#oneaday, Day 21: Fun Games to Play With a Microwave

It’s important to have some basic survival strategies in mind for every situation you may potentially find yourself in as part of daily life. And I’m not talking about those “just in case there’s a nuclear war and/or zombies” survival situations; I’m talking about those everyday situations which are statistically rather more likely to happen in your own lifetime, however stupid they might be.

For example, plausibly at some point in your life you may find yourself locked in a kitchen. Most people typically don’t have locks on their kitchen doors, but you never know; you might find yourself in the one house that does lock their kitchen doors (perhaps they’re trying to give up the midnight snacking or something) or indeed the kitchen of a fancy restaurant or hotel.

So picture the scene: disaster has struck. You, and possibly a few companions, have found yourself stuck in a kitchen. You can’t get the door open, and everyone outside who could have plausibly let you out of said kitchen has now left the immediate area/building to go and have sex and/or watch television.

You’re not left wanting for food—bitch, you be in a kitchen, yo—but you are somewhat starved of entertainment. It’s at this point that you—yes, you—can be the resourceful member of the group who teaches your companions how to have fun using only a microwave and some other utensils which are readily available in your average kitchen. Imagine what fun you’ll have while you wait to be rescued!

Bomb Disposal

Oh no! There’s a bomb in the kitchen! And it looks suspiciously like a microwave! What are you going to do? Defuse it, that’s what, and you’re going to do it in a cool way like in the movies.

You will need:
A microwave
Something to microwave that won’t explode or catch fire (frozen chips are ideal)
Something to keep score with (frozen chips are ideal)

Players: 3-the number of people you can physically fit in the kitchen.

Objective: To be the coolest bomb disposal technician on the Force.

Danger rating: Minimal

How to play:

One player is the Terrorist. They set the microwave to whatever time they like while one player, who is the Bomb Disposal Expert, faces in the other direction.

The Terrorist shouts “You have [amount of time microwave was set to] to save the world, asshole!” and then starts microwaving something. The Bomb Disposal Expert must remain facing in the other direction, and turn round in order to bash the “Stop” button on the microwave before the timer reaches zero. If the timer reaches zero, the current player is eliminated and must eat something raw that is usually cooked (frozen chips are ideal).

Once all non-Terrorist players have had a go, the person who stopped the timer closest to 0:01 wins a point. Give them something to celebrate their victory with (frozen chips are ideal). Repeat until bored, or you run out of microwaveable foodstuffs.

In case of a tie, resort to a frying-pan fight.

The Great Exploding Fruit Race!

It’s Race Day in the kitchen, but you’re not watching cockroaches scurry along crudely-designed courses marked out by baked beans! No! You’re going to make fruit explode!

You will need:
A microwave
Several different types of fruit
Something to write on and with (if no pens or paper are available, use a bottle of tomato ketchup or seafood sauce to write on walls/floor)
Something to keep score with (frozen chips are ideal)

Players: 1-a bajillion

Objective: To correctly bet how long it will take before the fruit you place in the microwave explodes.

Danger Rating: Moderate

How to play:

One player chooses a piece of fruit. Everyone writes down how long they think it will be before the fruit explodes. The fruit is microwaved until it explodes. The person nearest the correct answer wins a point. Repeat until you run out of fruit, you get bored, or your microwave explodes.

The Great Supper-Time Race!

It’s another Race Day in the kitchen, but this time it’s all about using your mad chef skills to beat the microwave at its own game! Except microwaves aren’t very good at making sandwiches, making you inherently better, so they have something more up their alley (Making Things Unevenly Hot) to do!

You will need:
A microwave
Sandwich ingredients (bread, butter and mutually-agreed fillings)
Some milk
A microwaveable cup

Players: 1-as many as you bloody well want

Objective: To successfully make a delicious sandwich before the microwave finishes warming a cup of milk.

Danger rating: Minimal

How to play:

Fill the cup with milk. Set the microwave for however long it normally takes to warm the milk without exploding—we’re not playing the bomb game any more. Two minutes is a good bet for average home microwaves. If you’re using a high-power industrial microwave from a restaurant, this game is much more difficult. Then put the cup of milk in the microwave and start it.

Now you must make a complete and structurally-sound sandwich before the milk is finished warming. If you fail to achieve this, all the other players are allowed to call you a “bell-end” six times a day until the end of the week, even if you’re in front of your parents.

In case of ties, all participants must then eat their milk and drink their sandwich as quickly as possible. Wait, what?

You Got Balls, Kid, I Like That

This is the most extreme game you can play with a microwave that doesn’t involve putting yourself inside it, and since most microwaves are not big enough to fit average-sized drunk humans (because let’s face it, if you’re locked in a kitchen, you’re probably drunk) that isn’t an option right now. This game may still result in your death and/or arson charges.

You will need:
A microwave
A selection of metal objects
Something to keep score with (frozen chips are ideal)
Balls of steel/equivalent ladyparts

Players: 1 (if suicidal)-many (mass suicide pact)

Objective: To be the bravest person in the group without killing everyone and/or burning down the kitchen you are locked in.

Danger Rating: If You Play This One For Real, You’re An Idiot And Deserve Everything You Get

How to play:

One player chooses a metal object and places it in the microwave. They then turn on the microwave and watch the pretty blue lightning. They must then stop the microwave as soon as they get scared something might be about to catch fire, explode and/or kill them.

