1144: A Life Without Nerd-Rage

I haven't even contemplated going back to Twitter yet, but not because I have no desire to run into the scumbuckets who drove me off it in the first place. No, my lack of desire to go back to Twitter stems from my dislike of irrational table-thumping arguments on the most ridiculous of subjects, usually video game-related.

Mr Craig Bamford said it best back in February:

CAN WE PLEASE STOP TRYING TO HAVE SERIOUS DEBATES ON TWITTER OF ALL THINGS?

See title.

No, really. See title. I’m enormously, impossibly tired of how everybody who writes about games seems to think that the best-or-only way to have debates on serious, often wrenchingly-personal issues is on Twitter.

Yes, I’m guilty of this myself. I know. But every single time it happens, I feel like I’ve made a mistake. I’m just reminded of how Twitter is an incredibly dumb way to handle these things. The posts are too short, there’s no proper threading, you can’t follow the discussion properly unless you follow everybody involved, expanding the size of the group makes it even worse, you can barely mention people without drawing them in…

…it’s just a gigantic dog’s breakfast that makes absolutely everybody involved look bad.

Worse, it elevates bad arguments. It seems custom-tailored for dumb appeals to authority/popularity and thrashing of strawmen and misquotation and pretty much everything OTHER than an actual grownup discussion of issues. It’s absolutely one-hundred-percent boosting the arguments that are “simple, straightforward, and wrong”, as the saying goes. That likely has a lot to do with why everybody seems to rush to the most extreme interpretation of arguments and positions. Extreme arguments tend to be straightforward ones.

Sure, there’s worse. Facebook, for example. But every day I’m more and more convinced that Twitter should really be used to link to arguments, instead of make arguments. It’s not working. So, please, stop.

I agree with him entirely. Too many times over the last year in particular have we seen game journalists and critics with disproportionately loud online "voices" telling us what to think. Usually these loudmouths are attempting to address the issues of sexism and misogyny in the industry — a noble goal, for sure, as few can deny that women still get treated like shit at times through no fault of their own — but more often than not they get so embroiled in beating their fists on their desk that they lose all track of their arguments and end up coming across as… well, a bit childish really. Often these rants come about when the full information on a given situation isn't available, either — they're a kneejerk response to things which often aren't the "problem" they appear to be at first glance.

Let's take the recently-released Tomb Raider reboot as an example. I haven't played it yet, but I've been discussing it with a friend who has this evening. He's an intelligent sort of chap with a keen critical eye, and he has found himself very impressed with the depiction of the young Lara Croft as a vulnerable young woman caught up in a situation that she isn't entirely comfortable with, and having to do things that she finds difficult or scary. The tale of Tomb Raider is as much one of Lara overcoming her own difficulties at dealing with particular things as it is about… whatever the overarching plot of the new game is. (I'm intending to "go in blind" when I eventually play it, so I have no idea what the actual story is about.) My friend compared it to the movie The Descent, with which it sounds like it shares many of its themes and much of its tone. This means that Lara is frequently put in various types of danger — from the environment, from wild animals, and from other people. This also means that there are times when the wet-behind-the-ears young Lara is absolutely fucking terrified of what is happening to her, and justifiably so.

Is this sexist? No, not really; it's a perfectly human response to shit your pants (not literally… I don't think) at the prospect of having various forms of unpleasantness inflicted upon you, regardless of whether you're male or female. Likewise, as much as we would like to forget it happens, violence and sexual assaults do happen to women — and men too, for that matter — because there are certain portions of human society who are complete scumbags who have no regard for human life, male or female.

Lara happens to be female, which means that the situations she is put in over the course of Tomb Raider have been under a disproportionately greater amount of scrutiny than if she was a male hero — regardless of whether or not said male hero is a realistically-rendered character (as Lara is intended to be in this reboot) or a muscle-bound caricature. Lara is put into some difficult situations over the course of the game, including at least one scene where she appears to be at risk of sexual assault. Much was made of this scene when it was first revealed — particularly comments from the development team that it would make players "want to protect Lara". This was immediately interpreted by the aforementioned loudmouths as being misogynistic and in a sense they're correct to say that — the characters in the game are misogynists who don't care about Lara's wellbeing. But — and here's the thing — this doesn't mean that the developers share these attitudes just because they put these characters in the game. You have to have conflict and tension for something to be exciting. Did it have to be the implied threat of sexual assault? No, of course it didn't, but equally that doesn't mean we should shy away from such subjects in our entertainment — to do so can actually be pretty harmful, as it makes genuine victims of this sort of thing feel like their suffering is something to be ashamed of. It's also just plain insulting to grown-ups who want their entertainment to acknowledge that Sometimes Bad Shit Happens to Good People.

I don't want to get too bogged down in Tomb Raider because it's just one example of this sort of thing going on. I happened to sneak a glance at Twitter earlier out of curiosity and it seemed that the latest controversy to hit the Intertubes related to Sony's new God of War game, which features an automatically-attained story-related Trophy awarded to the player the moment after the lead character Kratos stomps on the face of a Fury following what, I assume, is one of the series lengthy combat sequences. The trophy is called "Bros Before Hos", which is arguably somewhat in bad taste, but we're talking about a series full of a muscle-bound man ripping the eyeballs out of mythological creatures the size of your average Ikea while shouting incoherently, so I think we can agree that subtlety went out of the window a long time ago.

