...I can kick!

I have to do a lot of interviews for work. It always looks good to have some vicarious face-to-face contact in the magazine for the reader. It makes whatever you're writing about look more authentic if you've actually spoken to someone involved. No making it up or cribbing from other articles (which happens more than you might think).With the internet feeding off its own bones, republishing stories and linking links, exclusive access always looks good.

But there is a ridiculousness to it all. In games, the information is metered out precisely to a fixed plan. They might reveal a character one month, a weapon the next, a new level the one after. It's all about ratcheting out the content, click by click to keep the interest up. The result of that is that sometimes people are only allowed to talk about what you already know. 

So today I had an interview for a game I can't name which is built on surprises and twists. That meant plenty of 'we can't talk about that yet' style answers. Or worse, reiteration of the question. I consider myself a fairly good interviewer. I ramble terribly, occasionally: the bullet points in my head unraveling like meandering winds full of litter but I usually get what I want. Plus you edit out all the '...' joining unfinished clauses so you look a bit sharper. But this time was hard and left me feeling like I'd just got them to read back the feature in their own words. Stupid bloody media training. It takes all the fun out of trying to get anything juicey.

[By the way the picture and title comes from this which is possibly the best thing to ever happen in the history of the world.]

And now a word from our sponsor

So it looks like I've seriously fallen off the wagon. Or on it, I'm not sure which way round it would go in this case. I've not posted anything for a few days now. But I needed the rest. I'd been spending all day being busy at work and then coming home and spending the four or five hours I had in the evening trying to create a post on something. Anything. 

Sometimes, when you write something you love, it's great. The sense of accomplishment more than makes up for sacrificing the evening. Especially if someone notices and makes a comment. When you're just grinding through it to hit quota, however, it's the most demoralising thing on the face of the planet; a little piece of you dying inside as you hit 'publish' to satisfy an agreement that only you are honouring in the first place.

Thing is, I was still writing. Specifically freelance. Actual paid work. And I've got two more commissions in progress. A big feature and a 'not really a commission but I'm going to pretend it is' piece for a friend that I want to do well. Better, even, than I might publish here. I'm going to keep posting and try to get one up a day. But if they seem slight, or inconsequential, or even entirely absent it's not because I'm giving up. It's because I've written something else, somewhere else. And there is a limit you know. I am enjoying this, I just gotta take a break every now and then.

Dollhouse review - redux

I didn't really like my Dollhouse review in a previous post. I was writing it to send to a magazine and had spent the evening reading their style to try to copy it. Something that's never going to produce great work. While I still agree with the points I made it felt wooden and forced. It also utterly shat upon the 200 word limit I originally decided on. So I had another go; trying to be a little less stuffy and more concise. This is the one I sent in the end. 

//Dollhouse

Season one, episode one

 

Let’s be honest here: the Dollhouse may well be the biggest geek's wet dream since Star Trek's Holodeck. A secret organisation hiring out mind-wiped slaves called Dolls to the super rich, pre-programmed with the personality of their choosing. With Eliza Dushku's Echo leading the parade of pretty (vacant) young things it's not hard to imagine what Mister Wealthy Billionaire might get up to.

 

This only makes it harder to swallow when Echo’s assignment turns out to be hostage negotiation. Riiight. It’s a ludicrous leap of faith not helped by Dushku's thin performance of the forceful psychologist’s personality she’s been imprinted with (wear glasses, sound annoyed all the time) or the fact the script is never more than serviceable. Perfunctory dialogue is chewed though by lifeless, stereotypical characters with none of the sparkle or wit of creator Josh Whedon's previous efforts. A boxing montage used to emphasis just how much a cop won't back off, creates a spectacularly heavy-handed moment of exposition, slapped on so thick you could see it from space. The overall premise and hints of a larger story arc - as Echo's brain-dead shell becomes self-aware - are promising, but unless the series ups its game substantially there's little here to make this a must see.

 

Konnie Huq's broken hand

I'm fairly sure I felt something crack when I shook Konnie Huq's hand. I didn't really register just how petite and fragile she was until I squeezed her tiny little child-like paw. And coming immediately after Charlie Brooker's workman-like mitt I didn't think to adjust the pressure applied. Cue the sensation of spaghetti snapping in a balled fist. She left pretty quickly after that. It wasn't the best of starts.

I was at the videogame BAFTAs, discovering that I was slightly worse around celebrities than I am normal people. Meeting Atari founder Nolan Bushnell was fine, I had a purpose: “Congratulations Mr Bushnell on your fellowship to the Academy, may I have a picture please?” Easy. Every other encounter I sort of doomed without even trying by thinking that, a) they must dread randoms approaching to notch off a meeting, and, b) what the hell would I have to say to them?

It's not that different to how I deal with most people, really. That only made it more disheartening when one of my friends just kept rolling up and striking easy conversations with a “Hello, how are you enjoying the evening” approach. Why didn't I think of that? Annoyingly, I got on really well with some of the celebs I met once the threshold was crossed, which only made it more frustrating to find it an obstacle in the first place. We spent ages talking to Ralf Little and Michelle Terry (who's in England People Very Nice). Both were lovely and I was genuinely sad to end the evening and go separate ways. Anyway, it's made two things clear: firstly, I have got to loosen up a bit and, secondly, I should pay more attention when shaking girls' hands.

Fitba

I played football tonight. Strictly speaking, I played a private game of 'stop ball go in net', otherwise known as goal. Or just nets. That's about as far as my ability to blend in goes. If I was Jason Bourne I wouldn't be able to get a taxi, let alone cross international borders, such is my ability to pass as one of the crowd. I'm basically a bad man. Not evil or cruel to animals; just 'bad' like Kraft cheese slices are a poor example of dairy produce.

