Category: Rants

#oneaday Day 55: DLC is only two letters from “DICK”

Nostalgia and rose-tinted spectacles are rife in all walks of life, but there are few places where it happens more so than in the video games industry. This is perhaps due to the fact that it’s such a fast-moving industry that you can be in your twenties and still feel nostalgic for “the good old days” and how much better they supposedly were.

Nine times out of ten, of course, nostalgia is proven wrong when you actually go back and play the things you were so nostalgic about. Things move on for a reason.

But I’m firmly of the opinion that the previous console generation is always going to be looked back on as a “golden age” that is going to be very difficult to top, however good the games might be, and however beautiful the HD graphics of today’s games might be.

The reason for this, to me, that games from then were finished. Now we have the blight that is DLC. Now, the arguments in favour of downloadable add-ons for games are many—extra content adds life to a game and keeps it relevant long after release. It gives developers the opportunity to show that they’re still “supporting” a product. And it allows for other, smaller developers to use an existing base as the means for some creative risk-taking—see Bioshock 2’s “Minerva’s Den” as an example.

But at its worst, DLC is a cynical money-making exercise designed to get people to pay for their games twice—once to buy the thing in the first place and once again to purchase all the “premium content” that should have been included with the game. Premium content, let’s not forget, that very often is actually on the game disc and is simply “unlocked” by purchasing an access code.

This isn’t the only negative side to DLC, either. Narrative games suffer considerably from this whole “oh, let’s add a bit here, add a bit there” structure. There was a time when you would start playing a game, go through its story, beat it and be satisfied. Now, it seems, there always has to be “a little bit more”. There always has to be an “exclusive epilogue chapter”, or some “side missions” or “the shock return of a beloved character!”

Rather than seeing this as a good opportunity to get more of the games I love, I see this as reason to not pick up a copy of a hotly-anticipated game on its original release, because it’s almost inevitable that there will be some “extra bits” sold separately down the road, and that these will be bundled into a “Game of the Year Edition” or similar even further down the road.

This is what was supposed to happen with the PS3 version of Mass Effect 2. I was quite keen to wait for this rather than picking up any of the DLC for the Xbox version, so that I could play the “definitive version”. Sure enough, the PS3 version was announced as having “all” the DLC included with it. Nice. Except now they’ve announced some more, because Mass Effect 2 is big business and people will keep funnelling money into it.

ARGH. What this means in practice is that when you buy a game these days you’re essentially purchasing an unfinished product. With the speed at which some of this DLC magically appears, it’s clear it’s been worked on alongside the “main” game and so it would have been very easy for it to simply be included in the price of admission. And with some publishers like EA already withholding content from those who have purchased a game pre-owned, the whole situation just strikes me as more than a little objectionable. Games are too expensive anyway, and to start charging even more for them is just… well, wrong.

Unfortunately, there are too many people out there invested in the DLC debacle to mean we can ever go back. Are you happy with that?

#oneaday, Day 45: Melancholy

I realise in posting this I am directly contravening the excellent points made by the lovely Laura on her blog yesterday. But, well, you know how it is sometimes.

I’m not bemoaning the fact I’m single on Valentine’s Day. This is nothing unusual—I spent the vast majority of my formative V-days single, so much so that it’s easy to ignore that particular fact right now, were it not for the fact that this day (and the ones immediately following it) hold rather more personal significance for me than just reminding me that last year I wasn’t single.

No, this particular part of the year was when we “met” online. Again, probably nothing unusual for many couples these days. But the context in which we met means that there are permanent digital and physical records of how our meeting came about. And by that I mean there are newspaper articles. Newspaper articles. Granted, they were articles from a specialist professional (teaching, not prostitution) newspaper with a relatively limited UK-based circulation, but still newspaper articles, regardless, and ones which I still have tucked away somewhere. They’re not things I want to throw away. They’re part of my history, the story that led me to this (depressing) point I’m at now.

It’s curious how these things go in cycles. Nothingness begat words on a page that became a real person whom I loved… and back again, for specific reasons on both our parts that have ceased to matter right now. Only it’s not back again; it’s not back to how things were before it ever happened. The details of exactly how it “is”? Well, that’s for me to know; while the lead-up to all this may have led me to where I am now, it’s not the only thing that bothers me, and arguably not even the most important thing on my mind at this time. I’m not even sure I know what the most important thing is to me right now.