Because a Fury is a woman, this scene (and by extension the Trophy) is now misogynistic. Again, it might well be in the context of the game — I haven't played any of them so I don't know what sort of person Kratos is (besides "the angriest man in Greece") and what his attitudes towards women are — but in the case of the game's development, God of War is based on established mythology (or an interpretation thereof, anyway) in which the Furies were (are?) female, and not very nice things to encounter to boot. If you had the opportunity and the means, you would probably want to stamp on their face too, and that's nothing to do with the fact they are women — it is, however, everything to do with the fact that they are infernal goddesses of much unpleasantness. Do we now have to disregard established mythology because of concerns over violence against women? No, that's ridiculous; that's wrapping the world in cotton wool, which helps no-one.

Note that in all of these cases I am not advocating for people to be free to promote things that are harmful to society. I would feel deeply uncomfortable playing a game in which you were somehow rewarded for inflicting domestic violence on someone, for example — although if tackled with sensitivity and care (which many triple-A developers lack, but which many smaller-scale or indie developers have proven themselves to possess in abundance) it could be possible to create an interesting, if distressing sort of interactive story about domestic violence. (In fact, it has sort of been done at least once, to an extent anyway: for a fascinating and challenging exploration of an abusive relationship through the use of allegory, play the game Magical Diary — which was written by a woman — and pursue the romance with Damien.)

What I am instead saying is that getting outraged any time a female character (or, for that matter, a non-white, young, elderly, homosexual, trans or other "non-white twentysomething cis male" character) is placed in peril, regardless of the circumstances, is counter-productive. It diminishes the value of the arguments as a whole, and distracts attention from content that genuinely is a problem. After the controversy over the Hitman trailer with all its leather-clad nuns and other assorted ridiculousness dreamed up by the 14-year olds in Square Enix's marketing department, I confess I found myself blocking most of the people involved in the "discussions" around the issue on Twitter not because I wanted to deny there was a problem, but because I couldn't deal with the way people were arguing about it. There was no debate, no discussion — nothing but "I'm Right, You're Wrong" for day after day. And as soon as one controversy subsided, another appeared. And so it continued for month after month after month. It made me stop caring completely, which is the complete opposite of what these people presumably intended.

Rage like this doesn't even have to be directed at a sociological issue, though; just recently everyone has been getting extremely angry at EA because of SimCity's online requirement, just like they did with Diablo III. Again, very few people are considering all the facts at play here, which I won't get into now, and instead resorting to kneejerk rage which, if you disagree with, you're somehow an asshole. There always has to be something to be angry about. And it's exhausting.

So, in summary, I am very happy to have now, for the most part, taken a step back from the seething masses — and while said masses are still seething I have very little intention of heading back in a Twitterly direction unless absolutely necessary.

I'll let Irina sum up how I feel about all this with the Understatement of the Century.

Quite.

1143: Kilo-Commuter

My brother posted a link on Facebook earlier about "mega-commuters" — a relatively small number of Americans (about 600,000) who travel more than 50 miles each way to get to work each day. He's one of them.

Sounds hellish, doesn't it? But it doesn't necessarily have to be that bad.

I can't make a claim to be a "mega-commuter" as the longest commute I've done on a daily basis was about 35 miles each way — I guess that makes me a kilo-commuter? — but that was plenty to potentially drive me insane. As it happened, it was the job itself I was doing at the time that did a much better job of driving me insane, but I digress; my distaste for the teaching profession and reluctance to return to it ever again is well-documented elsewhere on this blog. (In fact, it was my growing sense of discomfort at an ill-advised return to the profession that spurred me on to start writing on this 'ere site every day in the first place, so I guess I can't complain too much.)

No, believe it or not that's actually sort of relevant, because my daily 70 mile round trip to get to and from work actually became something of a haven of calm amid the chaos of my professional existence. While I was in my car, no-one could "get" me. (Well, technically, I suppose they could; someone could have crashed into me and injured or killed me. But… oh, shush.) It was some time I had to myself to spend as I pleased… sort of, anyway — I mean, obviously I still had to do the driving bit.

Consequently, I found myself spending my commute doing things that I don't really do any more as a "work from home" person. I listened to the radio. I listened to podcasts. I listened to a lot of music. I sometimes phoned people. (Hands-free, obviously.) I phoned people. Jesus Christ, I never do that now, largely because the telephone tends to fill me with an uncommonly-large amount of dread, but nope, the sheer tedium of driving down the M3 (or sometimes, for variety, the A31) every day was occasionally mitigated by actually talking to someone other than myself. But more often than not it was mitigated by listening to the radio or podcasts. I attribute the fact that I can tolerate (and even enjoy) Chris Moyles' brand of comedy — something that it appears to be fashionable to hate — to the fact he accompanied me to work and made me laugh every morning through what turned out to be a very difficult period of my life. I'm not sure I would have stuck out a job that eventually pretty much gave me a nervous breakdown had I not had something like that to help me mentally prepare myself each morning. (Obviously ultimately it didn't really work, but still.)

While it was nice to spend that zombified period of time driving in a straight line for about 50 minutes, the prospect of doing so every day isn't really the sort of thing that makes you want to get out of bed each morning. You have to really like your job to be able to stick it out for longer than a few months. I somehow managed to convince myself to do it for a total of two and a bit years altogether — eventually I moved closer to the job that eventually saw me escaping the teaching profession, which is probably something I should have done sooner — but that commute was probably one of the contributing factors that made me come over all queer, as a grandmother might say.

