Category: Weird

#oneaday, Day 87: Staying Up The Latest

I don’t know why I like staying up late. Perhaps years of doing so have buggered up my body clock beyond all recognition. But I know for a fact that I can happily occupy myself until two, three in the morning without feeling any ill effects. Okay, sure, sometimes actually getting up the next morning is a traumatic experience, but for the most part there are few ill effects.

I’ve even pulled a couple of all-nighters in the past, but usually only when necessary. Okay, sometimes when I’m alone in the house and there’s a really good game/film/DVD box set to get through. But mostly when it’s necessary. The last one, I think, was before a trip over to Toronto to meet several members of The Squadron of Shame. We’d recorded a podcast shortly before our trip, so being chief edit dude, I took it on myself to get it done before the trip. And I did.

I think my favourite staying up late memory, though, is the time I was at university and received a text message from a friend at approaching 2AM.

“Are you awake?” it said.

“Yes,” I replied.

“Good,” came the message back. “Because we’re downstairs. Want to come to the beach?”

I turned off my computer – I think I was playing Baldur’s Gate II at the time (a game I am yet to finish, incidentally) – and headed downstairs. Sure enough, there was the car, ready to go. And we did indeed head to the beach.

Now, those of you who know Southampton will know that, despite being on the waterfront, there are no beaches. So “going to the beach” involves a not-inconsiderable drive through the New Forest, which gets rather dark at night-time. Still, we made it safely in the end, and found ourselves on a completely deserted beach after 2AM.

It was strangely eerie and beautiful at the same time. The night was cold but clear, so the moonlight lit up the beach quite nicely. It wasn’t the nicest beach in the world – very few beaches in the UK are any more – but it was our private little hideaway for that short amount of time we spent there.

No-one had the guts to actually go for a swim, but a few among our number had a paddle before running out rather quickly due to the extreme coldness. Eventually, we tired of the dark beach and went home having not really achieved anything, save putting a memory in our minds that will last for a very long time.

There’s a How I Met Your Mother episode called “Nothing Good Happens After 2AM”. It is nonsense. Awesome things happen after 2AM.

#oneaday, Day 85: The Artist Formerly Known as Top Searches

I was all set to do a post on the top search terms on my blog today, after Rhiarti did such a good one the other day. But it turns out that they’re rather mundane, sadly. Still, I’ve started now, so let’s get this over with.

Turtles in Time Reshelled

I wrote one post about this. One post about this game and it’s been consistently in the top search results for my blog ever since. You really want to read it? Knock yourself out – it’s here. Actually, you know what? I remember being quite pleased with that post. I guess I should be flattered that so many people are looking for it. Thank you for your support, everyone.

Pete Davison

My name! Amazing. I was genuinely surprised to see that the second-to-top search result was actually my name. Apparently people are looking for me. Given that I am looking for work, I assume that this is a good thing. That or my mother is taking an over-active interest in Googling me.

Divine Divinity

I was something of an evangelist for this excellent PC RPG a while back. It’s excellent. Read more here. And then go buy it on Good Old Games. Avoid its sequel though, which is less good.

no.one.lives.forever

I don’t know why the searcher put dots in the name. But this game is another that I wrote a few posts about a while back, and the term has stayed in my search results in various forms ever since. Also a great game, and a reminder of when first-person shooters had remembered what “fun” meant.

divine communication tumblr

Now this one I have genuinely no idea about. It’s a kind of hideous cross-breed of several different posts – most likely this one, this one and this one. But quite why someone felt the need to search for those three words together is anyone’s guess. Maybe they thought God keeps a Tumblr. Probably called “fuckyeahomniscience.tumblr.com”. I wouldn’t be surprised if that actually existed.

