#oneaday, Day 131: Garden of Dreams

He sat beneath the tree, his trusty little sketchbook open on his knees, the slightly-battered box of pencils by his side. Chewing the end of his pencil absently, he flipped back through the pages, remembering the thoughts which had come to him each time he had put pencil to paper. There was the expression of his anger, the page black with scribblings and scrawlings, words of pain obscured by a frantic, swirling miasma of darkness. And there was the calming scene, the one where he had taken his time and had lapsed almost into a trance, staring at the greenery around him, every leaf its own miniscule effort that no-one would ever see. And there were others, each possessing a memory, some of which had gone through his mind immediately after one another. Calm, to anger, to meditative, to philosophical. Some days there was just one picture. Others there were four.

But today there was a blank page, and he wasn't sure what to draw. He had put the point of the pencil against the page several times, but wasn't sure what he should do. Should he be honest and express himself fully? No-one need ever know; it was his sketchbook after all, and people only ever saw the things he chose to share. But with honesty came responsibility; dealing with the truth; the possibility of shattered dreams.

He shrugged. His dreams had already been shattered several times already, and he was still here. He put his pencil to the paper and began to draw. He wasn't a great artist, which was another reason he didn't share many of his sketches. But the things he drew held personal meaning to him. Every picture a memory, an emotion, words left unsaid.

He closed his eyes and pictured his subject. He wasn't sure he could do it justice, but he wanted to try. He decided to keep his eyes closed for the duration of the drawing, and just let his pencil move naturally. It glided across the paper with a gentle scratching sound – the only accompaniment to the soft breeze which blew across the garden and caressed the skin of his face – and traced around the contours of that which occupied his mind so completely right now.

It had been a curious feeling. Hoping against hope, so used to crushed desires and wretched despair, and then the sudden ray of light. His hope had been fulfilled, at least to some extent. He didn't know what that tiny fulfilled wish would come to, or indeed if anything would come of it. But for now, the fact that for once in his life, a tiny, seemingly-insignificant little wish had been granted – that was enough for him. He needed nothing more, and he knew that while his trials were far from over, he was walking the path he had chosen. Whether it was the correct path or not remained to be seen. But he was walking it, wherever it might lead.

He began to pencil in the details where he thought they should be, eyes still closed, working using only his mind's eye. He knew that the resultant picture would be nonsensical, but in allowing his mind to have free reign on what he produced, he felt free.

He stopped. That was enough. He had done all he could.

He opened his eyes. The tangled mess of scrawl on the paper bore little resemblance to that of which he was thinking. But it was enough. He knew what it meant, and what it was, was honest.

#oneaday, Day 130: Spam Fiction: The Revenge

A while ago, I did this, against the express wishes of one Mr George Kokoris. Tonight I return to the challenge with a twist… I write the in-between bits. I'm going to post four pieces of that bizarre spam you sometimes get that includes extracts of prose. And then I'm going to attempt to link the four of them within the space of approximately one thousand words. With no real care or attention – spur of the moment, first-thing-that-comes-into-the-head stuff. Not quite freewriting. But not quite proper writing, either. An exercise in 1) imagination and 2) deciphering nonsense.

This is a dangerous challenge, I know, that will likely delve into the depths of the nonsensical and surreal. But I have faith that I will emerge from the other side, unscathed and smelling only slightly of processed meat. Here goes.

The original spam extracts will be marked in bold and will be cleaned up slightly so they're, you know, readable. The subject headers of the original messages are "Insatiable redhead. gets her ebaver licked in a very intense way." [sic], "Appelaing redhead atking on a ggiant one ." [sic-er] and "Can we exchange photos before we meet?" and its companion "Can we exchange photos before we meet?". Just in case you were, you know, curious.

Let us begin.

I learned to play on the piano a little. Miss Gray – she plays for gathering twilight. Her face looked thin and wistful, full of youth's ideals and enthusiasm, and a heart full of love.

"That's so! I can be glad of that, can't I?" she cried.

"Well, there will be no difficulty of that kind any longer, Pollyanna, you–"

"Thomas, that will do for this morning. I think. Very good. In the fall you will enter school here, of course."

Well, short as had been Nancy's stay at the house, the two were with; and the other was so bad it fell to pieces just as soon as my mother entered the room. Miss Pollyanna Gray and I were left staring at each other, slightly embarrassed at our previous outburst which thankfully, had not been overheard. My eyes met hers for a moment, and I knew that our time together was at an end, for now at least.

"Come, Thomas," said my mother, taking my hand firmly, much as she would have done when I was but an infant. "It is time for you to meet the gentlemen and ladies of society. Doctor Stone is planning a discussion on Wagner. You would do well to listen to his words, as a student of the arts."

I didn't doubt the fact that it would be interesting, because she said it; but in a man it would have aroused his impatience. Searching analysis of the art of Wagner?

Upright, picking the leg of a chicken with a dignified gesture, Arthur with household matters and, while Margaret put the tea things away, she threshed out since he acquired the beginnings of civilization and he. There were many older ones also in bindings of calf and pigskin, treasure because she said it; but in a man it would have aroused his impatience.

