fire to it, just for shits and giggles. Because that's really going to strike it to "The Man". (On the subject of which, I've met "The Man". His names Dave Anstible from Droitwich and he's thoroughly nice when you get to know him. I don't know why people have it in for him so much).

Indeed, in the perfectly summed-up words of my good friend Trina Gautrey;

A peaceful protest, about the death of a local, that turns ugly: that I can sort of understand, even though I think it's unjustifiable and counter productive. However, if any of the scrotes burning people's homes or breaking into charity shops or destroying people's livelihoods could tell me the name of Mark Duggan or his significance, then I'd buy them a pair of effing Reeboks myself.

The whole situation is ugly and depresses me to the core. When everything calms down and these little shits find that all of our civil liberties have suffered as a result of their actions, and that their neighbourhoods resemble nothing more than war-zones, then maybe they'll start protesting properly. But because of what you've done, you little fucktards, nobody will listen to you any more. And we'll all suffer as a result.

Or maybe they're protesting about the fact that the youth are being treated like second class citizens? Rest assured, you were treated like royalty compared to how you'll be treated in the future thanks to this.

Thanks for listening,

David

P.S. Whilst I've got your attention, I have a quick favour to ask. You know Children in Need? If you could stop your presenters appearing on it for some manner of hilarious song and dance routine, I'd be most grateful. It was only any good when Morecambe and Wise did it. Now it's just embarrassing. Cheers.

Morrissey astonishes scientific community, the sane.

2011-07-28T15:40:00.004+01:00

In a human physiology defying feat, the British Medical Council reports, Morrissey has surprised both the scientific community and the world at large by completely vanishing up his own arsehole.

"It's not unprecedented for certain individuals to be on the verge of disappearing up their own sphincter", said Professor Michael Finnegan-Beginagain of the BMC, "Clarkson has been on the verge of critical mass for around a decade, and we believe that Bono, Glenn Beck and the two Jeremies (namely Kyle and Vine) have reached almost a form of equilibrium with the arsehole/existence balance - but this is honestly the first time we've actually seen it happen. Live on stage in front of thousands of witnesses as well."

"He was between songs", said Harriet Hill, a concert-goer at the ill-fated Warsaw Gig on July the 24th, "Just about to start playing Meat is Murder or some other miserable droning piece of shite, when he starting shouting to the crowd - 'We all live in a murderous world, as the events in Norway have shown, with 97 dead. Though that is nothing compared to what happens in McDonald's and Kentucky Fried S*** every day.'"

"That was exactly what he said", repeated a stunned Harriet, "Even the asterisks in Kentucky Fried S***. And I didn't even know how they were even pronounced".

Witnesses reported hearing the sound of a dull 'whoomph' as though air were being replaced by vacuum, before seeing Morrissey vanish into thin air. Concert organisers were first on the scene but found no remains, simply a wilted daffodil where Steven Morrissey once stood.

"I suppose it was inevitable that this would happen someday", continued Finnegan-Beginagain. "Ever since the early days of The Smiths his friends and colleagues were noticing him shrink in height on an almost weekly basis."

Asked if the general public had any reason to be concerned over these recent events, Finnegan-Beginagain reassured us that the same set of circumstances is unlikely to occur within our lifetime, "although we'll be keeping a beady eye on Liam Gallagher. Solely For research purposes, you understand".

Asked what has actually happened to Morrissey, Michael Finnegan-Beginagain shrugged. "It's quite possible that he has simply ceased to exist", he theorised, "but another school of thought suggests that he may have in fact, in the moments of finishing that fated sentence, become a singularity and passed through to another alternate reality, a universe where nothing but Steven Morrissey exists. He's present in every single atom of this potential "Morrissey-verse", as it were, so in this reality finally achieved his aim of being the fucking be-all and end-all".

"On a personal note I'm glad to be shot of the whinging little bastard.", concluded Finnegan-Beginagain, "I never really liked The Smiths and other than a brief little ray of potential hope in "First of the Gang to die", he frankly bored my tits off."

A herd of cows and a brood of chickens were unavailable for comment.

American TV: Answering questions you never needed to know the answer to since 1952

2011-07-24T23:43:00.002+01:00

Have you ever lay awake at night wondering who would win in a fight between Genghis Khan and Hitler? I know I haven't. And I imagine you haven't either. Unless you have. In which case, I apologise - and please don't ever speak to me or contact me again.

Luckily for us, there are individuals who have. Strange, obsessed individuals with a lot of money at their disposal.

I've been watching and loving it for an age but feel that I need to mention one of the single greatest TV shows to be exported from the U.S. of States, namely Deadliest Warrior. For those of you who haven't been witness to this absolute delight of a show, it is - for all intents and purposes - the biggest and most expensive game of Top Trumps you'll ever see.

Under the guise of being documentary television, the show takes warriors from history and each episode pits like against (vague) like - I.e. warriors from the roughly the same point in history, if not the same continent.

The first half of the show is spent analysing each combatants weaponry in graphic detail. If they're not razing the fuck out of ballistics dummies, they're slicing through so many pig carcasses it's as though the hosts are trying to save us all from swine flu from pig at a time. Let's get this straight - the hosts must REALLY hate pigs. They use the excuse that they're almost identical to humans when it comes to skin and muscle for weapons testing, but I suspect they're stacking them all up for a huge end of season barbeque.

The show concludes, once all the relative advantages/disadvantages of the weaponry have been calculated, with the data being put through a computer (an Alienware laptop, which they point out every week) and run 1000 times. The end result is re-enacted on screen so you can see the overall winner. This footage is ridiculously over the top and more than likely spattered with incredible amounts of gore.
The hosts are all smart educated men who really should know better; Geoff Desmoulin (biomedical scientist), Dr. Arman Dorian (medical consultant) and show creator Max Geiger (amusing referred to as a 'Computer Whiz', which is an expression I haven't heard since the eighties. They might as well call him a 'Super ElectroBoffin'). They might all have various medical degrees and karate belts between them, but it doesn't stop them whooping like drunken idiots every time a sword is slashed through Porky Pigs dead face or a flamethrower is orgasmically spurted over some helpless vietcong soldier puppets. They're all having an absolute whale of a time, and frankly I don't blame them.

We've had an interesting selection of Deadliest Warriors so far; Green Beret versus Spetsnaz (in which - SPOILER - the Spetsnaz won, surprisingly for an American made show), Nazi Waffen versus Viet Cong, Viking versus Samurai, Ming Warrior versus French Musketeer, etc, (no Kramer versus Kramer or Godzilla versus Mecha-Godzilla yet - give it time though) but Season One ended up in an absolute cracker that was never shown on British television - possibly one of the most tasteless ideas in American television history since somebody decided to give Glenn Beck a job - in the form of The IRA (constantly referred to in the longhand "Irish Republican Army" throughout the show) versus The Taliban. Honestly, I'd strongly recommend you seek this episode out. It'll give you a great indication into how utterly preposterous the show is, but how stupidly addictive and watchable it is too.

I'd been watching it again because Season 3 is about to start, and looks like it might be taking an interesting twist for the season finale - Vampires versus Zombies. The first one to ever hit fictional entities, I'm surprised by how they'll achieve this one. No matter how they do it, it can't be any stupider than any episode of it I've seen so far.