The next player then steps up and does the same, until all players have had a go. The player who held on the longest without killing anyone is the winner of that round and gets a point. Repeat until you realise what a stupid idea this game is, and resort to chef’s knife swordfighting instead.

If anyone dies during this game, everyone loses.

I hope you enjoy these games. I am not responsible for any deaths that occur as a result of playing You Got Balls, Kid, I Like That.

#oneaday, Day 20: Idea Factory

They—I’m not sure who, just, you know, “them”—say that you should never write about writer’s block. Which is why I’m not writing about writers block; I’m writing about how I avoid it. An important thing to consider if you’re going to be writing something every day, I’m sure you’ll agree.

Firstly, I never think “I have nothing to write about”. If you believe you have nothing to write about, you’re not thinking hard enough. There is always something to write about, even if it’s the mundanity of your day, how much rubbish there is on your desk or how much your pants smell.

Banished that phrase from your memory? Good. Now you can start narrowing down all those possible things that you can write about into the one thing that you actually are going to write about.

First of all, think about your day, personally. Did anything interesting happen? Did anything amusing happen? Would other people find those things interesting or amusing? Is it something that you’d particularly like to remember when looking back over random entries months down the line? If not, then probably best to steer clear of writing about your day.

Next, think about the news. Did anything interesting happen? Did anything amusing happen? You get the idea. Did anything happen that you consider is worth commenting on? If so, why not try writing about it? There have been plenty of posts around the One A Day Project recently that are topical in nature, and they’ve sparked plenty of discussion in comment threads and even some complete counter-blogs at times.

If there’s nothing in the news that tickles your fancy, think about the most recent thing that has irritated you. People seem to enjoy a good rant about annoying things, particularly if they can relate to them. Perhaps you can frame it in the wider context of something else, or even start an occasional series of Things That Really Piss You Off About Socks.

If you’re the mild-tempered sort and don’t get annoyed about socks or the declining badger population of our riverbanks, perhaps something has inspired you recently. Maybe it’s something a friend did or said that’s led you on to doing something else. Maybe you’ve made the decision to make some changes in your own life, and you’d like to state them publicly “for the record”, as it were. Even if your blog doesn’t enjoy that many readers, putting virtual pen to metaphorical paper and stating in attractive, clear Times New Roman that yes, you are going to stop scratching your testicles in public because it is Freaking People The Fuck Out is more powerful than just making a resolution to yourself.

If there’s nothing in reality that tickles your fancy, delve into the realms of fantasy and do some creative writing. There’s no one way to be “good” at creative writing, as everyone has their own style. Just write what comes naturally. Perhaps it’s a simple, descriptive piece. Perhaps it’s a short scene. Perhaps it’s a complete self-contained story, or maybe a poem. Whatever it is, you summoned it up from your brain. That’s cool. That guy over there hasn’t done that today.

And if you struggle for inspiration in the creative sphere, try out “Freewriting”. Get a clock or stopwatch, set it for ten minutes, start it and just type. Type type type without stopping, without checking your work and without editing. Let the words flow freely out and see what happens. You may have a surreal, imaginative scene pop out. You may have the things you’re thinking about laid bare. Some home truths may be revealed. Whatever pops out as a result of freewriting, it’s often interesting to glance over afterwards and figure out where on Earth that came from.

Our world is made of language. There’s always something to write about. You just have to find it.

#oneaday, Day 19: Day 365, or: Judgement Day, or: Judgment Day, or: The Best Of 2010 (And A Bit Of 2011)

It’s dark. I remember falling through something—a trapdoor? But why would there have been a trapdoor in my house? It doesn’t make any sense. But then neither does being in a place so completely devoid of light. There’s usually at least a little light to see by, or at the very least, you eyes adjust to the darkness and let you make out the shapes of things in the room.

But here, there’s nothing. Just darkness.

Oh wait, and now a pair of glowing red eyes and a supercilious grin.

“Des,” I say. “Good to see you.”

Des lets out a bellowing laugh that seems to reverberate around this space we’re in, even though exactly what “this space” is isn’t clear.

“Seriously?” I say. “Evil laugh? There’s no need for that, is there?”

“I’m just trying to lend a bit of drama to the occasion,” says Des, sounding a little hurt. “Today is a big day, after all.”

“You’re right,” I say. “Though spending some time in a darkened room isn’t exactly how I’d have chosen to celebrate 365 entries of non-stop daily blogging. No offence.”

“None taken,” he says. “I know we haven’t always seen eye to eye. But I figured we’d do a bit of a Christmas Carol thing here, and whizz back through some memories. You like memories, right?”

“Hmm,” I say. “Depends what they are. If you’re referring to the memories of the year just gone, I’m not sure I do.”

“Nonsense,” Des says, laughing. “You’d be surprised. Let’s start from the top, shall we?”

“Must we?” I say. “This is going to be a long story, otherwise.”

“Yes,” snaps Des, a little more aggressively than he apparently intended, as he says it again, softer. “Yes. From the top.”

The blackness shimmers, and fades in to an image of me sitting at a laptop computer at an untidy desk in a classroom. I’m typing at my usual rapid rate of knots, but there’s a faintly confused expression on my face. I’m writing nothing in particular. No change there, then.

“Humble beginnings,” says Des. “I’m not sure you knew what you wanted to write about.”

