#oneaday Day 454: The Black Crochan

I mentioned a while back that I'd started reading The Chronicles of Prydain by Lloyd Alexander, the series of novels that the Disney movie The Black Cauldron was loosely based on — and which, in turn, the Sierra adventure game The Black Cauldron (my first encounter with the series) was even more loosely based on.

The other night, I finished reading the second book in the series. Much like the best-known book in the Chronicles of Narnia series is the second one (The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe), so too, it seems, is the case for The Chronicles of Prydain. Because the second book in the series is the one called The Black Cauldron. But if you're only familiar with the Disney movie or the Sierra game, it's around here that things diverge a bit more wildly.

Y'see, in the Disney movie, the Big Bad of the piece was the Horned King. And he was terrifying. He was terrifying in the 160×200 chunky pixel graphics of the Sierra game and, while I haven't watched the Disney movie yet (though I did acquire it on DVD recently) I am given to understand that he is even more frightening in fully animated form.

But in the actual books — spoiler, I guess, though I'm not apologising for it, given that we're talking about a series from the mid-1960s — The Horned King is offed rather unceremoniously at the end of the first book, The Book of Three, and this is well before protagonist Taran and his buddies have come anywhere even vaguely close to the Black Cauldron itself. As the name suggests, it's not until the second book, The Black Cauldron, that Taran and company set off on a quest to deal with the infernal thing once and for all, and the whole situation is resolved rather differently to how things happen in the movie — and in the game, which is different again.

To be clear, I don't mind these differences at all. If anything, it makes experiencing The Black Cauldron in all its different forms all the more worthwhile. It makes sense for the movie to have a more self-contained story with fewer characters — and for the game to be even more limited in scope. The book has no such constraints, meanwhile, and as such there's a much stronger feeling of "fantasy epic" to the whole thing.

Thus far I've found the whole thing to strike an excellent balance between readability and not treating the reader like a moron. Lloyd Alexander respects the intelligence of his readers, but he doesn't overwhelm them with difficult prose, over-elaborate descriptions or pretentious language. Instead, we get a clear story with some well-crafted characters and some genuine stakes to the action.

I particularly want to highlight his character work. While many of the characters in the series are relatively simplistic — Taran in particular is clearly intended for the young male reader to project himself onto — there are some definite standouts. As mentioned in my previous piece on The Book of Three, I am thoroughly enamoured with the Princess Eilonwy, who takes her place alongside Ce'Nedra from David Eddings' The Belgariad/Malloreon and Lady Mandragorina from Douglas Hill's Talents series as one of my favourite spunky, sassy princesses. She might even be my favourite to date. The girl's got bite, but she also knows when to switch it off and be supportive. Since she and Taran are clearly going to end up together, I'll preemptively say that he's a lucky man.

Anyway, I'm yet to start the third volume of the series — I'll likely kick that off once we're on holiday — but I've been really enjoying it so far. Looking forward to reading the rest, for sure — and, as I've previously said, very sorry and frustrated with myself that I've never read it prior to today!

Want to read my thoughts on various video games, visual novels and other popular culture things? Stop by MoeGamer.net, my site for all things fun where I am generally a lot more cheerful. And if you fancy watching some vids on classic games, drop by my YouTube channel.

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#oneaday Day 451: Random encounters

Popular Internet wisdom has it that you should never read the comments. And, for the most part, this is fairly sound advice. Because if you do read the comments, there is a significantly greater-than-zero percent chance that you will run into someone like "Steven Woolf" here, a thoroughly disagreeable individual who did me the questionable courtesy of leaving a particularly rancid comment on a five year old MoeGamer article earlier today:

I have never encountered this person before. Their email address was unfamiliar to me. The fact they showed up in the comments of an article from five years ago suggests to me that they stumbled across MoeGamer via random Googling. And the fact they took such umbrage at me using a naughty word to discourage "AI people" from feeling in any way welcome on my site suggests to me that they are, themselves, an "AI person" and thus, by extension, a cunt.