The next three are search terms just from yesterday. These are much more interesting.

doctor who spitfires won’t work in space

Of course they won’t. That doesn’t stop it being awesome.

farmville co-op what happens if you let

No! Don’t stop there! I want to know what the rest of that question was. Don’t be shy. “What happens if you let…” what? Your sheep run amok? Your crops wither and die? Your child have easy access to your credit card for the purchasing of premium items?

highest lvl in borderlands

50. You’re welcome.

Right. Enough. Good night!

#oneaday, Day 81: The Unspoken and NSFW Language of Gentlemen

[Warning: This post involves crudely-drawn pictures of dicks and the discussion thereof, and is thereby probably unsafe for work.]

There are two unspoken understandings between men. One of them is this:

[EDIT: Dear Channel 4. I’m trying to promote your material. Why not let me embed a video of one of the funniest scenes to ever be shown on television? Grrruuuuu.]

And the other, less safe for work one, is this:

I have no idea what it is with guys and dick drawing. But there’s something universally understood by it. Perhaps this sketch wasn’t far from the truth:

…though to be perfectly honest, I don’t remember that lesson myself. Maybe it gets erased from your mind, like Men in Black.

I do remember, though, sitting next to a kid named Daniel in my first year at secondary school. It was a Humanities lesson and for some inexplicable reason we took it on ourselves to draw at least one cock on every single page of a textbook called “Discovering the Past”. And we succeeded without being spotted. It was a triumphant moment for the pair of us, and one we never quite managed to recapture the magic of. The book just lent itself to obscene drawings. On one page, there was some sort of flask which Daniel thought was ideally suited for a bell-end to poke out of the end of. And for some inexplicable reason, he added a speech bubble reading “I SCREAM! I SCREAM!”

That image has stuck with me for many a year. I’m not quite sure what I should make of that. And you’re probably not quite sure, either. I apologise.

Still, the fact is that doodling cocks on pieces of scrap paper is something that remains appealing to a large proportion of the male population. There are those who do it and admit to it, and there are those who do it and don’t admit to it. If you speak to a man and he denies ever having drawn a crude todger on a bit of loose paper, he’s probably lying. I personally consider it a sign of close friendship when you’re able to not only hurl light-hearted obscenities at each other verbally, but visually too. Of course, there’s absolutely no question of any real tallywhackers being whipped out – that would be, as the kids say, “a bit gay”. But if you’re with male friends, at a loose end – particularly when you’ve been drinking – and there’s some loose paper around, just see what happens. I have numerous photographs of whiteboards we had in our house that will attest to this. No, I won’t burn your eyes with those right now.

I should probably be faintly ashamed of my sex’s predilection towards drawing its own genitalia. Knobs aren’t, after all, the most photogenic things that there are. But in some ways, it’s nice to recapture that inner child with a childish doodle of a dong.

I hereby apologise for the crudeness of the above post. But I have been drinking. And I needed something to write about. And since our drunken game of Munchkin tonight involved just as much drawing of obscenities on pieces of paper as it did actually playing the game, this seemed as good as anything.

Good night to you. *tips hat*

#oneaday, Day 53: Freewriting #3, or What The Hell Is Going On In My Head?

[In the absence of any particular inspiration today, I’m going to start that clock for ten minutes once again and just write without editing, except that which happens on “autopilot” as I type. Let’s see what happens this time, shall we? Three. Two. One. Go!]

Fire light.

A camp fire.

Figures all around. Standing. Waiting. What are they waiting for?

Who knows. No-one knows, not even the woman standing apart from the group, facing the other way, into the forest. She weeps, for something lost and almost forgotten.

The men chant. No-one knows what they are saying, not even then. It is a dead language, dredged up for this ceremony which no-one is sure of its purpose.

The woman turns. The men continue, seemingly oblivious to her presence. Her face is streaked with tears.

She pulls off the shoulder of her fur top, first one, then the other. The garment falls to the floor. She is naked in the darkness, the red glow of the fire illuminating her skin.

She walks towards the fire. The men still chant. Over and over. She walks. Closer. The heat is on her skin now, making her sweat.

