#oneaday Day 236: Ode to Yanagi

There's a chap on YouTube. I think he's Dutch, if I remember rightly. (Checked. He is.) Continental European, anyway. He goes by the name Yanagi19871. And I don't mind admitting that his videos have helped me through some dark times by bringing a smile to my face every time I see them.

What is Yanagi's specialism? He must be a brilliant analytical critic, exploring underappreciated games on obsolete and forgotten platforms and giving them the love and attention they deserve, surely? That's what Pete must be into.

No. Yanagi burps really loud.

I don't remember exactly how I stumbled across Yanagi in the first place. It's entirely possible that I was specifically searching for videos of people burping, and he was, for several years, the leading player in the "burping really loud on YouTube" space. He somehow manages to achieve this without being disgusting about it, because for the most part he doesn't combine his incredible emissions with things like, say, chugging gallons of a drink at a time or whatever — though he has satirised a couple of notorious "challenges" from a few years back, such as the 2 Litre Diet Coke No Burp Challenge, which went about as well as you might expect.

Yanagi's bio on YouTube reads "although burping is considered rude in many cultures, I find it amusing and noticed there are a lot of people out there that also can appreciate my talent", and I have to respect that. The man found a thing that he was good at, and he made the most of it. He even appeared on a couple of television programmes around the world at one point.

You'll notice that I'm using the past tense when describing him, though, and that's because a few years back, he just… stopped. I don't think he's dead — at least I hope he isn't — but from looking at a few scattered comments here and there, it seems like he felt unable to continue going about his usual business, much of which involved belching thunderously in public places, due to the COVID-19 pandemic in 2020 and the subsequent mess that made of the world, and he's just never picked things up again since.

Ultimately, I guess one could argue that this doesn't really matter, that a guy who gained a small amount of notoriety by being able to burp really loud almost entirely at will probably only really deserves fifteen minutes of fame at most. But I have to admit that I came to genuinely like Yanagi. He always came across as a thoroughly affable individual, despite his occasionally antisocial belching behaviour, and one gets the impression that he would be a lot of fun to hang around with.

But I guess the age of Yanagi is over, and he's gone on to do something else with his life. I wish him luck, good health and good fortune with whatever he is up to now, because even though he's stopped making new burp videos on YouTube, his existing ones still always make me laugh to the point of crying on a fairly regular basis. And in this fucked up world we live in, anything that can do that is something which should be treasured.

I don't mind admitting at all that, at the age of 43 and a bit, I still find burping and farting absolutely hilarious — always have done. Flatulence and related expulsions were part of my familial culture growing up, and so I guess a hearty belch or a deep, sonorous fart is one of those things that reminds me of simpler times that feel increasingly distant with every passing day.

I salute you, Yanagi. You were a master of your craft, and I'll be in the front row if you ever decide to make a comeBURRRRRRRRRRRRP.

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 232: Memories of Me: Lost love

Since I deliberately cut myself off early yesterday for fear of going on for ten thousand words, I thought I'd pick up where we left off.

I previously introduced you to my Halls of Residence, Hartley Grove, and my erstwhile flatmates: the perpetually absent Chloe, my neighbour-for-a-brief-period Beki, my longer-term neighbour Katie, psychology student Steph, Geography-student-who-didn't-really-care-about-Geography Sam, and scientist Chris. We talked a bit about how we'd often go down to Chamberlain Bar and remain encased in our own little bubble, too afraid to approach anyone that we hadn't been thrown together with — and absolutely, definitely not someone as intimidating as Breast Girl.

For those who have never been to university, your first week as a student is typically set aside for "Freshers' Week", which is an opportunity to get to know the campus and perhaps choose a club or two to join. We had a busy week; off the top of my head, we tried Karate-do Shotokai, ninjutsu and rifle shooting, and several of us decided to join the former for the longer term. (The rifle shooting was terrifying, but I enjoyed it. The ninjutsu trial session primarily consisted of people doing forward rolls for about an hour non-stop, which I found inexplicably amusing.)

