tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-290078612024-03-14T13:14:20.901+00:00One Monkey, One TypewriterInfinite BullshitMonkeyTypeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03689680802076276711noreply@blogger.comBlogger35125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29007861.post-5238821299528626522012-08-13T16:28:00.000+01:002012-08-13T16:37:31.231+01:00Girls Just Wanna Have Fun<span style="border-collapse: separate; border-spacing: 0px; font-family: Tahoma; text-align: -webkit-auto;">Once upon a time I had a girlfriend. She liked to play games and the games that appealed to her most were singing or dancing type of games. She liked horror based games too, especially ones featuring zombies, but tended to prefer watching them being played. I'd try and get her to join in or have a go herself but she'd decline because by her own admission, she sucked at these games.</span><br />
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<span style="border-collapse: separate; border-spacing: 0px; font-family: Tahoma; text-align: -webkit-auto;">One day I was playing Fable 2 and she showed a great deal of interest in it. Having a momentary brainwave, I quickly made a profile for her on my Xbox and got her to create a character. She started a new game and I joined in as her henchman. Doing this gave us hours of fun as she got to experience the game without the frustration of struggling with the combat. Any time she got overwhelmed, my character could jump in and take out some of the enemies. </span></div>
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<span style="border-collapse: separate; border-spacing: 0px; font-family: Tahoma; text-align: -webkit-auto;">What a great feature, I thought at the time, removing one of the more frustrating elements for casual gamers while allowing them to explore and enjoy the game world. And look! I'm actually playing a game with my girlfriend!</span></div>
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<span style="border-collapse: separate; border-spacing: 0px; font-family: Tahoma; text-align: -webkit-auto;">Now imagine some time later I'm working on a sequel to a successful game. Let's say that the main selling point of this game is its co-operative play. I'm faced with adding new ideas and content to improve it over the original. I think back to playing Fable 2, how much fun that was and how it would be great to get people like my girlfriend playing our new game.</span></div>
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<span style="border-collapse: separate; border-spacing: 0px; font-family: Tahoma; text-align: -webkit-auto;">"Hey guys" I might posit while sat in a meeting "Wouldn't it be cool if we could reduce the barrier to entry for our game?"</span></div>
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<span style="border-collapse: separate; border-spacing: 0px; font-family: Tahoma; text-align: -webkit-auto;">"What do you mean?" they may ask, unclear where I might be going with this, possibly sneering at the use of buzz phrases like 'barrier to entry'.</span></div>
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<span style="border-collapse: separate; border-spacing: 0px; font-family: Tahoma; text-align: -webkit-auto;">I may go into further detail and recount the Fable 2 story to them. How difficult some people find our type of game. How we should try and create a way to encourage more casual gamers to our franchise. </span></div>
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<span style="border-collapse: separate; border-spacing: 0px; font-family: Tahoma; text-align: -webkit-auto;">While being roundly mocked for using the word franchise, a few nod in understanding but not everyone has understood my point. To win over the rest of the team I desperately try and convey the feature in an even simpler way. Jokingly I may suggest,</span></div>
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<span style="border-collapse: separate; border-spacing: 0px; font-family: Tahoma; text-align: -webkit-auto;">"Let's call it my girlfriend mode. A mode my girlfriend can play."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Tahoma;">Everyone now understands.</span></div>
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<span style="border-collapse: separate; border-spacing: 0px; font-family: Tahoma; text-align: -webkit-auto;">And so we spend many hours on this feature, looking at how to make it work, how to balance it, how to make it appealing, attempting to address the issues that have prevented people from participating in our game previously. There's no real name for this yet, that'll get finalised nearer end of production, so it's still jokingly referred to as 'my girlfriend mode'. As the feature is closer to completion, I begin to feel very happy with it. Here's a cool mechanic that will allow more people to get involved and enjoy the experience too. Friends who have never played my game before can now join in. My girlfriend too. </span></div>
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<span style="border-collapse: separate; border-spacing: 0px; font-family: Tahoma; text-align: -webkit-auto;">Hey I'm awesome.</span></div>
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<span style="border-collapse: separate; border-spacing: 0px; font-family: Tahoma; text-align: -webkit-auto;">Later I get interviewed about this new cool feature. Full of bravado of my own brilliance I explain my inspiration to the journalist. I go through the Fable 2 story, my meeting with the team and the 'my girlfriend mode' eureka moment. Excitedly I explain how even more people will be able to enjoy our game now. We've broadened our appeal without diluting the game one bit. Look at me, new features and a cool back story to go with it. This article is going to be amazing and everyone will recognise my genius. Everyone will be talking about this.</span></div>
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<span style="border-collapse: separate; border-spacing: 0px; font-family: Tahoma; text-align: -webkit-auto;">So imagine my surprise that when the article is published all the emphasis is on Girlfriend Mode, that my low barrier to entry mechanic is seen as patronising rubbish and that it appears that along the way I've said that all girls can't play games. Somehow I now look like a dick. </span></div>
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<span style="border-collapse: separate; border-spacing: 0px; font-family: Tahoma; text-align: -webkit-auto;">Not a genius.</span></div>
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<span style="border-collapse: separate; border-spacing: 0px; font-family: Tahoma; text-align: -webkit-auto;">Of course, this didn't happen to me. </span></div>
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<span style="border-collapse: separate; border-spacing: 0px; font-family: Tahoma; text-align: -webkit-auto;">Something similar did happen to John Hemingway, the lead designer on Borderlands 2 today. Whether he had a Fable 2 story, a 'my girlfriend mode' pitch or considers himself awesome is unknown. All the above is based on the fact that my Fable 2 story is true and if I was to ever pitch a similar idea to a team I may well find myself telling that story and the words 'girlfriend mode' may be said in a quick shorthand way to get the concept across.</span></div>
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<span style="border-collapse: separate; border-spacing: 0px; font-family: Tahoma; text-align: -webkit-auto;">Even as I write this, the Eurogamer article is being amended to attempt to clarify the original comments:</span></div>
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<span style="border-collapse: separate; border-spacing: 0px; font-family: Tahoma; text-align: -webkit-auto;"><a href="http://www.eurogamer.net/articles/2012-08-13-borderlands-2-gearbox-reveals-the-mechromancers-girlfriend-mode">http://www.eurogamer.net/articles/2012-08-13-borderlands-2-gearbox-reveals-the-mechromancers-girlfriend-mode</a></span></div>
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<span style="border-collapse: separate; border-spacing: 0px; font-family: Tahoma; text-align: -webkit-auto;">Now I very much doubt that Hemingway is a sexist, patronising pig or that Eurogamer deliberately focused on 'girlfriend mode' just to sensationalise the article to create traffic. Regardless, it seems to have created a storm over the careless use of a couple of words rather than focus on what is potentially a very good feature.</span></div>
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<span style="border-collapse: separate; border-spacing: 0px; font-family: Tahoma; text-align: -webkit-auto;">The games controller is like a language. Many of us, regardless of gender, have grown up with this language. We learnt the basics and as the consoles and joypads became more complex we adapted and mastered those too. It is native to us. For someone now, picking up your average controller for the first time is like asking them to conjugate verbs in Latin.</span></div>
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<span style="border-collapse: separate; border-spacing: 0px; font-family: Tahoma; text-align: -webkit-auto;">There's a reason why singing and dancing games are popular. Why your average non-gamer loved Samba de Amigo and Donkey Konga, Why EyeToy took off, why Wii sold so well and why Sony and Microsoft are pushing Move and Kinect. </span><span style="font-family: Tahoma; text-align: -webkit-auto;">They remove the single most difficult part of entering the world of games. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Tahoma; text-align: -webkit-auto;">The controller.</span></div>
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<span style="border-collapse: separate; border-spacing: 0px; font-family: Tahoma; text-align: -webkit-auto;">Now I love console games and I loved Borderlands. I generally like FPS games but struggle with a keyboard and mouse set-up. Why? Because it's not my native language. I can get by on it but I'm not fluent. I know other people who are the exact opposite and would not even consider playing a FPS using a joypad.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Tahoma;">So when I first read the Eurogamer article I was much more excited at their attempt to simplify Borderlands 2 than to notice the 'girlfriend mode' comment. Perhaps that makes me sexist too or perhaps I just saw it for what it was. A clumsy, inelegant, shorthand phrase to convey a great feature that was given too much prominence in an article.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Tahoma;">Anyway, girlfriend mode for me these days means waiting for my arm to fall asleep.</span></div>
MonkeyTypeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03689680802076276711noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29007861.post-35009268743250403032012-03-08T21:05:00.000+00:002012-03-08T21:05:27.058+00:00ZombieFor those of you not aware of it, House of the Dead started out as an arcade game in the '90s. It's an on-rails shooter, where you use a light gun to shoot enemies, mostly zombies, with boss levels thrown in for good measure. It was developed by Japanese company SEGA and whether by design or due to translation issues, the original story is somewhat bizarre and the acting wooden.<br />
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Useless bit of trivia - SEGA started life as a US company called Service Games of America.<br />
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House of the Dead has had many incarnations in the arcade, on computers and on consoles, including spin-offs Typing of the Dead and Pinball of the Dead. One of the latest versions was House of the Dead: Overkill, developed by Headstrong Games, which gave the series a gritty reboot (aren't all reboots gritty these days?). Taking on the Grindhouse stylings of films such as Planet Terror, it was a gore-filled, F-Bomb laden journey through madness with an ending that at best is described as interesting and at worst disgusting. Having an 18 rating and the world record for most uses of the word 'fuck' in a game meant it was a bit of a black sheep on the family friendly Wii but regardless it was a success.<br />
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Having spent far too much money in the arcades and too much time playing House of the Dead 2 on the Dreamcast, I was more than a little envious of those that worked on Overkill when I joined Headstrong. I loved the style and writing, particularly the B-movie film presentation. So when Headstrong were asked to remake it for the PS3 Move and I was asked to be Lead Designer, I jumped at the chance.<br />