Comments like this are always sort of fascinating, because there was evidently some sort of thought process involved — and one that is alien to me. What was Steven Woolf doing reading a five year old article about a character from an obscure Japanese beat 'em up? The nature of his comment suggests that he wasn't there to celebrate his love of Japanese video games, otherwise he might have, you know, mentioned Japanese video games. Instead, he chose to absolutely, spectacularly lose his shit at a disclaimer halfway down my site's sidebar presented in a 12 pixel high font. Why is that? Could it be because he's a cunt? All signs point to "yes" thus far.

What's even better is that because MoeGamer (and likewise this site) has an "approval" process for new commenters, meaning that his furious, impotent raging at my discouraging of AI cunts from using my site as the basis for any of their lake-boiling bullshit will remain completely invisible to the rest of the world for all time, with the only record of it being a snarky post on Bluesky (which he doesn't appear to be on, and which will be deleted at the end of this week anyway) and this post here, which he will probably never see because it's on a different website and he's almost certainly too stupid to track it down for himself despite 90% of the URL being the same.

And even if he does find it, all he'll really encounter is the simple and indisputably correct assessment that he is, in fact, a cunt.

So well done, Steven Woolf. You gave me something to write about today. You have officially become content, and that's not a fate I would wish on anyone, except you, because you are a cunt.

I hope you're having a better day now you got your little tantrum out of the way. If not, I recommend you go and play some video games or something. I hear Denjin Makai is pretty good?

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#oneaday Day 449: Revisiting Teachers

Back in the dim, distant past before streaming video services were a thing, and in a wonderful time before the apparently collective decision that if you're not continually "consuming new content" you're Doing It Wrong, there were several DVD series I had on my shelf that were in almost continual rotation in my DVD player. Spaced, Black Books, Peep Show, Big Train, that sort of thing; a particular brand of British comedy, almost always originally broadcast on Channel 4, and in many cases involving the exact same cast members.

(Aside: a fair few of these have been sullied a little in recent years by their association with Graham "I Hate Trans People… Wait, Why Do You All Hate Me Now" Linehan, but I do try my best not to let that bother me too much, because these series — and the work of the actors therein, most of whom do not subscribe to Linehan's odious bigotry — will always be special to me.)

One of my absolute favourites was Teachers, which was a thoroughly interesting show. I've just re-acquired the DVDs of the complete season, and I watched the first episode last night for the first time in a very long while.

Teachers, if you're unfamiliar, is probably best described as a comedy-drama rather than an out-and-out comedy. It initially focuses on the life of a 27 year old English teacher named Simon, who works at a comprehensive school in Bristol. In later series, several of the original cast members (including Andrew Lincoln, who played Simon) depart to make way for a new ensemble cast, so as a complete run it's more of a snapshot of a moment in a group of people's lives rather than a particularly "personal" story as such. There are a few constants along the way, though.

One of the most interesting things about Teachers is its heavily stylised nature. A trademark of the show is how each episode looks at several days across a typical week, and the introduction to each week is done diegetically through the name of the day appearing on something in the world — on a billboard, on a sheet of paper being photocopies, on a computer display, that sort of thing. This is just the beginning of things, though.

There's an almost hallucinogenic quality to certain sequences in Teachers, which certainly in the initial series is intended to reflect the somewhat turbulent state of mind that our hero, Simon, is in. Simon, you see, is a bit stressed out and starting to have significant doubts over whether he actually wants to be a teacher, and his rather rocky relationship with his peer in the English department, a stern woman named Jenny (played with great enthusiasm by Nina Sia), certainly doesn't make things any easier.

Sometimes these stylised sections are very obvious, such as when Simon returns to school the night after a drunken night out, during which he and his friends broke into the school and let a sheep in, among other things, and starts hallucinating that a full-on forensics team is dusting down his classroom for prints. At others, they are subtle, such as peculiar things happening in the background of scenes — the aforementioned sheep continually shows up throughout the series, for example — or little sound effects, such as when Jenny aggressively touches Simon on the shoulders with her fingertips while admonishing him, and you can hear the sound of sizzling.

One of the best things about the show is the ensemble of Kurt and Brian, played by Navin Chowdhry and Adrian Bower respectively. This pair are, in many ways, the worst of the worst. They're male chauvinist pigs constantly obsessing over people's arses, they always do their best to avoid getting out of having to do anything, they're utterly irresponsible, and they're absolute pranksters.