I don't understand football. I don't care about it. I constantly query references to footballers in the articles I edit - will people understand this? What is a Drogba exactly? But I do understand one thing: this puts me at a serious disadvantage. I'm uncomfortable around people I haven't know for at least a couple of years. I struggle at small talk and falter generally in most social situations. Something that would be instantly remedied fifty percent of the time if I could pull football out of the hat like a magic conversation rabbit. I often wonder just how different things would be if I could join in with that stuff? Ultimately, however, that's never going to happen and instead, I'm doomed to stare politely into space at the pub. Maybe I'll bring a book next time.

Not today

I know I should be writing something but I'm having one of those 'enough' moments. Oversleeping has meant cramming crap loads into a short space of time. Okay, it included seeing Watchmen at the cinema and a fairly lax Saturday but I've ended the weekend editing a feature. Good enough to file it while I'm doing a training day tomorow, therefore not delaying it too much, but not enough to make me happy. It's proabably fine but I suck at subbing so I need to check stuff loads before I'm happy.

Anyway I'm tired, pissed off and have that sort of downer you get after drinking too much so this is all you get for an entry. Fail.

The Wrestler - review

The raw camera work and natural sound suit this study of ageing perfectly. Watching Rourke as Randey The Ram, a once great wrestler now inexorably degrading, can be painful to watch and the feeling of spying on this ebb only makes it all the more uncomfortable. 

It's clear he can't carry on but it's equally apparent he knows little else. He is what he is: a tired old bear swiping at life with dull claws. It's a powerful performance; Rourke at times apparently struggling to find the strength just to breath, let alone climb in the ring. Elsewhere he displays a childlike inability to deal with, or understand, what's happening to him. It makes his relationship with Marisa Tomei's stripper, Cassady, as touching as it is flawed. Both are entering the next stage of their lives as lost as each other. The estranged daughter sub-plot, on the other hand, struggles to fit naturally into the narrative. And as a result the later half of the film flounders - the otherwise raw and moving portrayal of decline stalling as it approaches resolution. But it's a minor failing and one that only delays rather than spoils the reverberating and memorable conclusion.

Mr Bubbles' secret

So I'm playing Bioshock again, and returning to a game is something I almost never do. They're like films: the expectation, the rush, the discovery – all that only exists for the first time. I like the journey over any sense of achievement. But. I've been working on a feature about the sequel and that's meant doing loads of research on the original, getting me all interested again.

Even second time around it's still massively impressive. Not because it's the most amazing game I've ever played, there are loads of incredible games I've never gone back to. The thing that makes it impressive is that it's utterly distinctive and different from just about everything else out there. 

You usually have two choices in games: American (chunky angry men with guns) or Japanese (skinny boys on a quest). This is neither of those, and that's why it's so important. No homicidal aliens, scowling bald soldiers or roaring spaceships. Instead you get Jean-Pierre Jeunet's sense of colour with Rapture looking like a left over set from City Of Lost Children. You get golden age RKO cinema with sharply tailored 40s suits, brylcreem and flickering celluloid. Even the mutated, dehumanised Splicers reek of 80s horror movies, all lumpy latex misshapen faces and slasher movie hooks.

It doesn't shine because it's bright but because it's a totally different colour. Even Fallout, which does a great job with it's fifties theme is basically the same old story in a new coat and combing its hair a new way. For all the style it's still predictable: good vs evil, save the good, kill the bad. In Bioshock everything is a question or a contradiction. The Big Daddies and Little Sisters mirroring a combination of wrath and fragility found in everything from Leon to Beauty And The Beast. Their relationship a story in its own right. Then there are the Splicers who for all their disfigurement and malice are essentially addicts, hooked on the mutating substance Adam. You've only got to listen to their anguished cries to realise these are tormented souls in purgatory. Their tattered finery covering their bodies like scars that'll never heal. Okay, they're angry souls who want to smash your face off with a pipe, admittedly, but as motivations go it's deeper than usual.

The moment that affected me the most, though, is when you discover the orphanage where the Little Sisters are 'born'. Snoop around enough and you find a morgue. Look a little closer and you realise the autopsy tables are smaller than usual. Almost as if they were meant for a child. Then you see ghost, (a reoccurring device in the game to fill in back story). It's a Little Sister. She cries, “No! I don' wanna!” and runs off into a little cupboard before disappearing. Follow her, to take a closer look, and you'll discover piles of little dresses, neatly stacked on the floor. The implication is too horrible to dwell on. Find me another game where a room full of clothes can make me feel nauseous and then maybe Bioshock will have some company..

Get out clause

I've been out tonight and as much as I want to write something I simply cannot turn back time. I left work, ate, had a night out and just got back. I'm not about to start trying to be creative now. I need sleep.

The interesting thing is my tracker tells me some complete stranger arrived here tonight by searching for "stick to the plan" and "chords" (a word that pops up in a single post). Clearly it's a song they're trying to find but I like the idea that a complete random stumbled here by following Google's trail.

I wonder what they thought?

Dollhouse Episode 1 review

There's simply no avoiding the fact that the premise behind Josh Whedon's new show is the greatest fantasy brothel since Star Trek's Holodeck. A black market organisation called The Dollhouse that hires out mindless drones, imprinted with memories and personalities to order, and whose brains are handily wiped clean once 'used'. The fact that it's a rental service for the super rich rather than some shady goverment agency only reinforces the idea that the Dolls are simply fantasy playthings for hire.