It’s a strange situation to be in. Some days I feel I have it all figured out and can move on—or at least try to, what with all the many obstacles life keeps throwing in my way; others I either can’t or don’t want to deal with it; others still I’m incapable of coping with anything and just want to hide. I don’t have an answer, and I suspect there isn’t one—short of letting things happen as and when the Fates decide it’s “time”, that is. Because all the effort I put in to making things right for myself (because I think I have earned the right to be completely selfish and I will fight anyone who says otherwise with sticks and hammers) keeps getting thrown in my face and contributing to The Pile, which hasn’t got any smaller since Day 170 of last year.

This isn’t whining self-pity—well, it is, but it’s not, so shush—it’s frustration at the fact that I’m trapped and stifled in a situation I don’t want to be in with what feels like very little control over how I can get out of it. My fate is in the hands of people I don’t know who seemingly want nothing to do with me despite my best efforts to make myself look awesome in a variety of different ways. I am grateful to the few people who have taken my awesomeness on faith and given me the opportunity to prove myself over the past year. It’s a start. But it remains to be seen if that’s the “right” route, as at the minute, it’s not enough to survive with.

And this all leads to a vicious cycle. Each fresh new rejection makes it more and more difficult to summon up the energy to keep fighting. Because it is a battle, it is a struggle, and one which some days I wonder if it’s possible to win.

The only thing I am grateful for out of this whole mess is the many new friends I’ve had the opportunity to make that I may never have come into contact with otherwise. I am grateful for their help and support and I wouldn’t want to be without them.

Life and love send you up many streets, blind alleys and shit creeks without a map. I still don’t know where I’ll end up, or how. And the next person who says “well, life would be boring otherwise” in response will get a serious Number 10-Grade punch in the face. I want a boring life. I want to be able to get up in the morning, go to work, earn enough money to survive by myself and buy the occasional nice thing. I want to be with someone who is right for me, who understands and appreciates me, my talents and my life. And I want to be able to go to bed at night and just sleep rather than lying awake staring at the ceiling in the darkness boiling with anxieties.

I’ll leave you with this.

#oneaday, Day 43: Got any ID?

Little Johnny wants to buy a copy of acclaimed and excessively popular (some might say cultish) Lovecraftian multiplayer FPS Call of Cthuty: Black Arts and heads down to his local GAME. There, he attempts to procure a copy of said game—which has a big shiny red BBFC “18” certificate on it—with the pocket money he’s saved up. Little Johnny is eleven years old and doesn’t have any ID, fake or otherwise. The cashier at GAME refuses to serve him. Little Johnny goes home and cries, and Xbox LIVE is safe from another squeaky-voiced pipsqueak for another day.

Well done, GAME, correct response.

Little Johnny returns to GAME with his mother, who doesn’t know much about video games. He has convinced her that he “needs” this game in order to fit in with all the cool kids, who are all playing it for 37 hours a day, some of whom have already Ascended and are going around the levelling system again, only this time with brand new Elder Powers to choose from. His mother picks up the game, barely gives it a second glance, asks the cashier for it with Little Johnny standing right there, and the cashier doesn’t question this at all. Little Johnny’s mother hands him his shiny new game, he shouts “FUCK YEAH!” and runs out of the shop giggling.

No, GAME. Bad GAME. Incorrect response.

Bigger Johnny (no relation) wants to buy a copy of acclaimed and excessively popular (some might say cultish) Lovecraftian multiplayer FPS Call of Cthuty: Black Arts and heads down to his local GAME. There, he attempts to procure a copy of said game—which has a big shiny red BBFC 18 certificate on it—with his credit card. He is 19, after all. He gives the “If you’re lucky enough to look under 21…” sign on the counter a brief glance but decides that the bum-fluff he’s managed to grow on his chin will ensure he won’t have to worry about ID—which is good, because he’s forgotten to bring it. He is incorrect in his assumption, as the cashier asks him for ID and he is unable to provide it. He leaves the shop empty-handed, but with his bank account forty quid better off than it would have been.

Well done, GAME, correct response.

Bigger Johnny’s mum just happens to be Mary “Queen of Shops” Porta, supposed shopping “guru” who is on the tellybox frequently whingeing at shop-owners about how rubbish they are. She is outraged at the way GAME have treated her darling son and tells him all sorts of things about how he should have demanded to see the manager, then promptly gets on the phone, shouts at them, gets hung up on and then demands to speak to the CEO of the entire company. In public. On Twitter. CEO promptly deflects her with his PR human shield… and the matter is still ongoing at the time of writing.