Despite that, though, I do sort of miss it. I don't have my own car at all any more — Andie and I share one, as I have no real need for my own now — and so long drives accompanied by the radio or podcasts are now an increasingly-distant, wistful memory for the most part.

Then I remember that I don't have to get up before 6am any more and I don't miss it nearly as much.

1142: Hello

So after publishing last night's post (which, I'll be honest, was composed somewhat in haste after a lengthy Ridge Racer Unbounded session prompted it, immediately before my bedtime) I was rather surprised to receive an email from someone named Michelle at WordPress, who informed me that my post was going to be featured in the Freshly Pressed section of WordPress.com. Thank you, Michelle, that was very nice of you, and it was even nicer to receive an email that was clearly from an actual person rather than an automated robot. Big love to all of the WordPress team.

Taking Michelle's email to heart, though, it's entirely possible that there might be a few new visitors around here in the immediate future, so I thought I'd take today to (re)introduce myself for the umpteenth time, and explain a little about what this blog is for and why I number all my posts.

So, then. Hello. I'm Pete. I'm a 31-year old bloke from the grey and miserable isle that is Great Britain. I live in Southampton, which is a city that has been the focal point of my life ever since I left home in 1999 to go to university there. Over the years, I've flitted around a bit for various reasons (mostly work) but always ended up coming back to Southampton either temporarily (to see friends) or, as happened just before Christmas, permanently. Or as "permanently" as any place I've lived since 1999 has been.

I live in a nice flat with my girlfriend Andie. Technically I'm married to someone else, though the circumstances of why the person I'm living with is not the person I'm married to are terribly complicated and not something I feel particularly inclined to go into here. Suffice to say, if you look at blog posts from around May of 2010 you'll get a general idea of how I was feeling when that all went down, and besides, all of that will be resolved this year. (I will also note that there is no bad blood there — forgive and forget and all that — it's just something I have found difficult to deal with until quite recently. And no, I don't want to talk about it further.)

The above sort of brings me onto the subject of this blog, which you may have noticed I update on a daily basis. I actually posted a number of pieces on this site before beginning to post daily, but it was in January of 2010 (the 19th, to be exact) that I started a personal tradition that I still keep to this day: daily blog posts. Originally, these daily posts were part of a Twitter-based movement known as "#oneaday". This was a group who banded together in an attempt to post something — anything — once per day as a means of continually flexing our collective writing muscles. Many of the original participants — including the person who started the whole thing — dropped out of the running very quickly, but there were a number of us who kept it up all the way through 2010. In 2011, I attempted to coordinate a larger effort to get as many people posting regularly on their blogs and encouraging their readers to donate to charity. It was moderately successful — we raised about £200 or so, I think, which wasn't too bad considering the number of people involved — but ultimately most writers lost interest. It also became a bit too much work for me to manage by myself, but I'm not ruling out the possibility of organising something along the same lines again in the future.

Anyway, all that aside, I'm still going, and this post you're reading right now is my 1,142nd daily post in a row. I cover a variety of different topics on this blog according to what I'm thinking about at any given moment and, to a lesser extent, whether or not my girlfriend has complained that I'm being "boring". My strongest interests are video games (particularly Japanese role-playing games and visual novels, though if you mention TrackMania to me I can go for hours); music (I play the piano, clarinet and saxophone and occasionally compose stuff); board games; and, as 1,141 previous posts will attest, writing. I also use this blog as an "outlet" when I need to get some raw, honest words or thoughts out of my head and onto the page. I suffer with depression and anxiety (personified by the big black cloud "Des" in the header image) and find it helpful to talk about these things.

If this blog and its crudely-drawn stickmen aren't enough Pete for you, then you can check out my professional work every day at Inside Social Games and Inside Mobile Apps, and my "pet project" at Games Are Evil. I also hang out a lot with my video gaming buddies the Squadron of Shame on Google+, and if you either 1) would like to hear my delicious, fruity, full-bodied English accent or 2) are interested in "underappreciated" video games , then I suggest you have a listen to the Squad's irregularly-occurring podcast, the Squadron of Shame SquadCast. You can find the archives here, and a new episode on the subject of Spec Ops: The Line is coming soon.

1139: Just Shut Up

I think I'm "over" social media. Allow me to clarify that bold statement, however, as it's perhaps not entirely accurate as is. I think I am over social media as it exists today — a sprawling, disorganised mess of ill-defined concepts that contribute very little to the people's understanding of one another, and more often than not is about vanity rather than actual socialisation.

In other words, I yearn for the days when social media was simple and straightforward — when its sole intended purpose was to allow people to stay in touch with each other and perhaps, occasionally, share a photograph or two with them.

Looking back on this blog, I see I have written about this subject at least twice in the past, and my disillusionment with it has only grown over the last year or so — perhaps due in part to the fact that as part of my job I come into contact with some of the most utterly pointless examples of social media that I've ever seen.

These days, there are social media apps to share anything you can think of. I mean, there are literally (YES LITERALLY) apps and services that allow you to share anything you can think of. There are also more specialised ones with questionable usefulness to society as a whole. I reviewed one recently where the entire purpose was to share what your current mood was — you couldn't add any text explaining said mood, only an emoticon — and another where you could share the weather in your local area, then "like" or comment on the weather in other places. Another still allowed you to send a video or photo to someone, but they were only allowed to look at it for ten seconds, after which it locked itself and became useless (I swear I'm not making this up).