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In many ways, being asked to update a successful game puts you on a hiding to nothing. If it isn't successful, the blame lies squarely on your shoulders. If it is, you're seen as having merely done a conversion, with all the hard work already done by the original team. So with that sort of pressure I wanted to ensure that not only was the game good but that it had enough differences and improvements to distinguish it from the Wii version and give us some ownership over it.<br />
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When working on a game like this, I like to do a lot of research and use as many influences as possible to get into the right mindset. Having played the original Overkill and House of the Dead arcade games was definitely a good start. Next, I started trawling through the game forums and reviews, seeing what elements were praised and which were criticised. From this, I could start making a wishlist of things that I wanted us to do.<br />
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As good a start as this was, I wasn't feeling I was in the Overkill mood, so further research was required.<br />
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So I bought a couple of books:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhS_SEe7QrVJkqnMi5TGfg201nrIy7NE_5IDikmDis41WmvQUYz4UrsOLjPUEUj3DKdzC2WOBGvb-iPt1g1eqxbnpQlsygd8cIPnCV8hS0msa-CZKrAaGpYLlHF9XrtX1U7iIfWw/s1600/Zbooks.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="322" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhS_SEe7QrVJkqnMi5TGfg201nrIy7NE_5IDikmDis41WmvQUYz4UrsOLjPUEUj3DKdzC2WOBGvb-iPt1g1eqxbnpQlsygd8cIPnCV8hS0msa-CZKrAaGpYLlHF9XrtX1U7iIfWw/s400/Zbooks.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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Some DVDs:</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5AYHRMv4ytNyhS4ZJeu8aw2AKmftdIVBfO5_4Bz-7GPjg_wHSpaw7gPJOiar0VLYUMHNRbrC9TEc_Q9xWVis52wizaABecV6g0GdJBY8Ip6u5ZLF28EXsU2uOyYRzgQOOp7VXSA/s1600/zdvd01.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="236" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5AYHRMv4ytNyhS4ZJeu8aw2AKmftdIVBfO5_4Bz-7GPjg_wHSpaw7gPJOiar0VLYUMHNRbrC9TEc_Q9xWVis52wizaABecV6g0GdJBY8Ip6u5ZLF28EXsU2uOyYRzgQOOp7VXSA/s400/zdvd01.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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Some more DVDs:</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_2ewTfzaud8i6N8jqQdx11F70elqPb0POoeLoyt4w7aVBqc-u0hXoFWHKF2sNvhKS_mrxGlSjw9MsWsf3fTZwGotRmOXzS5HGUFpB4y9cxdk-Tz6Eqo9tx4wKCtS1qQVG5EWLog/s1600/zdvd02.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="238" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_2ewTfzaud8i6N8jqQdx11F70elqPb0POoeLoyt4w7aVBqc-u0hXoFWHKF2sNvhKS_mrxGlSjw9MsWsf3fTZwGotRmOXzS5HGUFpB4y9cxdk-Tz6Eqo9tx4wKCtS1qQVG5EWLog/s400/zdvd02.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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A few more:</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiv24A-VD2ydK2X9ajn-vZG_14b1kzmrRrZQbDYsg-m4-WSeOMdCIAUy3aVPwHTVzkvt6lZs_iHIFQR3_x7Yj25U3kZc9Lwoi-hEZuaeUg6XxqExKpMAvpHWte_ufRNNvOM3e8h-Q/s1600/zdvd03.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="282" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiv24A-VD2ydK2X9ajn-vZG_14b1kzmrRrZQbDYsg-m4-WSeOMdCIAUy3aVPwHTVzkvt6lZs_iHIFQR3_x7Yj25U3kZc9Lwoi-hEZuaeUg6XxqExKpMAvpHWte_ufRNNvOM3e8h-Q/s400/zdvd03.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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And this:</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6aRBwE-c1FknC5IEzhZo2GV2oOfIIZqZNGZtQB1KmM-4Ju2Mzl_dWf0qdBRMI2Mo5D39iZrKkWD30ZGp-R9SixAxTpAL_u7cARA4eLV5fXSDeknv4NeDiouGJ8rn2-_YKaThyphenhyphen5A/s1600/zdvd04.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="311" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6aRBwE-c1FknC5IEzhZo2GV2oOfIIZqZNGZtQB1KmM-4Ju2Mzl_dWf0qdBRMI2Mo5D39iZrKkWD30ZGp-R9SixAxTpAL_u7cARA4eLV5fXSDeknv4NeDiouGJ8rn2-_YKaThyphenhyphen5A/s400/zdvd04.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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Actually, ignore that one. That was for another project.</div>
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Bought the T-Shirt:</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwUIz12lgv63fuohFXmp-1rZmRg33Fr-DVZ0GmewC_kMqVkoLPHyj9uvWmFq44tLTZZH4c_rvVjhu1-6Sd8vmorhNa8pRk5mXSaUZtDjVCpZkn6qzE7QNNHPB1DBIJ-mk_X6DPsw/s1600/ztshirt.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="238" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwUIz12lgv63fuohFXmp-1rZmRg33Fr-DVZ0GmewC_kMqVkoLPHyj9uvWmFq44tLTZZH4c_rvVjhu1-6Sd8vmorhNa8pRk5mXSaUZtDjVCpZkn6qzE7QNNHPB1DBIJ-mk_X6DPsw/s400/ztshirt.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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And spent 2 days wandering the streets of Brighton looking like this:</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKBSrrHg9AWJBkoGEN6ko6tlvzTIYsAFeyqGfQUd73vo6JKNDpSsrIFFh5n1U8I61hZt12mFWj8t_0GLWvjRhxFTjXjqmQBgcaXp5j8xLhp1Dx31BLAve4tvEhIUQIDOy7xv0iiA/s1600/zombme.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKBSrrHg9AWJBkoGEN6ko6tlvzTIYsAFeyqGfQUd73vo6JKNDpSsrIFFh5n1U8I61hZt12mFWj8t_0GLWvjRhxFTjXjqmQBgcaXp5j8xLhp1Dx31BLAve4tvEhIUQIDOy7xv0iiA/s400/zombme.jpg" width="238" /></a></div>
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And this:</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9aqN2-WQxR-jwXgd8bW_2S0zqOzDFmjbwC6EWS9jMFLt1SoMBI4Ky7RWR8_5RolwWfILBLXGh7JK_Sg39brTqeKwYUe_oX_RRMS_Mq-trLyBvp4jKanIefLDs__7ntW0VBOdkMg/s1600/zombme02.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9aqN2-WQxR-jwXgd8bW_2S0zqOzDFmjbwC6EWS9jMFLt1SoMBI4Ky7RWR8_5RolwWfILBLXGh7JK_Sg39brTqeKwYUe_oX_RRMS_Mq-trLyBvp4jKanIefLDs__7ntW0VBOdkMg/s400/zombme02.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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It was at this point one friend suggested that I might be a little monomaniacal. After spending several days writing a rebuke, I'm pretty sure I proved him wrong.</div>
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Anyway, after all that research I was definitely getting into the zombie vibe needed for a game like Overkill and the hard work could commence. Naturally, it was only then that someone decided it might be a good idea to tell me that we weren't allowed to use the Z word and that our enemies were in fact mutants.</div>
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And as any horror expert knows, mutants are not the same as zombies.</div>
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Bollocks.</div>MonkeyTypeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03689680802076276711noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29007861.post-25090000639812518862012-03-03T23:02:00.000+00:002012-03-03T23:02:26.871+00:00Bring it backThose of you with higher than average deductive powers will have noticed that this blog has been dorment for the last 5 years. I wish I had some exciting story of having to fake my own death while attempting to save the world from an underground criminal cabal, being kidnapped and held hostage by nymphomaniac lingerie models that demanded sexual favours on an hourly basis or a strange case of Memento type amnesia where I lost the Post-It note marked 'update your blog'.<br />
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Sadly I've got nothing.<br />
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Nada.<br />
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Just a slightly sheepish expression and a mild resolve to try harder until the next bout of apathy takes hold. I know that's the sort of commitment and dedication that is bound to endear me to readers new and old alike. Strap yourself in. You're in for a mediocre ride.<br />
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The obvious question is 'why now' and if I was being facetious, which I often am, I would reply 'why not?' However, dear reader, I think after such an absence I owe you a little more than that. So here it is.<br />
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I want to write more and a blog offers an outlet for that, opening up my musing, rantings and hopefully insights to a public forum. It means I have to make an effort, introduce some sort of discipline to my life and if nothing else, it keeps me away from drinking cider on the street corner with other undesirables. I have time on my hands at the moment and don't want to waste it.<br />
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Well, not completely..<br />
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To be a writer, you have to write, which while sounding moronically obvious is rarely that simple. Realising that I don't write anywhere near enough, it was long overdue that I started again. and so here I am. Hopefully a few of you will read this, comment, offer feedback and generally give me the motivation to carry on. If you don't, don't worry, you're not a bad person. I'm not judging you.<br />
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Much<br />
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So I hope I can get back into the habit of writing on here regularly and in return you will get in the habit of reading it. I've given this place an overhaul, adding various buttons that allow you to stay updated, share my idiot words with friends (or enemies) or just add abusive comments.<br />
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Failing that you can abuse me on Twitter. Although abuse will have to be limited to 140 characters but that's your problem.<br />
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To start off with I thought I'd do a few bits on House of the Dead Overkill, talk about the scripts, cutscenes and marketing stuff I did for it. I might as well stick the scripts I wrote on here while I'm at it and some videos. Hopefully I can make it interesting for those of you that don't like grindhouse inspired video games and B movie bad writing. Although if you don't, what's wrong with you?<br />
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Once I've done that I might get back to my usual ranting nonsense. Who knows? Fresh start and all.<br />
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Regardless, it's good to be back.MonkeyTypeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03689680802076276711noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29007861.post-63270107794109667402007-08-10T15:51:00.000+01:002007-08-10T18:06:49.361+01:00Please allow me to introduce myselfWell, I know it’s been a long time since I last wrote on here but I’m not sure introductions are completely necessary, given I’m on first name terms with my small, yet loyal readers of these pages. Of course, there may be a few new people visiting here for the first time. If this is the case, pull up a virtual chair and be prepared for some random musings, rants and general rubbish. And remember, this virtual experience can be recreated in person at your nearest pub for the low, low price of a few pints (travel expenses not included).<br /><br />So, as you can imagine by my absence that I’ve been somewhat busy of late. That and suffering from terminal laziness, so this place has been a little neglected. Still, a quick spring clean, a throw and a few cushions will make it look as good as new. Sorry about the smell.<br /><br />I’ve been at a loose end this week, which reflects the end of a game project. After some hectic weeks and late nights, everything is pretty much done and dusted bar the odd bug. The least satisfying part of ending a project is the sense of anti-climax (no pun intended). Projects tend to just fizzle out. Often there’ll be a handful of people left ironing out the last few problems while you’re moved on to your next game. By the time the announcement is made that it’s officially over, you’re left shrugging your shoulders since as far as you are concerned it finished weeks, if not months, ago.<br /><br />So, stuck in the limbo of not quite finished but next to nothing to do this week, boredom finally pushed me to do something that I’d resisted for a long time. <br /><br />I joined Facebook.<br /><br />Of course, it wasn’t just boredom that precipitated this move. I was bribed/blackmailed into it with the promise of pictures of female friends wearing very little at Pride last weekend. No problem, I’ll sign up, have a quick look at the pics and be on my merry way, thought I. But no, it wasn’t that simple. My friend, like a pusher giving out a free rock of crack, knew that once I’d had a taste, I’d be back for more. I should have just nicked his camera instead.