This latter part actually happened today, albeit with a 15-rated game and a 17-year old son who attempted to use his 16+ Oyster Card as valid ID for GAME staff to check his age. They refused—and good on them, frankly, for upholding a law which is all too often flouted by retailers more concerned with making a quick buck than actually ensuring inappropriate content doesn’t get into the hands of kids. Mary Queen of Shops, however, was furious, though it’s not entirely clear what grounds she has to complain. Here are some of her tweets on the subject:

You’ll notice her casual dismissal of the ratings system as “we are not talking drink”. Apparently some retail laws really are worth more than others to our Mary. She is also heavily focused on the ID issue, though implies that there was some non-specific “rotten attitude” from the store in question. When asked about this by one Twitter user, however, her only response was this:

No mention of what the “more to it than that” was. She hasn’t said anything since, at the time of writing.

Now, I’ve talked about this topic a number of times. Censorship is a bad thing; but the refusal to sell age-restricted products to minors is not censorship. It’s ensuring that people have access to age-appropriate material—a law which would mostly work were it not for the stupid loophole most retailers use to avoid difficult conversations where they’ll happily sell the game to a parent even if it is very, very obviously on behalf of a child who is standing right there.

I don’t for a second believe Fox News’ nonsense that games cause rape, violence and AIDS. But I do believe that “mature” content should be kept out of the hands of minors until they’re old enough to deal with it appropriately and not run around shouting “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” in the middle of the street. (Which they genuinely used to do in sunny Southampton.) Foot-stamping and attitude from people like Mary here doesn’t achieve anything except devalue the law every time it’s circumvented. If her son wanted to buy the game—which he was quite entitled to do if he had one of the forms of ID that everywhere else in the world accepts and not an Oyster card which no-one has ever* accepted as valid ID—then he should have gone prepared. And when he got turned away, his initial reaction should not be to speak to the manager as Mary seems to think it should be. It should be to shrug, accept the fact that he done messed up, like, go home, get his ID and then try again.

But no; the customer is always right, after all. Even when they’re clearly wrong. You have my sympathies, retail types. I remember all too well what it was like.

* And if they did, they shouldn’t have. FACT.

#oneaday, Day 39: Games Maketh the Man

“Is Bulletstorm the worst video game in the world?”

That’s the question Fox News asked earlier with an article that was hyperbolic and scaremongering, even by their questionable standards. According to Fox’s “experts”, including Carol Lieberman, a psychologist and book author, “the increase in rapes can be attributed in large part to the playing out of [sexual] scenes in video games”.

Whoa there. Hold on a minute. The playing out of sexual scenes in video games (which, I might add, are typically incredibly tame and rather immature in the way they are handled) is a “large” contributing factor to the increase in rapes?

This is scaremongering against games taken to a whole other level. Unbelievable stuff. And, of course, complete and utter nonsense. If we follow through Lieberman’s arguments to a natural (and exaggerated) conclusion, here’s how the life of an average gamer would generally go:

09:00 – Wake up wearing same clothes you’ve been wearing for the last six months because game characters never change their outfits. Skip breakfast because game characters never eat. Skip going to toilet for same reason.

09:05 – Leave house. Run down road because game characters never walk except in cutscenes.

09:06 – See passer-by, assume they’re enemy. Kill them for XP and loot and/or rape them if they’re female.

09:07 – Repeat process ad nauseam until reaching work.

09:30 – Reach work, still running. Enter work building. Start lurking around corners.

09:35 – Shoot out security camera in case it sees you, despite the fact you actually work here.

09:40 – Run around office using cubicles as cover, shooting anyone you happen to catch a glimpse of in the head.

10:00 – Called into boss’s office.

10:05 – Defeat boss by filling him full of lead.

10:10 – Rape him for good measure.

10:15 – Loot his body, because bosses always carry the phattest lewt.

11:00 – Take elevator up to next level. Repeat process.

12:00 – Police arrive. Shootout ensues.

12:10 – Die. Fail to respawn because you don’t get to do that in real life.