Black paper, and Haddo insisted on posing for him. A little crowd stood in front of them to receive Arthur's order. She was a hard-visaged woman, and not at all what I expected from my mother's past descriptions of Doctor Stone. For starters, I had assumed Doctor Stone to be a man. Apparently my mother had also, from her frequent references to "him", not to mention the name of Arthur, a traditionally masculine nomenclature.

"Pleased to meet you, Doctor Stone," I said, proffering my hand to Arthur.

"Ah! You must be Thomas," she said. "I am Doctor Arthur Stone, Professor of the Fine Arts at this Academy,"

"Pleased to meet you, Doctor Stone," I said again, not quite sure what to say to this half-man, half-woman figure before me.

"So, Thomas," said Haddo, relaxing her pose for a moment to turn and face me. She, too, was a striking woman, somewhat intimidating to behold. "Tell us what you know of Wagner. Arthur here was just about to begin her lecture."

"I know little of Wagner," I replied, shaking off my mothers hand that was still firmly clamped around my wrist. "But I believe that I am able to learn, I hope."

Haddo eyed me suspiciously, then turned to Arthur, whose expression had become frosty.

"I advise you to show me somewhat more zeal.The situation is quite obvious."

Probably we no more than looked at each other.

"In three days will be the coronation."

I sensed the atmosphere in the room had changed. I looked at my mother, whose eyes had suddenly sprung tears in their corners.

"What coronation?" I implored the assembled guests. I had heard no such news of any coronation, and as far as I knew, the King still sat firmly on his throne, as resolute a ruler as he had ever been.

"The coronation," said Arthur in a low voice, slowly removing one of her silk gloves. "The coronation will proceed as planned."

"I don't understand!" I cried. I turned to my mother again, who was weeping openly by now. "I don't understand, Mother!"

"Then perhaps this will clarify matters," said Arthur, removing what I could now see to be an elaborate, feminine hairpiece. Underneath he was a balding gentleman who just happened to be dressed in an expensive-looking lady's frock. He reached down into the plunging cleavage of the dress and pulled out a crown, made of material as black as night. It seemed to suck all trace of joy from the room around it.

I heard the doors of the room crash open behind me, and Pollyanna's voice pierced the tension in the room like a knife.

"Uncle! No!" she cried, throwing herself against him and tackling him to the floor.

"Miss Pollyanna Gray," growled Arthur, "this is not your business."

"I beg to differ," she murmured, picking up the blackened crown, which seemed to be twisted with hate. She span around quickly and when she faced him again I knew she was holding a different object. It was almost imperceptible, but the look of concentration on her face was absolute. I could tell that whatever she was doing was taking every ounce of her mental and physical strength to maintain.

But his eyes and mind were not fooled.

Finally, she realized that his strength was too much for her.

"They destroy you and cripple me. Murgen's dreadful sentries allowed him to pass unchallenged."

To be continued…

[No, I have no idea what any of that meant either. I hope I made your day a little more surreal. I've certainly confused myself.]

#oneaday, Day 129: Projects Procurement Specialist Wanted

Have you tried to get a job recently? It's a massive, huge pain in the arse, and nothing to do with crowbars this time. The reason for it being such a pain in the arse is the sheer amount of bullshit that flies around with job advertisements, as I believe I alluded to in passing yesterday.

The worst bullshit is when you read through a job advertisement and, by the end of it, have no idea what you would actually be doing if you were successful in your application. What on Earth is a "Manager of Quality and Services"? Or a "Projects Procurement Specialist"? Or that old favourite, "Consultant"? Consultant on what? What are you consulted on? "Nothing, I'm just a consultant".

Then there's the job description itself. From the aforementioned "Projects Procurement Specialist" ad:

To provide the engineering department with tactical/strategic procurement support, including supplier identification and selection to meet the Engineering projects cost schedule, quality and delivery requirements.

To act as the liaison between the engineering and purchasing department whilst identifying opportunities to protect the business and to increase gross margins.

To raise and process relevant documentation for supplier selection criteria both technical and commercial and draft and negotiate contracts and purchase orders.

To contribute to continual improvement of processes and relationships at key suppliers and those internal processes affecting supply chain performance.

Now, granted, I am not a Projects Procurement Specialist. I'm not even a Projects Procurement Trainee. But I did do an English degree and can write a bit. And I have no idea what any of those sentences mean. Let's see if we can break them down a bit, shall we?

To provide the engineering department (Okay! Easy so far. I can do this.) with tactical/strategic (Oh, so it's a military job?) procurement support (Procurement of what?) including supplier identification (So… looking people up in the phone book who can send you things?) and selection (…and putting a circle around them) to meet the Engineering projects cost schedule (Cost is an amount of money. It doesn't keep a schedule.), quality (How does cost have a quality?) and delivery requirements (I imagine they want it put in a box and sent to them. Us. Wait, who's getting what delivered now?)

Whew. So some military person is required to get hold of some unspecified products that the Engineering department need, having worked out who can send them to them and for how much? SO WHY DON'T YOU SAY THAT? Let's continue.