Throughout Freshers' Week, it is sort of expected that you will spend a significant portion of your time inebriated and getting laid. I did one of those things. I had never been particularly into the idea of a one-night stand, so it is not something I did — not that I really had the confidence to pursue that sort of encounter, anyway, and as it happened, at the time I was already Quite Into someone specific who I've previously mentioned, but I will refrain from mentioning by name in this context to spare their (and my) blushes. I shall, instead, refer to them as Special Someone.

Being a socially awkward autistic person (albeit not being aware of the "autistic" bit at this point in my life) I was, of course, having great difficulty in actually declaring my feelings to this Special Someone in question, but I resolved to myself that I would tell her how I felt and ask her to the "Freshers' Ball" on the last day of Freshers' Week. Although described as a "ball", it was actually just another pissup where people tended to dress slightly nicer than the other pissups throughout the week, but it was still considered to be something of a special occasion, so I figured confessing in time for that would have some sort of special symbolism.

However, my plan did not go according to… err, plan. Special Someone ended up getting together with someone else, hereafter referred to as Other Bloke, and thus I recall embarrassingly vividly spending a fair bit of time sitting in the big window of our flat's kitchen, all dressed up nice, with the lights off, doing what can only be described as "brooding". Ostensibly I was being alone with my thoughts to process what had just happened and attempt to pick myself up a bit, but I was also secretly hoping that someone would come in and I could unload all my emotional baggage on them.

Someone did — Steph, as I recall — and I explained the situation. It transpired that everyone thought I was already together with Special Someone, as we had been spending a lot of time together, but no, it was not the case; now she was with Other Bloke, someone we knew from the flat downstairs from us, who had sort of "attached" himself to our group because he was one of the people who had ended up lumbered with a flat full of foreign students he didn't really know how to talk to. (Other Bloke ended up becoming a good friend and remains as such to this day, so again, I will refrain from naming him explicitly here, but he probably knows who he is, and anyone reading this who was There At The Time also knows who it is.)

Steph encouraged me to just sort of suck it up, these things happen, and I should probably just go and get pissed and shag a rando. She said it in a more empathetic, understanding way than that, but I got the idea. I agreed that I shouldn't let something I sort of did to myself stand in the way of enjoying what was, one week into our official time as students, the biggest social event in our calendar. So I tidied myself up a bit, downed a shot or two of vodka and set out for the Student Union. I don't remember anything else that happened that night, so it must have been all right. (I did not, to my knowledge, shag a rando.)

Within a day or two, news of my lost love had spread around the flat, and I was surprised to discover everyone rallying to my cause. Not to such a degree that they were going to split up Special Someone and Other Bloke, of course, because we were all much too nice people for that, but they helped me keep my mind off things, and we had a lot of fun expressing my frustration in a not exactly malicious way, but which was somewhat at the expense of the person everyone had decided had done me a great injustice.

Usually this involved us getting pretty drunk in the kitchen, then doing something that involved the window to his flat's kitchen, which was directly below us. The most memorable of these was when we attempted to write "DIE" in tomato ketchup on the window, discovering shortly afterwards that ketchup is not an ideal medium through which to express half-hearted death threats, particularly vertically and while battling against gravity. The attempt to pour jelly onto the gentle slope of the open window beneath us was, likewise, unsuccessful, but it did make an absolutely magnificent noise when it hit the pavement below; we were on the third floor, and that gives jelly a good amount of time to pick up speed and explode with an incredibly satisfying "splatter" noise when it impacts an immovable surface.

Time heals all wounds, as they say, and, as I have hopefully implied already, all of the above passed me by surprisingly quickly. I remained friends with both Special Someone and Other Bloke, and they remained in a relationship for a good few years after university, so there was clearly something good there for quite some time. They're no longer together and each have their own lives with their own special people now — as do I — so all's well that ends well, I guess.

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#oneaday Day 231: Memories of Me: First Days at University

A while back, I talked about how when I think back on what the happiest times of my life might have been, I am inexorably drawn to two specific and closely related periods: my time at sixth form, and my time at university. Having previously talked about the former, I'd like to talk a bit about the latter today.

As always, I have almost certainly written about this before, but I don't care. Let's face it, you're almost certainly not going back through the archives to read nearly three thousand posts just to see if I've previously said these things before, and I wouldn't expect you to. So just, y'know, indulge me, even if any of this sounds familiar.