It makes this debut (tellingly, not originally written as the opener) even harder to comprehend when Eliza Dushku's Echo is programmed as a negotiator for a kidnapping case. It's 'shtick of the week' TV; the concept apparently an excuse to launch into ideas at random. There's no reason why it shouldn't work - Quantum Leap proved that brilliantly. Here, however, the preposterousness of the set up makes it hard to suspend belief enough to buy Dushku as a menopausal psychologist trying to save a missing child. Something she attempts to potray by wearing glasses and sounding curt. All the time.

It's entertaining but while the mind games suggest interesting potential for future episodes there's a clumsy story telling here that doesn't bode well. Scenes hinting at Echo's childlike unprogrammed state becoming self-aware or the introduction of Alpha, an escaped psychopathic Doll, touch on an overall story arc but feel crudely slotted in. The supporting cast are similarly awkward, flat plot devices that stop just short of wearing their motivation on a T-shirt. Mainly because the script makes it all so painfully obvious. 

Chiseled FBI agent Ballar, for example, who's assigned to investigate the Dollhouse, is 100% surly genero-cop. The point that he won't back off is unsubtly hammered home by interlacing a scene of him being disciplined with shots of him boxing. As a piece of exposition it's slapped on like wet clay rather than finely crafted. A world away from the sparkle and wit of Whedon's previous shows. One episode in and the five year plan proposed by it's' creator already seems like an ambitious goal.

Currently into...

Is it wrong that I picked an album purely because I like the look of the singer? I know that's sort of the point: sex sells. Especially in music. But when it's obscure or off beat stuff it feels like someone, thing or ideal is being insulted somewhere. Do oh-so-arty indie acts like being noticed because they're pretty? Or is that going to offend them? The latest is Natasha Kahn from Bat For Lashes (pictured) who appeared on TV for all of ten seconds before I torrented the album and resolved to like it simply because I liked her. I was only slightly joking.

The thing is, I do like the album. I'm going to write a review tomorrow, hopefully. I'm just a sucker for kooky girls. Regina Spektor, Alice Glass, Lykke Li, Feist - the list goes on. Musical ability is always the clincher. Although any kind of talent is a +1 crush straight off the bat. Writing, dancing, Olympic rock climbing, anything; although if they say they're an artist I want to see actual art. Four years at university making silk screen prints of Jesus does not count. Throw in a "I'm from the future but I arrived via Oxfam" fashion code and an asymmetrical home hair cut and I'm in.

Not actually in, of course. If I do see someone like that I'm usually too dumbstruck to say anything. And as I get older meeting that type is getting even more unlikely. Especially as that look is harder to pull off past a certain age. The girls obviously, not me. Take the quirky twenty-something thrift store reject, add about ten years and you get mad cat lady in training. So my new project is to find the thirty-something equivalent. Suggestions? 

I nearly shot someone once.

There's no real clever headline for this. I nearly killed someone with a loaded gun - it's the sort of thing that doesn't really suit clever puns or references. I didn't know it was loaded at the time. I never thought for a second anyone was stupid enough to give a 16-year-old a rifle full of bullets. But I was in Pakistan at the time and they do things differently there.

It was on a school trip. Our aim was to climb a mountain but along the way we got to see plenty of the local villages; picking up supplies, porters and so on. I can't remember exactly where we were at the time, somewhere around Gilgit which is one of the main through ways to reach the Himalayas. The arse end of nowhere is probably the best description. We'd wandered into a small town which was little more than a collection of small shacks lining a dirt path. They were selling the basics: live animals, groceries, guns. That sort of thing. And, of course, as a group of teenage boys, we liked guns. We'd only wandered over to look, but within seconds the shop owner was handing out semi-automatic pistols and machine guns; smiling toothlessly and repeating “plez, plez” in bad English. I got a bolt action rifle and thinking I was being clever, pumped the bolt to check the chamber was empty. I pretty much started to point it at everyone's head after that.

Fortunately, I never touched the trigger. I'm not sure why, it just seemed like the wrong thing to do even with an 'unloaded' gun. It was for the best. The next time I worked the bolt a bullet flew out. Then another. And another. It was a breach loading rifle and I'd been pointing at everyone while making 'pew pew' noises. I never told them at the time and it took me six years to stop having nightmares.

Fail day

Is it over yet?

Today is a strange day. Partly because I haven't left the house at all (horribly, not that unusual) yet but mainly because I'm playing games, online, in an unbroken 24hr stint. This is for a magazine feature, not some weird lifestyle decision. I started at 8am and won't finish until the next 8am. I'm already getting the distant, disassociation from reality that you get from a transatlantic flight. My entire contact with the outside world has been through a headset and gChat. I might as well be in space right now.

The longer it goes on the weirder it gets. It's entering into that 'this isn't real any more' feeling that staying up late often takes. I'm quite exciting about seeing daybreak though. Anyway I know this doesn't really count as a real post but it hard to compose something when you're playing games for an entire day. My eyes hurt. And my brain. And my knees.

Who's news

When I think of reporters, I always think of slightly broken people living in cars full of rubbish as they hunt down 'the truth' – part gumshoe, part paragon of honour. People that go in search of a story, uncover something and then come back and say, “Look...”.

It doesn't work like that now, though. Most information is trafficked through the internet. By the time the traditional hack has got their notebook out, whatever they've found has gone global. It should be a good thing and it is, really. Everything is  available to all. The whole world knowing exactly what's going on. But the hit-chasing nature of the internet worries me a little. I've noticed loads of plane crash stories at the moment – partly because planes are crashing but also because, in the light of the Hudson River incident, Planes going down are pretty hot right now on Google. That means crashes that wouldn't get attention any other time rise up the ranks and get noticed. A few weeks time, maybe not so much.