<br /><br />My profile was diligently filled out, pictures added and friends searched for and duly invited. Add-ons added, quizzes taken and games played. I could see what music friends were listening to, At That Very Moment!, films that they were watching, books they were reading, places they'd visited and trawl through the many, many photographs that they had added. Once bored of all this, I’d still be clicking on my page to see if anyone had sent me a new message or done anything interesting in the 10 seconds since I last checked. Even sat in the pub I’d be tempted to have a quick browse on my phone and see what other people were doing. I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve checked while writing this. <br /><br />Oh, someone’s just added ‘<span style="font-style:italic;">Princess Mononoke</span>’ to their favourite movies list.<br /><br />The ‘<span style="font-style:italic;">wall</span>’ feature is an easy way to chat to friends by adding a comment to their profile page. If you want, you can also make the comment appear on your wall. Of course, no one bothers to do that so you always end up seeing only one side of the conversation. Anyone checking my page yesterday afternoon would have read a series of insults, expletives, outbursts and threats from the same person. Without seeing my replies it appeared to be a virtual form of Tourette’s.<br /><br />I’ve no idea what the appeal of Facebook is but it’s sucked me in. Maybe it’s just a good way to see what your old friends and colleagues are doing or for quickly and casually organising a night out. Maybe it’s a way of stalking your friends and vicariously living your life through them as you discover the fun they’ve been having while you’re stuck at work in front of a PC. Or maybe it’s just a massive multiplayer online game where you try to convince everyone else that you’re having a better time and have more friends than them.<br /><br />Anyway, I think I'm winning.<br /><br />One final word of warning, though. If you’re going to do quizzes that compare your friends to each other and you really must answer questions like ‘<span style="font-style:italic;">Who would you rather sleep with?</span>’ then make sure that you un-tick the box that says ‘<span style="font-style:italic;">notify the winners of the results</span>’. <br /><br />It tends to be less embarrassing that way.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29007861.post-4366516243220022762007-01-31T23:46:00.001+00:002007-02-11T00:01:22.852+00:00Take the money, open the box?There are many great mysteries in life. Why do boilers only break down at the coldest time of the year? Why did it take some racist comments before people realised Jade Goody was an intolerable witch? Why do people who play music on a crowded train have the worst taste? Just when exactly is Jimmy Savile going to die? And for us men, what do women keep in their handbags?<br /><br />Most men know better than to ever invade a woman’s leather inner sanctum but, despite this, I’m pretty sure that amongst the myriad of bizarre items that they cannot leave the house without, a balaclava, dog biscuits, Rawl plugs, false teeth and rubber bands are not amongst them.<br /><br />However, these items were some of the answers listed by ITV’s Quizmania when they asked viewers to call in and name 13 things you would find in a woman’s handbag. I don’t know which woman they had in mind but it suggests a dog-loving, ninja OAP with a talent for DIY.<br /><br />I’d never watched these late night quiz shows, given that I regard them as the preserve of drunken idiots, but over Christmas while flicking through the channels in the early hours, I stumbled across Five’s offering. Seeing anything on Five is always a bit of a surprise as it just does not register on my TV radar mostly because, let’s face it, it’s a bit rubbish.<br /><br />Their late night quiz was no exception but it was strangely compelling, especially after one too many nightcaps. The presenters looked like rejects from an ‘80’s US soap with grins and tans from the planet Perma. The camera work was straight out of a bad porn film, all Vaseline lens and gratuitous close-ups, as the presenters would play with their hair, stare into the camera in what would be a seductive manner bar the fact that they appeared slightly cross-eyed and whisper, nay implore, the viewers to phone in with the answers in the kind of voice you pay premium phone rates to hear.<br /><br />Then there were the questions. Or rather question, as one would seem to be enough to last for hours without someone finding the correct answer. Prize money would go up and down throughout the night and soon I was screaming at the TV in frustration as the same wrong answers were repeated over and over as more and more drunken idiots phoned in.<br /><br />One question seemed innocent and simple enough. It showed a picture of a jumble of notes ranging from £1 to £50 and asked the simple question ‘How many £’s?’ Now did they mean the total monetary value? Did they mean how many £ symbols were visible or even how many £ symbols were on the notes in total? Should the £1 notes be discarded as they are no longer legal currency? It was incredibly confusing and despite working out every permutation, each one was given as an answer and proven to be wrong. Sleep came before an answer was revealed.<br /><br />So for several nights, well, early mornings, I found myself tuning in, hooked by the surreality of it all. It was like a dirty secret, an addiction to hide. Until the night I drunkenly introduced Jon to the show. At first he was sceptical but, as with me, the show slowly reeled him in and soon we were arguing over the question.<br /><br />Appropriately enough it was some maths problem involving monkeys and between the two of us, after several wrong attempts, we were absolutely positive that we had the right answer. Next thing we knew, Jon was trying to phone in, convinced we were about to win £20k. Of course, despite several calls and a small fortune in premium rates we never got through nor discovered if we had the right answer.<br /><br />As I said, these things are the preserve of drunken idiots.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29007861.post-57342277593757296782006-12-24T19:21:00.000+00:002006-12-25T05:06:13.820+00:00It takes two to make a thing go shiteIt’s the night before Christmas and I wish that nothing was stirring. Instead, surfing through the channels on TV I stumbled upon the equivalent of aural rape. I wish I could have changed the channel or turned off the TV completely but it was so hypnotically bad. I think my will to live drained so fast that I couldn’t summon the strength to escape its clutches.<br /><br />Welcome to the world of ‘<span style="font-style:italic;">Duet Impossible</span>’.<br /><br />No doubt conceived by some coked up TV executive after seeing the Radio 2 advert starring Elvis, Keith Moon, Stevie Wonder et al, current ‘<span style="font-style:italic;">stars</span>’ get to duet with dead ones. I’m not sure if the impossible part of the title is for the incredulity that this ever got past the first pitch meeting or for the implausibility that stars of the past would ever deign to share a stage with these pretenders. With Vernon Kay presenting, you knew that it would always be nylon on offer rather than silk, with little spark, static or otherwise.<br /><br />The Sugar Babes continued to make me suspect that there’s a chip shop short of 3 staff somewhere as they took on Dusty Springfield with a version of ‘<span style="font-style:italic;">Dancing in the Streets</span>’. As soon as Springfield opened her mouth, completely blowing the ‘Babes’ off the stage, I was left wishing that they would go back to the fish suppers and leave Dusty to sing. It was like being in a nightclub, hearing your favourite song and the DJ cutting out the best bits to sing over the top.<br /><br />McFly announced that they were going to duet with Lulu, which made me wonder when she died. They appeared with a 15 year old version of Lulu which, they claimed was the impossible part, while attempting a predictable version of ‘<span style="font-style:italic;">Shout</span>’. It looked like performing was the real impossible part as their contribution resembled miming to the original with a bit of extra shouting. Lo and behold the real Lulu appeared at the very end of the song and again I was left wondering when she died.<br /><br />As McFly were out of their depth with Lulu, so too was she as she performed with Marvin Gaye. Simon Ward (I have no idea either) mumbled over Peggy Lee’s classic ‘<span style="font-style:italic;">Fever</span>’ and for the grand finale, Boy George showed that there’s no greater love than self-love by dueting with himself. By this stage I nearly performed a ‘<span style="font-style:italic;">Duet Impossible</span>’ myself with Mama Cass as I choked on my sandwich.<br /><br />Choosing such obvious, classic songs was the first mistake. How anyone can think that altering the near perfection of ‘<span style="font-style:italic;">Heard it through the Grapevine</span>’ will result in anything but disaster needs help. The second problem was the gulf in talent between the current and past acts. It highlights just how far good marketing and PR will get bands these days compared to acts of the past relying on pure talent.<br /><br />The only person to come out of this with merit was Katie Meluah. Her duet with Eva Cassidy on ‘<span style="font-style:italic;">Somewhere over the Rainbow</span>’ was understated, restrained and touching. Her voice and guitar complimenting both the song and Cassidy’s vocals, surely the most important quality of any duet. The fact that Meluah is a talented artist rather than from the conveyor belt that churned out the other acts is telling.<br /><br />A truly terrible Christmas offering from the BBC and I’m only grateful that I didn’t catch all of the acts. If this is the best of the Christmas TV treats this year I only hope that someone has kept the receipt.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29007861.post-54901154101082156092006-12-22T14:53:00.000+00:002006-12-22T19:26:38.563+00:00What did you do during the war?You know the clock's ticking, time's running out and you still have that last minute shopping to do. Panicking you check your shopping list; <br /><br />Kleenex? <br />Check. <br />Lubricant? <br />Check. <br />Porn mags? <br />Check. <br />World Peace? <br /><br />Hmm…<br /><br />Today, wankers all over the world will unite, unashamed and striving single-handedly to end all wars. By the simple act of self-love while thinking positive thoughts, aggression and violence around the globe can be reduced. Yes, today they come in peace.<br /><br />Brought to you by the same people who spelled the word ‘peace’ with their naked bodies to show just how alarmed they were with the state of the world, Global Orgasm is their next step in ending conflict. You may be surprised to discover that the organisers are Californian hippies. Their website provides the following information:<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">The Event<br /><br />WHO? All Men and Women, you and everyone <br />you know. <br /><br />WHERE? Everywhere in the world, but especially in countries with weapons of mass destruction.<br /><br />WHEN? <br />Winter Solstice Day - Friday, December 22nd, <br />at the time of your choosing, in the place of your choosing and with as much privacy as you choose.<br /><br />WHY? To effect positive change in the energy field of the Earth through input of the largest possible surge of human energy a Synchronized Global Orgasm. There are two more US fleets heading for the Persian Gulf with anti-submarine equipment.</span><br /><br />And while you may think this is all nonsense, they have science on their side:<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">The Global Consciousness Project runs a network of Random Event Generators (REGs) around the world, which record changes in randomness during global events. The results show that human consciousness can be measured to have a global effect on matter and energy during widely-watched events such as 9/11 and the Indian Ocean tsunami. There have also been measurable results during mass meditations and prayers.<br /><br />The Zero Point Field or Quantum Field surrounds and is part of everything in the universe. It can be affected by human consciousness, as can be seen when simple observation of a subatomic particle changes the particle’s state.<br /><br />We hope that a huge influx of physical, mental and spiritual energy with conscious peaceful intent will not only show up on Princeton’s REGs, but will have profound positive effects that will change the violent state of the human world.</span><br /><br />So that’s cleared that up.<br /><br />Looking at the countdown on the clock, there are less than 10 minutes until the synchronised global orgasm. Hopefully there aren't any trigger happy types out there because who knows what could happen if shooting starts prematurely. War is a messy business.<br /><br />Perhaps the earth really will move.<br /><br />Cover me. I'm going in.