As my time in sixth form came to a close, I was excited but also terrified to go to university. I was going to a university far away from everyone I had ever known, and I didn't know how or if I was going to be able to cope with that. My mind filled with all manner of irrational anxieties, often emphasising things that I really didn't need to think about — like if I should take the opportunity to rebrand myself with a cool nickname when introducing myself to people — but as the big day ticked ever closer, I started to feel a little more at ease about things.

I spent my first year at university, as do many people, in a Halls of Residence. For those who have never been to university, this is basically like an old people's home, but for students. You have your own room plus some communal areas; the exact facilities and how much you are "waited on" (if at all) varies quite a bit from halls to halls, even within the same university. The halls I was going into, known as Hartley Grove, were self-catered, because both my parents and I agreed that it would probably be a good idea to learn how to be self-sufficient in a reasonably safe environment, and they were a new build, meaning (I think) our year was the first to stay in them.

And they were nice! Our rooms were a decent size, and they were en-suite, meaning we each had our own shower and toilet, which was nice. There was enough room for what little stuff I had to my name at that point in my life, a nice desk with space for my computer and hi-fi, room to put a small television to play games consoles on and a relatively cavernous wardrobe to store clothes in. It didn't take long for my room to feel like "home".

I started university in a slightly strange way compared to some of my peers in that I went there a week early to attend a "pre-term" orchestral course with the university symphony orchestra. Over the course of a week, we learned how to play movements from two symphonies — the first movement of Beethoven's 7th and the last movement of Shostakovich's 5th, as I recall — with the intention of performing them both for an audience of our tearful parents at the end of said week.

Because this course was prior to the regular term starting, those of us in halls (which was most of us) weren't able to immediately move all our stuff in to our new homes for the next year, so we had to travel light and take up residence in what was probably the grottiest halls in all of Southampton: a crusty old tower block known as Stoneham which, although shit, we all came to regard with some fondness by the end of the week. (It has since been knocked down; I'm not entirely sure when, but I was a bit sad to learn it's no longer there.)

Basically what we'd do was spend the day in Stoneham's large dining hall area rehearsing, then clear out, have dinner and then be free to do whatever in the evening. Sometimes we'd hang out, sometimes we'd investigate the local nightlife that was easily accessible within walking distance (not much) or a bus ride away — though of course, very few of us knew Southampton well enough at this point to know where was worth going, and where would get you stabbed.

Initially, I found my worst fears coming true as I wasn't sure how to approach new people and make friends with them. But, to my credit, one of my proudest moments as a human being came when I finally plucked up the courage to talk to someone in the lift that was taking us up to our rooms. Her name was Cat, and she was kind enough to give me the time of day. I don't know if she recognised I was struggling, but she became a close friend surprisingly quickly, and I was extremely glad that I at least had someone I could "rely on" during that initial week.

Through Cat, I met several other people — she was a lot more affable than me, but most folks were happy to include me in conversations if I sort of tagged along — and they all became good friends, too. It helped that most of us were going to go on to study music at Southampton for the next three years — though I was doing a split English and Music degree — so we had something in common. But it was still interesting to note how different we all were from one another.

The pre-term course came and went; our performance of both symphony movements went really well, and I ended up having a great time. By the time the course was over, we were able to move into our "forever homes" (for the next year, anyway) — it was still a few days earlier than most, but it gave us a chance to get properly settled, and to minimise the number of trips our parents had to make with cars full of crap.

My flat in Hartley Grove had six rooms. I was the first to arrive by several days, as expected, so by the time my flatmates started arriving, I was already quite comfortable and settled — to such a degree that when one particular flatmate named Chloe came in for the first time, she was greeted by me cooking a bacon sandwich in my dressing gown. She confided to me later that she thought I was a mature student and not, in fact, an idiotic 18 year old whose entire cooking repertoire consisted of bacon sandwiches and toast.

My flat eventually filled to capacity. I was in room number A333. To one side of me at the end of the corridor was the aforementioned Chloe; my other neighbour was the frankly gorgeous Beki, who sadly dropped out partway through her first year. Our mutual friend Katie replaced her in short order; previously, she had lived in another flat with foreign students that weren't particularly sociable, so she was glad to be among friends at last.