That's all good and true because what the public want, the public gets. But how will that affect news organisations as their websites – and so the portal to the world for most people – become more and more important. Obviously vital issues will always be up there: the politics, wars and so on. But people notoriously live in denial and have short attention spans. Will companies like the BBC or Reuters champion stories that don't rate highly in the search engines, or go for the fast traffic? Not to forget of course that the general populous are easily pleased with gossip and stories about shiny things. The placated, ignorant masses so popular in near future sci-fi could end up being a  self imposed destiny rather than an unscrupulous higher power trying to control information.  

Musical Youth

The internet and iPod has totally changed the way I listen to music. Rewind a few years and all I had was a cassette Walkman and probably two cassettes – one in the machine and one in my pocket. If I was pioneering the pirate spirit and had copied some CDs that might mean four whole albums to listen to. Because of that I tended to bond to whole records. Even the ones I wasn't keen on, simply because: what choice did I have? With such limited supplies and only radio, TV and magazines to rely on, I didn't really get to experiment much. So I repeated the same old tapes over and over again. To this day I'm not sure if some music genuinely grew on me or whether there was a Stockholm Syndrome thing going on.

Now with my 'pod and the internet, I spend days drifting through a indeterminate haze of noise, picking off the bits I like. Browsing blogs and collecting up whatever passes, like stones on a beach; afraid to put it down, unsure of whether I'll ever find anything like it again. I tend to bond more, now, to individual songs rather than artists. In fact my attention span for albums is all but gone. Where before I'd listen to a crap tape because, a) it cost me £8.99 and, b) it was all I had. Now I'm always on shuffle or playlists – my own personal radio show. I'm not saying it's better or worse, it's just the way it is.

Why Jedi don't get laid.

I got angry today. Not the usual internal frustration where I get annoyed at myself and sulk for a bit but a real “don't come near me” kind of stink. I wanted to snap at people. I wanted to tell them to sort their own bloody problems out (which were mine really but then that's the whole point of being in a mood.) Thing is there wasn't even any reason for it as far as I can tell. It just happened, round about four-ish.

The fact that I couldn't even think why I was moody got me thinking about where anger even came from in evolution. Did raging monkeys have an advantage? Yep, apparently so (thanks Google). If you're an animal, anger and fear are pretty much all you get as far as emotional extremes go. Fight or flight. And bananas, if you're a monkey.

As an animal, being angry is something you can use, a tool to achieve certain goals. Mainly food and sex. It turns out the dark side is right as far as natural selection goes. Big growley Sith monkeys get all the girls, food and best trees to sit in because they use their temper like a superpower. Jedi monkeys, on the other hand, stay at home on Saturday nights, totally failing to secure a date or their place in the natural history museum.

And even though we've evolved to wave iPhones instead of pointy sticks, not only does the mechanism remain but it still serves a purpose. Which is specifically that angry people are more likely to take risks and be optimistic about the outcome. It still doesn't explain why I got in a huff today. And, as someone who rarely gets properly angry, would suggest I'm at an evolutionary disadvantage when it comes to getting the girls, bananas, or Lightsabers.

Boom!

I got blown up once when I was younger. It was only a small explosion but they're a bit like bears – size is irrelevant past a certain point. Specifically, the point at which you find yourself in a small room filled with smoke, deaf, and in possession of an extra hole that wasn't there a few seconds ago.

It all started when a friend of mine got hold of a selection of firework gunpowder. You can probably work out the rest but stick with me. I can't remember where it came from but we had loads. Not just quantity but variety. I was always (and still am) the sciencey one so I set about trying out batches to see what it all was. There was propellant, different colours, sparkly stuff. A few hours experimenting soon separated about 10 or so different types of boom.

To start with we made small things: roman candles the size of your thumb, rockets made from tin foil cases formed around biro lids. Amazingly, it all worked. The rockets were the best. They'd fly up about six feet and go pop. Then another friends arrived. Immediately he started to convince us of a better plan: stick everything in a toilet roll tube and make the biggest explosion possible. Looking back now that was a mistake. We crafted a doomsday device that exuded menace, much in the way you'd expect half a pound of crudely packed explosive might. The IRA would have been proud. We carried our deadly baby like a new messiah and planted at the top of the garden. We lit the fuse. We ran.

The most absolutely, breathtakingly enormous nothing happened. Cowering from the kitchen (behind a big plate glass window for added protection) we waited. It was raining and after about half an hour, having convinced ourselves nothing was going to happen, we stopped hiding and I went to my car to get some cigarettes. When I came back, there was the tube, being carried in cautiously by my idiot friends as they took the lid off. To get the full effect of the next bit you have to imagine it's all happening like a slow-mo movie scene, full of drawn out cries of “Nooooooo!” and dives through the air. It wasn't like that. There was just a great big fucking bang and the collective opinion between the three of us that the last thirty seconds had been a mistake.

There's a blank bit next. Suddenly, we were all in a room filled with thick white choking smoke, unable to hear anything beyond a high pitched ringing. There was a hole in the table and another in the front of my jeans, about three inches below my knee, leading to an exit 'round the back. Oddly enough, I vaguely remember looking lazily behind me for whatever had caused it before I thought to check myself. Then it all kicked in a bit and I started desperately clawing at my ankle to survey the damage. It was light - a small graze and a cut caused by a fragment of the plastic base used to stand the tube up. It could have been a lot worse. To this day, though, my balance and hearing still fritzes out occasionally, although the scar healed completely. Amazingly, when the friend whose house it was told his dad why the table was pockmarked with shrapnel he just shrugged it off. I never told my parents.