“No,” I said. “I didn’t. To be honest, I wasn’t sure I’d be able to find something to write about every day for 365 entries. I wasn’t terribly happy at the time—no change there, then—but was aiming to take some positive steps to improve life for myself.”

“Right, right,” says Des. I can’t see his hands, but I imagine he’d be stroking his chin if I could. The image fades. “Like going to PAX East?”

“Yes,” I say, fondly remembering those awesome few days in March.

“Uh-huh,” says Des. “Good times, huh?”

“Right,” I say. “Good times. An escape from the unpleasantness that had come before, and the calm before the storm that was to come.”

“Overdramatic,” says Des. “But probably accurate. It was an interesting time all round, really, wasn’t it? What with that leaders’ debate, the time you met those Twitter people in town and forged several close friendships as a result and, of course, the day you decided to write all about cock.” Images flashed past rapidly as he spoke, ending with a close-up of a penis that I really wished would go away quickly.

“The word ‘cock’,” I correct him. “Also crudely-drawn ones. Not actual cock.”

“Oh,” says Des. “Do you have any idea how long it took me to find that perfect image?”

“Approximately 0.19 seconds using Google Images,” I say. “Plus maybe a minute’s browsing time? I mean, you’re the one who was surfing for cock. I don’t know how long you spent.”

“SHUT UP!” says Des, sounding extremely British. There is an uncomfortable silence for a moment. “You remember the time you picked a fight with Roger Ebert?”

“I wouldn’t call it me picking a fight with him,” I say. “He started it.”

“Oh please,” says Des. “What is this, the schoolyard?”

“No,” I say. “Fuck him, though, he made a lot of people a bit annoyed with those comments.”

“All right, all right,” says Des. “Keep your panties on. So, May, huh?”

I grit my teeth. May was not a good time.

“Yes?” I say. “What about May?”

“Well,” says Des. “Where to begin? You went dancing. You got really drunk and then analysed the experience in exhaustive and, I have to say, very amusing detail the next day.”

“Thanks,” I say.

“Welcome,” says Des. “You got a reply from Allie Brosh of Hyperbole and a Half. You successfully located some animated GIF images of stickmen shagging that you thought had been lost to the dark days of the Internet gone past.”

“Yes,” I say. “Thanks for bringing those up. They’ve been stuck in my top search terms ever since.”

“And talking of stickmen,” Des says, a flood of light suddenly appearing and a crudely-drawn stickmen dropping to the ground in it, “you introduced Stick-Pete, albeit a somewhat bizarre-looking one.”

“He was,” I begin, “I was looking worried. Of course his… my face is weird.”

“Right,” says Des. “Of course, you were under the impression at this point that it wasn’t always appropriate to have clumsily-drawn stickmen as part of what were often quite emotionally-draining blog posts.”

“Yeah,” I say. “I was wondering when that was going to come up.”

“I am a personification of your own black cloud of despair,” says Des. “Of course it was going to come up. But you know what, people seemed to appreciate the way you dealt with it in writing. You wrote a surprisingly poignant post about bacon sandwiches, which I think no-one was more surprised about the power of than you.”

“Uh-huh,” I mutter. “Can we talk about something else?”

“I suppose,” says Des. “Are you sure you don’t want to be miserable for a bit longer?”

“Quite sure,” I say. “I can do that every day. Show me something amusing.”

The stick-figure Pete is still standing in the beam of light, looking over at the pair of us, squinting into the darkness. I can’t tell if he can see us or not.

“Okay,” says Des. “How about this, then? Things you thought were true, but aren’t. Changed your mind on any of those yet?”

“No,” I say. “I still worry about my car exploding when someone throws a fag-end under it. Particularly with the weird noises it makes in cold weather.”

“And talking of weird,” says Des, sighing at his own pitiful segue, “you explored some of the strangest viral phenomena ever to come out of the Internet in one memorable post, I believe.”

There’s a sudden burst of sound and a chiptune version of the ALF theme starts playing. Stick-Pete starts dancing with two chicken wings that have inexplicably appeared in his hands. I can’t help but smile.

“Haha,” I say. “Seriously, what the fuck is that about?”

“I don’t know,” says Des. “But bear in mind you also prepared an exhaustive and illustrated guide on how to laugh on the Internet the following month, so I’m not sure you’re in a position to comment.”

The music continues. Stick-Pete continues to dance.

“Can we turn that off?” I say. “It’s a little distracting.”

“I kind of like it,” says Des, his red eyes bobbing around in the dark. “Catchy.”

I sigh. “Fair enough.”

“You also showed people the ten-step programme of how to go out on your own,” says Des. “Though I’m not sure your way of doing it will catch on, to be honest.”

“No, perhaps not,” I say. “But then, you know what an antisocial git I am. I have time to write a blog every day which includes a comic strip, however crudely drawn it may be. Do you remember when that started?”

“Yes,” says Des. “And the first person in it was that blonde bint Lucy. And you.”

Stick-Pete stops dancing and the music stops. As amusing as that piece of music is, it’s been getting a little tiresome over the last few minutes. A blonde girl stickperson drops down next to Stick-Pete and they smile at each other. Stick-Pete offers her a chicken wing. She accepts.

“While I was taking my work into new and unexplored territory, though,” I says, “some other people were deciding that they didn’t want to carry on. I chose to honour them in my own individual way.”