To act as the liaison between the engineering and purchasing department (Wait… I thought I was the one "procuring" things?) whilst identifying opportunities to protect the business (Well, you could replace the lock on that door for a start… and you should probably put an alarm on the fridge.) and to increase gross margins (Have you seen those margins recently? They're disgusting, but I think we can do worse. Smear some shit over them or something.)

Okay. I'm getting lost now. Let's carry on…

To raise and process relevant documentation ("Raise and process"? Do you mean "type"? Or "print"? Or perhaps "type then print"?) for supplier selection criteria (Relevant documentation for supplier selection criteria… um… like a checklist or something?) both technical and commercial and draft and negotiate contracts and purchase orders (There are so many "ands" in that sentence I can't even begin to fathom what it actually means. Something to do with contracts and purchase orders. Still no word of what any of these things are actually for.)

I don't think attempting to analyse this is actually making it any clearer to me. In for a penny, in for a pound.

To contribute to continual improvement of processes and relationships at key suppliers (What? You mean "get to know someone"? Or perhaps "set up an account with someone who sends us stuff"?) and those internal processes affecting supply chain performance (Reading this is giving my internal processes a funny bubbly feeling. I think I might need to go and sit on the toilet for a little while. Excuse me.)

So, having come to the end of those statements, I am still completely in the dark as to what a Projects Procurement Specialist actually does. Evidently their specialism is so specialist that anyone who has never procured a project will have absolutely no idea what they are supposed to be doing.

And herein lies my problem. When I look for a job, I tend to try and look for something that I know I can do. But when you're confronted with page after page of bullshit like the above that makes absolutely no sense, it's difficult to work out exactly what jobs you can do. Or indeed would want to do. Being a Projects Procurement Specialist sounds inordinately tedious to me, so I guess I won't be joining that particular team.

But what can I do? If I don't understand half of the job advertisements out there – and it's not through stupidity, I might add, it's through their extremely poor use of language – how can I be expected to find something I'll be good at? I feel trapped in a cycle of doing crappy supply teaching right now, because for all the bullshit there is in education, at least I understand what the words "classroom teacher" mean. They haven't quite taken to calling them "learning facilitators" yet, though I imagine it's only a matter of time.

#oneaday, Day 128: Leveraging the Monetization of Excellence

Dear Businesspersonages of the World,

You don't half talk a load of bollocks. Whether you're sitting around a boardroom table with a cup of petrol masquerading as coffee, standing in front of an overhead projector training people who aren't listening by patronising them (in the English way, not the American way) or writing job advertisements, your language is full of shit that doesn't mean anything. In case you weren't aware, the English language has been around a lot longer than the double-breasted business suit and so was already adequately equipped to allow clear communication between individuals, or even large groups of people, through the media of writing or speaking.

Therefore, I must please ask you to remove the following words from your vocabulary forthwith:

Leverage

Use. USE. You don't "leverage social media applications to crowdsource popular opinion", you "use Facebook to see what people think". I have no idea where this word has come from and I see no reason for its existence other than to keep websites like Mashable in business. I guess people use the word "leverage" to mean "use really hard". But I say again, the simple word "use" has been perfectly well-equipped for this purpose for years. And the word "leverage" has been quite happy with its original meaning of how much, well, leverage you can get on something. Like leverage on a boulder that you're trying to push down a hill. Or leverage on a glued-down tabletop that you're trying to remove. (I don't know why you'd want to do that, but you need leverage to do it.) Leverage is not a verb. So just stop it. Or I will see how much leverage I can get on your arse with this crowbar.

Monetize

I understand that this is the 21st century and everyone wants to communicate as efficiently as possible. Therefore that oh-so-cumbersome three-word phrase "make money from" appears to have been replaced by the much more elegant word "monetize". Was this really necessary? Again I point the finger at Mashable, whose favourite question about websites appears to be "how will they monetize this"? Were I writing an article about, say, Twitter, I would ask the question "how will they make money from this?" It's just as clear. Yes, it uses a couple more words, but it sounds infinitely less pretentious. "Monetize" sounds like something a money robot would do. It's a bit sinister. Imagine the money robot coming into your bedroom in the middle of the night and monetizing you. You'd wake up as a big pile of dollar bills or pounds sterling or the currency of your locality, unless the money robot was made in a different territory in which case it would probably use its own local currency. Which would make it terribly difficult to get anything done. Also, people would want to spend you all the time. So please stop this too. Or I will monetize the violation of your rectal cavity with this crowbar.

Excellence

Mottos used to be inspirational pieces of text, usually in Latin to make people look clever. Here are a few examples:

Natura Artis Magistra (Nature is the Teacher of Art – Amsterdam Zoo)
In Somno Securitas (In Sleep there is Safety – the Association of Anaesthetists of Great Britain and Ireland)
Ex Obscuris Lux (From Darkness, Light – American Association of Ophthalmology)
Vita donum Dei (Life is the Gift of God – Royal College of Midwives)

Here is the motto for Purbrook Park School in Hampshire:

Working Together Towards Excellence

Somewhat less inspirational, I'm sure you'll agree. It implies that the school is, you know, all right, but not what you'd call "excellent". The word "excellence" is constantly used as something to strive for which is never actually attained. Therefore, I suggest that it is actually utterly useless. You may as well put "Working Together Towards Some Of The Children Here Actually Leaving With Some Qualifications And Not Getting Knocked Up And Living On The Dole At The Taxpayers' Expense While Daily Mail Readers Get All Upset And Blame Immigrants For Taking Jobs That You're Too Lazy To Get Anyway Because You Couldn't Be Arsed To Work Hard At School". Although admittedly that's somewhat less snappy.