But it's still awesome. Muzzle velocity, entry/exit wound gun porn and all.

Now showing on Sky Box Office

2011-07-22T10:55:00.000+01:00

Saturday 9th July 2011 - The Day I Failed

2011-07-18T15:54:00.007+01:00

Disappointment strikes hard, doesn’t it? I applied to go to university earlier this year. I wanted to study counselling, a more ‘worthy’ subject than what I had chosen to study as a 19 year old (media and theatre, luvvie daaarrhhling). Hindsight is amazing. The amount of time I spent ‘woulda’, ‘shoulda’ and ‘coulda’ing about the whole thing (woulda done better had I studied English. Shoulda studied History and Politics, coulda got a better job than Office Monkey). But as it was, I chose what I chose and whilst I passed and graduated, my experience at uni was more an exercise in growing up and coming out of myself. For those of you who know me, I’m loud mouthed, opinionated and not afraid to say what I think. Back then though, Tara Watson was a different person. Quiet and shy, theatre was the best thing for me to do, it brought me out of myself and made me the gobby idiot I am today.

Anyway, I digress. Over my years, I’ve had bouts of counselling for depression. I became fascinated with how it works, and why it works for some and not others. Under my own steam, I completed an introductory course and really enjoyed it. For the next year, I ummed and aahhed over whether or not to go for the degree, could we afford it? Would it interfere with my work? Would I get bored and drop out? I decided to go for it, with the backing of David and my boss (work were going to allow me to do day release). I applied for a uni course for the first time in 13 years. A great bloke helped me out with my Personal Statement (I hate bigging myself up. It makes me really uncomfortable).

Anyway, long boring story short, despite an group interview (back in March), they decided to let me know on 9 July (some five months later. Honestly, it’s not as though it was important, that maybe my career was hanging on it) that I was unsuccessful. Well, needless to say I was crushed, even though I’m a pessimist at heart and I was trying to suppress any little glimmers of hope I might have thought I had. And for all that David and Tom and Fran, and everyone else tried to console me with ‘Well, it was oversubscribed, 30 places from 130 applicants, chances were slim etc.’, it didn’t help. I was a failure, just not good enough. I spend a lot of my time thinking this anyway, but here it was in black and white. And the interviewers very kindly and helpfully don’t give feedback. Surely I was their worst?

Yes, this is quite woe is me but there are actual sparkles of hope: I’ve applied to volunteer with a charity relevant to the field I think I want to work in, in my home town, I’ve applied to the Samaritans, I haven’t ruled out applying for this course again although cost is the main thing that stands before me (price hike from £2k per year to £6k per year for a part time course). And if all else fails, I guess babies wouldn’t be a bad idea.

I’ve managed to see the possible positives that came out of this devastating blow to me. The me of three years ago wouldn’t have been able to do that. I won’t say things are rosy, they’re not, but they’re not quite as black as it seemed last Saturday when I stood in the kitchen, crying on David’s shoulder. The charity has a course running in September. Keep everything crossed for me, will you? All I want to do is to help people. Shouldn’t I have a chance?

We need a chat, you and I.

2011-07-16T14:47:00.001+01:00

My Social Network tolerance for you is wearing thin. I almost feel guilty about doing this, but we’re going to have to part company. It’s not you – it’s me. Actually no, fuck that. It’s 100% you. Absolutely all down to you. “You should be more patient”, my conscience mumbles, but it’s beaten down by my atrophied patience gland which now resembles nothing more than a withered and blackened Goji Berry.

Is it about that time you clicked on that racist link, you ask? I forgave you for doing that, didn’t I? It was just a silly misunderstanding, that’s what we agreed. You told me you didn’t actually agree with the bile being spouted on that abhorrent page, but you just liked the sound of the title of it. You thought it was funny. We laughed about your silly naivety and we put that whole episode behind us. I’d hoped we could move on, but I had my doubts even then.

Tell me, you plead, was it when I spammed your page with posts about ‘You’ll never believe what this girl does on her webcam!’, ‘This girl dyed (sic) live on Webcam!’ or ‘Facebook is going to start charging for you to use it’? No, I smile. But you can tell from my expression that I might not be telling you the truth. You can see visible signs of doubt - that this relationship, after all these years, might be approaching its natural conclusion.

All these things add up, you see. But I can put some of them down to your inexperience with computers, or your complete inability to not believe everything you read in the tabloids. Or perhaps, at the end of the day, you’re just fucking stupid. Perhaps you think all Muslims should be sent back, but you’d never admit it to me – because you know I’d disapprove. Perhaps you genuinely believe that all these viruses your friends warn you about are genuine – your intentions may have been pure. You just need a bit of educating into how useful a tool Google is, I guess.

But these things all add up, you see.

It’s your complete inability to use the English language that bothers me.

We have a glorious language at our disposal, with evocative words and sophisticated turns of phrase and plenty of space to use them in. Hell, I could even partly forgive your poorly worded nonsense if it were in an SMS message or maybe even Twitter, but in the medium in which I read your words in you really have no excuse. And, to be frank, there's a big difference between genuine dyslexia and a complete ignorance when it comes to our beautiful language.

I firmly believe if you don't understand apostrophes and can't be bothered to learn them, it makes more sense for you not to use them at all. Your poorly written scrawl offends both my eyes and my sensibilities. And, in all honesty, are the words "you" and "mate" so long and complex that you feel the need to abbreviate them? Many of your outpourings are so illegible that I'd need an Enigma machine to decrypt them into something readable. Your posts sometimes resemble nothing more than random hexadecimal, and I can't be bothered to decode them - because it'll only be something that I'm not interested in anyway.

We can still be friends. There will always be a special place in my heart for you, but I think it's time that we need to start seeing other people.

When the term "Gutter Press" is almost a compliment

2011-07-12T15:27:00.001+01:00

The concept of ‘journalism’ was invented by Cro-Magnon man some 39,985 years ago in what would later be known as Europe. (citation needed) Grok Brightmoon was one the few witnesses to his tribal leader (Lakk Finebeard) sliding and ultimately tripping over a discarded piece of still moist boar flesh, and decided to draw a picture of it on his cave wall. Beneath this he wrote some undoubtedly hilarious satirical comment, but experts have been unable to translate this – although it’s believed in some circles to be one of the first recorded puns.

Cave dwellers flocked from miles around to see this fascinating cave scrawl, and Grok Brightmoon inadvertently began a trend. When Cro-Magnon man noticed that thanks to this cartoon Tribal Leaders were way more cautious and not tripping over moist boar flesh half as much as they used to, certain Cave Dwellers took to leaving it scattered around randomly in darkened caves and hiding behind nearby rocks, waiting for the unwary.

Cave Scrawls have been found dated from around this time with contrary opinions; Some of them claim how they have documented Shaman proof that falling over boar flesh is very bad for you, whereas some of them take the spin that everybody should at least try to slide over on boar flesh at least once a day for its positive health benefits. And one was even found blaming all the damn dropped boar flesh on African immigrants – even though it wasn’t even called Africa yet.

The process of journalism used to be a reactive one; something newsworthy happened and somebody was there to report it – the idea being to inform the citizenry. (“Lakk Finebeard fall on boar skin. Shaman take this as Bad Omen.” or “Cave floor bad place to store boar skin. Eating it after gives man mighty big bellyache and dung fallout”).