“And honour them you did,” says Des. “Much as you honoured the guys and girls at Kombo when that site went through… changes. And again when The Big Pixels launched. And again when—”

“Yeah, yeah, I get it,” I say. “Look, is this going on much longer? Only it’s been nearly 1500 words now, and that shit all happened in October.”

“All right,” says Des. “Let’s quickly jump into a few big achievements and leave it at that. I’m sure you have more important things to do. Like writing blogs. Oh wait.”

“Shut up,” I say. “Celebrate my achievements. I haven’t had that many opportunities to do that in the last few months.”

“All right, all right,” says Des. “How about that time you beat the Couch 2 5K running programme? That was pretty awesome.”

“You’re right,” I say. “That was pretty awesome. Not to mention the fact I’m still going, and aiming for a 10K in May.”

“May, huh?”

“Shut up.”

“You also did your bit to enhance international understanding,” says Des, ignoring me. “And frankly, I’m not sure why you’re reviewing the year again right now, because you did just that on New Year’s Eve.”

“Yes, but—” I begin, not sure where that sentence is going to end. “Never mind. Are we nearly done?”

“I’d say so,” says Des. “The recent stuff is… well, recent. People can look back for themselves.”

“All right,” I say. “Can I go now?”

“In a moment,” says Des. “First, you must BEHOLD MY TRUE FORM!!”

There’s a flash of light. Stick-Pete and Lucy look on in horror as the darkness swirls around, revealing a huge, slobbering monster with thousands of tentacles, wings, mouths and spider-like legs emanating from it in every direction. I am nonplussed.

“Seriously?” I say. “You’re doing the JRPG final boss thing?”

“Oh come on,” says Des, his voice now loud and booming. “You love final bosses. You have waxed lyrical at great length on the subject, even long before you started doing this every day.”

“Yes,” I say, smiling. “But I’m not at the end yet.”

#oneaday, Day 18: Why Blog?

Mark Fraser wrote a great post earlier today on the nature of blogging—particularly daily blogging—and the reasons we do it. In this post, I thought I’d explain why I do it. It seems like a faintly topical thing to do, especially since tomorrow marks one year since I started writing daily. One year. 365 entries, most of which are around the 500-1,000 word mark. That’s a lot.

So why do it?

Because I enjoy it.

Shit, that sounds like far too simple an answer, and at the end of this sentence that’s only 93 words. That’s not enough for the arbitrary minimum I set myself back when I started.

But it’s the truth. The reason I write this blog is because I enjoy it. Sure, it’s great that some people come and read it. Some people are even subscribed to it (that’s dedication for you). Other readers have undoubtedly come and gone. Some are recent additions to my little family of readers (oh, you, I love you all) but, you know, the only reason I’m writing this is because I enjoy it. The fact that you lot out there in readerland seem to enjoy some of the things I write is a happy bonus that I wouldn’t exchange for anything.

I can tell when something I post is going to be a big hit, though. When I posted about Kevin Smith’s unfortunate experiences with Southwest Airlines, I saw a big spike in people reading. Similarly, when I bitched about that ridiculous campaign on Facebook where everyone changed their avatar to a childhood cartoon, I had, I think, the most daily hits I’ve ever had. Which, given that the daily cartoon for that particular post featured someone masturbating furiously, was something of a bittersweet success. So to speak.

The thing is, though, I don’t deliberately court readers. The notion of “hit-chasing” is seen as a necessary evil in the world of online journalism, which is why we get so many games sites lowering the tone with “OMG BEWBZ” articles, because that will get the clicks from the horny teenage boys who supposedly populate the Internet. Unfortunately, it seems to work, leading to something of a self-perpetuating cycle. Similarly, the Daily Mail undoubtedly enjoys a massive spike in traffic by posting something completely cuntish like they did the other day. Go find it yourself, I’m not linking to those bastards again.

But this site? No. This is for me. It’s selfish but it’s true. I’m very lucky to have some friends who enjoy reading my work and appreciate my stupid cack-handed cartoons—and occasionally some random strangers, too. Writing this blog every day is something fun to do that I look forward to. It’s helped me work my way through some difficult times. And it’s helped my writing as a result.

Basically, I don’t play the game in the same way Mark describes. At least not consciously. But one thing I do enjoy is being an active part of the One A Day Project community—one of the reasons I decided to step up and try and organise the whole thing this year was based on one of the most common complaints last year: there was no sense of community. There was no “centralised” place for people to come together, and some of the participants weren’t even aware of each others’ existence. This led to the situation where there were only six people left at the end of the year. (Ironically, of course, this led to us becoming friends, as six blogs are much easier to keep up with than 160.)

This year, though, we’re already seeing people posting some cool responses to each others’ posts as standalone entries in their own right, some discussion and banter on Twitter, and I know of at least a couple of awesome friendships that have already formed as a direct result of all this.

So while I primarily still write for my own amusement, catharsis and/or personal development, I feel it’s important to say that I do appreciate the community of other bloggers out there, some of whom might be reading this right now.

Kissy kissy. Wuv yooo.

#oneaday, Day 17: It’s Not Blue Monday

You can take the pulse of a day pretty quickly by looking at Twitter at any given point. Looking in the morning generally gives you an idea of how people are going to treat the rest of the day. On a Monday, there’s generally a lot of bitching about going back to work, about the weekend not being long enough, about getting up early, that sort of thing.