Further down the corridor on my side was Chris, a science student who we initially assumed to be one of the most stereotypical science nerds imaginable, but who came to be a close friend and confidant to all of us. On the opposite side was Sam, who had, for some reason, been the subject of a newspaper article about him "not studying Geography due to any burning love for the subject", and who became one of my best friends during my time at university and beyond, and Steph, a psychology student who, again, formed an important part of our overall "group".

The majority of the time, it was me, Chris, Sam and Steph in the flat. Beki left after not very long, as previously noted, and Chloe was an absolute socialite, to such a degree that she barely slept in her own room and often brought strange and interesting men back to our flat. Our collective favourite of these was probably "Raf", a charming and pretty chilled out gent who, it occurs to me now, I really don't know anything else about.

We enjoyed socialising as a flat, particularly if said socialisation involved going to Chamberlain Bar, our nearest drinking establishment. Hartley Grove didn't have its own bar, but Chamberlain was attached to one of the other nearby halls, so it was open for all of us to make use of, and we did. Several of us even spent a few nights working there; we didn't get paid in anything other than beer tokens, but it was a good experience.

Chamberlain Bar was pretty shit, but it was ours. All of us from the flat had a certain degree of awkwardness to us, so we didn't really interact with people from outside our group much, and took to referring to other people by nicknames based on their most prominent characteristics. The one that sticks in my mind was a young lady known only to us as Breast Girl; a conventionally attractive and moderately well-endowed first year who seemed to hang out at Chamberlain Bar almost as much as us. We never exchanged a single word, though I believe Steph, at one point, learned what her actual name was.

Chamberlain Bar occasionally held special events. Two of these stick in my mind: firstly, a '70s night, where we all went around the local charity shops and party stores to find the most hideous clothing and wigs we could; and secondly, a "Hawaiian" night, where all they did was turn the heating up full, and where our flat were the only people who came in fancy dress.

Chamberlain Bar's specialism was shit cocktails. The two we spent the most time drinking were the Juicy Lucy (pint glass containing a shot of vodka, a shot of blue curacao, a double shot of Taboo, then topped up with equal parts lemonade and orange juice) and the Passion Wagon (a shot of Passoa topped up with a bottle of Reef, possibly the laziest cocktail ever invented). I don't know exactly where Juicy Lucy originated, but we got the impression it was a "Southampton" thing; notoriously shit but popular watering hole Clowns and its companion nightclub Jesters would serve them by the 4-pint jug for less than a tenner, making them a great way to get absolutely off your fucking face for not very much money.

So yeah. You can hopefully see how all this was a good time. I will hold that there for now, since I've rambled on for nearly 2,000 words and I haven't even started talking about my actual time at university yet, let alone some of the funnier happenings that transpired during just that first year.

I really miss those magical first few weeks, though, and would give anything to feel that way again. But with each passing day, they feel further and further away to an exponential degree. At least I'll always have the good memories of them.

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#oneaday Day 230: Grumpy Frog

I was reading a post from the redoubtable Mr. Wapojif the other day on the subject of curious frog drawings, and I was reminded of one of the many things I'd doodle as a teenager — including, yes, in the Rough Book. I present to you in the accompanying image: a character who never really got a name, he was just known as "Grumpy Frog".

Grumpy Frog, as you may be able to tell from his colour scheme, began life as an attempt to draw Yoshi from Super Mario World. As I recall, it was one of those situations where I started doodling Yoshi, realised that things were going badly as my friends were watching, and thus quickly repurposed him into something else, as I intended to do all along. I don't think I fooled them, but Grumpy Frog became something of a fixture in places where I'd doodle things anyway.

I don't really know anything about Grumpy Frog other than the fact he is perpetually annoyed about something. I never incorporated him into a comic strip or drew him doing anything other than the pose you see above, largely because, as you can probably tell from the drawing, I can't really draw frogs either. But he is still one of those oddly specific fond memories I have from Back In The Day that, for some reason, will never leave me.

I sometimes find myself wondering if the amount of useless garbage I still carry around in my head from my school days is normal. There have been multiple occasions where I've made a reference to something from 30+ years ago to a friend I haven't seen for a while and I get a response somewhere along the lines of "I can't believe you remember that". But, to be fair, people always seem to be pleased to be reminded of these things for the most part — I do at least have enough social awareness not to bring up memories that are likely painful or awkward for the people in question — so, regardless of whether or not it's something that everyone has with their memory, I don't think it's a particular problem as such.