So please stop using "excellence". Otherwise I will strive for excellence in the infliction of pain in and around your anus with this crowbar.

Self-Starter

You use this an awful lot in job advertisements, don't you? Usually coupled with "confident" and "motivated". What exactly is a self-starter? Can you tell me? Is it someone who can actually tie their own shoelaces? Someone who knows how to boil the kettle and press the button on the toaster so that the coffee and the toast are ready at exactly the same time so you have hot coffee and hot toast instead of boiling hot coffee and dry, cold toast or burnt toast and tepid coffee? Is it someone who runs like those new cars that don't have an ignition key and you just press the button to start them up? Is it a person who doesn't run on clockwork? Because most of us don't run on clockwork, so I'd argue that most of us are self-starters. If we weren't, we'd spend all our time lying in bed wanking, if we could be bothered. So please stop it. Otherwise I will demonstrate how much of a self-starter I am by, without any outside intervention or assistance, performing an amateur colonoscopy using this crowbar and a late-90s Handycam.

Fit for Purpose

No. It's not "not fit for purpose", it "doesn't work". What's wrong with "doesn't work"? I've been using the words "doesn't work" for years. See this old pair of headphones? They don't work. This remote control? It doesn't work. This battered old PC? It doesn't work. It's pretty clear that none of these are working as intended (and that I should probably throw out some of these things that don't work or at least replace the batteries) but I have never once felt the need to describe them as "not fit for purpose". Similarly, the shirt I purchased from Primark who seem to think that XL-size gentlemen are actually more like S-size gentlemen was "too small", not "not fit for purpose". The fact that when you drop a mobile phone onto a concrete floor it tends to shatter into a million tiny pieces doesn't make it "not fit for purpose", it makes you a clumsy idiot who should know when to put your fucking Blackberry away. So please stop using this, otherwise I will show you just how fit for purpose this crowbar is for inserting into businessmen's arses.

There are many other words I could continue this letter with, businesspeople (and don't even get me started on why you use the word "persons" instead of "people") but I have already written over 1100 words on the subject and I imagine that you have some important leveraging to get on with. So please remember what I have said, otherwise I will be paying you a visit with my friend the crowbar. And no amount of ergonomically-designed comfort-leveraging chairs will make sitting down comfortable for quite some time when I've finished with you.

Yours sincerely,

Pete

#oneaday, Day 127: Good Morning, Sleepyhead

Pro-tip: Colouring in things with a mouse is a pain in the arse. Don't start it, because then you'll have to finish it. Good morning! Well, it's nearly 2AM after all. That traditional blogging time, you know.

So I've been by myself for some time now after a long time having someone beside me almost constantly. And the thing that's struck me the most is how one's perception of time changes. Or maybe it's not the perception of time, it's the brain associating certain activities with certain memories and wanting to distance itself from them. Or, to simplify matters, it's about the messed-up sleepytime routine of the lonely man.

Take going to bed. I've found it quite difficult to make myself go to bed at a reasonable hour. I never was particularly good at it at the best of times, but if the occasion demanded it, I could be in bed before midnight. Before 11PM, even. But now? Staying up late isn't particularly unusual. This isn't some attempt to take full advantage of my new-found and not-particularly-enjoyable freedom. It's simply that going to bed means spending time alone in a dark room. Which, as anyone who has ever suffered through depression, stress, or any sort of crisis (all three of which I'm suffering right now) will tell you, is a sure-fire way to get one's brain thinking about things you don't really want to think about. So my body convinces itself that it's not tired and doesn't want to go to bed yet. So I don't. Eventually I will collapse into bed and sleep, but it's only once I really can't go on any longer.

The side-effect to this is, of course, that it's sometimes a bit difficult to wake up in the morning. But not only that. Having grown accustomed to waking up alongside someone else and having that presence there to spur you on to face the day, whatever it might entail, it's a shock to the system to suddenly have to do all that yourself. I can wake up early, sure. But getting out of bed? More difficult. When it feels like there's not much to get up for – and certainly no-one waiting for me to get up – it becomes easy to just lie there staring into space or worse, fall asleep again. This is, of course, enormously impractical and could probably be rectified by going to bed a bit earlier, but because of the aforementioned reasons, that's difficult too. Vicious cycle, you see.

It's not as if I don't keep myself busy, though. If I stay up late, it's not just to stare at a wall or sit there in floods of tears, though both of those have happened at least once recently. No, I find something to do. I find someone to chat to. I write something. I draw something. I play a game. I harass people on Twitter. Anything to avoid having to sit in that dark room trying to get to sleep, failing and hearing that little tap-tap-tap of the unpleasant thoughts come a-knockin' on my brain. It's a distraction, though, not a substitute.