And yet you can't help but love them. Their behaviour towards women, which might initially seem winceworthy in the somewhat more enlightened world we supposedly live in today, is endearingly, amusingly pathetic in light of the fact that the pair of them seemingly get no action whatsoever for the vast majority of the run (that and the female members of the cast are more than capable of standing up for themselves); their irresponsibility actually comes across as a relatively healthy method of coping with the potentially overwhelming stress of working as a teacher; and their pranks… well, they're always amusing.

Probably the absolute best thing about the show, though, is its use of music, which almost exclusively consists of late '90s/early '00s Britpop and indie rock. In some respects it dates the show enormously — as does the fact that a plot point of the first episode is that teachers are no longer allowed to smoke in the school building in the "smoking room" — but in others it forms an absolutely core part of the show's identity.

Teachers is great because it tells some believably human stories about a distinctly down-to-earth cast of characters and doesn't get hung up on high drama — which is something that subsequent school-based TV shows, like Waterloo Road, could be accused of — and focuses on just being entertaining. Watching Teachers is like being included in this little friendship group of characters; you get to see them at their best and, more frequently, their worst — but that "worst" is never anything particularly serious — and it's always a joy to be among them.

It's definitely a show that is very much "of its time", but after revisiting the first episode earlier, I'm looking forward to watching some more.

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#oneaday Day 448: Biting one's tongue

I'm angry. And sad. And I wish I was neither of those things, but I seem to be unable to escape the general shittiness of the world we live in. And to make matters worse, the things that I am angry and sad about, other people don't seem to think are a problem.

I'm not going to get into the specifics of those things, and that's part of the problem. I don't feel like I can, because it's not just that other people don't seem to think that these things are an issue. It's that they are actively hostile to anyone who does see them for what they are. And I really don't want to get into arguments with people on this stuff, because I already feel incredibly alienated, isolated and lonely for a number of different reasons, but at the same time it feels like holding in all these frustrations is completely counter-productive. But I don't want to post those frustrations anywhere that might get back to the people I am upset and annoyed with, however indirectly.

You can hopefully see why I'm feeling a bit mixed-up and muddled over the whole situation. It absolutely blows to be living in a world where, day after day, you feel more and more like you're not welcome, like you're worthless, like there's nothing you can do to make the situation better. It blows even more to not really be able to express those feelings to anyone, for the reasons outlined above.

I was always afraid my life would end up like this. For as long as I can remember, I have been someone who is comfortable in his own company, even welcoming of some solitude in which to reflect and perhaps be creative. But, at the same time, I've always welcomed the opportunity to share the things I love with others, or simply to enjoy simple moments of connection, amusement and joy with other people that I have learned to trust.

I am fortunate to have my wife, who has always been incredibly understanding and tolerant of my many shortcomings as a human being — and, likewise, I have always been there to support her, even during difficult times. I am also fortunate to have my cats, who love me unconditionally, and always know when I really need them to be near me.

But there are times when that doesn't feel like enough. There are times when I feel more alone than I've ever been in my life, and times when I'm terrified that these feelings will only get worse as time marches onwards. And no-one seems to care. And then I feel bad for wanting people to care, because I worry that will make people think I'm self-absorbed, selfish and not considerate of others' feelings. Like I don't deserve anyone's attention or regard. And then I start feeling, well, why should anyone care about someone so clearly filled with utter self-loathing?

I'll be all right. I usually am. It's just one of those bad days; one of those days that medical professionals euphemistically refer to as "low mood", which I feel somewhat undersells the feelings of utter hopelessness and desperation that tend to accompany such episodes.

But for now, I'll just continue to be angry and sad. And hope that tomorrow is a better day.

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#oneaday Day 447: School camp

A childhood memory that I have somewhat mixed feelings about is that of the time I went on "school camp". That is to say, when a reasonably sized group of us kids (in Year 6 at the time) were taken to a campsite on the edge of the Forest of Dean in Gloucestershire, and then proceeded to spend five days living under canvas.