The trouble with these things is that despite their pretensions towards being "social media," they're not actually all that social at all in terms of the way in which people use them. They're a means of broadcasting things and seeking approval of other people rather than a means of actually engaging in conversation with anyone. Take a look at the average comments thread on an Instagram picture of a moderately-attractive person (usually a woman) and you'll see what I mean. No-one's actually talking to each other — everyone's just dropping an asinine opinion bomb and then never coming back. The poster of the selfie is seeking approval from commenters telling them how attractive they are; meanwhile, the commenters are seeking approval from the poster and hoping that their specific compliment is the one that will get them some specific attention.

This isn't the case universally, obviously. There are still some actual conversations that go on on Facebook, for example, but these can easily be lost in the torrent of people resharing crap from pages like "I fucking love science" (do you? Then go do some rather than recycling endless fucking memes) and "LIKE AND SHARE!!" (NO!!). Twitter is a reasonable platform for discussion at times, but conversations are easily derailed and, as has been proven hundreds of times in the past year alone, 140 characters is really not enough to make a coherent argument about a complex issue. It's also incredibly easy to be taken out of context on Twitter.

Google+ perhaps fares the best out of all of these services in my experience, though even that's variable. Join a good, small community that has a clear focus and whose moderators keep a tight leash on discussion and you'll have a good experience chewing the fat with people who may well become good friends. Follow Felicia Day or Wil Wheaton and you might see some interesting content, but the quality of discussion goes out of the window. Follow Google+'s own page and all you get are blithering idiots making ill-informed political rants any time the team behind the page even dare to mention the President.

I think the thing that's been striking me most heavily recently is "do I really need to share this? Do people really need to know this?" And more often than not, the answer is "no". I don't feel the need to collect an arbitrary set of "Likes" with services like CircleMe or GetGlue. I don't feel the need to "check in" to places with Foursquare. I don't even really need to use stuff like Raptr to broadcast my gaming activity, but that has, on occasion, sparked some good discussions — as, I'm sure, the other services do in some cases. Just not mine. Not any more. Perhaps once in the past — I met some good friends through Foursquare's now-defunct competitor Gowalla — but not now.

Consequently, since quitting Twitter a while back (and not really missing it, to be honest — though I do miss some of the people) I've been paring back my personal social media use hugely. I've closed my Tumblr account — I never really understood the point of that site, and these days all it seems to be used for is white people shouting about how guilty they are about being white and how we should all stop being such racists/misogynists/fedora-wearing perverts — and I've unistalled the vast majority of social apps from my phone, including Twitter and Instagram. Facebook made the cut, because as much as I dislike it at times, it's still a good way of staying in touch with a lot of people, and Google+ also survived, as it's the new home of the Squadron of Shame and serving our needs well.

Obviously this blog is still going, too (and will be for a long time to come, hopefully!) and I still comment on friends' blogs — but I don't really count that as "social media" in the same way, particularly as the discussions had tend to be (for the most part, anyway) wordy and thought-provoking rather than inspiring little more than a knee-jerk "lol".

Everything else, though? Out the window. And life is much calmer and more pleasant as a result.

1137: Animal Magic

I could sit and watch animals for hours, and have done on numerous occasions in the past. It can be pretty much any animal, too, so long as it's not a scary one like a big hairy spider or a snake that could kill you or a shark with frickin' lasers on its head. The majority of my animal-watching over the years has been taken up by the observation of cats (both live when I was younger — including one memorable occasion when I was hanging out with my friend Woody, we both got absolutely munted and found my family's cat inexplicably hilarious — and more recently on the Internet courtesy of Maru) but I also often find myself oddly enraptured by a friend's tortoise any time I go to visit and have an idle moment (seeing him munching nonchalantly on lettuce is oddly hilarious — the tortoise, not my friend, obviously). Most recently, though, I find myself spending an altogether healthy, reasonable and perfectly normal amount of time staring at our pet rats Lara and Lucy and have absolutely never got up in the middle of the night if I can't sleep purely to go and see them.

It's been oddly fascinating to watch their behaviour change over time, because both of them have absolutely developed their own personalities. Lara always used to be the dominant one over her original cagemate Willow (who sadly died a few months after we got her) but was always a lot more confident and friendly — Willow, meanwhile, was shy and nervous, and prone to biting if she felt threatened, which was quite often. She got out of the cage on one occasion and it was an absolute nightmare to get her back in, as she was too terrified to realise that we just wanted to help her get back home. (We did, eventually.)

After Willow died, Lara very obviously became very sad. She was much less energetic than she used to be, and spent a lot of time just sitting in her "saucer section" house that hung from the roof of the cage staring out rather pathetically. It was heartbreaking to see, so it wasn't long before we decided to get her a new playmate. We introduced the two of them to each other on "neutral ground" (the bathtub, where they couldn't escape and skitter off), they had a good sniff around each other and a bit of a poo, then both cooperated when we put them in their little carry box and subsequently back into the cage.