However, journalists as a group have somehow made an odd paradigm shift. Certain schools of journalism decided amongst themselves that, well, sometimes there just isn’t enough news to go around. Sometimes you just need to scatter those random boar skins to see who falls over. And sometimes, if you’re really unlucky, you get caught in the act of scattering those bear skins and make the news yourself.

Now, unless your only source of the news is through the impartial, fair output from Rupert Murdoch’s News International Ltd, you can’t help but have noticed that there have been two very major news stories about unscrupulous journalism over the past few weeks. If your only source of news IS from News International, you’re probably only aware of house prices going up and footballers having affairs. Odd that.

The first (which seems to have now vanished with the hullaballoo of the second) is regarding the Sun and Mirror newspapers being found guilty of contempt of court over the treatment over the arrest of Joanna Yeates landlord Christopher Jeffries. Both newspapers launched an absolutely scathing personal attack against Jeffries, finding him guilty of pretty much every crime throughout the entirety of history except for the crucifixion of Christ and the assassination of Arch Duke Ferdinand. Being slightly eccentric and odd looking was all the Sun and Mirror needed to dig every little bit of dirt about this (and let’s not forget this important fact) man who was revealed to be innocent. The grubby little papers had all but convicted this man before the police ever did – and let’s be honest, couldn’t.

But that all pales into insignificance next to the frankly incredible revelations that we’ve had in the last week regarding the News Of The Worlds phone hacking scandal, which finally saw the destruction of the vile rag. Until it emerges like a shitty phoenix with the new name ‘The Sun on Sunday’, at any rate.

The Journalists have finally been identified as crossing the line - in actively impeding a police case by hacking the phone of Millie Dowler. Police had actively believed she was a missing person until her remains were found - because there was evidence that she was accessing her voice mail. Whereas all the time it was scum hacks activating said mail, and deleting messages from it in order to clear space for more to arrive. Utterly vile and quite beyond contempt.

Little by little more shock news is breaking revealing the illegal extents to which News International will go to for a story, a practice which appears to be rather more common that anybody had ever suspected.

Monitoring the situation from their hidden submarine base, Rupert Murdoch and his cohort Sideshow Bob have proudly declared how utterly shocked they’ve been by all the allegations. Sideshow Bob was so utterly horrified by the news that she’d somehow completely forgotten that it was her who’d requested and paid for the phone hacking in the first place, and that she’d paid police on numerous occasions for information.

Every day brings more news of the hideous depraved depths that these “people” will sink to in order to generate news, and the story will drag on for weeks, itself making headlines.

But probably not in The Sun or Times, eh?

A plea: Do something about it. Murdoch is fighting back to save the lucractive BSkyB deal - first he tried to con us all by the empty gesture of closing The News Of The World, and has now withdrew his proposed undertakings for Sky News, forcing the deal to be referred to the Competition Commission to buy time for the political temperature to cool. Click here and register your disgust.

The Poplar Tree was unavailable for comment.

2011-07-01T14:06:00.006+01:00

Ever have one of those days when you’re feeling really good, in fact rather too good? Usually I’d recommend a good session of watching Jersey Shore or My Super Sweet Sixteen to bring your cynicism levels up to just shy of a simmering rage, but you’ll be relieved to know that there’s another alternative. Simply look at the Daily Mail website.

Yesterday a 13 year old named Sophie Howard was unfortunately fatally injured when a branch fell from a tree as she sat on a park bench. She was taken to hospital but later died from her injuries. It’s an unfortunate story, yet a simple one. It’s been handled with great sympathy and care by all of the major news outlets, all bar one. The fucking Daily Mail.

Their headline (which has been changed now, spineless knee-jerk journalism fans) reads “Girl, 13, crushed to death by a falling branch as she sat on park bench because her teachers were out on strike”.

Take a moment for that to sink in. Read it again if you can’t believe it. You’re beginning to forget that it’s Friday and oh-so-nearly the weekend aren’t you? That good mood you were in? Evaporating like dog piss in a shaft of sunlight. That warm sensation you’re getting? That’s not the gorgeous sunshine beaming down – that’s your blood beginning to boil.

They even perform the famous journalistic act of backing this up with the opinion of a random somebody who can express exactly the point the Mail were trying to make (if the headline isn’t obvious enough) – in this case an “angry parent” who “wrote on Twitter afterwards” (I.e. some copy made up by the journalist in question knowing full well it’ll be next to impossible to actually validate the statement).

“She should have been safe at school, she was just sat on a bench talking with friends....it could have been my daughter.”

A different broken branch. Not the broken branch from
the report, but an innocent bystander.

The article proves that it’s now scientifically possible to blame anything on absolutely anybody. They may as well blame God for his basically flawed Poplar design with its aesthetically pleasing but essentially easily-removed branches, or the designer of the park for being fucking stupid enough for the completely outlandish and maverick design idea of placing a park bench under a tree. In fact, sod it, let’s blame God for it. If he hadn't made it a glorious sunny day then Sophie Howard would have been safe inside. In fact fuck it - let's hold him solely responsible for inventing trees in the first place. Evil, evil trees. Sponging off the state and giving us nothing in return, except producing lovely breathable oxygen.

In typical Daily Mail style lets expect some striking revelations over the next few days; It’ll turn out the Poplar tree in question arrived here as a seed on the wind from Eastern Europe and has been happily claiming benefits for the past thirty years for himself, his wife and their twelve young saplings. Or that a neighboring Oak Tree will remark how “The Poplar tree was very quiet. Always kept himself to himself. Never would have expected he turned out to be a murderer” or possibly “I’m sure I heard him cry Allahu Akbah before he did the deed”.

But I jest. That’d be fucking stupid. As stupid as blaming strike action on the unfortunate death of a teenager.

Addendum: The ever astute Holly has noticed the Daily Mails excellent selection of photographs to accompany the piece. Look at the article on the Mail on the link above to see what she means. Look at them. LOOK AT THEM. There. Your weekend is ruined.

Plugging the Vomit

2011-07-01T11:13:00.000+01:00

Have you visited the brilliant web comic Setup, Beat, Puke yet? No? Why not? What's it ever done to you? Quick, get on there so you can proudly say you loved it before it became adapted for the cinema by J.J.Abrams and Spielberg.

If, like me, you're one of those people that loves web comics where the last frame is of someone vomiting copiously, I can honestly say you'll love this site. I've made a few submissions to it myself (which I've reprinted below) which is surely reason enough for a quick visit. You'll make Alex very happy. In fact, probably so happy that he'll puke.

Angry letter

2011-06-24T18:46:00.003+01:00

The Lantern

2011-06-22T18:18:00.002+01:00

A scholar was working in Egypt,

in a temple only recently found.

And on the third day of his studies

found a lantern lying there on the ground.

Dusty, ornate and unusual,

the scholar picked it up with a swipe.

"It's a cliche, I know, but I'll give it a go"

And he gave the old lantern a wipe.

A blue mist poured out of the lantern,

but disappeared after a while.

In the place of the mist stood a tall(ish) blue man

quite naked apart from a smile.

"Thank you, kind sir, for my freedom.

