Pulling the Blog

I've lost that blogging feeling somewhat of late. Not that I particularly had it in the first place.

Since Biffo shut down operations - without even leaving a picture of a big spunking cock behind this time - I've found it increasingly difficult to get enthusiastic about anything in the blogosphere, given that Mr. B's ramblings were pretty much the only thing I read on a regular basis. I've certainly found it increasingly difficult to muster up the energy to convert my own event-free existence into a readable form.

I was under the impression that Biffo was only taking a break, but the prolonged absence of any new content (or indeed any content whatsoever - his blog merely remains as some kind of placeholder, with even the promise of previous writings appearing in some kind of archive form apparently having been shelved) would suggest that he's officially had enough with sharing his life with bunch of perfect strangers. Which is fair enough really.

Interestingly he's also jacked in his Edge column, and even his own website now only exists as an advert for his books (for now at least - apparently the publisher of Confessions of a Chatroom Freak has gone into liquidation. It seems that it's not only Biffo himself that's determined to wipe every trace of him from the Net).

I can't really blame him for wanting to go to ground. As entertaining a part of my daily routine reading his stuff was, he's under no obligation to write anything whatsoever for the edification of feckless Internet boreds like myself, and the disproportionate levels of hostility that can be generated by, for example, simply telling the truth about witnessing some games industry corporate tosspot making a tit of himself at a music event, could also be a factor in his disappearance.

Digitser was the perfect blend of gaming news and outright nonsense; a magazine in which the best thing about it was frequently the stuff that didn't even have anything to do with games. Given the games industry's propensity for long periods of relative inactivity, or simply the volume of dross it chooses to foist upon us, taking a wander down Digi's surreal B-roads could make a review of even the most boring car simulator essential reading. The current residents in that esteemed slot should take note.

When Digitiser flew off in a big Death Egg into the clouds in 2003, we thought we'd seen the end of Biffo, but thankfully he kept his 'hand' in, writing a column for Edge, and later thrilling nerds like myself by starting his popular blog, retaining his famous writing style, but unencumbered by having to rewrite hyperbolic press releases about how the new PlayStation was more powerful than a thousand suns, or something. He could make even a trip to the supermarket an entertaining tale of heartache and sexual harassment, resulting in that rarest of things - a blog that people actually want to read (and yes, I am aware of the irony).

So consider this post some kind of - admittedly fairly poxy - tribute, to a man who has entertained and informed in one form or another for significant chunk of both my gaming and non-gaming life.

To Biffo - bottoms out!

Direct-Me-Don't Addendum

In my last post I half-jokingly mentioned that there must be something about my demeanour that caused people to find me inherently unreliable or untrustworthy - so much so that seemingly I could not even be relied upon to convey the correct time.

Well, a couple of days later that very thing happened - a bloke at a bus stop asked me for the time, which I duly obliged with an appropriate level of accuracy (we were waiting for a bus - minutes are important). He clearly wasn't convinced however, because mere moments later he decided to ask a bunch of thugs that happened to be walking past the very same question, apparently bothered enough about eliciting a second opinion that he was prepared to risk bringing a sound kicking down upon both of us.

Direct-Me-Don't

Someone stopped me and asked for directions the other day.

This could turn out to be the biggest mistake he'll make all year, and I can't help but wonder if he isn't still wandering the various blind alleys I'd clearly sent him down, hungry and confused.

My orientation skills are rudimentary at best, and were probably not helped by having a geography teacher that wasn't even there about half the time. When he did bother to show up, he spent most of the lesson telling us about where he'd been on some jolly the previous week. I suppose it's a geography lesson of a sort.

Anyway, asking me for directions is like asking Tom Cruise to cure your schizophrenia - only without the absolute certainty that I'm actually helping, or indeed any kind of certainty whatsoever.

This gentleman even had a photocopy of a map with him, with his destination highlighted on it, and it still took me an inordinate amount of time to get my bearings and find any road that I recognised. I really don't know the names of any streets where I live, despite walking down them frequently - when I need to get somewhere I'd much rather someone said, "It's opposite Argos," or "It's near that part of town that stinks of cheese" - although admittedly that wouldn't narrow it down much round here.

I can't quite remember when it was exactly in the middle of the seemingly endless flood of useless information that came out of my mouth, but at one point he asked me if I was cold. I wasn't particularly, so I took that as some kind of coded message that translated roughly as, "OK, I've stopped listening about 15 minutes ago, and I think we should both write this off as a mistake. I'm going to go and find someone else who's likely to be more helpful - you know, like a small child who's just learned to talk, or a violent hallucinating tramp."

Eventually he moved off in the general direction I'd indicated, no doubt his mind bleeding from the sheer multitude of confusing and contradictory information I'd bamboozled him with.