What is this? she thinks. Why am I here? I don’t know what this ceremony is about, or what it is that is going to happen next.

A man’s attention is distracted. He stumbles over one of the words of the dead language. No-one notices except the woman. She turns, her flaxen hair falling over her bare shoulders. She locks eyes with the man.

One word goes through her mind. Heretic.

Why heretic? Why is he a heretic when I don’t understand why any of us are here? she thinks.

The man is panicking, trying his best to find his rhythm and get back with the rest of the group. Still no-one has noticed except the woman, now staring at him, the light of the fire reflected in her widening eyes, still glistening with tears.

The man looks away from her, down at the floor, as he continues to mumble the words, missing things here and there.

Eventually, he can take it no longer, and sinks to his knees, his bare legs striking the dirt on the ground and grazing them. It hurts more than he expected, but in a short while it won’t matter.

The woman is filled with sorrow for this man’s fate. She doesn’t know what it is, but a flash of something – a forgotten memory? A vision? Something blasts through her mind, and it is not a pretty sight. She catches a glimpse of the man’s face in her mind’s eye, his face contorted with intense torment and pain.

Then she knows. She has to save him. She has to get out of here. She takes a step forward. Towards him. Moving slowly, her bare feet gliding across the dirty floor.

The kneeling man looks up at her with pleading eyes. Her eyes still glisten. Her heart is filled with compassion for this man, this poor man dragged into this situation beyond his control, just like she was. And she knows that it is time. It is time for this to continue no longer.

She takes his hand. The other men chant, over and over in a forgotten, dead language. They are oblivious to what she is doing, and oblivious to the young man’s mistakes. In a few short minutes, all that will change, and she knows this. She pulls him up to his feet and nods her head towards the darkness of the forest, away from the angry red glow of the firelight.

Where should we go? she asks herself. I don’t know where we are.

Run, he says with his eyes, looking at her, on the verge of tears.

The unspoken communication between the two of them passes quickly, and, hands clasped tightly together, they run into the forest. Plants and branches sting and lacerate their bare legs as they run, but in a few short minutes none of that will matter. In a few short minutes, the ceremony will be over, for better or worse, and all this will cease to matter.

Given our desertion, she thinks, my money is on “worse”.

But she doesn’t want to stick around to find out. And she’s sure he doesn’t either.

Where to go? The forest paths seem to lead in every direction.

The only thing they can think of is the direction they cannot go in – back towards the flames. That way lies only suffering and death.

But where to go from here?

[Yeah, I know. Don’t ask.]

#oneaday, Day 52: Nostalgiarising

Been feeling a little nostalgic over the last few days. The Final Fantasy story I told last night was just one of the things I’ve been remembering. I’ve been finding all sorts of other crap around the place recently – one of the most recent rediscoveries was a cardboard document wallet containing some play scripts, posters and a few other bits and pieces from when I was at university. I love finding old playscripts in particular, because we always used to scribble all over them and sign them on the last night of a performance. I’m glad we always did that, because it means I have great keepsakes like this. Ignore the dreadful attempt to draw Cloud Strife that is inexplicably on the front page.

Four points about these pages:

1. I have no idea what the stains are.

2. Yes, I am aware my script is bound using duct tape.

3. Don’t try and email “Costume Lucy”. She’s not there any more.

4. The “makeup” mentioned in several of the comments is referring to this:

(I’m the one on the right.) My mother inexplicably told me that me being dressed like this reminded her of my Grandad. I don’t remember my Grandad ever looking like that, unless I didn’t know him that well. (Yes, Mum, I know that wasn’t what you really meant.)

My time with the Theatre Group at Southampton University is one of the things I most fondly remember from my past. One day we’ll manage that reunion that Anja and I are always talking about. Maybe even this year. Who knows?

Also found in said folder:

Programme from an episode of Songs of Praise that our extremely non-religious secondary school attended, signed by Diane Louise Jordan of Blue Peter fame.