Lucy, who is a fair bit younger than Lara and consequently much smaller, seemed to have a difficult time adjusting to her new home initially, as Lara spent a lot of time fussing around her and seemingly frightening her. On one terrifying occasion, we found Lucy lying on her back completely motionless and were worried that she had suddenly died. Fortunately, we discovered a couple of minutes later that it was just a "submission" thing — it was her way of accepting Lara as the queen of the cage. She spent a few days cowering in the corner and not wanting to come out, and gradually built up her confidence. On one evening we put her in her carry box but in the cage so that Lara could get used to her scent without harassing her, and Lara got in an absolute panic, frantically scrabbling around and trying to get into the box because she thought she'd lost her new playmate. They were both fine the next day.

Fast forward to today, a number of months later — I forget how many exactly — and the two have settled into a healthy dynamic. Lara, as the older one, is for the most part a little more "careful" about what she does — though not always — while Lucy is clearly the "annoying younger sister", regularly sniffing around Lara and occasionally… well, all right, fairly regularly giving her a playful nip in an attempt to kick off a play-fight which she'll inevitably lose in a flurry of rolling around and screeching. (Rats can be very loud if they want to be, surprisingly — though it's mainly Lucy who makes all the noise, as Lara doesn't seem to squeak much at all.)

Lucy has also become the adventurous one — if we open up the cage, she's always the first one to come out, start exploring and want some fuss from us. Lara will come out and demand some attention, too, and will also go off and explore, but it's always Lucy who comes out first. She won't stand still. Lara, meanwhile, who is bigger, older and a bit more "world-weary" now — at least, those are the personality traits I attribute to her — is much more receptive to standing still and being petted, and will even sometimes come crawling up me to sit on my shoulder if I sit in a climb-friendly position.

Lara hurt her leg the other day — she was limping around and obviously didn't like putting weight on it, but didn't seem to be in too much pain. She certainly wasn't complaining, anyway, but it was clear that she wasn't quite as mobile as usual. (It transpires that rats are fairly prone to sprains — given the regularity with which they fall off things in an extremely amusing manner, I'm surprised this is the first time either of them have done it.) She spent a lot of time just resting, occasionally coming out for water or food, but for the most part just snuggling down in a comfy, warm spot and letting herself heal naturally. (Rats heal super-quickly.) Rather than being her usual irritating little sister self, Lucy seemed to know that something was wrong with her "adoptive sister" and left Lara alone for the most part, occasionally popping in to snuggle up and keep warm with her or help her groom herself. The two were obviously communicating somehow, and it was really heartwarming to see. After a couple of days of rest, Lara was back to her old self, and the pair were back to their usual dynamic.

When I think of all that time I spent alone and depressed back in 2010, I find myself wishing that I'd discovered how joyful it is to have your own pets sooner, as it would have probably saved a large degree of my sanity around that period — if not my money, of which I didn't really have any at the time. I mean, I always knew that having a cat around was awesome from my childhood, when our family pets Penny and Kitty were fixtures in the household, but somehow the thought of owning my own pets had never really crossed my mind. Largely because most rental properties specifically state that you're not supposed to have pets in them, of course, but seriously, the amount of damage a tiny rat can do is significantly different from the chaos a small dog can wreak!

Anyway. Yeah. Pets are awesome. 9/10. Get one.

1131: Lavatorial Subconscious

It is, as I have noted a number of times previously on these very pages, during the hours of the morning between waking up for the first time and actually waking up enough to be able to get out of bed that your subconscious works the hardest to show you the most fucked-up shit possible to get you wondering what the hell someone was injecting into you while you slept. These "morning dreams" are also the ones that tend to stick in your memory a lot more than the things your brain dreams up in the main part of your sleep cycle, too.

As you will recall if you've been following this blog for a while, I have recounted these peculiar and surreal experiences in the past. And I thought I'd do that today, largely to resist the temptation to write about Ar Tonelico yet again.

This morning's weird dream was once again somewhat lavatorial in nature, at least in part, so for that I apologise.

I forget the specific circumstances which brought me to the situation, but something had caused me to arrive at a building which looked somewhat like Kazuma's orphanage from the video game Yakuza 3. There were a few differences, though. For some reason, inside the wooden building there was a large room with windows all around its walls, except for one completely wooden wall, which had a toilet on it.

I had arrived at the building to see someone I knew — I think they were a teacher, but I don't recall seeing their face clearly. Their class were with them, but ignored me until I stepped into the bizarre "toilet room" and started having a piss, at which point some kid pointed out the fact that I was clearly having a piss, and that everyone should watch closely. Naturally, once I had started, I couldn't stop — you know how it is when you really need a piss and you release that valve — but I was also very conscious of everyone standing around outside this room, with me on display.

Somehow, I managed to find a way of standing where I knew that no-one would be able to see my knob or the seemingly never-ending stream of piss erupting from me, but the crowd began to become more rowdy. At first it was shouting and laughing, but then it changed to singing — a few scattered voices at first, which eventually became as one, singing a driving, dramatic song that inexplicably developed an orchestral backing after a while despite the fact there was clearly not an orchestra present — at least not one which I could see. As the music built in intensity, volume and tempo, I became aware that I was losing control of my, uh, "flow" and it was going everywhere, and that everyone could see this.