Tell me about the f*cking game

Despite what I actually do for a living I still feel uncomfortable calling myself a writer. Writers are amazingly talented people that can create worlds on a page, or change the way people think. I just put words in an acceptable order to describe things. Usually it's reviews. I love writing reviews; dissecting why things work and championing the highs or discussing the lows. I take pleasure from trying to get across a point, moulding language to deliver opinion and experience. I'm not saying I'm good. I just like doing it.

Which is why I hate stuff like this, “Perhaps Resident Evils 5's most remarkable achievement is how it deftly straddles the line between the franchises sometimes endearing, sometimes frustrating, legacy gameplay mechanics while incorporating more contemporary action adventure elements like enhanced interaction and exploration of environments and a decidedly more shooter-like control scheme.” It's a quote from a review of Resident Evil 5 that appears on Metacritic. I can almost smell the sense of satisfaction the writer got from penning that. How clever they must of felt when they said... the thing... about the... stuff. The problem I have with that sort of writing is that it tells me nothing about the game. Having played it I can tell you it's mainly about shooting angry men in the face. I think that's what the bit about 'legacy gameplay mechanics' might be about.

It seems to be a real games journalism thing. I don't think I've ever seen a film, book or music review like that. Generally they seem content to explain what the experience is like and whether it's recommend or not. When it comes to video games, however, it's all about the big words and twisty sentences, delivered by people content to revel in the belief that their every word is a gift. I've worked for two people who's catchphrase was “tell me about the fucking game” whenever they encountered stuff like this. Usually screamed through strained vocal chords while veins popped on their foreheads. The paper it was written on crushed in a balled fist and shaken to emphasise each word. I think it's because games are still a relatively new medium. It subconsciously drives people reporting on them to try and sound all grown up and intellectual to compensate for the suspicion that no one takes them seriously. What they really want to say is, “man did you see that head come apart?”

Perspective

Somehow writing a random attempts at humour and then moaning about how hard it to collect a few words together seems pointless when a friend of mine can write something like this.

Hello?

I think someone from Crawley is checking my blog out on a Mac. And Ireland. My stat tracker tells me. This is a little disconcerting because I still thinks no one reads this. I didn't even really mean to start blogging, I just accidentally published my first entry and someone noticed. Since then I've sort of bound myself to this one a day thing. Sometimes it's good, like when I write something I'm pleased with. Other times it's awful; posting a waste of words just to hit quota.

The key thing is that I don't think anyone's really paying attention. Obviously, at least three people read this as you can see from the comments, and that's freaky enough. It's not like I have anything amazing to say. An occasional ramble, the odd discussion and some random crap. That's it. So discovering strangers looking in like faces at the window is... unsettling.

Any pointers?

Brilliant, they're not here. I knew I should have checked before buying a drink. How can they book a gig and then not turn up?What am I meant to do now on my own? God this band's awful. I don't even have to look to guess what they're like, I can tell just by listening to the guitar – weak left hand that can't quite hold the chords down cleanly and apologetic strumming that's afraid to make too much noise in case there's a mistake. Young bedroom songwriters that think they're special because they're them. Only now they're not playing in front of friends, they're in a big room full of scary strangers and suddenly they can't quite sing as loud; can't quite find that fire and... OH MY GOD THAT GUY'S ONLY GOT ONE ARM!

Wait, a normal limb and half of one with a sort of claw at the elbow where he's holding a plectrum. Do I have to like them now? What are rules? I can see plenty of people nodding to each other approvingly like he's learned a trick. Should I regard him as heroic for mastering an instrument with a disability or accept him as a normal person getting on with stuff like we all do. Why have I never talked to a disabled person about this? Man, I really should have eaten something on the way home before that pint.

Best President Ever

No, not that one. I'm talking about Andrew Jackson who became the seventh President of the United States in 1829. I'll be honest, I have no idea whether he was a good man or if he made a difference. He did know how to party, though. On the day of his inauguration they had to use ship's cables to hold back the crowds. For a while at least. Washington socialite Marget Smith covered the event in a letter to a friend, “When the speech was over, and the President made his parting bow, the barrier that had separated the people from him was broken down and they rushed up the steps all eager to shake hands with him.” The President of America, mobbed like a Korean pop star.

The best bit, however, was when Pres invited everyone back to the White House. Not a select few, not a specially chosen group but the 17^th century equivalent of a Facebook invite. It was chaos. Thousands of people tried their luck. According to Smith, “Ladies fainted, men were seen with bloody noses and such a scene of confusion took place as is impossible to describe. Those who got in could not get out by the door again, but had to scramble out of windows. At one time, the President who had retreated until he was pressed against the wall, could only be secured by a number of gentleman forming around him and making a barrier of their own bodies.” Probably not the best start for the ruler of an emerging super power. In the end they had to take all the booze and put it on the lawn to get everyone out. I'd loved to have seen the government the next morning; bleary eyed around the table promising each other that 'what happens in congress, stays in congress', as girls stumble around in the background, fishing knickers out of the picture frames.

And relax.

Why does Domestos only kill 99.9% of germs? Are there some really super hard bacteria? Do they hold their breath? Or are the people who make it, afraid of putting “Completely fucking annihilates every know form of life” on the bottle, just in case something slips through?

What I'm trying to say is it's really late, I've worked all night, I'm tired and while I could probably write something substantial to fill today's quota I won't enjoy it. I'll spend ages trying to make something clever and entertaining but it won't be. Then, because I don't want to fail, I'll publish it even though I don't like it and I'll feel even worse because it's crap and I'll go to bed in a mood. Is that want you want? Is it? YOU PEOPLE MAKE ME SICK. (Both of you).

LittleBigPlanet hates me.

I have an issue with LittleBigPlanet. It's absolutely amazing: a collection of accessible, easy to grasp tools that let you create anything; your own game, a race, a working calculator. Whatever. It's honestly brilliant. We just don't get on and in this relationship I'm the one who walked into a door.