On the whole, it's a mostly fond memory. I enjoyed camping both on this occasion and on the few weekend-long Cub Scout camps I attended while I was a member of that organisation. But there are a few things about it that I'm less than thrilled to have firmly lodged in my long-term memory. I thought today I'd talk a bit about both sides of the experience.

First, the good: we took part in a lot of really fun, interesting activities on the camp, and had the opportunity to mingle with a few other schools who were also in attendance at the time. Naturally, it didn't take long for talk to turn to who "fancied" who — as I recall, a girl named Taymar from one of these other schools was rather popular among the boys from our school and, childish and inexperienced in matters of the heart as we were, it was always enormously exciting for any of us who got to do anything vaguely "physical" (get your mind out of the gutter, we were 11… actually, considering what I'm about to admit, never mind) with her.

To my eternal shame, I all-too-vividly recall excitedly telling my friend Matthew that I had "bummed" Taymar. I didn't really know what "bumming" generally referred to in common vernacular, and instead assumed it meant that, through some circumstance or another, you had touched bums with another person. And, indeed, on a sort of "assault course" (for kids) style scenario, I had indeed touched bums with Taymar when we were passing one another on a rope bridge, moving in opposite directions. That was the extent of the encounter. I don't think I ever actually spoke to her during the entire trip.

But anyway, I digress. Other highlights that didn't involve underage quasi-sexual activity were the time we did a… I forget how it was described, but something like "rope walkway"? We were blindfolded, and had to navigate our way through the forest by following a rope path that had been laid out for us. I remember finding this quite enjoyable and exciting; trying to picture the environments through which we were manoeuvring as kind of thrilling.

We also went bird-watching. As I recall, there were some forms of rare birds (hawks, I think?) who made their homes near the campsite, so we spent some time looking out for them, but mostly just staring at a cliff face with a few holes in it. The possibility of seeing a Rare Thing was quite exciting for us as kids, though.

Strangely, one of my most vivid memories of school camp is one lunchtime, when we were being issued our packed lunch for a day-long excursion into the forest. Our headteacher had a very particular way of talking, and to this day part of my long-term memory is taken up with the specific way he offered us "Cheese… and salad… or… luncheon meat… and salad" as our sandwich choices. Naturally, as children, we were all horrified at the prospect of a salad sandwich, but most of us were quite pleasantly surprised that it turned out to be tasty. I guess when it's all you've got, you learn to appreciate it.

Night-time was a frustrating time, as I recall. The tent I was sleeping in with the other boys included, among others, my aforementioned best friend Matthew, and a young man named Christopher who could politely be termed the "class clown". When it was time for lights out, he would not shut up. On the first night, he started making up a stupid song about what I believe was "Doyget Sands", a fictional girl that he claimed to love. For every single night thereafter, there was at least an hour of him lamenting how he couldn't be together with "his Doyget", or singing that infernal song again. We learned to just stay awake and tolerate his bollocks until he got bored, which he eventually would, and then we could all get a decent night's sleep.

My least favourite memory about school camp is the fact I didn't poo for a week. At the time, I had an absolute phobia of taking a shit anywhere other than the toilet in my own house, and with the campsite facilities being… fairly run-down, to put it politely, I was terrified that getting my bum out anywhere in the vicinity of those toilets would result in being immediately struck down with dysentery.

So I didn't. I just didn't poo. I needed to, sure, but I didn't. And I didn't tell anyone. But I knew. And I was mortified one day when, full of unevacuated poo and struggling to keep up with the rest of the group as a result, the aforementioned headteacher, presumably in an attempt to encourage me, noted that there was "only about half an hour of waddling to go". I was immediately concerned that he knew I was full of poo, though he didn't mention anything else.

When I got home, I found that I had successfully made myself constipated. I wasn't aware that this was something you could do deliberately, but I had apparently cracked it over the course of that week. And when, if you'll pardon the expression and the mental image, the floodgates eventually opened, it felt real good. From thereon, I figured I should probably try and get over my fear of pooing in places that weren't my own house.

