Taxi! Follow that ape!


So my youngest nephew lent me King Kong today, and it’s awesome. So far, at least. I’ve yet to play as Kong, but the 1st-person Jack parts are grand. There’s something Zelda-ish about the internal consistency of the world you play in, as you can use the environment to best the monsters, and induce the monsters to eat each other, which is a good thing, as when they start eating you, you don’t last long. The lack of any HUD is a blessing, with the state of your ammo related by Jack telling you how much he has left, and your invisible life bar being in one of three states – alive, mostly dead, and dead. Which seems about right on an island populated by giant spiders, various giant lizards, and oh, yeah. A great big ape.

— ooh, Barry from Eastenders just called David Blaine a cunt on C4. I love that while Americans crowded round his Times Square iceblock with signs of support the British responded to his 40-day fast by flying remote-controlled helicopters carrying bacon-double-cheeseburgers round and round his elevated glass box.


Mistakes, what mistakes?


So, the Government has won a vote impeding the initiation of an inquiry into the conflict in Iraq. Which isn’t all that surprising, as it’d be like suffering from diarrhea and then sifting through the shitty mess with your bare hands looking for the cause. But my favourite quote isn’t Des Browne’s failure to remember the party line and thus promising an inquiry, but Margaret Beckett’s assurance that there will be a time when we want to learn lessons. Obviously she feels no need to learn any lessons at a time when they might do some good for the population of Iraq. Or perhaps she’s just waiting until she moves jobs again, so someone else has to pick through the blood and shit looking for ‘lessons.’ Silly bint.

links for 2006-10-31




Climatocalypse does not crop up in any of the major search engines or dictionaries.

It’s a lot easier to say than it looks, but looking at it makes it much harder to say.

Climber tokka lips.


I wanted it to be a word so badly…

For those about to rock…


We salute you.


When I can afford Guitar Hero 2 I’m seriously considering buying one of these beauties to play it with, as there’s nothing that fills me with the power of rock more than a long slithering chord slide. Probably won’t help me nail those ultra-hard solos, though.

So you want to be a games journalist?


In response to an abysmal article on which explores how to become a games journalist, a near-dozen of the intarwub’s brightest gamehounds have doled out healthy chunks of advice-meat. Feast upon it!

Kieron Gillen’s Workblog
Affectionate Diary
Tracker Bill
Richard’s Online Journal
The Triforce
Mathew Kumar’s Workblog
another little disappointment
World of Stuart
Dubious Quality

  • Update: James/Pentadact goes all meta on their arse, and introduces me to the concise beauty of tl:dr. …link…

Becoming a games journalist has never really tempted me for two main reasons, I think. The first is that games are my hobby, and I don’t want them to also be my job. The second is analagous to the reason I never wrote an essay or dissertation on Vonnegut – I loved his writing too much to let it spoil in the glare of detailed examination. Also, as some old friends pointed out over the weekend, I can be ridiculously idealistic still, and games journalism seems an industry particularly fraught with pork buffets and conflicts of interest.

Ah well, one career-path knocked off the list in the great life-hunt of late 2006. Only several hundred-thousand to go. Next on my to-be-considered list – fluffer.

Wrong rooms – right words


I read a book that made me cry last night. It was only the second book to have provoked such an emotional response. The first was Days Between Stations by Steve Erickson, which contained a description of a man’s journey to see whether the love of his life loved him back.  Those pages are the finest example of pomo magical realism I’ve ever read, and packed an emotional punch that Butterbean would be proud of.

The book I read last night was Wrong Rooms which had me weeping for a good twenty minutes. If you bear in mind that I can count the number of times I’ve cried in the last decade on my fingers, and only one of those times involved the shedding of more than a couple of tears, last night was something of an odd one. It’s an astoundingly honest book, which deals with love, loss, grief and the complexities of family relationships. If you know me IRL you may well be getting it for Christmas. Possibly not the most joyful gift, but a long hard weep is good for the soul.