You need time. Loads of time. More time than I can ever really spare, bar redundancy or crippling illness. (Note to God: neither please.) Building, tweaking, testing – it all takes an incredible effort and commitment. It can take hours to perfect the smallest piece of gameplay. Especially if you want lots of moving parts controlled by motors, switches and sensors. I want that. 

And I want to make proper games as well. Not LBP ones, real games. Exactly the kind of thing LittleBigPlanet can't do. It's like someone gave me one of those three in one biros and I've decided to recreate Hopper's Nighthawks. I'm basically an idiot.

The last thing I tried was a zombie game. I spent ages, days, making zombies that rose out of the ground and chased you. It was brilliant. Almost. The problem were the checkpoints. You only trigger them by walking past so if you get killed by a zombie before you reach a new checkpoint, or the zombie goes past the old one, you'll respawn behind it. Ah-ha, I thought. I'll attach the checkpoint to wheels and a sensor so that it moves and stays in front of the corpses. This is the point I discover you can stand on the wheels and catch a ride, making the whole 'escape zombie' challenge pointless. Bugger. Bugger it to hell. Damn you! I tried creating an electrical platform to stop you hitching a lift but it also killed you as you respawned which was catastrophically pointless. That was when I gave up, for now. I'm already concocting a plan involving poisonous gas and split levels but I know, deep in my heavy heart, that won't work either.  

[Update]

Fuck, wait, hang on. If I put the checkpoint wheels in a slot you won't be able to ride them unless you jump down and I can put gas in there to stop that.

Score-pocalypse

It might not seem immediately apparent from this blog but I get paid to write. Features, news; that sort of thing. And also reviews. They're the most interesting but not because of the insightful opinion and carefully reasoned arguments I so carefully agonise over wording just so. No, it's because, whatever I say, it all boils down to the number at the end. Whether it's 2000 words or 100, all anyone cares about is the meaningless, unquantifiable number.

Not literally unquantifiable, obviously. Numbers count, that's what they do. But make it a number out of something and it becomes an arbitrary, abstract value. Six out 10, 47 out of 100, four out of five. Make it a score and the whole concept becomes about as fruitful an exercise as collecting gas in a net. Recently I reviewed Resident Evil 5. I gave it 8/10. In one forum I found discussing it, the overall consensus was that the game must be really broken to get an eight. Expectations were so high that this was seen as a failure. Wow.

The problem is that scores seem to have become a statement rather than a point on a scale stretching from very bad to very good. Games like Resi 5 and other big hitters have to land in the 'very good' range - a nine or ten, - in order to be seen as worth playing. Average or okay is disastrous. One of the posters on the forum went so far as to say, “An 8 for a cover game of this magnitude from OPM is a bit of a shocker. I'm getting the Angel of Darkness vibe from this (as in they want to mark it lower but they feel they can't). Not looking forwards to the game”. Eight out of sodding ten! It got the score it deserved and one that means it's a great game worth checking out.

If I had to blame anything it would be fan boy mentality and the internet. The first part sees people over scoring games they love to validate their opinion – the numbers aren't unbiased assessments of worth, they're flaming torches waved over head to ward off heathen non-believers. While the latter part means the wealth of reviews, figures and aggregators flooding the web leave reviewers having to court controversy to get noticed. Either way the system seems near to crippled with the only values that have any value being seven (fail), eight (not worth buying), nine (acceptable) and ten (good). Science uses a standardised system of units and measurements to make sure people talk the same language. I'm starting to think reviews need something similar. That, or I'm going to use arbitrary objects to grade everything from now on. (Which would make Resi a Philippe Starck juicer)

Rule number one...

...practice. I hope I can get the hang of Street Fighter IV. I like the idea of being good at a fighting game. Partly because it must be more fun than actual fighting, what with all the pain and teeth loss issues. But, mainly, it's because I like the idea of mastering a skill. A pointless one that only exists in fantasy land, admittedly, but something to achieve non-the-less.

So far I'm rubbish. I'm playing as Dhalsim, simply because he's the first person on the list. If I stick to cautious, jabbing attacks and block loads I can just about win a fight. One. There's also a little button mashing panic in there as well just in case. The one thing that's sorely lacking right now is any semblance of skill. A steely gaze, precision dodges, well timed blocks and tactical counters – non of these things are in my game.  

Face Palm

Here's the thing: as far as I'm concerned I haven't missed one yet. For just over the last two weeks I have written something each day. In between the bit where I get up and the other bit where I go to sleep I have crafted or cobbled together some words. Look! I'm doing it now. Not all of it's been great but that's not the point; it's about sticking to the plan, hence the title. I don't just make this shit up, you know. (Although I literally am. Look I'm doing it now).

Slight problem. The last bit where I got up, did some stuff and then went to bed involved a transatlantic flight across several time zones. This technically has two effects. Firstly, it makes me sound a lot cooler than I actually am – cycling down Venice Beach, watching AJ from the Backstreet Boys perform his own song at a karaoke night and totally get knocked back by a cute girl half his age. But secondly it means that I got up on Wednesday and went to sleep on Thursday, therefore blowing the plan. To me it's been one day. A long one, though, that's lasted about 30+ hours so far and means I've missed a day and have to set the 'streak counter' back to zero. Arse.

American Medicine

It's basically terrifying. Every ad, whether it's heart mediation, diabetes treatment or even eye drops, is 90% warning. A handsome man or beautiful woman appears to mention briefly how medication x has made their life a wonderful place, before then spending up to minute and a half listing a huge collection of side effects. "May cause nausea, fainting, hallucinations, an adversity to cheese, should not be taken with aspirin, BBQ sauce, or on a Thursday" and my favorite "has not been medically proven in scientific tests". What! Isn't that the fucking point? Are they just filling capsules with chalk dust and hoping for the best?