Now, granted, there are some absolute fuckwits in the world to whom that probably sounds like a great way to live out the last few hours of their lives. But, as is frequently pointed out by rational people every time such a tragedy happens, if someone is going to go on a killing and/or raping rampage, it’s probably not games that caused it in the first place. To assume that the average person doesn’t have the appropriate filters in their brain to differentiate between the darkly comic, over-the-top, ridiculously exaggerated violence in Bulletstorm—a game intended for (immature) adults, let’s not forget—and how horrifying it would be to witness real-life violence or rape? That’s just insulting to, well, everyone.

The article does raise one valid point about control and “censorship”, though. Parents still aren’t taking responsibility for the entertainment their kids are interacting with. Personally, I strongly believe that there should be tighter controls on how games are sold. I’m not talking about censorship, I’m talking about stricter enforcement of age ratings—and a change in the ridiculous policies that most retailers adopt that allow parents to buy age-inappropriate games for their children. If the parent is by themself, then sure, there’s not much that can be done. But as it stands right now, if a parent is obviously buying a game for the kid they have with them, most retailers won’t do a damn thing about it.

The above will probably have made clear that I don’t believe that there’s a direct causal link between violence and sexual content in the media and the way people behave. But I do believe that children shouldn’t be exposed to such content from such an early age these days—more so they can hold on to the increasingly-irrelevant concept of “youth” more than anything else.

Sadly, though, it’s pretty clear that it’s too late. To backtrack now and enforce tighter controls would be difficult, if not impossible to do. So we’re just going to have to live with the consequences. Which, according to Fox News, is a society full of joypad-wielding rapists.

I shall leave you with two interesting thoughts to mull over:

#oneaday, Day 28: He Seems Nice

Fellow #oneadayer @Bungiesgirl wrote an excellent post the other day about “The Curse of Mr Nice Guy“. She hit the nail bang on the head; there are times when it almost seems that it doesn’t pay to be a nice person, for a guy at least.

Thinking about it, I’m not actually sure I’ve ever known anyone who’s used the oft-quoted “I love bad boys” line. But I certainly know a couple of people who have consistently ended up with people who make them miserable when it may be that there is, in fact, someone standing right in front of them who would provide them with what they want out of a relationship. Only, because they’re one of the proverbial “Mr Nice Guys”, they’re not even in the running for that person’s affections. At least, not in the “anything more than friendship” sort of case.

Some people call this “friend-zoning”, where Mr Nice Guy has become too good a friend to even be considered relationship material. I’m not sure where this phenomenon or the term to describe it originally came from, but it happens all the time, and adds an interesting twist to the age-old question of whether or not men and women can possibly be friends with each other without the desire to insert parts of each other into various orifices getting in the way.

The simple answer to said age-old question is, of course “Yes, don’t be silly”. Take stock of your friends for a moment and there’s probably a good balance of both boys and girls there. And there are probably some people of the opposite sex (assuming heterosexuality for the purposes of this argument) that you don’t want to jump at the first opportunity. Even when drunk. The reasons for this could be many; maybe you don’t fancy them, maybe you value your friendship too much, maybe you’ve even had a relationship with them in the past. But the fact is, opposite-sex friendships can and do happen.

It’s when they’re a little lop-sided that difficulties happen, and such is often the case with Mr Nice Guy.

Let’s take a hypothetical situation. Ms Ladygirl is having a tough time of it. Her partner, Mr Wrong, isn’t what she wants, but she doesn’t want to leave him—either she doesn’t want to be alone or she has somehow convinced herself that she “loves” him. She confides in Mr Nice Guy, who 1) fancies her and 2) thinks it’s blindingly obvious that he could do a better job of providing her with happiness, cake and orgasms than Mr Wrong could ever do. Mr Nice Guy, being a decent, upstanding sort of chap, though, also generally does not like to exacerbate situations where emotions run high by throwing his own, possibly unexpected, feelings into the mix. So he listens to Ms Ladygirl, offers her support, takes care of her, holds her hair out of her face when she’s sick, carries her home when she gets wasted and then leaves her to sleep while he walks home to go and have a biiiig wank and cry into his pillow.

It’s a difficult (and, I hasten to add, completely hypothetical) situation. But what should Mr Nice Guy do? If he says nothing, then obviously nothing will happen for him. If he says something, though, Ms Ladygirl may interpret it as a selfish act—”I want you. So get rid of him.”—whereas he in fact meant it more as “You’re not happy. I want to see if I can make you happier than he does.”