So the moral of this story, then, is don't be alone. It sucks.

#oneaday, Day 126: Oh Summer, You Two-Faced Bitch

It's summer! Apparently, anyway. Definitions tend to vary, but the most commonly-agreed ones appear to be "when it gets a bit hot", "when we have more than two days of sunshine in a row" and "when music festivals start happening". Actually, that last one is only subscribed to by Radio 1, who are absolutely convinced that their festival of dogshit, aka One Big Weekend, marks the beginning of the summer. But then, this is a radio station which repeatedly screams "IT'S THE WEEKEND! IT'S THE WEEKEND! IT'S THE WEEKEND!" regularly after 5pm on a Friday, so it's fairly clear that they have delusions of grandeur regarding who is in charge of declaring when summer and/or the weekend starts.

What was I saying? Summer. Yes. It's been hot for a couple of days. Blue skies, lots of sunshine. What is commonly referred to as "nice weather", to use some classic English understatement. It's the sort of weather that, when you look outside your window, makes you think "I should be out in that". Whether or not you do actually get out in "that" is a matter of your own personal laziness.

Yay! Don't you love summer?

I have mixed feelings about the summer weather. On the one hand, there's no denying that bright sunshine and clear blue skies are a distinctly cheerful sight. At least they are in a country that is traditionally as grey and miserable as England. If you're out in the desert without any water, then bright sunshine and clear blue skies are probably somewhat less comforting, but that's beside the point.

On the other hand, there's the s-word. No, not that one. Sweat. As someone who seems to be able to sweat profusely at the slightest prospect of doing anything, particularly something that makes me uncomfortable, summer isn't a great time to be hit by direct, toasty-hot sunlight if I have anything productive or active to do. I realise this is a somewhat unpleasant image of me that you're building in your head right now, but I just want to put summer in context for those of us who aren't blessed with the ability to always smell of wild lavender blossom and ylang ylang. Or perhaps that's why chavs always wear an almost-visible cloud of aftershave all year round – so when they do sweat no-one notices because they've been knocked out by the scent of fake Tommy Hilfiger stinkystuff.

On another hand (that's three now), sitting out in the sun is nice. If there's a large open natural space to lie down in, it's hugely relaxing to just lie back in the sunshine and doze. I've never falling asleep doing this, largely because falling asleep in an open space in Southampton is pretty much an open invitation to allow people to ensure that you wake up naked, cold and devoid of all your possessions, but it's nice to just chill out. In the heat. Yes, "chill out" is perhaps a stupid phrase to use there.

On the other hand to that (what sort of many-handed monstrosity am I creating here?) there's the whole "sunburn" thing. While it's nice to be hit with radiation from the sun (more than, say, a nuclear explosion, anyway) and be nice and warm while you're out in it, coming in and feeling like someone has set fire to you a little bit isn't so nice, particularly when nothing cold you put on it makes it actually cool down. The more practical among you would probably advise putting on sunscreen. Not a bad idea, except sometimes when you go outside you spend much more time in the sun than you expected you would, so you had neglected to bring any sunscreen with you. Not to mention the fact that you get all goopy and messy. Ugh. Still… goopy and messy… radiation burns and potential cancer… hmm, tough decision. Why, Sun, do you have to be such a cruel mistress? That's like a really hot girl having sex with you and then injecting you with AIDS. Or indeed just giving you AIDS, there doesn't actually need to be any injecting involved, thinking about it. And the sun isn't actually being malicious about it, so it's a poor comparison anyway. Plus I mentioned AIDS, which I remember being pretty taboo to talk about during the late 80s and early 90s because the media thought only gay people and Africans got it, but then we all realised that wasn't true at all and now it's okay to talk about it and everyone quotes that really funny bit in Brass Eye where he asks the person if he's got "good AIDS" or "bad AIDS" and it's really funny and acceptable if politically incorrect. What? Shut up. The sun is both bad and good.

Don't you bloody hate summer? Twat!

On the final hand (which is probably sticking out of its arse by this point) there's the way people dress in summer. Pretty girls in tiny shorts or summer dresses = awesome. Overweight skinhead men in vest tops = less awesome. Skinny chavs with an alarming lack of body hair that makes them look like a Ken doll wandering around with open shirts or no shirts at all = way less awesome. And then there's me, who dresses exactly the same as I do all year round, albeit sometimes without a coat on super-hardcore days.

So in summery (eh, eh, see what I did there? If you hate that pun, you hate fun. Yeah, I went there.), summer's here. I estimate it will last roughly five days, then piss it down with rain, and then it might be back in October, going on past experience. Still, it'll be nice to have at least a few warm, attractive days, as good weather often lightens everyone's moods. And God knows a lot of us need our moods lightening right now!

#oneaday, Day 125: 3D Red Split Dot Dead Second Game Redemption Velocity Heroes

No, this isn't another blog post about search terms that will find my blog, though it's entirely possible that the phrase above can now be used to locate me. This is going to be a short post waxing enthusiastic about some of the awesome new releases us gamers have seen recently. And it's not even all of the ones that are available.