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29007861.post-17083641786632065192006-12-15T01:27:00.000+00:002006-12-22T15:20:25.079+00:00Has it come to this?Something’s been troubling me for some time. It started as a slight nagging feeling after failing to get the schadenfreude I was so eagerly anticipating. It quickly led to sympathy rising to support and, dare I say it, respect, leaving me in a state of confusion. This brings rise to the importan question of the day;<br /><br />Is it ok to actually like Jamie Oliver now?<br /><br />I know, I know. It’s a horrible thought, flying in the face of so many years of well deserved hatred but once you get past that ingrained, reactive, resounding scream of <span style="font-style:italic;">‘No!’</span>, take a deep breath, pause and reflect. Deep down it’s there. The same niggling feeling that I have.<br /><br />Now the evidence against is significant. Years of being subjected to that hyperactive, fat tongued, mockney twat shouting <span style="font-style:italic;">‘Pukka!’</span> and <span style="font-style:italic;">‘Wallop on some of that!’</span> certainly have to be taken into consideration. He so often resembled an attention seeking child that it was hard to resist the urge to slap his legs and send him to bed without his olive oil drizzled supper. Is that one glug or two with halloumi?<br /><br />Then there were the Sainsburys ads. Hundreds of them. Each one more irritating than the last. Here was a man that worried little about familiarity breeding contempt, failing to see how a chef promoting processed food might seem a tad hypocritical. He wasn't so much the Naked Chef. More over-exposed. And then there was the moped. Yet despite all this I now find myself thinking <span style="font-style:italic;">‘Those flavour shakers seem like a good idea! Maybe I should get one.’ </span><br /><br />How did this happen? How did I get here? What the hell is Appenzeller?<br /><br />First there was <span style="font-style:italic;">‘Jamie’s Kitchen’</span> where he took disadvantaged youths and gave them the opportunity to train and work in Oliver’s Fifteen restaurant. There was the cynical whiff of self-promotion about it but it was a worthy project nonetheless. Seeing Jamie lose his temper time and time again was entertaining, not to mention taking a certain pleasure from every failure, but the seeds of doubt had been planted.<br /><br />When the trailers for <span style="font-style:italic;">‘School Dinners’</span> appeared it looked like compulsive viewing. Jamie trying to introduce healthy lunches while suffering the cruel insults, tantrums and disobedience that only children can dish out. The project was going to be a massive failure and I couldn’t wait to see it.<br /><br />At first it was fun but the more I watched, the more I started to sympathise. Faced with resistance from the children, the school cooks and the parents I should have been riding on the crest of a wave of Oliver’s misery but I wasn’t. I started to feel his frustration, share his horror of those turkey twizzlers, see him actually attempt to make a difference and began to will him to succeed.<br /><br />Then came those ridiculous pictures. Mothers trying to stuff bags of chips and burgers through the school gates, trying to save their poor little broods from the horrors of a nutritional, balanced diet. The utter stupidity of it all and their actions in the face of Oliver’s attempts to change children’s diets across the country triggered something.<br /><br />It was an epiphany.<br /><br />I was on his side. <br /><br />This couldn't be happening. <br /><br />Now I feel dirty and conflicted. I’m in need of help and guidance. I don't even know what butterghee is, pure or otherwise. I’m considering setting up a support group.<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">“Hello. My name is MonkeyBoy and I like Jamie Oliver.”</span><br /><br />Pukka.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29007861.post-13939728046798358942006-12-14T22:43:00.000+00:002006-12-15T10:31:08.322+00:00Merry Christmas EveryoneBrowsing through the papers lately will testify to the fact that 'tis the season to be silly. Drag yourself away from the breaking news that after a 3 year inquiry, Diana's death was in fact an accident, a revelation nearly 10 years on. Try looking beyond the sports pages heralding how England are performing much better with Monty Panesar in the team. A fact that was obvious. As obvious as the nose on your face. The nose on your face being repeatedly hit by a baseball bat. A baseball bat with <span style="font-style:italic;">'Play Panesar, for crying out loud'</span> written on it. Unless you're Duncan Fletcher, of course. <br /><br />Anyway.<br /><br />Ignore even the rather splendid <span style="font-style:italic;">'Dolphins saved by world's tallest man'</span> story or the world pie eating contest and you get to that seasonal tradition loved by our press;<br /><br />Stories of councils re-branding Christmas, Christmas songs taken off playlists for being too Christian, carol services unable to advertise in local libraries, decorations forbidden, Santa silenced now <span style="font-style:italic;">'ho, ho, ho'</span> is considered a derogatory term for women. In short, Christmas being banned less it offend those of other religions. Most of these stories have the journalistic depth of a That's Life investigation and you can imagine one of Esther's fawning minions repeatedly crying out the newspaper mantra that accompanies each story of Scrouge like behaviour;<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">'It's political correctness gone mad!</span>'<br /><br />It's a great excuse for the likes of the Mail and the Sun to beat those horrible liberal, lefty types, ridiculing anyone who might actually show some sort of social consideration. More importantly, it's a thinly veiled attack on those dirty coloured foreign types who are the fuel that this imagined PC engine runs on, jumping in to save them from insult. However it doesn't take the investigative skills of Poirot to discover that these stories are, like <span style="font-style:italic;">The Snowman</span>, old, repeated every year at Christmas and blatantly not real. Furthermore, most non-Christians actually enjoy Christmas. <br /><br />So if these tales of political correctness gone mad aren't true and no one is offended, who wants Christmas banned?<br /><br />In short. <span style="font-style:italic;">Me</span>.<br /><br />Ignoring the fact that Christmas is a cuckoo of a festival, usurping the pagan ones established long before, let's consider these reasons:<br /><br />Christmas adverts in October. And what adverts. I still have hysterics every time I see the deluded Argos advert, the Debenhams one is just plain irritating with its rapping Santa and M&S just about get away with it for its camp Bond overtones and Shirley Bassey singing about coming up on ecstasy.<br /><br />Christmas songs. Which level of Hell contains Noddy Holder screaming <span style="font-style:italic;">'Iiiiiiiitttt'sss Chriiiiiiistmassss!'</span> and what did I do to end up there? Don't you wish that last Christmas George Michael had given book tokens instead? And if that girl had stayed another day, we'd never have been inflicted with E17. It's no coincidence that The Pogues' <span style="font-style:italic;">'Fairytale of New York'</span> tops most lists of favourite Christmas songs. It contains all those popular seasonal themes; hatred, alcohol abuse, shattered dreams and bitter recriminations.<br /><br />Christmas shopping. Suddenly everyone has the urge to head, lemming-like, to their nearest shopping centre to buy crap. Aware of this, every shop stops their special offers and raise prices. A 5 minute trip to buy lunch turns into survival horror, battling through the masses of stumbling zombies, as they gorge themselves on consumerism. Still, it'll all be discounted come January.<br /><br />Christmas drinkers. It takes hours to get served, if in fact you can even get in, as every pub and club is filled with those part time drinkers that reserve Christmas as their one solitary time to abuse alcohol. Their part-time status leading to rapid inebriation, a chorus of 'Away in a manger' before vomit and/or unconsciousness beckon. Show me Christmas and I’ll show you a drunk girl crying in the corner. Compounded with the office party, an excellent time to get drunk and then discuss with your boss exactly why you hate him. Either that or attempt to get off with the receptionist and after failing, dancing on a table without your pants. You only hope that everyone was as drunk as you or suffer from short-term amnesia before you return in the New Year. If you still have a job.<br /><br />Santa hats. Stop it. Stop it now.<br /><br />Carol singers. Do you really think that 3 of you shrieking 'Silent Night' off-key deserve anything more than a good kicking?<br /><br />And I won't even start on the nightmare that is traditional family Christmas Day dinner.<br /><br />This year, if you want me, I'll probably be enjoying a leisurely walk along the deserted streets or sea front, getting away from the fights, the over-eating, the paper hats, the Queen's speech, the crying kids, terrible TV and drunken relatives. <br /><br />Well, it wouldn't be Christmas without the Great Escape.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29007861.post-1162152267314579972006-10-29T19:14:00.000+00:002006-11-11T15:06:33.822+00:00Things I have learned this week...Working long hours and alcohol do not mix.<br /><br />No matter how justified one may feel, dirty protests are not big or clever. They are however funny, particularly when one has no recollection of them (see point 1).<br /><br />Sober friends are very useful in stopping dirty protests escalating into open warfare. Even when you swear at them. A lot.<br /><br />No matter how good an idea it seems, opening a bottle of wine after a night out is never wise.<br /><br />Flatmates' enjoyment of DVDs may be hampered by loud snoring from drunken idiots with undrunk glasses of wine.<br /><br />Sometimes the events of a night out can only be reconstructed from various stains and bruises.<br /><br />Torchwood was finally worth watching after 2 previous aborted attempts. It's also an anagram of Doctor Who, which I needed pointing out. I'd be rubbish on Countdown. Apart from the numbers game. I'm good at that.<br /><br />I have too many friends that I haven't even contacted, let alone seen in a long time.<br /><br />My closest friends are all screwed up to the point that my life often seems straight forward yet I wouldn't swap them for anyone. Well, maybe Kylie.<br /><br />A beautiful woman forgetting your name is crushing.<br /><br />I haven't had my hair cut since I wrote about it on here.<br /><br />I love my new phone to the point of unhealthiness. Being able to watch films and TV programs on the train make the commute almost bearable and just one of its many magical features.<br /><br />I might actually have finally worked on a good game.<br /><br />I might actually get to work on an even better game and it won't turn out to be a rushed, half-baked waste of a licence. Maybe.<br /><br />Getting home from work before midnight is good in theory but in practice has proven somewhat elusive.<br /><br />The only time people talk to you in the street is when they want something.<br /><br />Shouting 'dude' and jabbing me in the back is not the best way to illicit a favourable response if you want something.<br /><br />My DVD addiction was only in remission.<br /><br />Women eating in Choccywoccydoodah always look away guiltily if you catch their eye.<br /><br />My flatmate has the patience of a saint and is a veritable domestic goddess.<br /><br />Now matter how much I rail against it, I am, deep down, a geek.<br /><br />I like it when people refer to me as a writer.<br /><br />I'm the sort of person who counts just how many things I have learned this week and then adds one last point to make it total 23.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29007861.post-1161540938618643662006-10-22T16:56:00.000+01:002006-11-11T15:06:33.658+00:00Mick and Bob in da bungalowThose of you that don't live in the Regency Ward of Brighton will have been denied the pleasure of Mick and Bob's monthly newsletters. A self-styled dynamic duo currently campaigning for two seats in the next council elections. On receiving their first contribution I had to re-read it several times to work out if it was a serious political statement or some unsubtle satire of the Conservative party's candidates.<br /><br />One can imagine the pair looking to the skies and beholding the 'Mick and Bob' sign, highlighting that political peril was afoot when they described themselves as 'first on the scene' for a meeting with the director behind the i360 viewing tower, planned to replace the West Pier. I can just see the Labour candidate cursing himself and muttering about <span style="font-style: italic;">'getting away with it if it wasn't for those meddling kids'</span>.<br /><br />On answering such a perilous call for arms, the duo didn't disappoint.