Of course, there’s always the chance that Ms Ladygirl would correctly interpret his advances, cast aside Mr Wrong and happily live forever after with Mr Nice Guy. But due to the nature of your average Mr Nice Guy, that doesn’t happen that often.

Which is a pity, really, because Mr Nice Guys, as their name suggests, are in fact very nice guys. They’re not boring, they’re not clingy, they’re not any of the assumptions you might care to make about them. They’re people too; people who like helping others and hope that one day their caring, considerate, compassionate nature will bring them a partner who truly deserves their attention.

So if you’re a Ms Ladygirl and you’re clearly dating a Mr Wrong, I’d strongly urge to to pay attention to those non-spoken, non-obvious telepathic signals that the Mr Nice Guy you inevitably know is highly likely sending you.

Do the guy a favour. Grab him by his lapels and kiss him. Neither of you will regret it.

#oneaday, Day 27: To Whom It May Concern

Dear God/Cthulhu/Nyx/Nicola from Girls Aloud/Kefka/Des/Mr Denton/GLaDOS/G-Man/Bhaal/Fate/whoever is actually in charge of everything,

I’m not a praying man. You know that. I’m not even a religious man. But I’m asking for a favour. One little favour. That surely won’t be much for someone of Your calibre of magnificence/horror/weirdness/hotness/badassness/system specifications.

Said favour will only take up one day. One day. 24 hours on this Earth. You can spare a day, right? I don’t mind what You do on the day after. You can rain down locusts, devour the planet, send forth Your spawn into the wilds, ruin the world, remake it in Your own image or hire a guy with a crowbar to kick some ass. I don’t care.

All I ask is that for one solitary day, all of the Nice People get to have a Good Day. A Good Day together that they can all enjoy at the same time. Maybe down the pub. Because inevitably, what happens right now is that Person A has a Bad Day, Person B has a Fucking Terrible Day, Person C has a Great Day and Person D is “meh” about the whole thing. Person B is thrust into the very depths of depression. Person A moans about their day, but then feels guilty as soon as they come across Person B’s problems, which are clearly worse than their own. Person C wants to celebrate their Great Day but doesn’t want to make Person A and B feel bad or envious, while Person D gets all the shit from the other three lumped on them as they all vent their frustrations on the one truly neutral party in the whole debacle. And then no-one wants to go down the pub.

This is clearly a Very Silly Situation. Now, Your own personal ideology may not be particularly compatible with the concept of a Good Day. But look at it this way: if You’re the type to go devouring worlds, covering them with fire and/or making things “fall into shadow” (whatever that means—surely you can just turn on a light) then surely won’t it hurt more if You fuck shit up immediately after everyone has had a Good Day? Yeah. Now we’re talking, right?

If, on the other hand, You’re the benevolent type, then think how much good spiritual-currency-of-your-choice You’ll acquire from the provision of a universally Good Day. People will be happy and they’ll be inclined to thank You for said provision. That’d be nice, wouldn’t it? I played Populous. I remember how it works. More mana means MOAR VOLCANOES. You know You want to.

Now, there are, of course, some flaws in this plan: namely, that one person’s Good Day may well cause someone else to have a Bad or even a Fucking Terrible Day. But I trust that You, in your infinite wisdom, will be able to sort something out. If it helps, You can limit the Universally Good Day to people that are “nice”, haven’t pissed me off recently and aren’t likely to. Or just my friends. I’m cool with that.

Basically, what I’m saying is: sucky things keep happening to Good People. Please, for one day, stop it and let people just enjoy life for once. I know that I’d be very grateful. And I know there are plenty of others out there who would too.

So at least think about it, huh?

Amen/Ia! Ia! Cthulhu fhtagn!/May you always draw the right cards/You are well sexy/Synthesised laughs are the best/You’re a twat but I like you despite yourself/I like your sunglasses/This was a triumph/May you always be a Free-Man/FACE ME FACE THE NEW LORD OF MURDER/Korah matah korah rahtahmah/Yours faithfully,

Pete

#oneaday, Day 24: Your Over Their

The T-shirt in the comic above actually exists. So we’ve arrived at a situation where people don’t even proofread clothing.

Actually, I remember a friend who works in the printing business telling me a while back that it’s not the responsibility of the printing company to proofread or correct things like this; it’s the original designer’s fault. And it’s true—it is the original designer’s fault and they should be ridiculed for producing it (especially as it’s a pretty shitty design anyway), not to mention the idiots who pay money for it. I know for a fact if I was asked to print the T-shirt above I’d find it incredibly difficult to not correct it, though.