A favour before I adjourn,

I am in possession of great magic powers,

and will grant you one wish in return."

The man looked aghast for a moment,

and said "Shouldn't I really get three?"

The genie looked sad and nodded his head

"'Fraid not. All these cutbacks, you see."

"Oh crap", said the man, "Thats a tough one

There's fame and women and wealth.

But they're all things that you can't take with you,

when my major concern is my health."

The man stopped and thought for a moment,

whilst pacing around on the floor.

"My wish is to just live forever."

"Of course", said the Genie, "If you're sure."

Something in the Genies words stopped him.

There was almost the essence of doubt,

and genies are known for their cruel playful tricks

and he needed to let something out.

"It's a trick", said the man, "I don't trust you.

I've heard all of these cons before.

I've seen it in movies and read it in books

and I can't trust a Genie at all.

I'll find myself caught in a landslide

or a coffin that'll never be found.

I'll go on forever just like that,

trapped somewhere that's deep underground.

"Or you'll magic me into a statue

where all I can do is just stare

And I'll spend all eternity like that".

"No tricks", said the Genie, "I swear."

"Or an accident'll render me crippled,

and I'll live for all time in a bed

unable to talk, not able to walk."

But the Genie just shook his blue head.

"You won't turn me into a painting?

Or a mirror that's stuck on the wall?

Not trying to trick me in any way, shape or form?"

"Not at all", said the Genie, "not at all."

The man stopped to think for a moment

and seemed almost reluctant at first

but then took a deep sigh and loudly pronounced

"Right you are, you cruel Djinn, do your worst."

"Consider it done", said the Genie.

"Never has one wish been so onerous a task."

With a flash he was gone and the man was alone,

But immortal now, just as he'd asked.

And the man did indeed live for ever,

and his friends and his family died.

And that sun edged that little bit closer

and the Earth and its people all fried.

And entropy claimed nearly everything,

the Universe gone, every last bit.

But the scholar floats alone in a big empty void

and thinks to himself, "This is shit."

Colonics 1.5

2011-06-21T15:58:00.005+01:00

I can't recall in the entire history of this blog (nearly three and a half years old, fact fans) writing a music review. Neither Val Doonican or Kenny G. have released anything of note in that period, so I haven't really felt the need. However, in the case of this little gem I'll make an exception.

Colonics are a three piece post-rock band from Brighton (Dan - Guitar, Ashley - Bass/Kaoss Pad, Trudy - Drums), and what terrifying little noise merchants they are. I'll be honest - I downloaded the Colonics first EP (1.0) a short while back and simply hadn't gotten around to listening to it - too many other albums came out in a short period of time that seemed to be priority on my listening list. The second was released a short while back (1.5) and was duly downloaded again, but this time I thought I'd give it some time - and thus it became the soundtrack to last Sunday afternoon, and has been pretty much a constant on my iPod since. Hence, my need to blog about it.

Before my thoughts on the EP itself, It's interesting that I chose to listen to it on Sunday instead of my usual afternoons mixed delights of Stuart Maconie's Freakzone on 6Music, a brainstrew of weird and wonderful experiment prog and post rock tunes. Freakzone is usually hit and miss, the odd piece of genius interspersed with a 17 minute collection of somebody with cymbals strapped to their knees shrieking in Hungarian into a wheely bin. The first odd thing that came to mind - and I'm attempting to justify this to myself without doing Colonics an injustice - when listening to 1.5 was that it was like listening to a really good episode of Freakzone. Albeit one without Stuart Maconie saying things in between the tunes such as "And now a new one from the Swedish experimental Jazz Trio Joyless Hat Brigade".

EP opener, Colonic Youth, sets the scene nicely for the pleasant bout of aural slalom you'll be subjecting yourself to. It's a sub-two minute burst of angry noise, sounding for all intents and purposes like the theme tune to the most fucked up Cop Show you'll ever see. Angry Rat follows, another volley of two minute choleric disquiet - the kind of tune you'd hear if you cut David Cronenbergs head open at just the right spot. If you and a colleague could hold him down for long enough.

Further down the Microscope sounds to me like one of more experimental tracks on the EP, five minutes of (semi) organised chaos. Perfectly listenable, but probably one of the weakest tracks on the album in my humble opinion, and a few minutes too long.

Create your Look strikes me as being one of the more conventional tracks on the EP and is none the worse for it. Indeed, it (and a later track) are probably my favourite ones on the EP. You'll never hear a better three minutes of doom-laden guitar. I/O, the following live track, is the sound of an microscopic alien invasion taking place on your parietal lobe. Threatening, scary and quite, quite special.

Persephone (Dementio13 Remix) is six minutes of sheer fucked-up-edness. Two minutes of stabbing noise and angry feedback lead into what the word "Sinister" would sound like if put to music. Absolutely top-notch - if you only listen to one track from the EP, I insist you make it this one. No, I insist.

Superhero is a slice of upbeat noisy guitar, conjuring up memories (if you can remember that far back) of the EPs opener. If I ever get around to writing my eight volume graphic novel opus and it's commisioned into a cartoon series, I may well ask Colonics if I can use this as the theme tune. Closing track In The Murk is a sludgy chunk of white noise and feedback. ..Murk isn't my cup of tea, to be fair, but a neat (and short enough to not outstay its welcome) way to finish this interesting EP.

Intrigued? You should be. It's an excellent EP which convinces me that I really need to drag my sorry ass down to Brighton and see them live. It almost makes me feel guilty for not listening to the Colonics first EP 1.0 now, which I'll have to rectify - if only to listen to the original version of Persephone.

Both 1.0 and 1.5 are available for free download from Bandcamp in whatever format you could possibly ever want them in (short of 8 track and some proprietary formats only used in Belgium) so what have you got to lose? Other than a few megabytes of hard drive space, easily scared pets or visiting members of the church, anyway.

Come back Spuggy, all is forgiven.

2011-06-15T13:13:00.004+01:00

Watched a controversial documentary last night in disbelief. Still in shock. Geordie Shore is fucking dreadful and full of pricks.

Tara Court

For a good friends birthday I once had a Saturday night out in Bigg Market in Newcastle. For a brief moment I felt as though I’d stepped onto the set of a film based in some nightmarish post-apocalyptic future. A selection of creatures surrounded me, loosely humanoid in nature, shrieking, bawling and vomiting. The kind of place where a Deep Fried Snickers bar was considered Haute cuisine and the mantra of the night seemed to be “Why-aye man, therv got free shots!”. Fascinated by their tribal rituals as I was – albeit they mostly seemed related to mating and swearing - it was clear I was unwelcome there. I was wearing a coat for starters. It’s without a doubt one of the most terrifying God-forsaken spots in which I’ve ever found myself, and I live in Coventry and I've even ventured to Nuneaton. Eventually, and without loss to our party, we made our escape.

When Obi-Wan described Mos Eisley to Luke Skywalker with the words “You’ll never find a bigger hive of scum and villainy” there’s a visible shudder as he recalls his brief time in Bigg Market – “You’ll never find a bigger hive of self-obsessed loutish twats”.

So, after the brilliance of the Terry Pratchett documentary on Assisted Suicide, some channel flicking took place. And MTV once again found itself on my television. And in one fell swoop we moved from the absolute pinnacle of broadcasting quality to the absolute nadir.