Programmes from other productions I was in – our extremely over-budget, ambitious, futuristic Macbeth from the time when everything had to look like the Matrix; our first attempt at taking a show up to the Edinburgh Fringe (A Month in the Country by Turgenev, performed outside. Not the wisest decision, but it was fun.)

My second attempt at freewriting from when I first found out about it – dated 16/9/01 at 21:36.

My “P” for “passed” plates for my car (which I never put on the car, because having “P” plates on is an invitation for other drivers to treat you like even more of an arse than they do already)

And, finally, this delightful 20th birthday card, hand-made for me by my friends Sam and Chris.

Rediscovering stuff like this is awesome.

One A Day, Day 36: An Open Letter

Dear Universe,

I write with regard to the recent delivery you made to my person – specifically, the bumper package of coughing fits, temperatures and shaky hands.

I do not remember ordering these items, nor do I wish to keep them. As such, I must humbly request that you dispatch a courier posthaste to come and pick them up. Technically the items have been “opened” and “used” since they are coursing through my body as we speak, but since I did not order them and they appear to have been delivered in the dead of night directly to my person rather than appropriately packaged at a more sociable hour, I do not feel that the premature opening and usage of said items is my responsibility.

I am of the mind that this delivery was perhaps intended for someone else. If this is the case, would you kindly furnish me with the details of the intended recipient and I will do my best to forward on the items as soon as possible. I would not wish the items’ rightful owner to miss out on the experience of coughing so forcefully it creates a side-effect of unintentional flatulence.

If, on the other hand, the items are an unnanounced “gift” from someone (which is possible, seeing as there did not appear to be a receipt with the items) then I request, with respect, that you provide me with their name and address so I may return the favour, perhaps through the medium of Uzbekistani sledgehammer dancing – a dangerous yet beautiful artform which frequently places bystanders’ testicles in mortal peril.

I thank you in advance for your co-operation in this matter, and I look forward to hearing from you soon.

Yours sincerely,

Pete Davison

One A Day, Day 17: Desk

Never one to shy away from a good meme (with #oneaday itself being something of a meme anyway – and with “desk” being something of an unintentional one from the looks of things), here we are.

In front of me is my 24 inch iMac, white plastic model, the generation before they went all metallic and shiny. It has a new-style Apple keyboard and a Logitech mouse because I loathe and detest the Mighty Mouse. To the right of the mouse, laying on its side is an iPod Shuffle 1GB that I got out the other day with the intention of putting some music on for exercise purposes… then didn’t.

To the left of the iMac is a stack of three blank DVD/CD spindles. One of them only has a couple of discs left, but the other two are full. In front of the DVD spindles are four pens – a green whiteboard marker, a green biro, a black Berol handwriting pen and an interactive whiteboard pen. There’s also a pair of metal scissors, a roll of Sellotape and a bottle of Niceday knockoff Tippex. Sorry, “correction fluid”.

Further left still, there’s a Sony CRT Trinitron KV-1440UB TV-monitor which has been in good working order ever since the late 80s and early 90s. Sitting on top of the Sony screen is an Atari 800XL, a Zipstik and a Quickshot joystick.

Underneath the desk is a semi-transparent plastic tote containing an assortment of PC games that I haven’t played for years. On top of that is a brown leather document wallet containing my passport, marriage certificate, university degree and teaching qualification and Criminal Records Bureau Enhanced Disclosure paperwork proving I am not a criminal. There is also an expanding sectioned file thing with a broken clasp so it won’t close. This contains everything from bills to strange bits of forgotten-purpose paper to TV licenses to paperwork from houses I don’t live in any more.

There are some shelves under the desk. On one of the shelves sits an Atari 1050 floppy disk drive, a few more PC games and some cardboard document folders.

The drawers to the left of my desk are broken. Try and pull one out and the front simply falls off.

In summary: I need a new desk that is bigger than this cluttered shitheap.