Suddenly the music stopped, and I was done. I flushed, and went to wash my hands at the sink that I'm sure wasn't there beforehand. The sink was full of paint and the draining board next to it looked rusty and dirty, but clean water came out of the taps, at least. I washed up and left the room, trying to get far away from my "audience", who thankfully didn't follow me. I'm not sure how long I ran or to where, but eventually I found myself in a room with Emma Watson, who grabbed me and kissed me rather forcefully.

And then I woke up, disappointingly. Well thank you, subconscious, for keeping me asleep during the bizarre, slightly traumatic part and waking me up just as things were getting interesting.

1129: Disc of Memories

For the longest time, I've kept a specific CD-R hanging around. Somehow it's survived all the different house moves I've gone through since leaving home and is still intact. I'm more impressed that I haven't lost it or accidentally thrown it out than by the fact it still works, but I guess that's pretty cool, too.

The raggedy inlay lists a few bits and pieces on the front, but gives relatively little indication to its contents. "PETE'S STUFF" it proudly announces in green felt-tip pen. "\PIERRE\ (GENERAL), \KNP\ (KLIK GAMES), \FFCOLLECTION\ (FINAL FANT.)" it elaborates, also in green felt-tip pen. The last entry is simply a collection of emulators and ROM files for all the Final Fantasy games up until VI, including a translated Japanese ROM for the NES original version of III. But it's the other two that are more interesting.

The "Pierre" folder is from my first PC, which was a mighty Pentium 133 that could run Doom and Quake like nobody's business. It had both a DVD-ROM drive and a CD rewriter, and I also eventually installed a Sound Blaster Audigy into it, which took up another drive bay with a ridiculous front-panel audio interface that looked pretty cool. Said folder contained a wide variety of almost-organised bits and pieces, consisting almost entirely of MIDI files downloaded from CompuServe and the Internet at large — mostly music from Final Fantasy and Chrono Trigger, with a brief break into Wild Arms, Xenogears and Zelda territory — as well as saved walkthroughs from an early incarnation of GameFAQs. This was the age of dial-up networking, you see, and thus it wasn't possible to simply "quickly" hop onto GameFAQs to check a walkthrough; it was much more efficient to save it. (If you're wondering, my saved guides included Alundra, Bust-a-Groove, Rival Schools, Wild Arms and Xenogears.)

Also in this folder is an early form of a tabletop roleplaying game system called "The Returners," based on Final Fantasy, along with original text files for some of my earliest pieces of freelance writing work — a two-part guide to Final Fantasy VII for PC Zone, a 3,000 word Discworld II guide, a Lands of Lore II guide that was an absolute nightmare to put together, and a walkthrough to Turok 2 using the Official Nintendo Magazine's curious internal system of markup to include special characters and other layout bits and pieces.

Pleasingly, one thing that I have found among all this crap is a folder containing a bunch of half-finished creative writing works from a long time ago. There's a sci-fi epic I started working on that was loosely based on Sierra's excellent spacefaring strategy game Alien Legacy (kudos if you remember that, it was awesome) along with a piece I wrote for my A-Level English Language coursework. I liked it so much when I wrote it that I extended it somewhat. It's also probably my earliest example of writing creative prose in "stream of consciousness" style — we'd not long covered Jean Rhys' Wide Sargasso Sea in English Lit class, and the curiously disjointed method of writing had proven to be quite appealing to me, so I experimented with it. It paid off with a good mark, as I recall, though I'm not sure it holds up quite so well to further inspection some fifteen years later. Still, it's nice to have it.

(Oh, also, there's a subfolder in the "Pierre" folder just labelled "ANNA KOURNIKOVA IS FIT", which I think is fairly self-explanatory.)

The "KNP" folder is an interesting one, as it contains a selection of half-finished (yes, I have a habit of half-finishing things) games made with Clickteam's excellent software Klik and Play, later superseded by The Games Factory and Multimedia Fusion. This folder contains the earliest ever incarnation of the story "Dreamwalker", which I still fully intend to get out of my head and into some form of creative medium before I die. The original version of Dreamwalker was more an experiment to see if it was possible to make a Zelda-style action-adventure using the rather limited Klik and Play tools, and indeed it was, with a bit of creativity. Once I'd started making it, though, I found myself getting quite attached to the characters involved, even if I'd borrowed the basic concept (if not the setting and characters) from Alundra on PS1, which I'd played around the same time. I also actually composed some music for Dreamwalker, which I still have the MIDI files for, and which are in dire need of mixing properly. Perhaps that can be a project sometime — the tunes themselves are actually pretty solid, in my humble opinion.

The KNP folder also includes the original version of Pie Eater's Destiny, one of the only four complete video games that I have ever made. (The other three are London Taxi Chase, London Taxi Chase II and… a remake of Pie Eater's Destiny) Pie Eater's Destiny holds a fond place in my heart because it was a collaborative project between me and my two best buds in the late stages of school, and it's a running joke among us that one day we'll make a sequel. We've started several times, but somehow, well over ten years later, we're yet to get anywhere. Pleasingly, the data files for Pie Eater's Destiny also include the original .WAV file recordings of us doing voice acting for the game, including the outtakes which we saved. There are also .WAV files of us experimenting with pitch shifting and other special effects, including several alarmingly-convincing "Jabba the Hutt doing things he was never supposed to be depicted doing" files. JABBAWNK.WAV, indeed.

Anyway, I was happy to rediscover some of the useless crap on this disc when I opened it up on a whim today. It's missing a few things that I hoped I'd find on there, but I'm glad I found the other stuff. Perhaps when I can be bothered I might share some of it here. Those voice acting outtakes are crying out to be edited into some sort of YouTube clip.