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">'Will the tower complement the surrounding buildings?'</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">'Will it be safe in all conditions?'</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">'Will it disturb the peregrine falcons atop Sussex Heights?'</span><br /><br />In the face of such fierce opposition, I'm surprised that the project wasn't cancelled immediately although it's possible that the questions received the answers they merited;<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">'It's a 600ft, high tech looking tower in the middle of a Regency area. What do you fucking think? Hold on, don't you actually write a column on architecture?'</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">'Well we initially thought that we'd make it collapse at the first sign of rain but after a rethink it should be ok although we haven't ruled out nuclear strikes, earthquakes or large numbers of hen parties dressed as cowgirls yet.'</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">'Did you only ask that in a very poor attempt to show your Green credentials? What next, a trip across the Artic with huskies?'</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">'Do your mummies know you're out?'</span><br /><br />Sadly, the dynamic duo didn't tell us what the actual responses were but that's probably because it's very difficult to capture hysterical laughter in the written form.<br /><br />While in interviews they continue to ride the Green ticket, no doubt with several cars following them with a change of clothes and political briefs, pointing out that living in the centre of Brighton with strong transport links removes the need for car ownership they are also fighting the introduction of new parking zones.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">'Surely more parking zones mean more cars',</span> I hear you ask, '<span style="font-style: italic;">so that's a good thing to campaign against?'</span><br /><br />Apart from the fact that the council are looking to consolidate eight parking areas into two, totalling a reduction of 700 places not increase the amount of parking. So while fighting for 'quicker and healthier transport options' it seems that the loss of nearly a thousand cars doesn't fit into this agenda. Keen to maintain the traditions of the area they point out that the new pay and displays will also 'look hideous and spoil the character of the area'. Of course, 600ft towers will blend into the background.<br /><br />Bob, or it could be Mick, boasts riding motorbikes as a hobby although we shouldn't question his environmental impact too much as he doesn't actually own one. This suggests that he participates in his hobby in a similar manner to mine of fucking supermodels.<br /><br />They state concern over the fate of the Hippodrome, closed as a bingo hall and its future uncertain. Part of this uncertainty, we are told, is because its guardians are the same that have overseen the fate of the West Pier. That's the same West Pier that they are planning to replace with a 600ft tower and of which our dynamic duo’s most damning indictment was the possibility of a bird getting caught in its turbines. And I'm not talking about those hen parties.<br /><br />So onto the current crusade and the great fight against crime. After criticising NCP's over enforcement of parking in the city, again flying in the face of their Greenness but not their political greenness, they suggest that traffic wardens should, wait for this, be deployed as 'community wardens' to help prevent crime. Armed with the latest IT equipment they would be able to report incidents to the council who would deal with it promptly.<br /><br />Pause.<br /><br />And Laugh.<br /><br />Ignoring that we are all equipped with the latest IT equipment, namely a phone, capable of reporting incidents in seconds, when has the council ever dealt with anything promptly. Yes, vandalism, graffiti and discarded waste are undesirable but wouldn't a hotline for the public to call be a far more effective and cost efficient way for the council to ignore it? And isn't it the police's job to deal with the more serious matters, which are again easily reported without paying for vigilantes to patrol the street?<br /><br />I wonder how the traffic wardens would feel about taking on all these extra duties. Perhaps if their workload was decreased by, say, removing eight disparate parking areas and replacing them with two main ones, with a reduction in cars to check for valid tickets, they might find time. Or perhaps the extra revenue from a new pay and display system could go towards compensating them for their extra work.<br /><br />This is part of their campaign to make West Street safer at night, which they hope giving traffic wardens these new duties will achieve. Of course, there is one, huge, glaring hole in this suggestion, which I'd love to point out but I really don't want to risk insulting the intelligence of any 5 year olds that may stumble upon these pages. Plus it would be unfair to distract them from writing Mick and Bob’s next manisfesto.<br /><br />It's not surprising that they call themselves action men. They're plastic caricatures of a bygone age in need of constant revision to seem current and relevant yet still lacking any balls.<br /><br />Vote Monkey. You know it makes sense.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29007861.post-1161133419521773212006-10-18T01:19:00.000+01:002006-11-11T15:06:33.315+00:00Sign o' the timesThe other day I noticed an unusual sign at the front of the harbour, <span style="font-style: italic;">'Warning - Student Police Officers In Training'</span>, which struck me as strange since I wasn't aware that the student population had reached such a point of unlawlessness that they needed their own special officers. Surely the odd traffic cop to check for missing traffic cones, flashing beacons and comedy sounding street signs would suffice?<br /><br />They had done some research on their subject matter though. In the area where the training was taking place, a PA was blasting out the Billy Ocean hit <span style="font-style: italic;">'When the going gets tough (the tough get going)'</span>. It's obviously very important to subject the student police to such musical attrocities given that the 80's are very much de riguer with the youth today in that ever so ironic way. I just hope that they are equally prepared for facing the vomit drinking and scrotum shaving of the rugby team's night out.<br /><br />If part of their duties are preventing harpies shrieking like banshees at 3am or stopping blokes pissing against the nearest wall after 2 shandies I'm all for this new initiative. I'd like to hope that playing incredibly crap music at full, tinny volume on a mobile phone is also on the list. While we're at it can we ban the whole emo movement? Or am I the only one who on hearing that term is reminded of Emo Phillips, a gangly, lanky haired, badly dressed loser whining about not being sexual attractive to his headmaster as a child? They're nothing but goths with allusions to coolness.<br /><br />Let's add not drinking in any pub I am likely to frequent and queuing at any cash point at any given time. Stupidly themed fancy dress parties are right out, as is using any catchphrase of any comedy show ever. And talking. About anything. In fact, the more I think about it, the more I believe that we actually do need this new arm of the law. Unfortunately I suspect it's all doomed to failure.<br /><br />They were training before midday.<br /><br />You're never going to find a student at that time.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29007861.post-1158503143834497622006-09-17T15:25:00.000+01:002006-11-11T15:06:32.955+00:00Are you dancing?It’s one of those awkward social situations that is never addressed in etiquette books or advice columns but demands an answer. When with a female friend, how exactly should one act while dancing to Nine Inch Nails’ <span style="font-style: italic;">‘Closer’</span>?<br /><br />For the uninitiated, ‘Closer’ has slow, pounding beats, a bass line so dirty it should only be played after the watershed and the repeated chorus of <span style="font-style: italic;">‘I want to fuck you like an animal’</span>. There’s something about the primal rhythm, the slow build up and the transcendental lyrics that make it impossible to resist attempting to move spasmodically to it, or as some would call it, dance.<br /><br />So while at the bar, in a club, discovering that Goth nights have not moved on in over a decade, I hear the unmistakable drum beat kick in. Quickly grabbing my beer and change, I head over to where the others are, already on the dance floor, moving to the twisted beat. Putting my pint down I join the throng and start my interpretation of movement that would no doubt cause Vitus to look away in embarrassment. Lost in a fog of alcohol and the relentless rhythm it takes some time before I realise that, while silently mouthing the chorus, due to the dynamics of the dance floor, I am now dancing with a female friend and am suddenly slapped in the face with self consciousness.<br /><br />I can’t read her expression as she looks at me and it suddenly occurs to me how this may be interpreted. Does she think this is some sort of courtship, a proposition? Is that a look of shock, disgust, invitation? Or is it just complete bemusement at the bizarre jerks and tics I’m making? How on earth did we end up dancing together? Did the others drift away? Did I move? Did she? A flush of panic rushes over me, not helped by my drunken guardian angel leaning towards us and highlighting the situation in a loud, vocal manner.<br /><br />Trying to concentrate on dancing, avoiding eye contact as much as possible, I attempt to act as naturally as I can while suddenly wishing that the song wasn’t quite so long. Hoping for it to finish so I can return to my pint and pretend that this never happened. All the while wondering what on earth I was doing dancing to <span style="font-weight: bold;">this</span> song with a girl and what on earth was now going through her mind.<br /><br />As the song finishes I think I mutter something to her about <span style="font-style: italic;">‘loving that song’</span>, hastily grab my pint and down nearly half in an attempt to extinguish the heat of embarrassment.<br /><br />Until agony aunts and etiquette experts can come up with a solution to how this situation should be properly addressed, I have little choice but to start a campaign to ban this filth from our dance floors.<br /><br />I’m just grateful that they didn’t play any Peaches.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29007861.post-1157735563514854912006-09-08T18:11:00.000+01:002006-11-11T15:06:32.453+00:00Talking of the dumbing down of television...It was recently announced that sometime footballer, failed memory man and fulltime idiot, Rio Ferdinand, is planning a follow up to his ‘World Cup Wind-Ups’ show. He’s planning to target his footballing friends and WAGS for a new kind of make over show. With several designers at his disposal, he’s going to transform their mansions in ways never seen before. Noting that millionaire footballers have more money than taste and every gadget possible, he’s going to great lengths to do ‘something special’.<br /><br />Can you imagine anything more obscene? Footballers getting to show off their vast wealth while at the same time getting a free redesign and plenty of new gadgets. The only thing more distasteful than this was hearing of multi-millionaire pig bladder kicker, Frank Lampard, looking enviously at the yacht and surrounding wealth of billionaire Roman Abramovic and feeling a little bit sorry for himself.<br /><br />The only saving grace is hoping that Rio’s taste for bling results in some truly awful décor, a massive fall in the value of the property and some very pissed off celebrities. And you can imagine my dread when I hear that Rio’s production company also have a reality TV show in development.<br /><br />It’s just a shame that the press release didn’t read like this:<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Rio’s Dole Scum Wind-Ups</span><br /><br />Fresh on the heals of his groundbreaking show ‘World Cup Wind-Ups’, which was entirely his own idea and not some poor rip off of Candid Camera, Beadle’s About, Noel’s Gotcha’s or Punk'd, where millions of idiots tuned in purely because it featured his friends who also happen to play football for England, where he got to play some hilarious pranks such as convincing Wayne Rooney that he’d killed a dog and featured the hilarious footage of David Beckham risking injury as he escaped a moving car, Rio Ferdinand brings us his next TV brainchild, ‘Dole Scum Wind-Ups’.