This morning looked like it was going to be a particular humdinger of a Monday, with everyone seemingly convinced it was the “most depressing day of the year” for some inexplicable reason. Despite the grey, miserable skies and the light “I can’t be arsed to rain properly” drizzle falling outside, it didn’t feel any more depressing than usual. (Hah! He says.) It just seemed like a fairly typical day in good old Blighty, the kind that Bill Bailey describes as being “one of the days that infuses us as a nation with a kind of wistful melancholy”. He’s entirely right. No-one likes grey, miserable days, but this day was no more grey and miserable than any other. In fact, up North, they’d probably just call it “a day”.

I heard the term “Blue Monday” bandied about a bit, so I decided to investigate this terminology in a little more detail using that reliable fountain of collected human wisdom that is Wikipedia.

Blue Monday, says Wikipedia, was a name given to a date supposedly the “most depressing in the year”. It then goes on to add that this was part of a publicity campaign from Sky Travel. Uh-huh. Starting to get the picture here.

But wait! There’s SCIENCE! Specifically, a formula. Here it is:

where weather=W, debt=d, time since Christmas=T, time since failing New Year’s resolutions=Q, low motivational levels=M and the feeling of a need to take action=Na. Neither “D” nor a unit of measurement are defined.

So already we can see that this isn’t the most scientific thing in the world. Supposedly, this nonsensical formula points to the Monday in the last full week of January. Which is not this week, but next week. So even if this theory held any water, today is not Blue Monday.

The fact that the whole thing was part of a marketing campaign is pretty telling, though. Conveniently enough, the supposed “happiest day of the year” has also been calculated as somewhere around midsummer. The source of this “research”? A press release by Wall’s ice cream. Who’d have thought that the happiest day of the year according to an ice cream manufacturer would be a good time to enjoy ice-cream?

Hmm. Apparently today may not be the most depressing day of the year but it is certainly starting to feel like the most cynical day of the year.

It’s the most wonderful time of the yeeeeeear—

#oneaday, Day 16: I Need A (Non-Copyright-Infringing) Hero

Bloody MMOs. They seem to be something of a weakness of mine, despite the fact that I’ve never been what I’d call a “hardcore player” of them. To whit, the character I started on the launch day of World of Warcraft only hit level 80 towards the end of last year, and I haven’t gone back to it since Cataclysm hit store shelves. Over the years, I’ve tried Everquest (crashy), Dark Age of Camelot (bewildering and intimidating), Ultima Online (slooooow), Everquest 2 (pretty), City of Heroes (super-fun), Final Fantasy XI (<Incredibly tough><Galka><rod>+<Mithra>=<Help me out!>), Star Trek Online (space combat! Yay!), EVE Online (WTF am I supposed to be doing?) and probably a few others besides.

The thing I love about them is creating a character that is your representation in the world. In single-player games with character creators, you tend to either play the game from a first-person perspective or spend the majority of the game staring at your character’s arse. But in an MMO, your carefully-crafted character can be appreciated by other people, and earn you compliments and friends, especially if you play as a woman with boobies.

I enjoyed City of Heroes from the above list particularly; there’s something very satisfying and fun about the superhero genre, and the MMO format seemed to fit surprisingly well with it. So I’d been keeping a cautious eye on DC Universe Online, but hadn’t thought that much about it. Until it came out, several of my friends started playing and had many positive things to say about it. Friends that didn’t particularly play MMOs, in some cases. Even Jessica Chobot’s playing.

Now I’ll preface the following with the confession that while I like comics and graphic novels, I’m not by any means a comic nerd. I don’t know the backstories and histories of the DC Universe characters, and I couldn’t name that many if prompted to. But from what I can gather, this is arguably a benefit in DC Universe Online‘s case, as a few people are getting a bit snobby about some of the power sets and weapons on offer for players. Fair play to them. I don’t care.

You know why I don’t care? Because DC Universe Online is super-fun. One important thing sets it apart from the vast majority of “me too” RPGs out there, and that’s the console-friendly action-game combat system. Instead of hitting the “auto-attack” button once and waiting for either your enemy or your character to fall over first, occasionally triggering skills on cooldown timers that are slightly too long to be comfortable, you feel like you’re part of the action, setting off a variety of ridiculous combos with what you’ve chosen to be your character’s signature weapons. So far I’ve tried a character with a sword and one with twin pistols and they play significantly differently from one another, which is nice. The primary weapon can then be combined with a “power set”, which determined what your more spectacular powers involve and your role in the group, and a “movement power”—flight, super-speed or acrobatics.

Now, the key difference that sets DC Universe Online apart from, say, City of Heroes is the fact that the things you’re doing from the very beginning seem to actually matter. There are plenty of “go here and kill [x] things” quests, but they make up part of an overarching storyline that culminates in a proper boss fight between hero and villain, usually with the support of some other characters from the DC universe. Contrast this with World of Warcraft, which, pre-Cataclysm (I haven’t tried it since, remember) didn’t let you into the interesting dungeons prior to gaining a significant number of levels. In DCUO, you’re straight into the action. And it’s great fun.

The fun factor is helped along by some decent presentation—there’s some great-sounding music and plenty of voice acting, too, which is unusual for an MMO. Although the game was supposedly rushed out of the door to meet a deadline (and has a few rough edges here and there as a result—nothing which can’t be fixed with a patch, though) it looks good, sounds good and feels like a “proper” game—something which many MMOs forget to do, making the experience feel more like work.