Anyway, that is Grumpy Frog. I wanted to acknowledge and celebrate him for a moment, because I hadn't really thought about him for a good few years, but Mr. Wapojif's post reminded me that yes, Grumpy Frog will always be a part of me, for better or worse, and he deserved a bit of time to shine. So there he is.

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#oneaday Day 229: Mental shutdown

I'm back from my trip, and I'm absolutely exhausted. A full-day meeting followed by a 3+ hour drive is not my idea of Having A Brilliant Day, so I'm sitting here absolutely frazzled and seriously considering going to bed before it even hits 10pm. In fact, that's exactly what I'm going to do as soon as I'm finished with this nonsense.

The meeting itself wasn't a bad thing — it was actually quite worthwhile and productive, but I'm not sure it needed to be the entire day. I won't bore you with the details because they're not very interesting, but they should help me and the rest of the team I work on to do our jobs better. So that's nice.

No, it's the three-hour drive back in the dark that's the real killer, and to make matters worse my phone battery died with about 45 minutes left to go. I was listening to Ed Zitron's excellent(ly cynical) coverage of E3 on his Better Offline podcast and enjoying it a great deal, but I had to suffer with the radio for that last 45 minutes, because balls to driving in silence.

And to be sure, listening to Absolute Radio '90s is… well, not really suffering as such, but it has got markedly worse since Matt Berry's contract clearly expired, because their new idents featuring someone trying (and not doing a brilliant job) to imitate Matt Berry's distinctive cadence are just infuriatingly shit. Whereas Berry's idents were genuinely amusing — and, rather brilliantly, different every time they came on — they've fallen back on that old commercial radio standard, "where real music matters". And they go on and on and on about "real music matters", sometimes for several minutes at a time. There's no humour, no heart, no feeling that "real music" really matters. Just the usual soulless commercial attempts to be "funny" and failing miserably.

At least the music they do play is decent, since as the name suggests, they play a selection of '90s hits (with a "no repeat guarantee!" that unfortunately doesn't extend to "not playing the same songs at the same time each day") — although listening to a few tracks during the vinegar strokes of my journey this evening made me realise that more than a few groups commonly regarded as "good" are actually pretty dull. Like Nirvana. Boring. Always suspected they were when I was younger, but dutifully bought Nevermind because everyone was obliged to in the '90s. But no. Can't even remember the name of the song that I heard on the radio this evening but it was as dull as the piss of an old man with a yeast infection.

Anyway, my tiredness is clearly letting the grump out, so I think it's probably for the best that I put the bin out and go to bed. So I'm going to go do that right now. Don't wake me.

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#oneaday Day 228: Hotel time again

I'm presently away from home for my monthly-ish visit to the office, so I'm in my regular hotel, a reasonably nice (and reasonably affordable) non-chain place in the town centre, approximately two minutes from work.

I like spending time in hotels because it's a chance to live a little bit differently for a brief period. You get to sleep in a different bed, enjoy the amenities and see life from a slightly different perspective, even if it's for just a moment. And that's nice to do every so often.

It's always a slight roll of the dice with this place when I come, mind you; sometimes I'm lucky and get a free "upgrade" of sorts to a double room with a bath; this time, sadly, I was unlucky, and have the single room with a bathroom that was not designed by a human being with a functional physical presence, judging by the absolutely baffling position of the shower and sink in relation to one another. One should not have to squeeze through a narrow gap just to get into the shower, and it's not as if there isn't space in the room for the shower to be somewhere slightly different, either.

But I can't complain too much. The bed, although single, is comfortable and the sheets nice and warm. And tomorrow morning I will enjoy a hearty breakfast before heading in to the office, having a hopefully pleasant work day, and not thinking about the 3 hour drive home at the end of the day.

For now, it's time to enjoy that bed.

#oneaday Day 225: The Secret Diary of Pete Davison, Age 43 3/4

Hello. Sorry about yesterday, I just had a bit of an internal explosion of existential dread and needed to express all that, although I was gratified to note that precisely no-one reached out to me to see if I was all right. Not that I'm particularly surprised or was expecting anyone to reach out and see if I was all right, because I'm under no illusions that anyone other than me is reading this blog, but still, y'know. Sometimes it's nice to know someone is looking out for you, and keeping an eye on the means you've been using to express the things you find difficult to say out loud for nearly 20 years.