At first glance it appears that MTV have created a new television show solely by driving a black unmarked van into Bigg Market on a Saturday night, covering the back with some neon and luminous Aftershock stained vomit and a crudely written sign bearing the legend “Free Shots here”, waited for ten minutes, locked the back door, switched off the ridiculously loud “unce unce unce unce” dance music and driven off.

So, Geordie Shore. A show to join the pantheon of other quality shows available on MTV now they can’t be bothered playing music any more. If you’ve never seen it, Well done you. Have a lollypop. Avoid it. Consider this my favour to you - watching telly shows and getting angry about them so you don't have to. Think of the raised blood pressure I've spared you.

It’s a reality TV series in which eight fatuous and vacuous (and various other words ending with ‘ous’) preening twats share a house together – a kind of Big Brother where they’re not locked in but should be – and we watch the hilarious outcome from the inevitable conflict of personalities.

Sounds like a fascinating social experiment, am I right? Except of course, for one fundamental flaw in that not a single one of the 8 subjects possesses anything that, by any stretch of the imagination, could be referred to as a personality. It's hardly even worth them having names, such is the level of their genericism. The man are all preening, gurning, overly-aggressive idiots obsessed with but three things; not wearing a top, drinking and fucking. And the girls are exactly the same.

And they're all absolutely vile. They all closely resemble Auton replicas of real people, overly tanned and vaguely plastic-like in appearance. Clothing is next to non-existent due to the searing climes of Newcastle; I imagine the female cast of this show could quite happily fit their entire wardrobes into a shoe-box as their clothes mostly seem to consist of shoe-laces, dental floss and ribbon. And the blokes? Much like the men in My Big Fat Gypsy Wedding, it appears that vests are back this year. For fucking idiots.

When of the casts ridiculously inflated pair of tits demonstrate more intelligence than their owner, you know something has gone terribly, terribly wrong with the planet.

I'm struggling to even remember if any of the cast even have names.

Choosing to die

2011-06-14T13:30:00.000+01:00

"When I die I want to go peacefully in my sleep like my grandfather, not kicking and screaming like his passengers"

Anon

It's rarely I mention a TV show on the blog (unless you count my recent praise given to The Walking Dead - a less tactful blogger might make comparisons about that post and this one) but I felt that I simply had to comment about the harrowing, thought-provoking and wonderful BBC2 show that Tara and I watched last night; Choosing to Die, a documentary by Terry Pratchett.

Sir Terry, himself well publicised as suffering from a rare form Alzheimers, took the opportunity to look into "Society's last taboo", namely that of Assisted Dying through the work of the non-profit Swiss Organisation Dignitas (not to be confused with VERITAS, unless you're planning on travelling to South Arizona and throwing yourself from a high-energy astrophysics telescope).

Although at many times painful to watch, it was an excellently made documentary that was far from the pro-suicide propaganda that many of its critics have claimed. Terry, himself pondering whether to end his life with Dignitas, was the perfect choice to host the documentary - sceptical, caring, honest and altogether human.

The show explored both avenues available to the terminally ill or for those who illness is beyond cure and whose conditions will only worsen will ever passing day - for those who don't wish to be a burden on their families or those who dread the day they simply will no longer have the choice of ending their life in a dignified manner.

When my mother went into the hospital for the last time in February of 2010 Dad and I were faced with the difficult decision of what we would do if Mum was ever in the state when she'd be forced to stay in hospital for the rest of her life or would be permanently bed-ridden at home attached to a ventilator. We already knew the answer but didn't want to say it out loud to each other. Mum was in no position herself to make such a decision; oxygen starvation had left her permanently confused and in the visits over the last week of her life it was apparent that Mum wasn't really there. There was someone lying in her bed who looked like her and on occasion spoke like her, but the strong willed fiery woman who was my Mum had died the week before when she was first taken in and resuscitated from near death.

Kept alive in her bed solely through a brand new untested ventilator and having to wear a suffocating mask for most of the day so she could even breathe, I believe she had a rare moment of clarity on the night before she died. She was bored of this existence and knew she was dying and chose not to wear the mask for sleeping that night. I believe, even in her confused state, that she knew that this would kill her, but this would be her last act of defiance. She'd taken away the decision from Dad and I and I love her dearly for it. From an undignified last week in hospital, wired up with ECG monitors, drips and breathing tubes, she'd taken the dignified way out. Which, bringing me back to the documentary, is something I think we're all entitled to.

Terry met a number of people during the course of the documentary; The wife of the Belgian writer Hugo Claus who "died singing" (People have threatened that I might go the same way, usually after they've heard me sing) and two men who were going to Dignitas. Andrew, 42, a sufferer of multiple sclerosis and Peter Smedley who had Motor Neurone disease.

Terry interviewing both made for upsetting enough television - both were Dead Men Walking, after all - but both were resolute in their decisions. Despite looking well Andrews life sounded miserable - every day worsened his condition - and he was incredibly matter-of-fact about this (most fundamental of) life changing decisions he could make. He had made two previous suicide attempts which had failed, and Dignitas had emerged as the only solution.

Peter Smedley was as English as a Union Jack teapot with a beefeater Tea Cosy. He and his wife were old fashioned, honest and utterly charming. He was virtually chair-ridden, the motor neurone disease rendering him incapable of the simplest of movements without aid. His wife didn't fully agree with his decision, but respected his opinions.

We were shown the room where Dignitas performed their assisted deaths. Located in an Industrial estate in view of the Alps, the anonymous blue chalet resembled nothing more than an Ikea showhome. After saying his last farewells to Andrew ("See you on the other side") Terry prepared to do the same with Peter in the little blue house that Dignitas built.

We watched Peters last moments throughout which he remained brave with the kind of stiff upper lip that only the English can achieve. The method of assisted death is via a huge overdose of barbiturates that the patient has to administer themselves; One glass of liquid is drunk to ensure that the body doesn't reject the drugs, another with the overdose itself. ("Shall I drink the second one now, dear?", "Thats entirely up to you, dear").

Peter drank from the first container and then sat down on a chair, his wife sitting next to him. A short while later he drank his lethal overdose whilst his brave wife held him. He had a small swiss praline chocolate to remove the bitter aftertaste and prepared to die. A brief two seconds of discomfort in which, semi-concious and quite distressed, he asked for water - none was given - and then he drifted off to sleep, snoring noisily. And then his heart stopped.

The showing of Peters death wasn't gratituous and he definitely wasn't coerced into his decision - in fact, in all fairness, I imagine his wife and family had tried at length and simply given up trying to convince him otherwise - Dignitas themselves seem to have very strict criteria over who they'll 'accept' - and it all made for utterly captivating television. Sir Terry stood outside in the garden after the event as the snow fell, a lovely poignant moment. Through tears he announced, "It seems right. It's the right kind of snow".

Terry Pratchett has signed up with Dignitas now. This doesn't mean he's on the next flight out, but that when the time comes - "when he can no longer write", in his own words - which due to his illness is now solely through dictation - the option is available. Indeed, more than two thirds of people who sign up with Dignitas never go back; the fact that they have this option open to them gives many a new lease of life.

The show (and the inevitable controversy it was bound to provoke) seems to have had the designed effects. As as today in the news, it seems to have opened the whole topic up for discussion again. It's something that needs discussion.