It’s also great to see an MMO working well on a console. The control scheme for the PS3 pad keeps everything within easy reach and makes it feel like an action game. It’s worth having a keyboard on hand for easy chatting, but there’s plenty of predefined chat macros and emotes you can use, so it’s not essential. There’s also a voice chat facility built in, too, so those of you who want to broadcast the fact that your hot lady hero is actually being played by a 29-year old man (*whistles innocently*) can do so.

I haven’t played enough to comment at any great depth on whether or not it gets old or boring later. But there certainly seems to be plenty of content—besides the main missions, there’s lots of “collections” and “investigations” to complete, encouraging exploration of the world. There are also races, PVP arenas, “Legends” battles (where you can play as iconic DC heroes and villains) and all manner of other goodies too. So, hopefully, there’ll be 1) plenty of things to do for some time yet and 2) a long period of support for the game.

The fact that the PS3 version has sold out in many places is encouraging—even though it’s probably simply due to short stock. What it does mean, though, is that people are open to the idea of an MMO on PS3 and are enthusiastic about giving it a chance. This is a good thing, and hopefully the game will enjoy the success it deserves.

Further reports will doubtless follow in the coming weeks as I explore the game further. For now, let it be known that if you’re looking for a decent superhero game, DC Universe Online might just fit the bill for you.

(But if you do play it, for heaven’s sake come up with a name more imaginative than”Súperman”, “Róbin” or “Warcraft”, all of whom I’ve seen today. Seriously. Imagination is free. Use it.)

#oneaday, Day 15: Regression

I’m of the firm belief that you should never apologise for something you’ve written, particularly during something like a #oneaday challenge, because it comes from the heart. It comes from within you, reflects what you’re actually feeling or thinking about and is, basically, something that shows who you are and what you’re thinking. That sort of makes sense.

To clarify: I have been drinking quite a bit and as such this post may not be the most coherent thing in the world. But I make not apologies for this as drinking is fun, in moderation.

To whit, I went out with an old friend tonight; my friend Woody, who is someone I went to school with. I didn’t get to know him, really, until I got into Sixth Form, when we spent a lot of time each lunchtime playing Uno, eating cheese and bacon baguettes and playing a bit more Uno. But since that time, we’ve stayed in touch and occasionally gone out to get a bit drunk.

Tonight was one such occasion. I haven’t had the opportunity to go out and get pissed for quite some time. Actually, that’s not quite accurate. The last time I went out to get pissed was New Year’s Eve, during which time I managed to drink a lot and somehow spectacularly failed to get drunk whatsoever. This may have been something to do with the amount of Kinect gaming that took place during that time. Dance Central, it seems, is a suitable antidote to drinking.

Tonight, though, was another matter. Plied with Sambuca and beer prior to going out to the delightful pubs of Cambourne (imaginatively named due to its geographical proximity to both Cambridge and Bourne), we drank quite a bit and reminisced about the good old days.

As you get older, the opportunities to do something along these lines get more and more infrequent, so it’s worth taking them when you can. Because sometimes, there’s nothing better than sitting down with a good friend, chatting about days gone by, remembering times you’d got intoxicated on substances of your choice and the silly things that had occurred as a result of said intoxication.

Woody, incidentally, is someone who has managed to remain all but invisible to the Internet, which is something of an achievement in this day and age. But you might say that makes the memories I have with him all the more precious, as the only record of his existence I have these days are the few photos I have of him now. Most of which involve being drunk.

The UK has a drinking problem, it’s clear from just walking down any big city high street on a Friday night. But sometimes, just sometimes, it’s nice to spend some time with a friend getting off your tits and having a good laugh about days gone by.

That’s what happened tonight. And I hope it happens more often.

#oneaday, Day 14: Is A Tardy Person Called A “Tard”?

Some people are habitually late for everything they do. Some more so than others. Some of them justify it under the guise of being “fashionably late”, that obnoxious concept where people, for some inexplicable reason, believe that the time on an invitation is open to negotiation, particularly if the event in question doesn’t involve people talking, singing, dancing or stripping (forget that last one) for your pleasure on a stage.

Where has this concept come from, though? eHow gives a frankly unnecessarily detailed five-step guide of how to be fashionably late. Urban Dictionary defines it as anywhere between 5 and 45 minutes depending on the event. But then they also define it as “showing up 5 minutes late with a supermodel on your cock”, so perhaps take their word with a grain or two of salt. The ever-reliable Ask Yahoo! fails to come up with any conclusive answers whatsoever. And no-one seems to be able to quote a reputable source pointing out where this concept came from in the first place, besides something vague about “rich and famous people at parties”.

So why do people do it, and where are they taught to be this way? I’m typically on time for things, unless it’s something REALLY IMPORTANT, in which case I will usually arrive three hours early, get bored, go and find somewhere that sells sandwiches, eat them, realise I’m going to be late if I don’t hurry the fuck up and end up rushing to get to the place at which I arrived exceedingly early in the first place. But social occasions? If I say I’ll be there at 8pm, I’ll be there at 8pm.

Many embittered experiences and mournful tweets from a lonely booth in the corner of a bar haven’t taught me my lesson yet. I turned up on time for my own stag night and my guests waltzed in the door approximately two hours later. I’d been having some fun on Twitter in the meantime, of course, but that meant by the time we were all drunk enough to collectively pretend we were a hot 18-year old virgin on Omegle my phone battery was almost flat. We went on to have an awesome night, incidentally, but it could have been two hours longer had people showed up when I’d asked them to.