The reason? I believe in the sanctity of language. That’s a pretentious way of saying that I believe strongly that we should continue to spell things “correctly”. I know, I know, language changes over time and all that. But the reason we have certain rules in place with today’s modern form of English is to aid understanding.

Take “your” vs. “you’re”. We have two forms of “your/you’re” to prevent ambiguity. “You’re”, as everyone knows* is short for “you are”, with the apostrophe denoting that at least one letter has been removed to form a contraction. “Your”, on the other hand, is simply a possessive pronoun used as a an attributive adjective showing when something belongs to “you”. “If your single, so am I” doesn’t make any grammatical sense because, assuming that “single” is being used as a noun (which it should be if it’s following the word “your”) it needs a verb, otherwise the response to the T-shirt’s slogan is “If my single is what?”. “If you’re single, so am I” does make sense, however, because it’s saying “If you are single, so am I”. Which is a stupid and somewhat sluttish statement to make, but grammatically correct.

Unless, of course, they were going for a very heavily-buried programming joke. You know, like when you’re programming in C or something similar and instead of saying “if (single = true) { haveSexWithMe(); };” you can instead say “if (single) { haveSexWithMe(); };”. Essentially, then, suggesting that the full slogan is in fact “If your single status is firmly confirmed without any possibility of you being a cheating skank-basket, you can assume I am also single, even if I am not in reality”, but shortened to fit across someone’s boobies. I somehow think this scenario is unlikely, however.

Some accuse people who get riled about this sort of thing of being snobs. And perhaps we are; but to my mind, there’s not really a good excuse for using the wrong “your”. It’s two extra keystrokes to type “you’re”, a couple more flicks of the pen. We’re taught how to use “your” and “you’re” in primary school. I know plenty of people who have difficulties such as dyslexia who still know how to use the correct form of “your” and do so.

The only explanation I can come up with, then, is either laziness, ignorance or both. In an environment such as the Internet, your (yes, YOUR) written words are how you make your first impression. In reality you don’t walk into crowded rooms shouting “HERP DERP HERP”, belming and masturbating furiously, do you? So make sure you use the right word once in a while, hmm?**

* Well… apparently not.
** I am not for a second saying that using “your” instead of “you’re” means that you’re the sort of person who enters a room belming, masturbating furiously and shouting “HERP DERP HERP”. Although you might be. In which case you quite possibly deserve everything you get.

#oneaday, Day 22: Make Love, Not Hate

On the Internet, opinions exist in a binary state for many people. There is your opinion (1), and there is everyone else’s opinion (0). Sometimes other people’s opinions coincide with your own, meaning they can join you in the happy 1 gang, while the 0-toting losers get to stand over there being Wrong.

It’s strange, though, really, isn’t it? People develop such strong feelings about particular issues, and these opinions spread virally very quickly via all forms of the media. I remember reading about this in A-level Sociology and forget all the names and dates of studies concerned, but since this isn’t an essay I’m not going to go and look them up. What I do know is that nowadays, such opinions spread far quicker than they have ever done before thanks to the immediacy of online social interactions, meaning that in some cases people may end up feeling that they should change their opinions on things in order to remain somehow “credible”.

‘Twas ever thus, of course, with the school bullies always listening to the most badass music out there whilst the flute-playing pansies amongst us voluntarily listened to—or even played—classical music. (Guess which of the two categories I was in, though I didn’t play the flute. Flutes are for girls.) One group tended to kick the shit out of the other on a fairly regular basis, and it was usually a pretty one-sided battle.

You shouldn’t start actively hating something just because other people say so, though. You should take pride in your tastes, however idiosyncratic or separate from the supposed “norm” they are.

Let’s take a few examples of Things I Like That Should Be Embarrassing To Admit But Really Aren’t, Honestly, No, Stop Looking At Me Like That And Please Don’t Unsubscribe, Think Any Less Of Me Or Be Any Less Likely To Do Nice Things For Me (Like Buy Me Cake, Give Me A Big Wet Snog Or Make Me A Delicious Roast Dinner) Should The Opportunity Come Up.

Okay. I can do this.