1128: Suddenly Silenced

While I don't particularly relish the circumstances under which I left Twitter recently — which I won't go into now as it's all still a bit "raw" and upsetting, to be honest — it's sort of been nice to not have the omniscient little blue bird hovering over my shoulder all the time.

Twitter was a big part of my life for a very long time. According to my Twitter archive — which I downloaded before I closed my account — I first posted a tweet on May 8 of 2008, but didn't really do anything with it until the end of June of that year. It's fair to say that I — like many other people — didn't really "get" what it was all about to begin with, largely because it was so ill-defined and hadn't pervaded popular culture quite as much as it has today. "It's like Facebook statuses," I'd say to people when trying to explain it, "but without all the other crap."

It sort of is like Facebook statuses without all the other crap — those early tweets of mine very much followed the "Pete is… [doing something]" format — but it quickly became a lot more than that. It became one of my primary means of communication with my international friends.

As many of you reading this may know, I have a lot of friends, but disappointingly few of them live in the same place as me. I have at least rectified that a little by moving back to Southampton to be near my university and board game buddies, but many of my other friends are still scattered the world over, all the way from America to Japan and lots of places in between. It's sort of awesome to have such a global group of friends, though it naturally means that I've never actually met an awful lot of them and possibly never will in some cases. It also meant that I needed a good, simple, reliable means of staying in touch with them; Facebook was all right, but as it gradually became more and more cluttered with crap, fewer and fewer people were using it as a serious means of communication. Today, it's a bloated mess that it's very difficult to be "heard" on, but it still has a place.

Twitter, meanwhile, was simple, pure and to the point. It was like exchanging text messages with friends, only on a global scale. I made a lot of new friends through Twitter and got to know some a bit better. I got through some tough times, too; the immediacy of the service meant that it was a good outlet for me to talk about the way I was feeling when I was going through my "difficult period" a few years back, and I appreciated the support I got from my friends — and sometimes strangers — during that dark period.

Twitter is addictive, though. It becomes a compulsion. Install it on your phone and you'll find yourself idly opening the app to see if anyone has said anything interesting in the last two minutes, even if you just stepped away from your computer where you were staring at a Twitter client. You'll find yourself wanting to step into (or start) conversations at silly hours in the morning, and get relatively little sleep as a result. It'll worm its way into your life, in short, and start to take over.

Not that that's necessarily a bad thing — as I've already outlined above, it proved to be a good means of communication for me, and a good means of meeting new people. It allowed me to put myself out there a lot more than I feel comfortable doing in the "real world", and in many ways helped me to build confidence. And let's also not forget that I met Andie through Twitter, so that's pretty cool.

The recent things that happened to me, though, brought the service's public nature into sharp focus. Sure you can be free to be open and honest about your feelings, your likes and dislikes, but that also means that you can be open to attack, too, without provocation. And once you're in the sights of one of these obnoxious groups, it's very difficult to get yourself out of them. Twitter the company aren't much help, either — after several support messages keeping them apprised of everything that was going on, the only thing I've heard from them is a request for a clarification on something. They take great pains in their terms and conditions to say that they don't mediate personal disputes — though I feel there's a strong case for what happened to me to be considered a criminal offence, and as such I reported it to the police and intend to keep hounding Twitter until they do something about it.

In some ways, I feel sickened and angry that I was forced off a service that has been a prominent and important part of my life for a long time now. In other ways, it's actually quite relieving to know that I don't need to read that feed of inanities any longer, or get frustrated at people trying to have in-depth discussions on tricky issues in 140 characters when what they should really do is pen a 3,000-word blog post. I'm not ruling out a return in the future when the scumbags who drove me away give up and do something else, but for the moment I can certainly live without it — and there's no way I'm going back to a service which I don't feel safe using.

1125: Low Ebb

After the events of the last few days, which I won't go into right now, I feel compelled to write a few words about bullying in general. I've already written a considerable number of words on the time I suffered workplace bullying towards the end of my time working at an Apple Store (check it out here) but I wanted to talk a little more about the subject in general.

The word "bullying" is an incredibly loaded one that brings to mind images of schoolkids taking the piss out of each other for the most ridiculous reasons. When I was a young child at primary school, it was my ears. They stuck out and looked quite large, so naturally I was picked on and ridiculed for that — not just occasionally, but pretty much daily. The experience left me with mental scars that are yet to heal, and which manifest themselves in my cripplingly low sense of self-esteem.

But bullying isn't just something that children suffer from. Adults can suffer bullying, too, in a variety of forms. It could be workplace bullying such as that described in my previous post, where those in a position of "power" or "authority" use their influence to negative, unfair ends; it could be one group of people taking an irrational dislike to another group and expressing that dislike through verbal or physical abuse; it could be organised campaigns of hatred using the Internet.

The latter is an option that didn't exist when I was a youngster. The Internet wasn't a widespread thing until I was well into my teenage years, and social media certainly was nowhere to be seen. As such, any instances of bullying tended to confine themselves to the "real world" where they could normally be dealt with relatively easily, since there was usually an identifiable perpetrator to pin the blame on. It wasn't always easy for the victim to come forward and report the perpetrator, of course, for fear of reprisals — that "knowing them in real life" thing worked both ways — but if they could muster up the courage to do so, then the situation could often be dealt with.