But like I say, absolutely not blaming anyone. Really, I honestly mean that, no sarcasm. I posted yesterday's screed not because I particularly needed anyone to tell me things are going to be all right — and not just because I'd know they're lying — but because sometimes it just helps to get negative feelings out of your head and onto a page. It doesn't necessarily help you come to any conclusions about how to deal with them, but sometimes simply expressing them is all you need.

This, honestly, was the reason I kept a diary for much of my teenage years. I've talked a bit about this before, as with most subjects on this blog, but it sprung to mind today as I contemplate precisely why I'm still doing this: why I'm typing words into the virtual void for no-one to read, and why I'm still finding it a worthwhile exercise to do so.

I forget exactly what age I was when I started keeping a diary. I'd estimate maybe around 13 or 14 or so. I had recently read The Secret Diary of Adrian Mole, Aged 13 ¾, which I believe my mother had recommended to me as "worth reading" considering the age I was. I absolutely adored that book and its follow-up The Growing Pains of Adrian Mole, and am long overdue a re-read of it all. I recognised that Adrian was a bit of a twat — and this only gets worse in the later installments as he moves into his adult life — but I also recognised parts of myself in him.

So I decided to do as he did, and start a diary. While I forget how old I was when I eventually started, I do remember the circumstances. We had been on a visit to, of all places, the National Stone Centre in Derbyshire, and had gone along with, if I remember rightly, my parents' friends Margaret and Mick. This detail isn't particularly important, but it adds a nugget of context, which was how I was young enough to still go along on visits like that to My Parents' Friends and not just be left at home.

Anyway, the reason I specifically remember that we went to visit the National Stone Centre is because while we were there, I ended up purchasing (or having purchased for me) a lovely hardback journal. It had nice quality paper, it had really nice material on the cover and binding, it was just a lovely book. My parents had encouraged me to use it as a scrapbook of sorts — a book for keepsakes from trips such as the one we'd just been on, as dull as it might have been. And so I did, for a while.

Then, one day, after I had not used it for the above purpose for quite some time (primarily due to having not really done anything worth scrapbooking) I thought that I might start using it to write down… things. I didn't have anything particularly specific in mind when I first started writing in it, I just felt like the experience of writing diary entries had seemed valuable to Adrian Mole in the books I loved so much, and thus I decided to give it a go for myself.

It didn't take long before I started using that diary to express things I found difficult to talk about "out loud", as it were, primarily relating to matters of emotions and feelings towards other people. As noted in my tales of The Rough Book, as a hormonal teenager I fell in love with a lot of girls over the course of my time at secondary school. And I found it difficult enough to admit my feelings about all this to my closest friends at the time, let alone my family. So I told the diary.

I told the diary a lot of things. One of my favourite things to do in the diary was to have "fantasy conversations", where I'd imagine how, in an ideal world, my confessing of my feelings to whatever the object of my affections was that week might go. I'd write these non-existent interactions (because they never actually happened) as a script, because I'd been enjoying looking at plays during English lessons at school, and, later in my school career, had parts in our productions of The Wizard of Oz and Twelfth Night.

I realise this might sound a bit creepy, and it probably is. But what you have to understand is, as an autistic teenager who didn't know he was autistic, social interactions, particularly with someone for whom you didn't really know where you stood and lacked the self-confidence to ever believe they might be interested in you, were very difficult. I wrote those "conversations" down because I knew I'd never be able to pull them off in reality. They were a comforting fiction, in a way; they allowed me to indulge my imagination and think about something which I believed to be impossible in reality.

There was one exception, as I recall. On one of the numerous occasions I had plucked up the courage to declare to my friends that I fancied a girl named Nikki, my friends practically forced me to tell her how I felt. They got me and her out onto the school field, essentially pushed us together and left me to get onto it. And, to my credit, I successfully managed to confess my feelings to Nikki, who, bless her heart, at least let me down exceedingly gently and pleasantly.