So anyway, that's my memories of school camp. You can hopefully see why I have somewhat mixed feelings about the whole thing. On the whole, it's a time in my life I think back fondly on, with my only regret being that I didn't poo more. I would have probably enjoyed everything about the trip a lot more if I had just gone for a poo each evening.

There's your lesson for life for the day. Now I'm off for a poo.

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#oneaday Day 446: A quick week?

This week, oddly, seems to have kind of flown by. I'm not complaining at all, I hasten to add, because the quicker this week and the next goes by, the sooner the wife and I get to go on holiday. And we're both really looking forward to some nice time away.

Things are… less stressful than they have been at various other points over the course of the last few months, but I'm still pretty burnt out and ready for a break. It will be great to completely disconnect from social media, work and most other modern annoyances and just relax. I am taking some form of computing device with me on holiday, though; my intention is to set aside a bit of time to do some creative writing each day, as a pleasant "forest retreat" seems like the ideal environment in which to do such a thing.

I haven't quite decided how I'm going to achieve this as yet, though. I think what I'm probably going to do is buy one of those little portable monitors you can get, then either hook that up to my phone and run that in its "DeX" desktop mode, or just take my mini PC with me. Then all I need is a keyboard and mouse — and I have plenty of those — and we're sorted.

I'm not promising anything that is going to gush forth from my brain during the holiday is going to be great or even coherent, but I am conscious of the fact that I made a big deal of setting up that "Scratch Pad" site for the distinct purpose of doing creative writing, and then haven't done any as yet. That needs fixing, and being in a suitable environment to write for enjoyment and pleasure, rather than for obligations, would seem like a suitable opportunity to do just that.

But anyway. There's a week and a half of work to get through first, but I feel like I can make it through that without too much trouble. I've got a to-do list of things I want to (or should) try to complete before I leave, and it's not at all excessive in its length, so I'm pretty confident I will be able to achieve everything by or before next Friday. Because if it ain't done by then, it ain't getting done… until I get back, anyway. And, as unforgiving as I might have been sounding about unplugging and going pretty much "off-grid" during the holiday (aside from this blog, which will still see daily updates) I don't really want to leave my colleagues in the lurch while I am absent.

So that's that. Now it's time to head to bed and read a bit of The Black Cauldron, I feel. Or perhaps a quick game of something on the MiSTer before that, maybe…?

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#oneaday Day 442: Munchings and crunchings

After listening to Danny from Game Grumps play Sierra's The Black Cauldron game while falling asleep the other evening, I decided that it was high time to do something I've been meaning to do for… probably several decades at this point, which is to actually read Lloyd Alexander's The Chronicles of Prydain, the books The Black Cauldron is based on. (I've still never seen the Disney movie either, for that matter, but I did collect several of the plastic figures you got free in boxes of Corn Flakes back in the day! The Horned King made a great Chaos Sorcerer for Advanced Heroquest.)

Thus far I'm about 75% through The Book of Three, the first in the series, and I am really enjoying it. Really enjoying it. Like, "wish I'd read this much earlier in my life" enjoying it. I'm finding it kind of fascinating quite how differently it is unfolding from The Black Cauldron game — which I'm sure was partly out of technological limitations necessitating a simpler narrative, and partly out of the Disney movie almost certainly diverging from the source material somewhat — but yeah. Really enjoying it.

As someone with a major soft spot for spunky princess characters (see: Mandra from Blade of the Poisoner, Ce'Nedra from The Belgariad/The Malloreon) I am absolutely a thousand per cent in love with Eilonwy, who has some of the most formidable sass I think I've ever seen committed to paper. The fact that she consistently delivers some truly wonderful withering lines at the expense of our protagonist, Taran, while being incredibly well-spoken the whole time is just… ah, man. I live for it. Absolutely live for it.

But anyway, it's entirely possible that you, dear reader, are unfamiliar with either The Black Cauldron of The Chronicles of Prydain in general, so here's the gist.

We join the story in Caer Dallben, a peaceful little farm seemingly in the middle of nowhere, where nothing ever happens — but with a slight air of mystery around it due to the fact its master is a man of nearly four hundred years in age who is in possession of a magical tome known as The Book of Three.