With online bullying, though, it's a much more difficult proposition. There isn't always a visible perpetrator, because they often choose to hide behind a veil of anonymity. Some particularly arrogant online bullies do so under their real name because they've also taken steps to ensure that they will never get caught, and herein lies part of the problem: the very nature of online crime makes it extremely difficult to police, meaning that more often than not the groups responsible for making some people feel really, really shitty go completely unpunished and thus receive the message loud and clear that what they are doing is Okay.

The worst thing about bullying in all its forms is the degree of self-doubt it can instill in its victim. Am I worthless? they'll think. Do I deserve this? Are those things they're saying actually true? Do people really think that about me? Is that how other people see me? These are, of course, all things that I've found myself thinking at various points in my life.

It's useless and irrational to think that way, of course, but sadly, often the sort of people who are affected the worst by the actions of bullies are those who, like me, turn irrational when they have to deal with a difficult situation like this. Because it's not easy to stay rational in the face of totally irrational, unprovoked hatred, either, for in many cases these instances of bullying are born from little more than boredom rather than feeling particularly strongly about the person or group in question. It becomes a sport for the bullies, more about the chase and the observation of the victim's behaviour than specifically trying to hurt a person. This is particularly apparent when it comes to online bullying, where it's very easy to conveniently forget that the target of your vitriol is actually a real person with real feelings, and that any hurtful things you send off into the ether after you click that "Send" button may have a very real impact on that person's emotional, mental and, in some cases, physical wellbeing.

There's no easy solution, either. And that's sad. What's even more sad is the fact that we seem to have got to a stage as a society where we just accept that this sort of thing happens, and we don't do anything about it. I don't have any suggestions or solutions, either, mind you, but surely by the year 2013 you'd think humanity might have gotten over irrational hatred by now.

But apparently not.

(Sorry for the lack of comic today. I'm emotionally exhausted and there's no real way I can make all this shit funny.)

1124: Bovril

(with apologies to Spaced.)

I actually intended to write this post yesterday, but instead became embroiled in the unpleasantness I describe in yesterday's post. If you would like to read yesterday's post, which you have probably noticed is password-protected now, please contact me via some other means than this website so I know who you are and I will happily furnish you with it assuming I am happy that I actually know who you are.

Regardless, here is a blog post about Bovril.

For those who are unaware — which is probably most of you who aren't from the United Kingdom or the Antipodean lands — Bovril is a thick, sticky, black-brown substance that looks like you could probably use it to tar roads with. It comes in small, distinctively-shaped jars with red lids, and is sometimes grouped in the same category as Marmite, which comes in the same shape of jar but with a yellow lid. The key difference between Marmite and Bovril — which are fairly similar in many ways — is that Marmite is made of yeast extract, while Bovril is something to do with beef. (I've never asked exactly what to do with beef it is, as I figured given how little it seems to taste of beef, I'm probably better off not knowing.)

There is another key difference between Marmite and Bovril, however, and that is the fact that you can make Bovril into a drink. Yes indeed; plop a dollop of the black goop into a cup, add boiling water, stir until it turns as black as a moonless midnight sky and then enjoy a… weirdly salty, not particularly pleasant hot beverage that certainly doesn't really taste of beef. (Besides, as I memorably once commented to my former housemate Claire — so memorably that she actually made a note of it, as I recall — "any drink that is beef is just wrong".)

I actually don't know whether or not it's possible to make Marmite into a drink. I guess technically there's no reason why it shouldn't work, but if any drink that is beef is just wrong then surely any drink that is yeast is just even wronger. Except for various alcoholic beverages. Although those tend not to be made of nothing but yeast. Anyway, fuck Marmite. (Not literally.)

You know what is a far better use of Bovril than turning it into a weirdly salty, not particularly pleasant hot beverage that certainly doesn't really taste of beef? Spreading it lavishly on toast. That way you end up with toast that would stick to a wall if you threw it at a wall (but then you wouldn't be able to eat it), and which tastes of something weirdly salty, peculiarly spicy and not at all beefy. It's worth noting at this juncture that amateurs should take care when spreading Bovril on toast because the application of too much Bovril to a single slice of toast when inadequately prepared will lead to that curious feeling where you feel like you don't have a roof on your mouth any more. Once you eat it, obviously. Just spreading too much Bovril onto a piece of toast doesn't magically strip off the roof of your mouth. That'd be weird.

You know what is an even better use of Bovril than turning it into a weirdly salty, not particularly pleasant hot beverage that certainly doesn't taste of beef, or spreading it lavishly on toast and ending up with something that tastes weirdly salty, peculiarly spicy and not at all beefy that would stick to a wall if you threw it at a wall (but then you wouldn't be able to eat it)? Spreading it lavishly on toast and then dipping said black goo-encrusted toast into a piping hot bowl of Heinz cream of tomato soup. (It has to be Heinz, otherwise the magic doesn't work.) What you end up with is a piece of toast that tastes weirdly salty, peculiarly spicy and not at all beefy covered in tomato soup, which makes everything involved in that equation taste approximately 4,000% better through reasons only known to the Food Wizards.

So anyway. That's Bovril. It's weird but sort of awesome, but like Marmite, you will either, as they say, love it or hate it. Try the tomato soup thing before you declare your feelings one way or another, however.