That evening, I decided to "analyse" the situation. I wrote a script based on what had actually happened. I drew diagrams, with a little picture of a lightbulb representing how much I was blushing through the whole experience. I attempted to determine if there was anything I might have been able to do differently and, of course, came up short; no means no, as it were, and that is something I have always respected.

As that lovely little journal started to fill up with my innermost feelings, I started to become uneasy. I'd taken to placing it in a position on the desk in my bedroom where it was inconspicuous and unlikely to be picked up and read by someone coming in, but something in the back of my mind was still gnawing away at me, worrying that my Mum or Dad would pick it up, read it all and… well, take the piss, frankly, because there was a lot in there that one could probably take the piss about.

So one day I snapped. I took the journal and I threw it away. I took care not to throw it away in the kitchen bin, where it might have been noticed, but rather to throw it away in the outside bin, concealed in a bag beneath a large black bag of rubbish: somewhere no-one would even think to consider taking it out and rifling through it.

I regret that, now. I think it would be interesting to go back and look over those journal entries my teenage self made, as embarrassing and weird as some of them might have been. I don't know that it would have been helpful to do so, but thinking back, my school days (or, specifically, my time at secondary school and sixth form) are a time in my life I look back on with great fondness, where I was, retrospectively, very happy and satisfied with my lot in life, even if I had very little in the way of luck with women.

Thinking back on that diary is one of the reasons I've kept this blog around for so long. There's things I look back on that I'm not so proud of having written, and there's things I'm glad I wrote about. The one constant is that this blog is completely, honestly, unabashedly me, and it always will be.

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#oneaday Day 224: Hopeless

It's honestly really hard to feel any hope for the future right now. The world is burning; far-right extremism is on the rise; the Internet has degraded to a point where it's unpleasant to use at best, actively dangerous at worst; Big Tech is continually abusing its users in the name of unsustainable perpetual growth; the odious AI fad won't go away; everything is too expensive; and the people about to take control of one of the most powerful nations on the planet are pure, unabashed evil.

I have no solutions. I have no words. I have no comfort for those who are suffering more than I am. I have little more than a sense of despair about how everything seems to have been getting worse in front of our very eyes for a decade or more, how we could have most certainly done something about it before it got this bad, and how if anything is ever going to improve, it's almost certainly going to get worse before it gets better.

I've never felt like anyone particularly important who makes a difference, and I've never striven to be such. At times like this I feel particularly helpless, powerless and alone, and I can't even begin to imagine how much worse it must be for people in the direct firing line of everything that is going on.

The only thing I can say is that I, personally, have always striven to not be a shitty person, and that's what I intend to keep doing for as long as I am able to. I'm afraid that's about all I really have the energy to write this evening. Tomorrow will be another day of this shit, but at least it's the weekend, so that's nice I guess.

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#oneaday Day 223: The Old Internet

As the rot economy continues apace, more and more people are starting to recognise the modern Web for what it is: an unpleasant place, in which commercial interests and venture capitalists come first, and making an actually pleasant, enjoyable and educational place for the actual users is far, far down the list. As a result, "the old Internet" is often romanticised, perhaps to an overly nostalgic, rose-tinted degree, but I have to kind of concur; things did used to be much more enjoyable online before our daily routine was nothing but scrolling through the only two or three websites that actually exist to most people.

I think about this a lot when I'm writing on here or MoeGamer. I used to get fairly decent numbers on both blogs, even though I was just posting daily nonsense on this one. Now, I get maybe double figures daily on here, if that. MoeGamer still pulls in about a thousand views a day, which is nice, but a lot of those views are for things I wrote about several years ago at this point, and rarely for things I've written about recently.

Now, I don't do either this blog or MoeGamer for the views, but I feel the trajectory this site has taken in terms of numbers is symptomatic of the way the Web has changed over the years. People just don't do blogs any more, either as writers or readers. Part of this is down to the fact that RSS readers just aren't a part of people's daily online routine any more (though I'm aware they still exist) — and even those "magazine-style" apps that were never really a good replacement for Google Reader seem to have died a bit of a death. Not only that, but the usefulness of search engines has declined considerably, too.