Taran, an orphan boy on the cusp on manhood who helps out around Caer Dallben, is discontent with this simple life, and wishes to know more of the world. After successfully being granted the rank of Assistant Pig-Keeper to the oracular pig Hen Wen — and after having burnt his fingers attempting to consult the magical Book of Three against Dallben's wishes — finds himself forced to set out on a journey when the aforementioned Hen Wen escapes following some grim omens.

The Book of Three follows Taran's journey to track down Hen Wen, during which he encounters several thoroughly interesting companions — including the warrior-prince Gwydion, the subservient and obsequious man-beast Gurgi, the bard-king Fflewdur Fflam and the aforementioned Eilonwy — and learns a lot more of the peril facing the world. The setting's great evil is positioned as Arawn, lord of the lands of the dead, but the more immediate threat is the Horned King, a frightening figure who roams the land in search of conquest — and, it seems, Hen Wen.

For context, The Black Cauldron game has none of this — at least, not in the exact same form. The game opens with Taran feeding Hen Wen, then her having a vision of the Horned King, then Taran being tasked with taking her to a safe haven with the Fair Folk to keep her safe from harm. Along the way, he encounters several of the characters introduced in The Book of Three, but in somewhat different contexts. This doesn't make the game a bad adaptation — as I say, for all I know, it's entirely possible that the Disney movie also played this fast and loose with the narrative, since I haven't seen it — but it is interesting to have all this additional context.

So anyway, yes. I am really enjoying The Chronicles of Prydain so far, and I will be moving straigh on to the other four books in the series once I've finished The Book of Three. Which will be pretty soon at the rate I'm going!

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#oneaday Day 440: eBooks are a good

Considering my predilection for collecting physical releases of video games, I'm kind of surprised at myself with how readily I took up eBooks in favour of a physical library of books. I still have some physical books — mostly nice "coffee table" ones like the Bitmap Books stuff, plus a number from my childhood that hold sentimental value — but over the years, a huge pile of books I used to own have ended up in the book banks or charity shops. Some of them I've replaced with electronic versions; some I haven't. At this point, there are some books I've only ever owned as eBooks.

I enjoy reading; always have done. I grew up being supported and encouraged by my parents to read, and quickly established a "reading age" well ahead of where I was "supposed" to be at any given point in primary school. I vividly recall spending time reading books from the Ginn 360 Reading Scheme that were much higher in "level" than those of my peers, and being given special "reading comprehension" tests further up the school to test that my proficiency with reading was, in fact, the real deal. (It was.)

I had a lot of books at home, too. I collected the Roald Dahl books for quite a while, and read many of them repeatedly — including the two volumes of his autobiography, which were much more challenging than his work that was explicitly for children. I remember reading the Chronicles of Narnia books. Blade of the Poisoner, of course. Enid Blyton books. Choose Your Own Adventure books. All manner of different things — including some quite challenging titles as I grew older, like the complete Sherlock Holmes stories, recreated as they originally appeared in the Strand magazine, but slightly smaller and thus in obscenely tiny print. Bram Stoker's Dracula. The works of H.P. Lovecraft.

At secondary school, by the time I got to GCSE and A-levels, I was getting extra assignments in English Literature classes encouraging me to read beyond the standard syllabus. (I wasn't thrilled at having to read more John Steinbeck — Cannery Row, as I recall — after having just suffered through Of Mice and Men, but being pleased at being singled out for praise and attention by my teacher counterbalanced that somewhat.) At university, I enjoyed reading some of the books we were assigned, but found myself bouncing hard off anything that involved what I still regard as the "absolute bollocks end of philosophy".

As most of us do, once I was past compulsory education, my rate of reading for pleasure slowed somewhat, but I still enjoyed the odd novel here and there. But I moved house a lot over the course of the years between starting university and getting to a point where I felt vaguely "settled", and moving a big pile of books every time was getting increasingly tiresome. So, eventually, over time, I gradually shed those books, making sure they went to what was hopefully a good home rather than just throwing them in the bin. While I wasn't especially attached to the books themselves as collectibles, I at least wanted to show them the respect of passing them on to someone else rather than discarding them. To me, a book had meaning and value, and even if you didn't want it any more, someone else might still get some pleasure from it.