I do not fear death. I had been dead for billions and billions of years before I was born, and had not suffered the slightest inconvenience from it.

Samuel Clemens

Indiana Jones IV - Exclusive

2011-06-10T13:34:00.000+01:00

Dear Fresh Breath Ltd.

2011-06-08T11:08:00.000+01:00

Fresh Breath Ltd. UK

Caxton Court, Caxton Way

Watford Business Park

Watford, Herts

WD18 8RH

8th June 2011

To whom it may concern,

Whilst perusing the sale offers in my local branch of Morrisons a few days ago I happened to come across one of your products, namely Icy Fresh Mint Dentyl Mouthwash. That’s the last time they let me into Morrisons.

Ha,ha. No, I jest. Just attempting to lighten the mood of what is ultimately a very serious complaint I have to raise regarding this product and one that many other recipients of this potentially amazing product must have encountered.

In the common vernacular, I’ll “cut to the chase”. I purchased said product ("Icy Fresh Mint Dentyl Mouthwash") and took it home, excited over the promises on the packaging which I must admit (in my feverish excitement) to have memorised (“Works 6 ways to provide total mouthwash care for healthy mouth and gums. Provides long lasting fresh breath with Zabactyl® and Menthol for an invigorating mint flavour”).

Oh how my heart raced as I prepared to use this dental miracle. 6 ways to provide total mouthwash care? My brain could barely comprehend it. And Zabactyl®? Why, the sound of it alone conjured up a miracle breakthrough in dental hygiene care, images of bespectacled scientists poring over this revolutionary discovery. Like an excited child at Christmas I tore off the protective seal around the lid and prepared to be amazed.

However, something didn’t feel right. A nagging sense of unease swept over me. With a feeling of sheer dread I picked up the bottle (having replaced the lid to avoid any unnecessary spillage) and re-read the instructions on the bottles reverse.

Had I not been holding the bottle firmly the shock alone would have caused me to drop it. I gasped aloud at my sheer idiocy, for there in clear text for all to see was the legend:

DO NOT USE PRODUCT IF SEAL IS BROKEN

Curse my folly! Even though it only cost me the sum of one British pound I couldn’t help but feel disappointed in my stupidity. Through my own actions I’d effectively ruined the product. The minty fresh blue liquid called out to me, its rich fresh scent hanging in the air, enticing me with its promises of minty breath freshness, but I knew its efforts were for naught.

I’ve re-read the instructions on the packaging at least thirty times now and have even searched through the internet for a solution to this problem. I was forced to dispose of the Dentyl, crying through frustration as I poured it down the sink. Is there perhaps a missing component to the product that Morrisons have neglected to attach? Perhaps a small plastic nozzle or tap which could be used to pierce the bottles plastic allowing me to access the minty goodness within without the need to resort to opening it via the method I thought would be safest?

I eagerly look forward to your response.

David Court BSc(Hons)

Deus Ex Tardis - A Timey Whiney Blog Post

2011-06-05T15:53:00.000+01:00

Now I've fully embraced my inner geek, It's time to discuss something that's been bothering me for some time. Other than a pixelmash I did a few weeks ago, I haven't really touched on Doctor Who.

Firstly, a confession (one that will no doubt rile everybody who reads the rest of this blog post - cue cues of "how dare he", etc). Despite being a fan of science fiction at the age of 6 ever since my Dad took me to see Star Wars at our local Odeon fleapit back in 1977, I was never a fan of Doctor Who. As a very young child I found the stories dragged on too long to hold my childish attention, and as I grew older I couldn't see past the shaky sets and dreadful special effects (and the endless, endless running through the same corridor - Done far better via Hanna-Barbera in the seminal Scooby Doo).

(Actually, regarding the Hanna-Barbera point and a google image search for an appropriate image, one can't help but wonder if Steven Moffat is more influenced by them then he cares to admit? - "Hey, who turned out the lights? Hey, who turned out the lights? Hey, who turned out the lights?")

When Michael Grade did what the Master, The Daleks, The Cybermen and the Dread PigeonLords of Zarkl'ahn 6 failed to achieve and finally killed him off back in 1989 as a result of his evil master-plan on scheduling it against Coronation Street I must admit I wasn't particularly bothered. I'll admit to watching the odd episode of Sylvester McCoys run but if anything it seemed as though the show was effectively destroying itself; a laughable doctor, dreadful scripts and dreadful acting.

The TV Movie starring Eric Roberts (always a sign of quality) was indeed watched by myself but if anything confirmed that Doctor Who was a property best left dead.

But a glimmer of interest fired when I heard that it was coming back properly with Christopher Eccleston in the role with Russell T. Davies in charge. I loved the ITV mini-series that they'd both worked on - The Second Coming - and thought it'd be worth a watch.

And do you know what? I loved it. Doctor Who was great again and became a must-see show in our house which is saying something considering that my wife Tara isn't a huge science fiction fan at all - these were the days before the revamp of Battlestar Galactica, after all.

The scripts were exciting and witty, the special effects excellent but most importantly stories didn't outstay their welcome. I loved the new format of one-off stories (albeit with an underlying arc) with the occasional two parter when the depth of the story demanded it. And it's remained great ever since, with a couple of minor irritations, namely how they've completely ruined the Daleks. Now I'm not talking about the Volvo durch-sprung-technik Design overhaul they went through in Season 5 (I couldn't give a monkeys about that), but I mean through overuse. As in much the same way how Gigers Aliens aren't scary anymore, the Daleks are getting boring now. Steven Moffatt has said that he's resting them for a bit and that's honestly the best thing that he could have done - If I were him I'd give them a rest of a decade or so. For a species who seem to be getting completely wiped out at the end of every arc they're in, they're not doing too badly at all.

But the major sticking point, and the ultimate point I've taken an absolute age to get to, is a problem that seems to have grown with every subsequent season (or "series", if you have a problem with Americanisms) and this is mainly down to the big budget episodes at the end of each season (or in last nights case, the mid-season finale) and it's a big one.

The big Doctor Who episodes all seem to share something in common; It's like you've been invited to a glorious feast where you're shown photographs of the impending culinary masterpiece. Anticipation and excitement mounts up to a frenzy until you finally walk into the banquet hall and marvel at the sights and smells of the food on display. Salivating, you sit down and begin to eat - to find that the banquet is a mixture of brilliantly cooked food randomly dotted with wax replicas and end-of-line Iceland rejects. You come away feeling full but slightly disappointed - and maybe even have a stomach ache the day after for good measure.

Shit metaphors aside, they're all about spectacle and big moments that don't seem to hold up to scrutiny. Great plot-lines are resolved with a throwaway sentence, a return to the Deus Ex Machina technobabble of Star Trek days. Donna Noble becomes part Timelord and destroys the Daleks (them again) with nothing short of a few long winded sentences (and some random presses of buttons) or The Doctor reboots the universe with the previously unheard of convenient healing ray of the Pandorica. Does anybody remember the Tardis exploding at the end of (well, thoroughout) Series 5 and we never knew why? Perhaps Steven Moffatt does, but I doubt it.