Instead, it is, of course, all about social media. It's all about having a presence on the "important" social networks — though even that has seen something of an upset over the last few years, and particularly in the last few months. Twitter was already circling the drain in terms of usefulness for sharing stuff even before Elon took over and did… whatever the fuck he's doing there; Facebook has been such a horrible experience to use for so long now that I question the sanity of anyone who is still using it — to say nothing of the frankly quite disturbing policy changes they've had recently; and the less said about TikTok, the better.

So what, exactly, is someone looking to express themselves online to do today? If you want to get seen, you seemingly have little choice but to sign your soul over to one of these companies and plunge your data into the mire that is "The Algorithm". Telling people that they should start their own website is a noble and proper goal, and one I stand behind, but the fact is… a lot of folks just don't and won't leave social media — and many of the social media companies are doing their best to keep those folks on their platform as much as possible.

Look at Twitter (no, I'm not calling it "X") and how Elon is desperate for people to "post content" on it, completely failing to see that it is a platform woefully ill-equipped for anything other than that which it was originally designed for: microblogging. No-one in their right mind is going to set up a video-centric Twitter account instead of a YouTube channel, even if the site wasn't infested with the worst bigots the Internet has to offer. And no writer is ever going to use Twitter as their primary means of posting their work.

Everyone knows this. And yet it's so difficult to get people to notice you if you're not spending all day "building your personal brand" or some such bullshit. Artists struggle to get commissions without social media. Writers struggle to get publishers without social media. Video makers struggle to get views on their videos without social media. It all sucks, and it feels far too late to be able to do anything about it.

All you can do, really, is just be stubborn. Keep plugging away at your own personal passion projects, and do those projects for the passion, not for the potential of monetising them. I keep doing this blog because I like writing and it's good therapy for me — nothing more. It's always a thoroughly welcome sight when I see someone I recognise in the comments, but that's becoming an increasingly rare occurrence these days. Family and friends who used to read on a regular basis just… don't any more, and the worst thing is, I completely understand why. The modern Web simply isn't built to support personal sites any more, and that's a real shame. It feels like we're very much at risk of losing an important part of our collective culture — because what happens to everyone's "content" (ugh) when one of these social media companies eventually implodes?

Anyway, close your Meta accounts, get off Twitter and read more blogs. That's my advice for surviving online today.

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#oneaday Day 222: Dawn of the Second Day

Second day in a row of successfully getting up at 7.30, getting out of the house and having a little walk down to the shop. It was a little bit harder to successfully achieve this today, but I was expecting this. As outlined yesterday, my dreams were doing their best to pull me back into sleep, but I recognised them as being pointless (I was dreaming about Fire Emblem, and if I want to play Fire Emblem I can just go downstairs) and managed to get myself out of bed.

The fact that I was woken up by my phone ringing at 7.28 also probably helped. I was concerned that the call would be Bad News, as phone calls at vaguely unsociable hours tend to be, but it was, in fact, just a wrong number offering one "Jenny" a supply teaching position.

I have done supply teaching before; having to get up early and wait for a phone call like that is the absolute worst, because if you do get one you inevitably then have to get ready as fast as possible and get to whatever hellhole of a school you've been assigned to before the beginning of the school day. (Of course, one might say if you were reliant on such phone calls for your income, you should probably get up and get ready a little earlier on the assumption that you will get one; the worst that can happen is you don't get one and will have put on your "nice clothes" for nothing.)

I'm hoping this whole little routine will lead to some other incremental improvements in other areas of life. I actually feel like I slept a little better than usual last night, and eventually what I would like to do is start integrating a little more exercise than just a quick walk to the shop into the morning routine. As I have learned in the past, though, making such lifestyle changes is best handled gradually rather than trying to do too much, too soon. So I'm just concentrating on what has historically been the "difficult bit" — getting up — and celebrating my successes in that area first. Everything else can come later.

Anyway, I'm up and about now and there's still a full ten minutes before I actually need to start work. So that's nice. Here's hoping today is at least vaguely stimulating and entertaining. Knowing what's coming later, it should be fun, all being well, though I'm sure the wonder that is social media will find something to piss and moan about, as happens every day. Letting humanity at large comment online was a mistake. But you know this. You've read my posts, and many of them were most certainly a mistake.

Oh, also it's my brother's birthday today, so if you see him about, be sure to wish him happy birthday.

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