Tylenol, an American headache pill, goes one step further and has an advert that is nothing but disclaimer. Drugs mess up your liver "so only use Tylenol when you really need to." Although the way these things are advertised you'd think the decision is more about accessorizing rather than treating symptoms.

The scary thing is how a lot of these ads are for serious drugs. Things to clear potentially fatal blood clots or treat diabetes and severe respiratory problems. All of which are presented with the white teeth, better world gloss of a well chosen small car. Shouldn't this shit be the sort of thing doctors decide rather than patients choosing the commercial with the prettiest actor?

Meat

There's a restaurant in Santa Monica called Fogo De Chao. It serves meat. That's pretty much it. Cow, pig, chicken. In the window there's a small fire around which the flanks of various animals slowly turn, spitting and browning in the heat.

The service is simple. You have a small place mat like card, red on one side, green on the other. Green means go, red, stop. As long as you display the appropriate colour waiters bring up slabs of meat and carve off hunks, directly on to your plate.

The best bit of the whole night, however, was watching the people eating there and their reactions slowly change. First glee, as they ate with wanton abandon, then confusion, as the endless supply started to overwhelm them, and then finally pain, as they realised several pounds of flesh was now testing their digestive abilities to the limit. I quit out after 20 minutes but some people ate for about 45. I left them to their 'kill me faces' and headed back to my hotel. Full of cow and regret.

Almost didn't make it.

So I'm sat in a Holiday Inn near Heathrow. 'A' Holiday Inn because there are two by the airport and, unbelievably, the one that appears when you click the link on the booking email isn't the one I need. It's obviously a common mistake judging by the contemptuously weary face on both the receptionist and taxi driver's face. Three hours in to my transatlantic journey and I feel like a bumbeling tourist in my own country. I've navigated Tokyo with little more than a photocopied underground map and the Japanese phrase for "please help me". Oh, and pointing, lots of pointing. Thanks England.

The hotel doesn't help make me feel anymore competent when I arrive. It takes half an hour of messing around with the internet to discover the box has been unplugged and the wire neatly coiled and hidden under the desk. To add to the challenge the phone cable needs to be plugged into the 'wall' socket, rather than the 'phone' one. Each attempt to connect meaning I have to switch the computer on and then off again. During my life I've built things with my bear hands. I've killed a mouse, caught in a trap but not yet dead. I've climbed 14, 000ft up the Himalayas and been a teacher. I can do shit. Current events suggest I need a carer.

Everything on this journey, so far, seems like a conspricey to undermine my confindence. Even ordering food. Stupidly, I asked at the bar - burger and a beer, please - no problem. Assuming an £11 burger, £4 drink and £2 service charge is okay. Is it okay? £17 pounds for food and a lager. I'd stare, silent and unblinking, into the face of a barman that charged me that much for a round, let alone lunch in a chav-tel. This is Holiday Inn remember, not The Mondrian. And, just for some secret, unexplained extra humiliation, the internet is inexplicably presenting Google in German.

Tomorrow, LA.

Is this what you Wanted?

I've developed a weird fascination with Wanted, both the movie and the original comic book. Specifically, the absolute lack of similarity between the two. Neither of them are particularly amazing but I'm fascinated by the fact that the only thing they share in common is the opening scene and the name of the main character, Wesley Gibson. After that the two so rapidly diverge that it seems almost impossible that the film can take the book's name with out being fraudulent.

The film follows a group of super assassins with superpowers, bending bullets like curve balls and eliminating targets to keep the world safe. The comic, on the other hand, follows a cabal of super villains who, decades earlier, teamed up and wiped out every superhero in existence - taking over the world and ruling it in secret. There's no bullet-bending, no Matrix-flavoured action. Just a bunch of superhuman bad guys. There are mad professors, an alien, a man who creates murderous robot dolls and Shithead. Ah, Shithead; a sentient, shape-changing monster formed from the excrement collected from the most evil people in the world. Spot the difference?

I'd love to track down the people involved, interview them and write a piece on how the comic became a film with absolutely no connection save a few names. It's incredible that Universal even bothered calling it Wanted. According to those rules I could write a story about a CIA space operative investigating tax fraud on the moon and call it Shindler's List.  

[Update] Turns out book author Mark Millar had the assassin idea first, which the movie studio bought, but then went on to write a completely different comic.  Thanks, Mark, for making this entire post redundant.

The get out clause

Been drinking, and as much as I'd like to write a fairly average ramble right now it's far too late. Sleep now. Hangover tomorow. Maybe I'll do two tomorow to make up for  it...

I've never really grown up

I've come to the conclusion I don't play games for the same reason as a lot of people. I don't compete. I'm not interesting in winning, collecting points or even straightforward aggression. It's about being there. I get immersed, play acting like I'm 6 all over again. I'm not pretending to be some soldier or hero, I am some soldier or hero. Battling, fighting, exploring – pulling off last minute escapes, surviving by the skin of my teeth; turning corners to find new and unexpected things. It's why I love stuff like Fallout 3 Or Oblivion – big rambling stories waiting for you to tell them. I'm always building back stories, adding my own assumptions, filling gaps and fleshing out the world as I go.