(takes deep breath)

I like Robbie Williams. I also enjoy the comedy of Michael McIntyre, the radio show of Chris Moyles, the bubblegum pop music of MIKA and think Ke$ha’s album is a work of quirky genius that I believe I have described as “sounding like Kelly Clarkson being forcibly inserted into a NES” on several occasions. I voluntarily bought both Dead or Alive Xtreme games and played them a lot, and not just for the bazongas involved, I enjoyed the dumbass illogical “dating sim” mechanics that were in there too. I follow Katy Perry on Twitter and find her music cheerfully uplifting. And I own two Spice Girls CDs.

Tastes change over time, of course, but who’s to say that I’m “wrong” for liking any of those things just because the popular opinion is to hate them and deride those who enjoy them? I’m just as guilty as anyone else, of course; I find myself hating shows such as The X-Factor, Strictly Come Dancing and the like irrationally and automatically. I loathe Call of Duty. I would rather gouge my own eyes out than watch anything involving Piers Morgan (I think we can all agree on that one, surely).

The world would undoubtedly be a nicer place where everyone could feel more confident in themselves if our personal preferences stopped being scrutinised so much, and assumptions made based on those preferences. Take the recent announcement of Final Fantasy XIII-2, for example, a sequel to one of the most controversial Final Fantasy games there has ever been. Not because of the content, but because of the gameplay, which wasn’t to everyone’s liking. There are people out there who assume that because Final Fantasy XIII wasn’t to their taste, XIII-2 is going to be shit as well. Justifications range from “Square have lost their way” (well, perhaps, but can’t they pick it up again?) to “it’s the same team, of course it’s going to be rubbish” (because everyone is always universally good or universally bad?) and it’s nonsense. Nonsense I tell you!

Basically, do your blood pressure a bit of good and start concentrating on the things you like a bit more. Tell people how much you like them, by all means. But let’s all make a pact to stop making people feel bad about things that you, personally, “hate”.

Unless it’s terrorism, AIDS or Piers Morgan. You can hate those as much as you like.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

#oneaday, Day 9: Mild Irritations: aolsystemmsg

The trouble with mild irritations is they have a habit of repeating themselves. And the more they repeat themselves, the greater the effect they have on you.

Such is the case with instant communication’s best friend, “aolsystemmsg”.

If you’re unfamiliar with this robotic twat (ably played with aplomb by Money-Bot above), let me educate you.

If you use instant messaging services like AIM, Skype, MSN, Google Talk or Yahoo! Messenger these days, you’re undoubtedly delighted by the fact it’s possible to stay in touch with your friends/colleagues/people you fancy wherever you are thanks to the wonders of smartphones. And sure enough, it’s great to be able to sit in Starbucks, or indeed the middle of a field, and chat with someone who might be thousands of miles away.

If you’ve popped out and left your computer on, however, there’s a chance you may have left your instant messaging client of choice switched on back home. No big deal, you might think. And, if you’re using Google Talk, it is indeed no big deal whatsoever. If you’re using MSN or Yahoo! Messenger, then it’s a mildly bigger deal; they insist that you can only be logged in on one device at a time, and so they log your other device back home out automatically. Fair enough—it’s a simple matter to log back in later.

AOL Instant Messenger, though, does not like this at all and gets very jealous of your other devices. Dare to log into another device while your first one is still logged in and you’ll be bombarded with IMs from the mysterious “aolsystemmsg” helpfully informing you that you’re logged on in two different locations, and that if you’d like to log the others out then would you be kind enough to type the number “1” now, please.

Well, all right, “bombarded” is perhaps a little strong. You get one IM. But you get this one IM every single time you change devices. If you’re like me and you hop back and forth between desktop computer, netbook and iPhone quite a bit, this can become extremely frustrating very, very quickly. “aolsystemmsg” takes on its own personality in your mind, a robot sitting there copy-pasting the same message to you over and over, cackling maniacally at your growing annoyance because he’s not actually causing you any harm and therefore isn’t breaking Asimov’s First Law of Robotics.

He’s still a complete cock, though. And there is no way to turn him off. At least, I’m not aware of any way to do so. Short of throwing your phone down the toilet. Which will make it ultimately quite useless as a means of communication for the sake of dealing with what is, essentially, a minor annoyance.

So, there’s a lesson to be learned here then, perhaps. Use Google Talk. Don’t let the robots win. Because we all know what happens when the robots win.

That’s right. Eternal servitude in salt mines. And you don’t want that, do you?