<br /><br />Laugh along with Rio as he takes top Premiership players, convinced that their careers have prematurely ended, that they’ve lost every last penny and asset and that they’ve been deserted by loved ones and hangers on, and places them in a run down council flat. Watch the hilarity ensue as they go through the soul destroying and demeaning process of signing on for the pittance of £50 a week. Enjoy their exploits as you see them rejected for job after job, wishing that they’d actually bothered to get some qualifications rather than kicking a ball and dying just a little more with every single knock back.<br /><br />Share Rio’s joy as we see them forced into mugging, stealing car stereos and selling their arses to 18 stone lorry drivers in an attempt to afford the very basics needed to survive. Guffaw at their decline into drug use as they try and find something to escape the relentless monotony of their wretched existence, trying to find something to help them transcend the utter, utter emptiness of a life with no hope, where watching those even worse off than you on the Jeremy Kyle show is the only respite.<br /><br />Chuckle as these spoilt, pampered, overpaid idiots, who couldn’t even wipe their own arses without an adviser and agent present realise the truly privileged position they once were in, realise how lucky they were to earn more than most earn in a year each week purely for being able to kick a round object really, really well fall into deeper and deeper depression, wracked with the guilt of seeing how normal people have to survive and seeing just how obscene their displays of wealth were.<br /><br />You’ll howl with laughter as one footballer, unable to cope with his bleak, dark, futile existence, a life with no dreams, where every single day is a battle to survive, finally reaches breaking point and in a bid to end the pain and despair opens up his wrists. You’ll be rolling on the floor as the ambulance crew battle to save his pointless life and Rio rushes in shouting ‘You’ve been merked!’<br /><br />An Endemol production.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29007861.post-1157730324540972122006-09-08T16:44:00.000+01:002006-11-11T15:06:32.045+00:00The inevitable 'why I hate big brother' pieceOn the eve of their second series of Extras, Ricky Gervais and Stephen Merchant are already looking to their next project. Given their previous work you’d be forgiven for thinking that this would be another comedy show but the duo has other plans. Looking to the US for inspiration, they want to try something more dramatic, hoping to team up with HBO to produce a series to match the scale of America’s most successful shows.<br /><br />When Gervais says that he can’t remember when he last watched a British drama, praising US TV series as innovative, audacious and brilliant, I can’t help but nod in agreement. Shows such as Lost, 24 and The Sopranos are high quality, engrossing shows that generate the ad man’s favourite, the water cooler effect. Each episode is highly anticipated and the day after airing, offices are full of chatter about the latest plot twist and development. Where are our UK equivalents?<br /><br />These shows are not unique. The quality of US TV has been consistently good for a number of years now with HBO in particularly producing some of the best. A quick look at their current roster reveals The Sopranos, Deadwood, The Wire, Six Feet Under, Carnivale, Sex And The City and, the brilliant prison drama, Oz.<br /><br />A quick look at the BBC, our so called bastions of quality, shows EastEnders, Holby City, Neighbours and How Do You Solve A Problem Like Maria?. With the notable exception of Dr Who, when did the BBC last produce a drama that was must see, that created the sort of buzz that each episode of 24 generates? Where are the modern equivalents of Boys From The Black Stuff, GBH, Cracker and Our Friends In The North? Since when did we have to rely on the US to create leftfield, gritty, original, groundbreaking drama? It used to be our forte.<br /><br />Looking through the TV schedules is a depressing affair. We’re deluged with fly on the wall, reality TV type programs or Pop Idol, X-Factor type talent shows. And, though I’m loath to even grace the show with any sort of recognition, I blame Big Brother.<br /><br />When Big Brother originally launched, it seemed fresh and original, an interesting social experiment. It wasn’t long before it was clear that it wasn’t so much social experiment as an excuse for a freak show, watching those most base of emotions, fucking and fighting, being enacted by members of the lumpen masses. Put into artificial situations and performing ridiculous tasks, all the time being pushed towards conflict and mental anguish by the producers in the name of ratings. And you could guarantee when things got remotely interesting, the sound would be muted out or the cameras switched to a nice vase. Most of the time though it was some people sat on a sofa.<br /><br />Of course, the public watched in their millions and Channel 4 get an excuse to print cash. Cheap production costs, 3 or 4 programs a day plus live feeds, repeats and not to mention the various spin off shows that follow, making use of the last embers of fading celebrity before we get bored and move on to the next household. And the obscene cycle begins again, even more bastardised than before as those that enter are only interested in the fame it generated for the last contestants. It’s the TV equivalent of inbreeding and it’s not so much money for old rope as money for some old rope that has been filmed in a house for 3 months, been spotted at some C-list event and been given a show with a limited run on life outside the house.<br /><br />This wouldn’t be so bad if it generated money for Channel 4 to invest in quality programs and with Film 4, quality films but it hasn’t. Instead it’s changed the landscape of UK television and generated more of the same. Seeing the success of Big Brother, every production company has tried to create their own version, hoping to have the same low production costs and high audience figures. Why spend millions on a high quality drama that, while critically acclaimed, only draws in a small audience when you can stick the plebs in front of a camera, make them perform humiliating tasks and pull in millions?<br /><br />Similarly Pop Idol has created its own format of low cost, high reward TV that’s now widely emulated. Take some unknowns, get the public to watch them perform and vote for them, on premium cost phone lines obviously, then sell the CDs to the public when the winner is decided. Genius. As the saying goes, nobody's ever gone broke underestimating the intelligence of the general public.<br /><br />It’s no wonder that we have to look to America for our drama. And until we stop lapping up the lo-com-denom television and Bulldog snogging Chardonnay is no longer the most talked about topic in the office we’ll get just that.<br /><br />So good luck, Steve and Ricky. We need you.<br /><br />I’m off to read Heat. There’s a great article entitled ‘Old Rope: My Big Brother House Hell’.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29007861.post-1157226833151576152006-09-02T20:50:00.000+01:002006-11-11T15:06:31.043+00:00The numbers gameA long time ago, I pinned my hopes on England winning the World Cup based on a rather tenuous link to the number 23 and my <a href="http://themonkeytypes.blogspot.com/2006/06/footballs-coming-home.html">office sweepstake</a>. We now know that theory was in fact utter nonsense.<br /><br />Fortunately on my return from Barcelona, a couple of us chipped in for a sealed envelope sweepstake at one of the local pubs. Although the World Cup was under way no one knew who they had picked until the last envelope had been sold. After paying for the last one we opened it and discovered that we had Italy. The bar man running the sweepstake was less impressed on disccovering he had Angola.<br /><br />In case you’ve forgotten, after the game finished 1-1, with Zinedine Zidane being sent off in extra time, Italy won the final on penalties. The player who gave away the penalty from which France took the lead, scored the equaliser, got Zidane sent off, scored in the shootout and helped win me over £30 was Marco Materazzi. His shirt number. 23.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29007861.post-1157225411458393802006-09-02T20:28:00.000+01:002006-11-11T15:06:30.791+00:00Would you like an opinion with that?<span style="font-style: italic;">“That’s a great film. The ending is so messed up.”</span><br /><br />I muttered something about having already seen it and just wanting to add it to my collection, paid and wandered off wondering about this recent phenomenon. Why is it that shop assistants always feel the need to validate my purchases for me? I’ve already made my choice, using reviews, recommendations and knowing what I types of film I enjoy. I’m already in the process of paying for them so why is their opinion going to make the slightest bit of difference? It’s not as if I’m going to turn round and thank them as I had no idea what I was doing, had found myself lost in the DVD section and in a panic I grabbed the first things I saw based on them having pretty covers.<br /><br />Also, why did he only remark on how good Audition was? What about my other choices? Granted Kika wasn’t warmly received when it was first released but surely its inclusion doesn’t make Volume 2 of the Almodovar collection worthless. The 6 disc Tarantino collectors set contains two of his finest and iconic films. Wim Wenders’ Wings of Desire won numerous awards and was remade into City of Angels. Yet only Audition seems worthy of mention. Should I have taken the others back and just kept the DVD that the assistant rated? Rather than validate my purchase, I’m left unsure of my other choices.<br /><br />What would be much more useful would be if they turned round occasionally and warned me about any potential turkeys I was about to buy but that never happens. Even then, I’m not sure if I want to trust the judgement of the bloke down HMV over that of a friend. When it comes to music and film, it’s all down to personal taste and it’s all very subjective. There are films out there that have received critical acclaim which leave me unimpressed. Other films receive a poor reception yet I’ve enjoyed them immensely.<br /><br />Perhaps I’m just scared that as soon as I leave the shop, the assistants will get together and laugh about what I’ve just paid good money for. God forbid that they deem me uncool. Then again, unless I’m being served by the next Kevin Smith or Tarantino, I’m not sure that I should be overly worried.<br /><br />Why I’m buying yet more DVDs I don’t know. I seem to go through phases of mild obsessions and currently it’s DVDs. In the past I've bought games and CDs with the same enthusiasm and I have shelves full of games I’ve never played, CDs I’ve never heard and DVDs still in their cellophane wrapping. I’ve finally amassed everything that Pedro Almodovar has committed to celluloid yet I know that I’m not sated as I’ve already got my eye on a Michael Haneke box set that’s out in a few months. I should just be grateful that Hal Hartley has yet to make it to these shores although there’s always the option to import.<br /><br />So it’s Saturday night and I find myself at a loose end. I could send out the usual texts and see if there’s anything going on tonight but I’m not sure whether to bother. From experience though, it’s these unplanned nights that turn out to be the most fun.<br /><br />If not, I suppose I could always watch a DVD.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29007861.post-1155390029654425582006-08-12T14:38:00.000+01:002006-12-15T03:07:02.661+00:00So there I was with Irvine Welsh...One of the joys in life is the unexpected, unplanned, great night out. So often, the organised, planned nights fail to meet expectations, already built up in the mind to be more than they can ever live up to, never matching the memory of the last great one. The surprise of the random is always welcome and always occurs when least expected. Brighton is a magnet for these kinds of nights.<br /><br />It’s been a tough week. Work has been a struggle but I’m still on schedule even though it’s been a fight. Fair too many people have been distracting me with ‘any chance you can..?’ type tasks. Not only do they eat up my time and are invisible to my schedule but they break up the concentration making my actual job take twice as long as I try and work out what I was doing, what I was going to do next and just how I was going to do it.<br /><br />There’s a lot of pressure as we’re now in ‘alpha’, which means we have only several months before it’s literally game over. With this on my mind, finally having a good, uninterrupted day and getting things done, I end up putting in an extra hour on a Friday night, more concerned with finishing the levels I’m working on than getting home and going out. There’s nothing heroic about one lousy extra hour, all of us in the industry have our own horror stories of all nighters and seven day weeks, but given the toughness of the week I’m surprised by my dedication when normally I’d write the week off and nurse my wounds with liberal application of alcohol.