For example, in Fallout3 I've just discovered a body carrying a note addressed to their daughter, Moonbeam. In it, the father explains how he left to try and make some money but the deal went bad and he got shot, "I think I'm dying". The final lines of the note stating, "You're a strong girl and I know you can use everything I taught you to survive alone. Please forgive me, sweetie. I only wanted to make the best for us. Daddy loves you very much. Goodbye." That's it. Who knows, I might meet her later and tell her what happened? She could already be dead? As a piece of story telling it's just as good as any book, or film. Better, even, because I'm involved. I found the note and I may even find Moonbeam. I hope she's alright.

Whoz teh looz0rs?

I think a lot about the internet. As a writer who is paid to make words on paper it's hard not to. I love the freedom of speech aspect and the empowerment of everyone to talk, discuss and spread information like a tidal wave. The thing that fascinates me most, though, is the effect it's having on language. Already website commenters and forum posters have reduced communication to a primitive phonetic grunting, full of elongated vowels and experimental consonant combinations.

The basic function of English been has reduced to its barest, most minimal components. The intent is there; conversation is achieved but at what cost? What place for writers when linguistics are a majority vote decided by fashion, trends and typos, changing as fast as you can hit 'refresh'. The building blocks of words reduced to an easy, freestyling improvisation timed to the click of a mouse. Already there are websites popping up on aggregators, placing highly, getting the hits but with misspelt articles, devoid of punctuation and requiring you translate rather than read them. That said, the information gets through and word is spread, even if it's not properly used.  

Won't somebody think of the... evidence?

It took me a while to work out what was weird with Horizon's Cannabis: The Evil Weed. No bias? No clear cut agenda slowly outlined through careful editing and selection of interview subjects. This is a documentary, isn't it? And one on drugs at that.

Given the subject it was amazing just how evenly handed and open minded it was. It started with the evolution of the plant and how it's psychoactive defence mechanism evolved as protection against predators. I'm not sure how giving browsing animals the munchies is a win for plantkind but it obviously worked somehow. It even went into the biological origins of the human neurotransmitters that it interferes with to give you the giggles. Ten minutes in and not a single child threatened. The presenter Dr John Marsden did slap a young-looking cow at one point but it didn't seem bothered. The miles of wild weed behind it probably played a part there.

The real interesting stuff, however, happened when the show entered the labs to look at biochemical effects. The first claim was that it increased the tolerance of mice to harder drugs. Mice were given a button that dosed them with heroine and the ones which had previously been given cannabis pressed it more than clean mice. A lot more. The surprise was that when the effort required to get the hit was increased (by upping the number of times the button needed to be activated) everything equaled out. The druggie and normal mice both gave up at the same time. Results that suggest cannabis might increase tolerance to harder drugs but has little effect on the chance of getting hooked.

This impartial presentation of facts continued even when a family blamed cannabis for there smoker son's schizophrenia; citing the absence of mental health problems anywhere else in the family as proof that cannabis did it. Obviously. Experiments revealed it messed up mice's memories - a symptom and indicator of mental health effects - but only when administered to juveniles. They also showed brain scans of people showing how cannabis shut down frontal sections of the brain. These areas affect how we perceive the world around us, and interfering with them can cause paranoia and schizophrenia. The overall conclusion was that high use at a young age could cause problems later. As an adult: no problem.

But while it looked like a cry of "save the children!” was imminent the only comment passed was that it “shows the effects cannabis might have on the human brain.” An amazingly even handed response considering the case studies: an addict, the schizophrenic and the stoner. Predictably it was the latter who was most damning. A mugging halfwit who seemed to think saying weed was “better than sex” was one of the cleverest things ever. The stoned American businessman wasn't much better. He'd been prescribed medicinal cannabis in California for... wait for it... anxiety. He said it helped him relax which I'm pretty sure is what most people consider the point. It certainly didn't show off the medicinal benefits in the best light. Watching him drawl, resonantly and absentmindedly like a 50 year old surfer was far more off-putting than the teen talking about the voices that told him to kill himself. At least he was fun, albiet a bit stabby looking.

The most interesting thing Dr Marsden talked about was the balance of THC and CBD, the two active ingredients. THC is the one that gets you high and makes you paranoid while CDB doesn't. It's actually an antischizophrenic drug, potentially balancing out bad effects and making everything alright. Trouble it's THC that current strains have been been breed to enhance. Hence the problems. Overall, the closing statement made it clear - medically there's loads of potential but that's still no excuse for being smashed in a bed sit and discussing lyrics for the whole of your twenties.

Great Entertainment

There's a line in Hotel Rwanda where Joaquin Phoenix, having recently filmed the first acts of genocide, talks about how people will react. "They'll say 'Oh my god that's horrible' and they'll go on eating their dinners". It ruined the film for me because I didn't want to be one of them, but what can I do? A little Googling, some light research - hey, fuck, it really was terrible wasn't it? - and then back to normal. It's a million miles away and I might as well feel bad for the Mars rover that never landed. 

It didn't help that I thought the film was trite and emotionally cloying; reducing a million plus genocide into a made-for-TV special. Still, it's in the American Film Institute's 100 most inspirational films. Presumably because a) it really speaks to the people, and b) nothing says "Sorry we ignored everything" like coming below Babe and Star Wars in a list.

Please don't make Arrested Development into a film

I love this show. It's a beautifully engineered situation comedy where disaster seems to align like the stars; miscommunication, ill intent and stupidity coming together in a way that's unpredictable and yet inevitable. But it would make a terrible film. For starters there isn't really a plot. More of a background against which the chaos unfolds - small manageable outbreaks of social carnage that work in a twenty minute episode. Small things mount up into a genius comedic crescendos as all the finely engineered pieces come together. Trying to stretch that into a ninety minute film just won't work because elongating such carefully crafted moments will either drag things out or worse need some overall motivating plot device to force the cast through an hour and a half of improvised dialogue. It would basically be a huge mistake.