I can't remember when I got my first Kindle offhand. To my shame, I didn't use it all that much, and I felt a fair bit of guilt about that. A good few years later, I upgraded the Kindle I didn't use all that much to a newer Paperwhite model with a built-in light, and found myself reading a whole lot more. Even more recently, I splurged on a Kindle Scribe, primarily for its "endless notepaper" facility and lovely electronic pencil, but was pleased to discover that the Scribe's form factor is great for reading manga.

Now, while I don't read every single day, I wouldn't want to be without some form of e-reader. I know folks quite rightly have mixed opinions about anything Amazon related, and I don't begrudge them that. Not only that, but Amazon (and the Kindle store) is becoming increasingly filled with AI-generated slop, making "just browsing" for something new to read more of a pain. But if you have at the very least a rough idea of what you might want to read, it's hard to beat the experience of being able to look something up, hit the "buy" button and be reading it a moment later.

I'm honestly not really sure why I'm 100% fine with this when it comes to books, but much more precious about wanting to keep physical releases of video games. Both are essentially "collectible" in the same way, but I guess at some point my brain has just decided that for me, it's the contents of the book that is the most important thing, whereas with video games, the physical package and the tactile feeling of putting in a disc or cartridge is as important a part of experiencing the thing as it is actually seeing the thing on the television and interacting with it.

I suppose it doesn't really matter. I don't have room for a library of books and a library of video games in my house, and the video games have, to date, won. But that doesn't mean my Kindle library isn't bulging with cool and interesting things to read! Now, I just need to pick what I'm going to read when we go on holiday, because that seems like some prime reading time.

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#oneaday Day 439: Parallel dimension

A recent post over on WIRED begged the question "OpenAI is poised to become the most valuable startup ever. Should it be?" Leaving aside the obvious Betteridge's Law commentary for a moment, the actual content of this article was utterly baffling.

OpenAI claims it is worth $500 billion. We've heard this a lot of times over the last few months, and everyone seems to sort of have accepted it as the "truth". And yet there's this in the article:

[An anonymous OpenAI investor] argues that the math for investing at the $500 billion valuation is straightforward: Hypothetically, if ChatGPT hits 2 billion users and monetizes at $5 per user per month — "half the rate of things like Google or Facebook" — that's $120 billion in annual revenue.

"That alone would support a trillion-and-a-half dollar company, which is a pretty good return, just thinking about ChatGPT," the investor says.

Except that "math" isn't "straightforward" at all, is it? In fact, I would go so far as to say that it isn't "math" at all, because all of it, all of it, is complete fantasyland nonsense plucked out of the arse of a particularly flatulent ogre, then mindlessly parroted by breathless idiots who think spicy autocorrect is in any way a substitute for the most bare minimum of interpersonal interactions.

Look at it. Two billion users. That's a significant portion of the planet, and it's only very few services — likely Google and Facebook among them — that can count that many user accounts on their books, let alone active users, which is what this nonsense is actually talking about. For context, ChatGPT, at present, continually reports somewhere in the region of 300 million weekly users. That's a lot, sure, but an overwhelming proportion of those are people who are not paying for the service and just using it to burn down a forest or two for a picture of Garfield with tits.

To put it another way, assuming that not only are two billion active users going to magically appear from nowhere, but that every single one of them is going to pay $5 a month to use the lake-boiling plagiarism machine that loses OpenAI money on every paying user already, is patent nonsense.

It is, right?

It is, yes?

I know nothing about economics or business, and I feel like I can see beyond any shadow of a doubt whatsoever that this is an absolute absurdity. Couple that with OpenAI's Sam Altman making incredibly stupid comments like "building a Dyson sphere around the whole solar system" just so we have enough space for all the data centres these two billion imaginary users will need to use their equally imaginary $5 ChatGPT subscriptions, and I'm just left feeling like at some point between COVID and now I've crossed over from a dimension where things make sense into one where they just… don't.