The one and only occasion where I could be fully confident that my guidance was sound was a number of years ago when I was coming home from school. A car pulled up beside me, and, rather than the expected abduction/bumming scenario, the driver asked me where a particular road was. I announced that all he need do was simply to continue on down the road that he was already on.

After he'd thanked me for my time, I strode proudly onward, happy in the knowledge that I'd managed to selflessly aid my fellow man, only to glance behind me and see that he'd actually only driven on about 2 metres, before deciding to ask someone else.

He was either confused by my instruction to, "Keep going down this road," or more likely was reacting to the invisible waves of unreliability that I clearly generate when people get near; a bloke asked me for the time the other day, and upon telling him I half expected him to ask me if I wouldn't mind checking to be sure.

No Country for Cunty Bus Drivers

At the eleventh hour I decided not to go and see Aliens Vs. Predator: Requiem.

I think when you're actively dreading going to see a film, it might be a sign that you're not going to have an entirely fulfilling cinema-going experience.

I decided to go and see No Country for Old Men instead, for which I had to travel to a cinema in the next town over, because my local fleapit had seemingly decided that it needed at least 800 of its many screens to show various versions of Aliens, including one 'VIP' screening. I don't quite know what that would entail - presumably they stab your eyes out before the film starts or something.

This is actually a slightly different post than the one I originally intended to write. After changing my mind about which film I was going to see, I thought I'd be describing how, despite the extra travel and expense involved - and the near-Arctic conditions I'd had to battle - I'd made such a brilliant last-minute choice - but I'm not entirely sure I did.

You see, I didn't think No Country was a bad film by any means, but there's something about those critically-lauded, slightly more 'meaningful' films that gets rather lost on me.

I probably should have learnt my lesson after I saw Syriana (another film I had to go on a pilgrimage to see - my local cinema clearly has my fellow city folk down as a bunch of drooling plebs, which, to be absolutely fair, is more or less spot on). Having heard nothing but good things about Clooney's anti-somethingorother polemic, I sat down and watched it, and was emphatically none the wiser two hours later. Again, it certainly wasn't bad, but I sort of wish there'd been more Kung Fu. Or something.

And why do people seem to think that having an ambiguous ending makes a film more dramatic or important? What's wrong with tying up loose ends and having some kind of satisfying payoff after investing two hours of your life watching something?

Anyway, the point is there are certain films that benefit from being seen on a massive screen with near-deafening surround sound (but must it be so loud, father?), and other films which I could happily wait to appear on TV. And then not bother to watch.

So I think I may go and see AvP:R (as the 'kids' are very much not calling it) at some point, because I've heard it said it's broadly the same quality as the first, which means - faint praise aside - if my love for the Alien was enough to sustain me through the first one, I should be able to manage another 90 minutes.

Interestingly, my slightly dissatisfied mood may have been crystalised by an encounter I had on the way home. Upon boarding the bus from the Hicksville town where the cinema was back to the, uh, slightly larger Hicksville city where I live, I was greeted by a large sigh and no small amount of chastisement from the good driver.

Apparently, his 'beef' was that I'd got on the bus before everyone had got off. In truth, I hadn't actually realized anyone was getting off when I stepped on board, as the (2) people alighting had clearly left it until the last minute to get up out of their seats. Nevertheless, this did not seem to cause any undue problem, but I received a curt telling off anyway.

I shouldn't whinge really, I mean, it's not as if I'm a paying customer or even A COMPLETE RUDDY STRANGER or anything.

Whoops Injustice

Mark Speight is apparently 'no longer a suspect' in his fiancee's death. Well, I'm sure he'll be thrilled to hear that, and will no doubt see the funny side of this 'slight misunderstanding' in time to come.

Don't Look at Me

I finally got Radiohead's new album yesterday after it was released on CD, as I have something of an aversion of paying actual money for what essentially amounts to some ephemeral bits of data sent down a pipe, and also the pressure of having to choose how much to pay proved too great a dilemma for me.

Unfortunately, this joyous purchasing experience was somewhat marred by being served by possibly the rudest man on planet Earth, who practically failed to acknowledge my existence, never mind look at me.

After swiping the tenner from my hand, his eyeline never once again fell in my general direction, not as he tossed me my change, nor as he pushed the CD into my hand as if to say, 'We're finished here. Now fuck off.'

He was seemingly more interested in talking to his mate about his Xbox 360, which had apparently been cursed with the infamous red ring of death. I can only hope that this otherwise minor annoyance somehow develops into a bigger problem that goes on to ruin his life.

It's not that I haven't experienced the same level of 'service' in music stores before, but it's been a while since I've been given quite as short a 'shrift'.