Through some judicious trading-in and knowing where to go to get some decent deals, I managed to score copies of 3D Dot Game Heroes, Red Dead Redemption and Split/Second. And you know what? They're all awesome. Here's why:

3D Dot Game Heroes

Well you try drawing a fucking 3D stickman, then, smart-arse. This one is incredibly simple to discuss. If you liked The Legend of Zelda: A Link To The Past then you will like this, because it's the same game. Well, actually, that's not quite fair as there are a few extra bits and pieces that the old Zelda games didn't do, such as the ability to customise how your sword upgrades and so forth. But overworld, dungeons, bombs, hookshot, boomerang, bow and arrow, empty bottles and all manner of other distinctly familiar things are present and correct.

The twist is, of course, it's in 3D. Sort of. It still plays like the 2.5D game that LttP was, it's just rendered in a gloriously different "3D pixel" look, where characters are still familiarly 8-bit in appearance and animation, but have some depth to their appearance. There's also a gorgeous tilt-shift effect on the camera as your character moves from the foreground to the background, too, which gives you the impression you're looking down onto a tiny, tiny world made of blocks.

One of the most entertaining things about the game is the character editor. You can build your own character one block at a time and animate them to be your avatar in the game. It's great fun, and enormously satisfying to see your creation wandering around the game world wielding a sword which is about five times their size.

It's a tough game, as the older Zelda titles tended to be, but never overly unfair, at least not in the part I've played thus far. There's plenty to see and do and, in good Zelda tradition, there's a ton of completely optional sidequests too.

Split/Second

Actual in-game footage.

Or Split/Second: Velocity to give it its full name, complete with unnecessary subtitle. How many people have wandered into a shop, seen that and asked if they have "the original Split/Second in stock"? Some people really are that stupid.

Anyway. If you've played the demo you probably know what to expect. Race cars, blow things up. What the demo doesn't quite prepare you for is how utterly involving and terrifying the full game is. The whole thing is tied together with a beautifully-produced "TV show" aesthetic that uses graphic design, special effects and music straight out of an American version of a TV show such as Ramsay's Kitchen Nightmares or the like. Only instead of dealing with an ailing restaurant, there are cars and big explosions. And the explosions are big. Many levels see you gripping on to the controller for dear life as, for example, a cruise liner in drydock comes sliding down towards you as you pray desperately you make it through to the other side.

Then there's the non-race game modes. "Air Strike" sees you attempting to survive as long as possible while a helicopter gunship fires missiles at you, for example. It's an enormous amount of very silly fun, and is a game that features one of the most consistent and stylistically-appropriate aesthetics that I've ever seen in a game. So hats off to Disney's Black Rock Studios for that.

Red Dead Redemption

Ah'm a cowboy. Not the Brokeback Mountain kind.

Aka "that cowboy game" or Grand Theft Horse-o. Red Dead Redemption is a spectacular achievement, with an enormous world to explore and ride around, tons of things to do besides the "story missions" and a real sense that you're part of the twilight years of the Old West. The game is plain fun to play, whether it's in single-player or the peculiar multiplayer mode, and there is enough stuff there to keep you busy for a very long time. Hopefully, though, this won't mean that it falls into the trap Grand Theft Auto has traditionally fallen into, meaning that no-one will ever finish it. That would be a shame, as the writing and voice acting are very good and deserve to be seen.

The one thing I will say about this one, though, is that it's one of those games that almost feels too big. Once you get to the stage where you can ride off freely, a couple of hours into the game, you're confronted with this massive open world and your brain's first reaction is to go "Which way? MAAAAAAAHHH" before dribbling out through your ears. Fortunately though, whichever way you ride off in you'll find something to do, whether it's one of the "challenges" that require you to hunt down particular pieces of wildlife, a "Stranger" who gives you a sidequest that you can complete at your leisure, a random in-world event such as bandits attacking a stagecoach or, indeed, the game's story missions.

EDIT: Also, you can punch a horse in the face. How could I have forgotten to mention that?

EDIT: Also, this.

So these three are certainly plenty to keep me busy for a while. And there's still a growing pile of shame to get through as well. Ye Gods, what have I done?

#oneaday, Day 124: Evergreen Entertainment

Throughout most people's lives, there are certain things that give them comfort. Certain things that they know they can always turn to. Certain things that are evergreen and never seem to lose their appeal, regardless of how long they've been in your life. It's nice to have things like this, because it reminds you that however chaotic life in general might seem, there will always be a few constants out there that will keep you happy.

I have a few of these things. One of these, as you may have deduced by now, is Borderlands. One of last year's sleeper hits, Borderlands was a winning combination of first-person shooter and Diablo-esque loot whoring action RPG. A whole bunch of people bought it on its release, which is good. But how many of those people 1) finished it and 2) are still playing it now?