People don’t change easily, so there’s no real sense complaining about this in the long run, though. So with that in mind, I think I’ll just keep on being the barfly for two lonely, Twitter-filled hours while I wait for people to show up. And the rest of you can take your time washing your balls, applying supposedly-attractive smelly liquids, polishing your shoes, swearing at holes in your trousers/pants/tights, realising that your boots don’t fit any more, finishing watching that hilarious series of 200 cat videos on YouTube or having a nervous breakdown in the meantime.

I’ll see you at the bar! (And just because I got there first does not mean I will be getting the first round in, just so you know. Actually, it does. I will have got the first round in. A round of one drink. For me. Yeah.)

#oneaday, Day 13: My Name Is Wicka Wicka Slim Shady

Anyone who’s had any kind of interaction with any kind of online community and wanted to take your relationship with the people you know to the “next level” will have dealt with the situation above at some point or another in their life. You’re sure you recognise someone from their avatar, but you’re not quite sure if you should go over and say hello to them or not, even though you might have been exchanging filthy penis anecdotes online for the last two years. (Filthy anecdotes about penises. Not anecdotes about filthy—oh, you know.)

Then, once you finally do summon up the courage to walk over and say hello to this person that you might have thought you were quite close to until you were faced with the terror of spending time in physical proximity to them, you are faced with a very difficult question, and one which has baffled philosophers throughout the years.

“Who am I?”

There’s a moment of silence when time seems to freeze. It occurs right after you say the words “Hello, I’m” and is a moment that seems to last forever. You have an important decision to make at this point—a decision which will determine your conversational partner’s immediate reaction to you.

That decision is whether to introduce yourself as your username or your actual name. For people whose usernames are their real names, this isn’t an issue (though it does often prompt the overly-formal seeming “introduction using both first and last names, occasionally including middle initials” situation rather than the more casual “Hey. I’m Pete.”) but for those of us who picked ridiculous usernames and are now stuck with them, known better as our self-appointed, perfectly-justifiable-to-ourselves-but-harder-to-explain-to-others monikers than our actual names? It’s a difficult decision to make.

“Hello, I’m Pete,” assumes that your conversational partner has paid attention to your profile (assuming you put your real name on it, which some people don’t) and carries the risk of them looking at you blankly and going “Who?” while walking up to someone and cheerfully announcing that “I’m angryjedi!” could simply prompt a look of bewilderment, a cry of “No, I’m angryjedi!” to start echoing around the room or someone laughing in your face.

In my experience, it’s often best to do both. “Hello, I’m Pete—@angryjedi from Twitter.” This is usually followed by a “Well, you don’t look very angry to me!” (obviously they haven’t read this blog enough) which we all have a good titter about and then move on to actual proper grown-up conversation. Or possibly shouting “COCK!” at each other, depending on the appropriateness of doing so in the context.

Last night, I attended an event at which a number of people I knew from Twitter, including several other One A Day Project bloggers, were in attendance. It was probably the smoothest this particular exchange has ever gone, with the possible exception of PAX East last year, an environment that positively embraces nerdism and encourages you to cry “I am xXSanguine-Warrior69Xx!” from the rooftops.

I was actually surprised at myself. Confronted with a room full of those that I see as SUPA IMPOARTANNT PEEPLE FOR MUCH RESTECP (including Ian Livingstone, Jon Hare, Richard Wilson of TIGA, Andy Payne of UKIE, a whole mess of MPs and a variety of journo types) I was expecting to freeze up and/or drink myself into oblivion with the graciously-provided free refreshments. It was not to be, though. I schmoozed with the best of them, got some great interviews (the iPhone is fantastic as a portable recorder, if you’ve never tried it, incidentally) and had a brilliant time.

I came out of the whole thing thinking “Yeah. This is something I want to do.” Which is nice.

Now to get on that.

#oneaday, Day 12: Welcome Home

[Disregard the above. It is nothing to do with the below. This is a short piece of fiction that I promised I’d write. It is late and I have been out all evening. But this is no excuse to not write something. So here is… something. I feel I should not have bothered with this disclaimer as it probably diminshes the atmosphere. Still, it separates the prose below from the cartoon about a man getting his penis out above. Which is, I suppose, a good thing. Now. Shut up and read.]

He sat in the chair by the big windows that looked out over the pristine courtyard below. The chair was comfy, his apartment was immaculate and the lush foliage down below looked completely perfect. If there were such a thing as Paradise, this planet was surely as close to it as Man was ever supposed to get.

He stood and walked solemnly up to the window pane, gently sliding it open with his free hand and letting the cool, clean air of this new world flow in through the gap, filling his lungs with purity.

He closed his eyes and breathed deeply. This was a far cry from the overcrowded, polluted atmosphere that was the Earth he left behind. For a brief moment, he wondered what state the planet was in after their long voyage, but the image soon faded, and the darkness started closing in. He opened his eyes to escape it, if only for a moment.

I should be happy, he thought. This should be the happiest moment of my life. I am part of history. Never again will anyone get the chance to do what I am doing right now. A virgin world that was ripe for colonisation, prepared for Man’s arrival by the machines and now inhabited by the first humans ever to step forward and volunteer themselves to live permanently away from Mother Earth? There are people who would kill for that opportunity—there were people who killed for that opportunity—but there was no happiness here, no pride. Nothing could erase the pain he felt.