I know that it's a kid show (albeit it could be argued that Moffatt is making it more and more inaccessible to kids with each episode) but is some narrative logic too much to ask for? Complicated plots are all well and good, but in the name of Davros at least give us some satisfactory conclusions.

Last nights Mid-season finale was a classic example; It was all very whiz-bang and packed as much into 40 minutes as most shows would in half a series. New characters were introduced amidst huge battles and explosions and I was on the edge of my seat throughout, but it was all just a little empty. Spectacle for spectacles sake.

I'm enjoying the fact that Steven Moffatt has upped the complexity considerably and the fact that the show (especially the first half of season 6) has felt appropriately epic at times and can't help but admit to being excited about it returning in a few months (with an episode title that genuinely had me laughing out loud) but I have that sinking feeling that I'll be disappointed by however this plot is resolved, because it's what I've come to expect from Doctor Who.

But hey, at least the walls don't wobble when the cast lean against them, right?

The sound of white noise

2011-05-21T09:10:00.000+01:00

See you on the flipside

2011-05-20T17:25:00.013+01:00

With a tear in my eye and a lump in my throat I regret to say that this will be the last ever post in this blog that we’ve lovingly come to know as “That one where he occasionally bangs on about something we’re vaguely interested in” or “The one where I really think he’s lost interest in making that Master Chief armour because he hasn’t mentioned it for ages”.

It’s been nice knowing you all, and on the whole it’s been fun. Except for that hurtful comment you said back in February. The hit count shows I have a healthy number of readers spread throughout the entire world, albeit most of them only interested in the Big Fat Gypsy Wedding post I did a while back – for some odd reason it’s by far and above the most popular post I’ve ever done with dozens of new readers a day, and for the life of me I can’t figure out how. It doesn’t seem to be linked to from anywhere, and I just don’t know how they’re finding it. Perhaps it’s linked to by the Big Fat Gypsies I mocked, who are advancing on my property in order to tarmac it beyond recognition or to sell me pegs or lucky heather.

But sadly, all good things must come to an end. Although in theory I could keep churning this stuff out forever, the cataclysmic events which will unfold tomorrow make keeping a blog redundant. Namely that what we know as society will begin its inevitable spiral into chaos hastening us towards the end of the planet in October 2011.

For tomorrow cometh The Rapture, an event of such magnitude that it’s not only grammatically correct to capitalise both the “T” and “R”, but it is illegal not to do so. Putting it in bold increases your score on the great tally card by which we shall all be judged.

Basically armed with a well thumbed copy of the Bible and mathematics (of which I guarantee you believe in at least one of) Harry Camping (a person and not a hobby, before you ask) has calculated the exact date and time of The Rapture, that designated time when Gods elect will be taken to Heaven whilst all us heathens have to sit out the next six months before the world finally ends. So basically we get all their stuff. Bagsy Billy Grahams fleet of private gold plated jets.

Pastor Harold Camping had previously predicted the world was going to end in 1994, presumably blaming it on the fact that his Casio calculator was manufactured by Heathens who deliberately made him miss a decimal place. Breaking news: He was wrong. But he seems utterly convinced that his calculations are now completely accurate - and a fair few others are convinced too.

It might be easy to laugh and mock - I'm finding it an absolute piece of piss - but was it not the legendary farseer known as Deborah Harry, her of used face fame, who penned these fateful words in the eerily prophetic "Rapture"?

"Don't move too slow, 'cause the man from Mars is through with cars, he's eatin' bars!
Yeah, wall to wall, door to door, hall to hall, He's gonna eat 'em all."

And by “Man from Mars” she clearly meant “Earthquake” and by “eating bars” she meant “destroying New Zealand first”.

Rapture was released in 1991, which was 20 years ago, and wasn't it for that EXACT PERIOD OF TIME that Samson had judged Israel? And the EXACT PERIOD OF TIME that Jacob spent at Laban trying to escape? And did God not ask Moses to perform a census on all Israelis being TWENTY YEARS OR OLDER? It's also a little known fact that the song Union City Blue carefully describes the destruction of the Twin Towers, but that's a blog post for another day. Another day THAT WE DON'T HAVE.

Like a finely tuned piece of clockwork, the pieces slide and click together as we plunge headlong into the final days of Earth...

So, if you're one of the lucky chosen Elect that is taken - thanks for the stuff. If you're not, I look forward to seeing you next week in our Mad Max style post apocalyptic future. As I don't drive, I may require a lift.

You and whose army?

2011-05-18T15:41:00.000+01:00

Look at what you could have won.

2011-05-18T01:11:00.013+01:00

If like me you have a shelf full of games you've not played in yonks, do you ever think 'I should play that again some time'? Well I told myself I'd do it. Just like I'll watch Battle Royale again at some point with David and Tara. Just get on with it. I've been playing quite a few older games in the last few months. I felt that some of the games on my shelf deserved to be dusted off and revisited, so here's a first review.

This game came out in the same year as Shrek, and ten years after Terminator 2. Feel old?

Review: Silent Hill 2

Game age:10 years (in 2011)

Silent Hill always seemed to me to be the more cerebral Resident Evil. Isolate a member of the RE STAR team (a team proficient in both

unlocking AND using weapons - especially ones which are useful against living things) and plonk them in the middle of an unfamiliar town. Take away the weaponry and military training. Have them slowly realise they're in a landscape constructed from their own mind. Take away any mastery of unlocking. That's Silent Hill. it all seems much more realistic, in an unrealistic sort of way. No guns, just metal handrailing posts.

Granted, both series have their 'Solve puzzle? (Y/N)', but the original Silent Hill had you wondering whether you'd manage to shoot a snarling, leaping dog at two yards. The element of uncertainty in combat, despite the quality or accuracy of the gun you were holding made the experience a genuinely scary one. Plus there's not a green herb in sight.

Ten years ago Silent Hill 2 was one of those games I was both pining for and dreading in equal measures. The original was so good. Almost perfect. It takes skill for a developer to make a game where you're genuinely fearful of combat, and not just because the last save point was an hour ago. You felt for both the lead character's plight and his daughter.

Silent Hill 2 is still a fantastic game. Ten years on, and I played the full lot from start to finish. I'm not doing Edge's 'play the first three hours and blag it, that'll do' approach. In all honesty, it's not been difficult to do, because the game's such an engaging one.

At the time there was a lot of talk about the lighting and mood, and time hasn't changed that. From the corridors of the motel to the foggy streets, the whole game extrudes an air of discomfort and fear of death. Discomfort for you as the game player, and fear of the death of the lead character.

10 YEAR OLD GAME SPOILERS. James Sunderland is a man drawn to Silent Hill after receiving a mysterious letter from his late wife. The game follows his journey through numerous physical and mental challenges to reach the truth of both his relationship with and nature of the death of his wife. The supernatural setting of the game pretty much leaves you in no doubt that the events aren't taking place in reality, but this doesn't make it any less scary. You're working your way through your own conscience, and it's not a pretty journey. The recurrent Pyramid Head may be the personification of your own guilt, perhaps suicide. This is my take on it.

You murdered your wife. The reason is debatable. It's a sliding scale between her needs and yours. It's a genuine dilemma that must have had thousands of people close to madness and suicide. Not exactly a pleasant thing to contemplate, but it's a very real situation to be in and that's part of the game's uniqueness. No zombies. No T-Virus. Just you and the person you love more than anyone in the world.