Are we really living in a world where a company's valuation is determined based on completely imaginary figures? Well, I guess it makes sense when they have a completely imaginary product, too. Nearly half a decade into this nonsense and there are still no compelling use cases for the technology for most people — and even the most sweaty AI apologists are obliged to admit that yes, the chatbots get things wrong quite a lot of the time.

Microsoft put CoPilot in Excel! You know, the software you use when you want accurate data analysis and calculations! They added it with the disclaimer that it "might be wrong" and that it "shouldn't be relied on for high-risk situations". Like, you know, pretty much fucking anything you might use Excel for in a business situation.

What are we doing? What are we doing? And WHY?! ARRRRGGGGHHHHHH

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#oneaday Day 438: Increasingly glad I kept this place

If you breathe as many Internet fumes as I do on a daily basis, you are probably aware of the ongoing campaigns against Visa, Mastercard, PayPal and Stripe deciding that they are the arbiters of good taste, and causing big problems for anyone producing any sort of creative work that is even remotely sex-adjacent. I wrote a bit about the early days of what was going on here, but things have continued to escalate since I wrote that, and there are plenty of other people who can do a much better job than I can on reporting the ongoing saga.

An especially worrying development is that Patreon, long regarded as the "standard" for those who wish to financially support their favourite creatives on an ongoing basis, has started stepping up its intolerance of what it regards as "sexually gratifying media". This language is very deliberate, because it mirrors what payment processors have started to regard as "unacceptable" — despite the fact that, in their role as payment processors, it is absolutely not their place to judge what people are spending their money on.

Add this to the fact that Patreon recently sent around a rather worrying survey relating to generative AI, whose questions basically amounted to "can we pweeeeze steal all your precious content so we can train our AI?", and I am feeling increasingly glad that I have, over the last 17 years, stayed pretty much where I am in terms of my online presence. Sure, social media accounts have come and gone, but between this blog and MoeGamer, I'm feeling increasingly vindicated in keeping "my" parts of the Web mine.

There's a growing move towards (or should I say back towards) this in the form of the "indie Web movement". Honestly, the whole shtick there makes it sound a lot more complicated than it really is — much of the "official" IndieWeb site feels like it was written by Linux nerds… which I guess sort of tracks — because all you really need to carve out a piece of the Internet as your own is some means of hosting your own website, and some means of showcasing your… whatever it is you want to use as a means of expressing yourself.

There are some delightfully creative "indie Web" sites out there, with a lot of people seemingly getting right back into the depths of programming cool interactive things for people to explore, but honestly, the humble blog is all a lot of people need — and those are dead easy to set up, given the number of easily accessible, straightforward to use and often open-source options in that regard. I am, as I have been for the last 17 years, still using WordPress here, and while there are some things I very much do not like about the direction WordPress has taken in the last few years — particularly with regard to shoehorning in the obligatory "generate with AI" crap in several places — the software is still, on the whole, some of the best and most flexible in the business.

The difficulty, of course, is getting people to see your little corner of the Web without social media to promote it. Because it's harder than ever to get noticed on social media — and Search Engine Optimisation (SEO) isn't much help, either. Not only because Google sucks now. Not only because a lot of search engines are pushing AI hard — and in the process discouraging people leaving the search site to go and visit individual websites. But also because heavily SEO'd text sucks to such a degree that it's almost as much of a waste of time as flat-out AI-generated text.

The answer, of course, is just to not really care. I don't. The value for me in writing on here and on MoeGamer is in having a place for me to just write. Sometimes people show up to read what I've written, and that's often (though not always) nice. But that's not why I do this. I'm not trying to be famous or some great authority on any subject. I am, as the header of this site says, just a nobody trying to make my way in an increasingly fucked-up world, and getting some thoughts out of my head onto the virtual page helps me to process things. A bit. I can say pretty much what I want here, within reason. And so I do.

I shan't pretend I don't still fall into pits of soul-sucking despair and depression, particularly when I'm feeling as burnt out as I do right now. But without this outlet, this safe place for myself, this little corner of the Internet that is my online home, more than any other social media profile page ever has been, I shudder to think what state I'd be in.

So yes. I am glad I have stuck with this place, and I will continue to stick with it for as long as it is practical to do so.

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