<br /><br />Another couple of tasks completed I decide to get the next train to Brighton. Slightly behind schedule but I reckon I can blitz the few things remaining on Monday and put in a few more hours so that I can balance the books. Plus, the last couple of office key holders look like they want to go soon and the train after that is in an hour. Not worth the risk and I don’t want to be getting into Brighton at 10pm on a Friday, dedicated or not.<br /><br />On the train, my main concern is getting home, having a shower and getting changed. I send out a few tentative texts to see if anyone is around. A couple of responses, one no and a maybe. It looks like it’ll be a quiet night with maybe a chance of a couple of late night pints in the local.<br /><br />Once showered, with no further replies, I decide to have a play on my new toys, my CD decks and mixer. Don’t ask me why I bought them but they are something I’ve desired for a very long time. I get so engrossed in trying to see if Pump It Up by Elvis Costello really will go with Run DMC’s It’s Tricky that I miss a text. When I finally do check my phone I discover that some of my ex-colleagues are across the road at my local.<br /><br />I describe them as ex-colleagues only to give context to how I know them. I’d like to think of them as my friends since, without work, there’s no obligation for any of us to see each other socially but we still meet up and when work discussions don’t exclude me from the conversation we have a great time.<br /><br />Amongst the crowd of friends are a couple of unfamiliar, female faces. I’m soon introduced to one. She’s down for the weekend and visiting one of my friends. I’m unsure of the exact details but it seems that it’s a date of sorts. We end up chatting about music and she asks me for my top five favourite bands.<br /><br />Once upon a time this would be a bread and butter question for me. I was such a typical male, music, list obsessive that High Fidelity was a documentary, not a work of fiction, for me. Somehow that side of me has subsided, no doubt something in the water, and I name a couple of bands but don’t complete the list before we are both drawn into other random conversations around the table.<br /><br />Several beers later, my synapses have finally fired up, I rattle off my five bands with ease. This impresses her no end as not only does she judge them as good choices but she comments that it’s rare that anyone ever gives her a definitive list. She grabs the other unknown girl at the table and excitedly tells her that I can name five. This seems like a cause for celebration and she’s introduced to me as her best friend.<br /><br />She asks about my work and naturally I tell her. It never ceases to amaze me that people think that what I do is cool. I’ve had ‘real’ jobs in the past and would never want to go back to them but I’ve got one eye on getting out of the industry and am sure that if people knew the reality of our day to day, they’d soon decide it was far from the fun that they envision.<br /><br />I throw the question back to her and discovered what a genuinely cool job is.<br /><br />‘I do burlesque tap and dance and promote my own group.’<br /><br />Making games doesn’t even compare. Her recent show ‘Burlesque Idol’ where a tie break situation involved contestants in bikinis and Mexican wrestling masks fighting it out in an inflatable pool filled with water melons and whipped cream sounds like a work of genius and it’s hard not to be endeared to someone who announces that ‘I haven’t performed in months, I’m out of shape and I’ve got to go to Edinburgh on Sunday and get my tits out’. We were all having a great laugh.<br /><br />All except my friend on the date who had taken Dutch courage to new levels. After disappearing to the toilet several times for long stretches and occasionally lying on the table face down, he somehow got into a heated argument with his date. It never got too bad but he had to be taken home by a couple of friends and his date and best friend were left trying to find out the time of the next train to London.<br /><br />It ended with the consumption of Cava, vodka, beer, kebabs and tunes back at mine. Typically drunk conversations and the pain of discovering just how heartbroken another friend who had come back with us currently is. No matter what you say or do, drunken advice will never help. I hope he works it all out.<br /><br />Both girls stayed the night, the attraction of the 4am train long gone, and slept on the sofas, with more than enough spare bedding to make them comfortable. Jon, returning to find two strangers in his front room, woke me and I grumpily got up and said my goodbyes to our guests. They headed off to meet my friend for coffee and a chat, which I was glad about as if they’d gone straight back to London, all parties would have felt bad. At least this way they are still talking.<br /><br />I’ve made breakfast, read some of the paper and plan to do a spot of shopping that doesn’t involve anywhere holding a sale. Plans are already being hatched for tonight, which means it can only lead to disappointment. Random is king.<br /><br />It’s bright outside but raining. There’s a rainbow somewhere. That’s a sympathetic background if ever I’ve seen one.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29007861.post-1155001815330794302006-08-08T02:27:00.000+01:002006-11-11T15:06:30.126+00:00The longest dayLife seems to have a different pace in Spain. The notion of a siesta is alien to us in the UK but in the Barcelona heat, it makes much more sense. The knock on effect is that people work well into the evening and the city’s night life starts later as a result, which we soon discover.<br /><br />After a couple more drinks, we need to find somewhere to eat and decide on a Sushi restaurant nearby, wandering through the side streets off La Ramblas, until we find it.<br /><br />On arrival, it’s deserted.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">‘It’s quiet in here’</span>, we remark as we stand at the bar.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">‘That’s because we’re not open yet.’</span><br /><br />We apologise and start to move towards the exit before being told that they are opening in a couple of minutes and we are welcome to have some drinks while we wait. A couple of minutes are in fact more than half an hour and shortly after 9pm and several more beers we are shown to our table. Starving by now, we order a variety of starters and some main dishes to share.<br /><br />The food is worth the wait and much needed. The last thing we’d eaten was a quick sandwich washed down with coffee at the airport while waiting for the plane. The gyoza is the best I’ve tasted and despite the large quantities of food already consumed, we all order more of the delicious dumplings. By the time we finish the meal the restaurant is finally starting to fill up. It’s now past 10pm.<br /><br />Earlier, while grabbing our last meal at the airport, Andy received an email on his phone from Soma Records. Apparently they are putting on a club in Barcelona that night with DJ Alex Smoke. Sonar’s night time events are not starting until tomorrow, so it seems like a good idea.<br /><br />After heading back to the apartment to quickly change clothes, we head down to the club, La Terrazza, a twenty minute walk away. We queue for tickets and then make our way to the club area. The club is actually in the middle of the Poble Espanyol, a village built for the 1929 World Exposition, dedicated to Spanish architecture. Walking through the narrow cobbled streets, with the various styles of buildings is surreal. I feel like I’m wandering through different zones in a Westworld type theme park. A quick look over my shoulder confirms that we’re not being followed by Yul Brynner, just more clubbers.<br /><br />The club is situated in an open air patio and, even this late, the night air is around 24°C. It takes a little while to take in the surroundings, the lighting, the projections, the bizarre architecture and the people. It’s breathtaking.<br /><br />The evening doesn’t quite go to plan. There’s a problem with the sound system and the music keeps cutting out. There are times when the DJ carries on, oblivious that no one can hear him, until the crowd in front of his booth get his attention. When the music does play, it’s too quiet and there’s very little atmosphere because of this.<br /><br />We discover a small area inside that leads to the stairs to the toilets. Here is the only speaker that seems capable of playing at a good volume. A few clubbers, frustrated with the outside PA, are dancing here. We soon join them and smiles slowly return to our faces. Others pass and watch, slightly bemused, before finding themselves joining in too.<br /><br />I head to the bar to get yet more vodka and Red Bull to fuel our night. As I stand outside by the bar, waiting for my order, Alex Smoke's set starts. Miraculously the sound system bursts into life, pumping out the music loud and clear. Everyone, bar staff included, jump in the air cheering. You can feel spirits rise as the place comes alive. New energy found and the crowd buzzing. Smiles everywhere. We dance into the night and it all seems worthwhile.<br /><br />By the time we find a taxi and get back to the apartment we’ve been up for nearly 24 hours. We still have Sonar to come.<br /><br />Sleep first.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29007861.post-1154992854515667662006-08-08T00:20:00.000+01:002006-11-11T15:06:29.675+00:00It's not just the waterThe <a href="http://themonkeytypes.blogspot.com/2006/06/cutter.html">feminisation of the male</a> species seems to be continuing. Dr Mike Fitzpatrick, a consultant toxicologist, started investigating the effects of soya beans in 1991, funded by a multimillionaire who was sure that the beans were killing off his collection of rare parrots. The millionaire, Richard James, and his wife had been feeding the birds that they bred a soya feed. They discovered later that some of the birds were infertile, while others aged prematurely or reached puberty early, proving for a disastrous year’s breeding.<br /><br />When asked to carry out the study, Fitzpatrick was sceptical at first but agreed to investigate. He discovered that soya contains toxins and plant oestrogens strong enough to disrupt women’s menstrual cycles in the experiments he performed. Further studies concluded that babies fed exclusively on soya formula were receiving, based on body weight, the equivalent amount of oestrogen as five birth control pills.<br /><br />In 2002, an enquiry by the British government’s expert committee on the toxicity of food concluded that the health benefits claimed for soya were not supported by clear evidence and judged that high levels of consumption in some age groups could cause risks. Given that 60% of processed food in the UK contains soya in some form, Fitzpatrick’s conclusion that our new found dependence on soya is a dangerous experiment might hold true.<br /><br />This might explain why last week, while buying lunch, I decided I needed a new wallet and headed to Mambo. Ten minutes later I emerged with a new shirt, several pairs of trousers and no new wallet.<br /><br />Well, they were having a sale, darling.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29007861.post-1154990582657540102006-08-07T23:38:00.000+01:002006-11-11T15:06:29.194+00:00So much for July...…as one of my many emails waiting for a response said last week. Some may have noticed the lack of activity of late. Some may recall that I was due to move house. Some may even have been able to deduce that those two events are not totally unrelated. Throw in <b style="">yet another deadline</b> to the mix and an inability to pass by the local after a long day and you might be able to understand my lack of updates.<br /><br />The start of July saw me somehow managing to pack all my worldly possessions into boxes in the evenings after getting home from work. Well, just about. I was finishing off the last box when the man with the van turned up on the Saturday afternoon. Actually it was two men with a van. And not so much a van as a warehouse on wheels. At least I didn’t have to worry about fitting everything in it.<br /><br />The move was relatively painless. With it being so hot and my move being the last of the day, the van loading was carried out with the enthusiasm of two men looking forward to an early finish and a pint in the sun. Once at the other end, unloading was equally swift and in just over an hour I had moved house.