There are genuine multiple endings, I really wish I had the time to complete them all.

Had this been a film I can imagine there would be far more comment on it. To the benefit of artistic creation, few (if any) people who have major issues with the topic of euthanasia will have heard of the game, let alone played it to its conclusion. All this while children are still playing GTAIV and COD. A whole other issue for another day.

Verdict: 35 Druids out of 39.

Setup, Beat, Puke.

2011-05-17T21:17:00.000+01:00

I'm not really a fan of web comics, but I'll admit to being a big fan of this one. Not least of all because I've done a contribution to it.

Setup, Beat, Puke by the incredibly sexy Alex McHugh and is a poignant, meaningful and deep work - almost epic in nature. It speaks to me on a level I hadn't thought possible.

Without further ado... Setup, Beat, Puke.

I AM THE WINNER OF EUROVISION

2011-05-16T21:24:00.008+01:00

Saturday night saw the climax of my birthday week, The Eurovision Song Contest Final. As ever, I had a party for this occasion and demanded that attendees brought food and/or drink from one of the participating countries. I had fully intended to make biscotti but these plans had been hampered by going to the pub and watching the FA cup final and drinking booze instead. HURRAH. (I won £2 due to Man City beating Stoke).

We took the decision to have the do at Tom’s house because they have more room for the vast number of internerds, Eurovision geeks and other assorted people with nothing better to do on a Saturday night. Only problem was, Tom doesn’t have a television – well, more precisely, he stopped paying his TV licence . Eventually we managed to stream it through iplayer (with it turned up to 11) and away we went. I had decorated Tom’s house and television with pictures of previous winners (Abba, Bucks Fizz and Johnny Logan) and the previous presenter, the legendary Terry Wogan.

I had also created some scorecards and we did a sweepstake with the entry fee being 50p. As there were loads of countries left, we each got another go, some people even had three goes. No wonder gambling is so addictive..

We settled down to watch the show; well I say watch, the slag off the outfits and the songs and write our comments on our score cards (sample comment from Jonathan – GAY SHIT 0 points) I will collect the funniest and best comments from all the score cards and post them on my own blog at some point in the future. Promise.

The food selection was pretty great; mini pizzas, baklava made by David, salami, mini Cornish pasties, chocolate madeleines, Swedish meatballs made by Tom (alas not Regular Swedish Meal Times style), my friend Terry brought a pizza and a potato, my mammy brought some Wexford cheese and a smaller potato (There’s a famine on or something), and boozes from all over Europe, including some very exciting buffalo vodka courtesy of the lovely Dwayne.

My own personal favourite song was Rockefeller Street by Estonia, followed by So Lucky (or as I kept shouting GHOSTBUSTERS!) by Moldova and Caroban by Serbia. I found the UK entry to be fairly dull, although interestingly gave the UK it’s best finish for years, let us never forget the Jemini debacle… but most surprisingly of all, I found myself cheering for the retarded double take brothers, Jedward. In the scoring rounds, whenever Ireland got points, I cheered and when the UK got points, everyone else cheered. Even mammy, who is an actual proper Irish, HATES Jedward. I was on my own (well Dwayne cheered but only cos he had them in the sweepstake). I like to think it was the amount of beer that made me want them to do well. Yes, that’s it. That’s definitely it.

The eventual winners were Azabaijan; guess who had them in the sweepstake? And I’m going to say now, yes they’re not ACTUAL Europe, but it isn’t about actual Europe, it’s to do with satellites and television stations more than the continent. I will set up a link to the comments extravaganza page from my own blog as soon as I get round to it.

I would dearly love to go to Eurovision one day. Anyone up for Azabaijan next year? I’ll supply the biscotti*.

*may not be true

Well done. Here are the test results: You are a horrible person.

2011-05-10T22:17:00.000+01:00

Ball Ball Ball Footy Footy Footy

2011-05-06T13:06:00.000+01:00

Now, what I know about football could quite comfortably be written with a large black marker pen on one of those oval shaped balls that people who play football (I think they call them “Footballateers”) use. Sport to me is something that other people do, which is good because on the whole it means I don’t have to watch them doing it.

That’s actually a slight exaggeration – I have a vague interest in my home team (Coventry City) and how well they’re doing, and I have been known, on occasion to watch the European Football Championships or the World Cup. I’ll admit I don’t fully understand the offside rule, still struggle to see how footballers can command such ridiculous wages and confess that football struggles to keep my entire interest during the course of the 90 minutes, but I’m not a complete stranger to the game.

So it was with some trepidation that I was nagged – yes, that’s the word for it, nagged – into going to see the final home game of the season on Saturday the 30th of April. Coventry City (safe from relegation but lingering at the bottom third of the npower Championship table) versus Reading (4th or 5th at the time, I can’t recall). I tried to weasel my way out of it, but my wife Tara (a much bigger football fan than I) wasn’t having any of it. Saying that she was ‘disappointed’ was the only female trick she needed to pull out to guilt me into going.

So, Saturday afternoon saw Tara and myself accompanied by Tom, Fran and my dad and Taras mum on the sunny short walk along Longford Canal to the Ricoh Stadium. I’ve been to the Ricoh before, but never to the stadium part – my visits have been either for free tickets to see The Enemy (or for absolutely dreadful meals) or to visit the Tesco superstore next door (and Borders bookstore as well, when it still existed).

Spirits were high as we headed in and I must confessed as we entered the Ricoh itself I couldn’t help but point out to Tara that I was actually quite excited – something I’d never expected to happen. To be honest on my approach I was just looking forward to the end of the whole thing. If you’ve never been into the Ricoh, the Stadium itself is very impressive and sitting in amongst the huge crowds (Attendance was around 22,000 if memory serves) was quite an experience.

(As an aside, strictly speaking this wasn’t my first ever football match. I think I went to my only other match at Coventrys considerably grottier old ground back in Highfield Road around 1980 to see them play Tottenham, but my memories of that day are quite vague.)

Reading had a good turnout, but mind you they’re only down the road. We watched with amusement as many of them had large pink inflatable penises confiscated from them, not something you see every Saturday. Unless you live in Reading, perhaps.

Irate Coventry City Fan Willie Tanner

Only slightly unnerved by the fact that I was sitting right behind Willie Tanner (not in fact a buffing device for large pink inflatable penises, but the dad from eighties TV series Alf) and him getting quite irate at points – at one stage looking like he wanted to fight all of the Reading fans singlehandedly – the game was surprisingly entertaining. Especially surprising to me in that I wasn’t bored for the whole duration of the game, and really enjoyed it.

The new strip was unveiled, the game was great and the chants were funny and good natured, except for some of the choicier and distasteful ones about Coventry Striker (and convicted Sex offender) Marlon King ("She said no marlon! she said no. she said no, Marlon, she said no.")

But at least we got the hear the classic (and my own personal favourite) “In Our Coventry Homes”

In our Coventry homes, in our Coventry homes
We speak with an accent exceedingly rare,
You want a cathedral we've got one to spare,
in our Coventry homes.

Ok, so it was a 0-0 draw but Coventry played excellently. But this of course means I have to go again next season so I can at least see a goal. I think the real winner of the day was football, game of two halves, sick as a parrot, etc.