Everyone knew the risks when they signed up. The stasis chambers had been successful in small-scale, short-term laboratory tests, but all the colonists knew that they were really test subjects for use of the chambers on a voyage of many years in length. The potential rewards outweighed the risks for many participants in the program, most of whom were unemployed, or living in the dirtiest, most run-down areas of the cramped, overcrowded cities. The chance of a new life on a virgin Utopia was too good to pass up, even if it meant relying on an unproven technology.

He recalled the last time he had seen her before the voyage began. As husband and wife, their pods had been next to each other, so they had the chance to be together right up until the last moment.

“Sweet dreams,” she had said to him, kissing him lightly on the lips and touching his nose playfully with her fingertip. “We’ll be in our new home before you know it.”

He had smiled at her, held her close and kissed her back, and gazed into her eyes as she lay back into her pod, the Space Corps officer closing the lid, ready for her journey into the unknown. She had blown him a kiss just before the lid had clicked shut.

Smiling, he lay back into his own pod, closing his eyes and picturing her face. The sight of her always brought him comfort. He knew that wherever she was, that was home. And the thought of starting a new life with her on this exciting, unknown new world that they’d heard so much about on the NewsWire—that was a thought that had kept him going. The knowledge that they’d be escaping the constant struggle to survive in post-War London. The fact that they’d be able to start a family without having to deal with the bureaucracy of the Overpopulation Act of 2342. It felt like their life was starting again, like they were being given a second chance, and one which wasn’t doomed from the outset.

He felt the cool air of the pod bay stop caressing his face, and he heard the “click” of the lid closing. He opened his eyes, and all was darkness. It was beginning, and he knew that this would be the last memory he would be having for a while. He closed his eyes again and pictured her face smiling at him; those beautiful blue eyes, those luscious, kissable lips that he could never resist, the cute dimples on her cheeks when she grinned.

Then, nothingness, like a sudden and involuntary sleep. He had no idea how much time passed between the complete loss of all his senses and the moment he became aware again, hearing the “click” of the pod unlocking and seeing the lid open into the darkened bay.

He had known as soon as he saw the face of the Space Corps officer opening his lid that something was wrong.

“What is it?” he said, his voice croaking. “What is it?” he said again, louder this time. The officer said nothing, but clearly looked worried.

He braced himself against the sides of the pod and hauled himself to his feet. The lights of the bay had been lowered so as not to dazzle the awakening colonists, but he still felt the need to squint as he stepped out into the cold air. The officer offered him help in getting to his feet, but he brushed it aside, looking over to that all important pod next to his own. Her pod.

It was still closed. The lid was still firmly atop it, even though it seemed that most of the other colonists were now waking up, starting to mill about and speak to one another hesitantly. He knew that something was very wrong, and he turned to the officer again.

“Tell me,” he hissed. “Why haven’t you woken her up?”

Footsteps behind him. The sound of his approach—the man who would say the words that would change his life forever. The sound of the shoes clanking on the metal floor got closer and closer, then stopped.

“I’m afraid we have some bad news,” came a voice from behind him. He felt a hand on his shoulder, but he was already starting to feel dizzy, nauseous and afraid. He turned around to face the source of the voice and found himself looking at a short man in a white lab coat, a messy mop of grey hair atop his head, a grim expression on his face.

He could barely form words. He didn’t want to ask the question, but it came out almost involuntarily.

“What… what happened?” he asked, his voice quavering. The extremities of his vision seemed to blur, and his head was pounding. He couldn’t take not knowing any more, whatever this bad news was.

“I’m sorry,” said the grey-haired man. “But your wife… she didn’t survive the voyage.”

He let out a loud cry, the support of his legs gave out, and he collapsed to his knees. He stared straight ahead, the man’s words echoing around his mind, over and over again. “She didn’t survive the voyage.” So cold. So clinical. And over there, in the pod that had become her coffin, there she was.

There was a long silence. The other colonists milling around the bay had stopped, watching this strange scene unfold in front of them. A few of them looked like they’d figured out what was happening, some of them gesturing to the closed pod and whispering to one another, but the low buzz of conversation seemed to have ceased.

He closed his eyes, tears running silently down his cheeks, and he breathed deeply in a vain attempt to compose himself. Opening his eyes again and looking to the grey-haired man through his distorted, tear-filled vision, he spoke uneasily.

“Can… Can I… see…”

The grey-haired man stroked his chin and looked solemnly at him.

“If you wish,” he said. “However, I feel I should warn you that the contents of that pod… may not be how you wish to remember your wife.”

He staggered to his feet, tears still running down his face, and walked slowly over to the pod.

“Show me,” he growled. The grey-haired man nodded to the officer, who looked very uncomfortable, but silently walked over to the side of the pod, pressed a button and started to open the lid.

Instantly, he knew that his wife was gone. He turned away in disgust at that which he had but glimpsed. She had clearly been dead for a very long time, and that was not how he wanted to remember her. The grey-haired man had been right. He couldn’t sully the memory of her beautiful face with what she had become thanks to the failure of technology.

But it was too late. It had been but a glimpse, but it was already seared into his memory. And even now, standing here, breathing in the crisp, cool air of this virgin planet, he could not be happy. His new beginning had been cut short by cruel Fate.

As he raised the barrel of the gun to his temple, he closed his eyes and whispered one simple phrase, one which he had hoped he would be saying for the rest of his life.

“I love you.”