<br /><br />Opening a celebratory can of beer and sitting on the doorstep, enjoying the sun and my new surroundings, I looked down at the ground. Outside the front door was a small sticker, stuck to the ground, with a number printed on it. I had to double-take and then wonder if my new housemate was having a joke at my expense. Why else was there a <a href="http://themonkeytypes.blogspot.com/2006/06/magic-number.html">23</a> outside my new home?<br /><br />Of course, physically moving is only a small part of the job. Over the last 3 weeks I’ve bought and assembled furniture, done a couple of minor repairs and somehow managed to fit a flat’s worth of possessions into a modestly sized room. I hasten to add that I’ve been far from dedicated to these tasks and allowed distractions such as sailing, clubbing or just drinking in the pub keep me from these more pressing tasks. <br /><br />However, slowly, bit by bit, the chaos in my room has diminished. With Jon tidying the flat this weekend and myself contributing by brushing and washing the yard and roof terrace with a steely eyed determination that had my new housemate wondering if I suffered from OCD, I can let out a huge sigh of relief and finally relax in clean, uncluttered surroundings, happy that it’s finally all done.<br /><br />Now, I have another task hanging over me to worry about as well as attempting to finish off writing about Barcelona and responding to the 90 odd unread emails in my inbox. With my project at work now entering the final phase and my schedule being somewhat aggressive, I’m going to be very busy and putting in the extra hours.<br /><br />So much for August.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29007861.post-1151755552528587702006-07-01T13:01:00.000+01:002006-11-11T15:06:29.010+00:00Cry God for Harry, England and Nando'sWhen the inevitable happens and Portugal knockout England later today, amidst the cries of being cheated <b style="">yet again, </b>dirty bloody foreigners and death threats to the referee, fuelled by our jingoistic tabloids, consider another possible victim from the fallout.Nando's.<br /><br />This week, the Portuguese restaurant chain might have been wise to change the usual messages on their chalkboards outside their restaurants and maybe just play down their links to Portugal a little.<br /><br /><i style="">‘Eat Portuguese, live to 164’</i>, while surely highly inaccurately might also induce cannibalistic retribution for defeat or have knuckle draggers thinking <i style="">‘Live to 164? We’ll see about that, sunshine’</i>.<br /><br /><i style="">‘Peri-Peri, it’s Portuguese for flaming tasty’</i>, should be changed to <i style="">‘Peri-Peri, it’s Portuguese for please don’t firebomb our restaurant, we’re really, really sorry’</i>.<br /><br />And I think it’s a little cruel for their staff to be forced to wear T-shirts with <i style="">‘Portugal’</i> written on the front. It’s just asking for trouble.<br /><br />I fear turning up for work on Monday to discover the Nando's by our office vandalised.<br /><br />Although, bearing in mind that this is Portsmouth, land of the lynch mobs that struggle to differentiate between paediatrician and paedophile, they’ll probably burn down the Santa Fé bar by mistake.<br /><br /><i style="">'Well it sounds foreign, innit.’</i><br /><br />Or as I overheard yesterday,<br /><br /><i style="">‘What’s this Portugal crap? It’s in Spain, they speak Spanish and eat Spanish food. They’re nothing but bloody Spaniards in denial.’</i><br /><br />And someone really should point out to Nando's the similarity between their logo and goatsce.<br /><br />Don’t ask.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29007861.post-1151358492725291552006-06-26T22:43:00.000+01:002006-11-11T15:06:28.441+00:00Football's gone abroad (second half)So here I am in Barcelona and there’s an England game this evening. There’s already some confusion on when the game is. After much debate, we thought that we are now one hour ahead in Barcelona but according to the time in the paper that the cab driver showed us, the England game is on two hours later than it should be. Unsure of exactly what sort of time warp we have travelled through, we arrange to meet other friends at a bar to watch the game.<br /><br />The nearest Metro station (or estácio) seems to be closed for building work so it’s a short five minute walk to the next nearest. We buy a T-10 ticket, similar to a CarNet ticket, and the three of us use it to go through the station turnstiles. I’m not even sure that you can use a T-10 for more than one person in this way but no one ever stopped us on our travels and it was a case of entering within the spirit of the law if not within the letter.<br /><br />Once on the platform, the heat is unbearable, humid and suffocating. A train is mercifully quick to arrive. The carriage is packed and, while air-conditioned, the number of people make it hot and uncomfortable. After a couple of stops, we get seats and away from the doors and the crowds, the air-conditioning seems much more effective. It’s at this point we make another discovery. Someone’s mobile phone goes off elsewhere in the carriage. We all reach into our pockets to check our phones. We all have full-strength signals! Air-conditioning and mobile phone signals? This beats the Tube. Pete is so excited by this that he can’t help phoning a friend we are meeting later, spending a small fortune, just to tell him that he is on the Metro and his phone still works.<br /><br />We disembark at La Ramblas, which appears to be the main tourist strip of Barcelona. In some ways it is similar to Leicester Square, full of bars, shops, people, buskers and activity. We wander up the street in search of the Jules Verne bar, a supposedly English bar, where our friends are waiting. When we find it, it is packed. There are crowds of people outside watching the screens and there is no way we will get in.<br /><br />My companions have been to Barcelona before and Plan B is quickly formulated. There’s a good bar off the main strip that should be showing the game. We head back the way we came, quietly hoping no one scores while we find the bar. We wander down some side streets until we find it. It’s not showing the game despite having a TV.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">‘Didn’t we see another bar with the game on? Let’s head back that way.’</span><br /><br />Round the corner we find a busy bar showing the game. We make our way to the bar and note that it’s still 0-0. I knew I could rely on England not to score while we found somewhere to watch the game. I know I can generally rely on England not to score.<br /><br />I was looking forward to seeing the game in a foreign country. One of the things I hate about England is our fans. The blaring of car horns, the chanting, the wild celebrations, all after barely scraping a win. It’s embarrassing to celebrate beating smaller teams in such a manner. At least in Barcelona we can escape that, grab a beer and enjoy the game without the borderline racist remarks, the uninformed diatribes and the constant abuse thrown at the players on the screen.<br /><br />Apart from everyone in the bar seemed to be English. People barged past us as we watched the game, apologising in some hybrid of Essex and Spanish not realising that everyone around them was English too. I doubt there were any Spaniards in the bar and when England scored, the reactions proved this. In fairness, no one reached the depths I’d witnessed while watching games in Brighton and it was a good humoured crowd. I probably shouted my own fair share of abuse at our insipid performance anyway.<br /><br />After the game finished, we headed back to the Q Bar. As we entered, the second half of the game was confusingly kicking off. Then the penny dropped and the differences in time made sense. Live games were shown on a subscription channel, while Spanish TV showed them with an hour delay.<br /><br />Another lesson learned.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29007861.post-1151355333842930412006-06-26T21:55:00.000+01:002006-11-11T15:06:28.158+00:00Football's gone abroad (first half)This is the second time that I’ve found myself in a foreign country, going to a festival, while the World Cup is on. Eight years ago would have found me in a tent just outside Copenhagen, hunched over a tiny handheld TV, in the dark, trying to tune in to the England v Columbia game while all around me a festival was taking place. I could barely get a reception at the time but could just about work out that we were winning 2-0.<br /><br />A week later, myself and a friend were rushing back after spending the day sightseeing in Copenhagen for the England v Argentina game. As we passed a bar, we saw England go 1-0 down to a penalty. My friend, being Irish, seemed fairly happy with this but we both increased our pace so as not to miss any more action. As it was, England lost on penalties. I was sat at my friend’s house surrounded by the united nations of Denmark, Scotland, Ireland and Australia. It was with great grace that they chose not to rip into me after such disappointment.<br /><br />We ended up in a local bar for the Denmark v Brazil quarter final. The bar was busy but not packed as we were on the outskirts of the centre of town. After two minutes, Denmark scored and we all cheered with the locals, backing our hosts with gusto. Seconds later the pay phone in the bar rang and the bar maid answered. Minutes later she was at our table asking us what we wanted to drink. We pointed to our nearly full drinks and said we weren’t quite ready. She shook her head and told us that the owner of the bar, Peter, had phoned to buy everyone in the bar a drink to celebrate Denmark scoring. We, of course got another round in.<br /><br />Ten minutes later, Brazil equalised and went into half-time 2-1 up. Disappointing but not unexpected. Still, it was a good game and there were another 45 minutes to go. Five minutes after the second half had kicked off, Brian Laudrup equalised. As we all cheered the phone rang again. Minutes later Peter was paying for our beer again.<br /><br />As entertaining a game as it was, the fairy tale was not to be and Brazil scored the winner. At full time everyone was disappointed but Denmark had played very well and it had been an entertaining, open game, one of the best we’d seen. The phone rang one final time. Was Peter going to ask for his money back? Not at all. For Denmark’s valiant efforts, he thought that those still in the bar deserved one last drink to toast them with.<br /><br />It would have been rude to refuse.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29007861.post-1151352407035264462006-06-26T20:58:00.000+01:002006-11-11T15:06:27.733+00:00ShoppingThe apartment is perfect. It has four bedrooms, two bathrooms, an air-conditioned living room, fully fitted kitchen and a balcony that overlooks the busy road five floors below. I’m informed that it can sleep eight people if needed, more than enough for three of us and I begin to work out if it’s possible to spend each night in a different bed. It works out cheaper than sharing a hotel room and there’s a feeling of independence and freedom that you don’t get in a hotel. For ‘freedom and independence’ read ‘able to walk around in your pants’.<br /><br />After sorting out keys, paper work and who was going to sleep where, we select to do what any English man abroad would do. Have a nice cup of tea. Unfortunately, the cupboards are bare so we decide to stock up on some provisions. The nearest supermarket is handily just a few doors away. Shopping in a foreign country is an adventure in itself. Everything seems familiar yet strangely different and while you are sure that you are buying teabags, there’s that little doubt in the back of your mind that they might be condoms or tampons.<br /><br />There’s no mistaking beer though and my basket was soon filled with twelve bottles of a vaguely familiar looking lager that obviously had another name in Spain. Looking round the supermarket, watching the other shoppers, I discover a piece of wonderful design. The baskets have wheels on them and the handle is extendable! It isn’t long before I am dragging my beer behind me like the faithful companion it has proven to be.<br /><br />After much wandering back and forth, marvelling at some of the more exotic food stuff, we have the ingredients for the Spanish equivalent of a good breakfast fry up, the prerequisite tea, coffee, milk and whatever basics we had forgotten to pack. Now we just have to negotiate the till. As you can gather, our Spanish is pretty much none existent and I have my doubts about the linguistic abilities of the girl serving behind the till. As it was, I suspect that her English was better than the majority of checkout girls I normally encounter in Brighton but we adopted for the age old method when she asked for money. Thrust a handful of notes at her and hope that we get the right change.<br /><br />Job done we head home for a sit down and a nice cup of tea.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2