I enjoy Borderlands because it's entertainment you can "dip" into. It doesn't have a particularly demanding story. Some might say the story is something of an afterthought. But that's not important. In fact, that's what makes it so "dip-friendly", if that's even a term. Because you never feel like you've lost the plot (literally) and there's always something in the mission log to go and do, it can be months between play sessions and you can still have a good time with it regardless. I still haven't finished the game with a single character, but I do enjoy going back to it time and time again, whether it's solo, with a split-screen partner or with some companions on Xbox LIVE. In fact, I've played it far too little online, as it's great fun in multiplayer. But for me at least, it's evergreen entertainment. I can happily go back to it. If you still have a copy, hit me up. I have a level 31 Siren just waiting to show you a good time.

The same is true for Geometry Wars 2. Although the Squadron of Shame's battle for high score supremacy is long over, with me claiming the top spot in everything except the Waves and Pacifism modes, it's still a game I come back to time and time again, because it's low-maintenance entertainment. And it has a kicking soundtrack. Bizarre even released an awesome megamix MP3 of it that you can pick up here.

Besides games, my other choices are TV shows, because they're short enough to sit down and watch with dinner without feeling like you're committing several hours of time to, and because they're comfortably familiar. In particular, I've lost count of the number of times that I've watched Black Books and Spaced. Spaced in particular, for me, represents possibly the very best of British television. It's clever, it's funny, it's well-written and above all, it's evergreen. It's still just as relevant today as it is now, though watching it as a slightly older person changes my perspective on it somewhat. Black Books, on the other hand, represents the other extreme of what British comedy does well – the bizarre and the uncanny. Black Books makes absolutely no sense and thus, going by past experience, it utterly confuses Americans. Admittedly I base this assumption on the fact that my brother found it really funny and my sister-in-law didn't get it at all, so it may be a somewhat hasty conclusion. But if you want to switch your brain off and enjoy some purely comic situations, there's few things that will beat it.

As you can probably imagine, in recent weeks I've been turning quite a lot to some of these pieces of evergreen entertainment to bring me some comfort. Of course, some of them have memories attached to them. But many of the memories attached to them are even older than those ones that are painful. They've been the constant presence in my life, and that brings me comfort.

What are some of your evergreens?

#oneaday, Day 123: Kiss My Ass, World Cup

So there's some sort of football tournament soon. Those of you who know me well will be aware that I have tried and failed several times to be the slightest bit interested in football. People I tell this to normally respond with "Oh, well, there's the World Cup coming up. Everyone enjoys that. Even people who don't like football."

Well I beg to differ. I don't like football and therefore the World Cup or similar tournaments are a vision of Hell on Earth for me. It seems for weeks at a time the entire nation except me goes absolutely insane and shows levels of supposed "patriotism" that they'd never normally show, only to get all grumpy and depressed when the England team inevitably comes to a crushingly embarrassing defeat at the hands of someone that the pundits say we "should have beaten". Well no shit. Of course we "should have" beaten them. That's how you win the tournament.

Anyway, fuck the World Cup, and here's why:

That horrible shouty-singy-chanting that drunken men do, inevitably in the middle of the night outside my window when I'm trying to sleep.

As a musician and someone who actually recognises good singing when he hears it, there is no sound more loathsome to me than the sound of football chanting, except possibly that horrible sound that polystyrene makes when you scrape it against something – ugh, it gives me goosebumps (in a bad way) just thinking about it. But yes. Hearing some drunken twats shouting "EN-GUH-LUHND" in a discordant manner is not musical. Nor does it make me particularly inclined to think that Enguhluhnd is a place to be especially proud of.

Not only that, but these chants are often "sung" with such aggression that I find them genuinely threatening. I guess that's the point – to try and intimidate rival fans and the opposing team – but I don't particularly like it when I have to walk past or near people who are doing it. It gives me a sensation remarkably akin to panic. I fear for my own safety. I've never had any problems with football fans (normally because I stay the hell away from them) but the point is, I don't feel safe around shouting people as a general life rule.

The racists come out to play.

Police are going around to all pubs andclubs saying we cant wear our england tops for the footie and we havetotake our england flags down as it is offending ppl that aren't fromengland !!now im NOT RACIST..BUT this is taking the piss!! THIS ISENGLAND & we need to make a stand!!! would u remove ur turban if itoffended me??? we need to stick together repost this as ur status andmake ur stand!!!! ENGLAND !

Seen this on Facebook recently? Leaving the appalling spelling, punctuation and grammar aside for a moment, it's also not true. The England flag only ever comes out for football tournaments and people get very precious about it. Particularly racists. As a result, they make up bullshit like the quote above which quickly spreads itself around Facebook as one of those interminable copy-and-paste-this-as-your-status-if-you-don't-have-a-mind-of-your-own-and-anything-interesting-to-say pieces of nonsense. It always comes back to the same few lines, too. "fuk of bak where u come frm" [sic], "wud u remove ur [turban/burka/sari] if it ofendid me" [sic] and numerous others. I'm sure you've seen them before.

The trouble is, the World Cup gets people into such a flap about the England flag that being racist about defending it suddenly becomes just peachy. Any excuse to blame the Muslims in particular is jumped on by the sort of people that support the BNP's ideology. And that's an ugly, ugly scene.

Pubs become a no-go area.