It's perhaps my own fault; I should know better than to shop in HMV, but all the other cheapo places I used to like appear to have been crushed underfoot by the download revolution, which makes my hard copy purchase of In Rainbows all the more ironic.

Annoyingly, not five minutes later I noticed the same album in Tesco for a quid less, which after the cinema incident ▼, only served to compound my irritation.

On the way home however, I passed a Big Issue woman, and didn't bother buying a copy, which in a way makes me feel like I've broken even - despite the fact that I actually feel quite guilty and will almost certainly at some point end up giving £2 to charity to make up for it.

I Am... Reasonably Entertained

Annoyingly, for the sake of 'clever' blog posts titles at least, if I had strong feelings either way with regards to I Am Legend, I could have said something like, 'I Am Underwhelmed', or 'I Am Impressed'.

As it is, that's probably a good thing, as I imagine every talentless hack from here to Harrogate has already used one or the other.

It's strange that a film with such epic themes should leave so little impression, although having said that I wouldn't by any means consider it a waste of my valuable time/money. If I'm saying something similar after I go and see Alien Vs Predator in a couple of weeks, I'll be very much surprised.

SPOILY SPOILSTON ALERT

The Good:

1. The CGI. In helping to recreate a desolate New York City (at least I assume they didn't really blow up the Brooklyn Bridge), the use of computer technology has perhaps never been better implemented.
2. As ever, it's the little details that always linger longest in my memory. The movie poster that would seem to imply some sort of Batman/Superman crossover was a particularly nice touch.
3. The zombie leader. It was an unexpectedly creepy idea to have one of the infected lunatics retain his cognitive function, and indeed prove to be particularly cunning.

The Bad:

1. The CGI. I don't know who thought it would be acceptable to cut and paste the zombies from one of the Resident Evil games into a film and think anyone would be impressed. All they did was take you out of the film whenever you saw them up close. Rubbish. And what was with their stupid stretchy jaws? It was like something left over from one of the Mummy films.
2. Before I saw the film, I noticed it was a 15 certificate, and I was also under the impression that it was over 2 hours long. Upon watching it, it's clear neither of these things appears to be accurate. There's nothing in there that wouldn't seem out of place in a 12A (I don't even remember any swearing), and the running time clocks in at just over 90 mins, which seems very short indeed for a film dealing with such big ideas - although apparently the previous adaptation of Richard Matheson's book - The Omega Man starring Charlton Heston - is of similar length.
3. If that zombie is clever enough to set elaborate traps for Will Smith, why doesn't he wear some clothes so he can walk about in the daytime? And how come when Will stabs himself in the leg and has to drag himself to his car, is he able to stand up as soon as he reaches it? Or how, for that matter, after he's thrown all around his house the next day by King Zomb', is he still able to leg it upstairs afterwards?
4. And what was all the God-bollocks about at the end? I half expected Will to have a vision of his wife telling him everything was going to be alright.

The Ugly:

1. I dropped a pound on the floor just before the film started, which I failed to retrieve afterwards, even with the MacGyver-esque use of my iPod as a kind of impromptu torch, and if I can manage to say anything positive at all about the film after such hardship, it must have something going for it.

No News is No News

There seems to be a fundamental flaw with the basic concept of 24-hour rolling news stations, a problem never more evident than when a story breaks unexpectedly.

Like most people, I was shocked by the story of CBBC's Mark Speight being arrested on suspicion of murdering his girlfriend when I read about it on Friday morning. Quite frankly, it blew my mind, and my mind remained well and truly blown for the rest of the day as I was frequently reminded about it.

When I got home I happened upon this article in reference to the story. It doesn't really tell you much, but clearly there wasn't much information available at the time. What's most interesting though, is the embedded video at the top of the page. Here it is in case it disappears at some point:

What's striking is that correspondent Martin Brunt appears to actually know very little; indeed he seems to repeat the same three facts over and over again, implying that his in-depth research for this story amounted to a quick glance at Ceefax.

Curiously, he seems unsure about the most recent TV work of the people involved, something a cursory Google search would have confirmed for him.

At the end of the clip, when they all but claim to know bugger all, you kind of wish they would just say so instead of ploughing on with the relentless padding, rather than appear to lose face by admitting they've found no further new information.

In fact, as I write this, there's actually a suggestion that he had nothing to do with her death at all, but the best you can say is that no-one really knows anything either way.

What is true to say is that whatever the outcome, having his face appear on TV every 10 minutes with the word 'murder' associated with it isn't going to do him any favours.

Bumper New Year Blogfest

Wong!

Well, a new year comes and sits itself down on our sofa and refuses to move, in turn crushing 2007 beneath its buttocks.

What? Anyway, 2008 appears to have brought with it an embarrassment of stuff for me to prattle on about ineffectually, so wrap your retinas around this ▲, you wretched child.