Sometimes you just want a quiet drink. Sometimes you want to chill out with friends. But at World Cup time, you try finding a pub that isn't filled with 1) braying idiots and 2) a giant TV showing a match… even the ones that England aren't involved with. It's not easy. There are some out there, sure, but they're not always easy to find. And should you find yourself stumbling into a pub which is showing the football at the time… well, I certainly find it a threatening environment. Light-hearted banter that "oooh, there'll be riots if England lose" doesn't help matters.

Forced joviality.

I hate hate hate it when people tell me what I should be excited about. I feel like a tool when I do any sort of "celebration" at the best of times, so there's no way I'm going to make a twat of myself in front of the general public by trying to fit in with one of the communal bellows when one of the players does something that is apparently good. I feel like a fraud if I try (and I've tried) – so I'd rather not bother. I'd rather not be in that situation in the first place at all, thanks. But if I am forced to watch a football match, I'd much rather sit quietly with my drink and ignore what's going on as much as possible, preferably with anyone who feels the same way.

Footballers.

Last of all, I really can't get excited about something done by people I don't have any interest in or even respect. I hate footballers. They're overpaid prima donnas who can kick a ball around and get paid inordinately huge amounts of cash for it. And they are the most boring people on the planet. I can't watch a footballer being interviewed. I have to switch over, because their droning voices and complete lack of personality make me want to summon a dimensional portal in my TV in order to let me slap them in the face until they wake up from their doziness.

"Oh, it's jealousy," you may say. Well damn right I'm jealous. I'd very much like to be paid hundreds of thousands of pounds a day for playing a game. But I'm not. So yes, I'm jealous. As are, I'm sure, many people out there who feel they make more valid contributions to society for a relative pittance.

So that's why I hate World Cup time. I must confess, I don't even actually know when it's happening. This post was prompted by the fact that World Cup-themed adverts have started appearing on television, reminding me to grit my teeth and ride out the storm as I always do. And pray that if England do manage a successful bid to host the one in whatever year they're trying to host it in, that I manage to emigrate or at least be temporarily out of the country while it's on.

So, fuck the World Cup, and fuck football.

#oneaday, Day 122: Wencock and Wankdeville

So not satisfied with a logo which looks like Lisa Simpson doing something that she's really rather too young to be doing, the Olympic organising committee now have some stupid mascots to go with it. Unveiled today to a combination of indifference and disbelief from various corners of the Internet, the mascots "Wenlock and Mandeville" are apparently designed to appeal to children. Because, after all, what is the Olympics but a big kids' party?

"They connect young people with sport," said Lord Coe, chairman of the organising committee. "And [they] tell the story of our proud Olympic and Paralympic history."

Do they? Do they really? Let's go and watch their "story" together. Ready? Click here. Go on, I'll wait.

Right. So apparently our proud Olympic and Paralympic history involves some retired steelworker from Bolton nicking two pieces of discarded steel and fashioning them into a likeness of Captain Fwiffo from Star Control II before a rainbow bursts through the window, brings them to life, gives them irritating squeaky voices and a desire to mimic every photograph they see nearby. The clearly able-bodied Mandeville mimicking a wheelchair race is a particular highlight.

An actual proper author – Michael Morpurgo, to be precise – was paid to come up with that bollocks. Well, I assume he was paid. I wouldn't churn out something that shit for nothing. Or maybe he churned out something that shit because he wasn't being paid anything.

The point is, they're rubbish. But as Claire Balding's report on the BBC site says, Olympic mascots hardly have the best reputation. How many of them can you remember? I certainly can't remember many. Thinking about it, I can't even remember having seen them at the time the Olympics were actually on the television, leading one to wonder what on Earth they were doing during the Games. Probably face-down in a pool of their own sick at the nearest bar.

Anyway, do the Olympics even need a mascot? I always saw the Olympics as pretty serious business. Having some irritating computer-generated twat jumping around all the time surely cheapens the achievements that the world's best athletes are busy accomplishing, doesn't it? Oh, but it's for the children. Because computer-generated twats that have nothing to do with sport (oh no, wait, his head's shaped like the stadium, so that's all right then) are exactly what we need to get children interested in sport. They can get interested in sport while they sit on the couch watching the Olym… wait a minute, there's something wrong with that theory there, but I'm not quite sure what it is. I'm sure it'll come to me.

Still, they're here to stay now and we're promised more movies in the run up to the Olympics. I'm sure they won't get annoying at all throughout the course of the next two years. Particularly as you can follow them on Twitter, too. Should you really want to, here's Wenlock and here's Mandeville. Why not go and ask them a few offensive questions and see how child-friendly they manage to remain? Not that I'm condoning the abuse of a pair of silver buttplugs via the medium of Twitter of course. No no no. I simply provide you with links to their pages as a courtesy, should you wish to stay up to date with their tour of the UK in the run-up to the Olympic games.

Yes, tour. You know what that means. Some poor sods are going to have to dress up as those bloody things, and probably have to drink the official drink, eat the official food and insert the official suppositories up their rectal cavities, all in the name of publicity.

I weep for the world. Can't a sporting competition just be about, you know, sport any more?