There are 69 of these buggers (nice, etc.) so I will be brief with each one — and, of course, there are some I simply don't remember the context for. But anyway! Let's 'ave a look, shall we?

In no particular order…

It's Garfield, spouting one of his occasional catchphrases. I don't believe this was a promotional tie-in for the video game Garfield: Big, Fat Hairy Deal, as the artwork and colour scheme doesn't match. It's more likely this was either a purchase bonus for one of the Garfield books, which my parents used to collect, or just something that was bought for me because I liked Garfield.

I was in the Cub Scouts when I was a kid, so it's not surprising that I have a badge themed after the broader Scouts organisation, sporting the distinctive fleur-de-lys icon and a rather militaristic, patriotic emblem that reminds me of the intro to Dad's Army. We were never involved in a World War while I was a child. Not that I remember, anyway.

This is likely a badge from some air museum or other. My Dad is a massive propellerhead and I had a casual enthusiasm for planes too — though primarily from the perspective of flying them on the computer. I suspect this came from a museum that had one of these helicopters on display somewhere, but there's no indication of the specifics.

Ernest Read was a conductor and music educator who ran a series of musical concerts specifically aimed at children between 1945 and the late 1990s. I evidently went to one and got this badge as a commemorative souvenir.

This one probably needs no introduction to viewers of my YouTube channel; it's a badge for Page 6 magazine, the Atari-centric publication that my Dad, my brother and I all contributed to at various points.

Drawing a bit of a blank on this one. As you can probably imagine, "Just Desserts" is a popular pun name for places that serve food. I suspect it's somewhere I went for a birthday or a party or something — or perhaps we just found it noteworthy that there was a place which served nothing but desserts.

This was, I suspect, a badge I got after getting some school shoes from Peter Lord, the name at the time for the chain of shoe stores attached to the Clarks footwear brand. I imagine the whole "Fit Feet" thing was some sort of "well done, you, a child, got your feet measured without being weird or annoying about it". Please do not be weird about feet in my comments section.

Harry Ramsden's is a chain of fish and chip shops here in the UK. Back when I got this badge, they weren't nearly as widespread as they are today — nowadays you can find them in most food courts and motorway service stations. I want to say the one we went to was in Devon or Cornwall, and it was An Event to go there.

This badge likely hails from the Dennis the Menace Fan Club, which I was a member of. "Softies" referred to the group of kids who were the perpetual butt of Dennis' jokes, led by Walter the Softy. Softies were implied to be effeminate, rich, posh kids and the natural antithesis to Dennis' mischief. Back when I read The Beano, the Softies were regularly bullied by Dennis and it's not unfair to say that, at times, this was not a great message to be sending to kids — particularly as the Softies' only sins at the time were being into things that were outside the typical definition of "masculinity". Consequently, in more recent years, Walter has apparently been made into a more antagonistic figure keen to stop kids having fun, rather than just being someone who was into "girly" things.

This one's pretty self-explanatory: it's from a visit to the Peak National Park in the UK. I forget the exact instance, but I probably went on a trip with my parents (and perhaps their friends who lived around the East Midlands) and acquired this then.

Here's a cool (and impossible to photograph) pin badge featuring the Psygnosis logo from the Atari ST days. This was most likely acquired from some computer show or other.

To go along with it, here's a more regular badge featuring the face of the company's owl mascot.

This appears to be a promotional badge for Crate-brand amplifiers. The company has been through numerous logos over the years; this would have likely been from the mid to late '80s. I've no idea where I got it — perhaps a music shop? My brother mainly used Marshall-brand amplifiers for his electric guitars, if I remember correctly.

Christmas! Hold on, there's another one like this somewhere…

Try not to get too angry about the missing comma. And try not to look at Santa's boots and see two grumpy faces. There, I ruined it.

Another Christmas badge. For context, the modern equivalent of this would be a badge that sad "I Met Father Christmas at Screwfix". Although from what I recall, our local Texas Homecare did make an effort with their Santa's Grotto display in the middle of the store. An attempt to placate the children who got dragged around there, no doubt; I absolutely hated going to Texas Homecare.

This is from Newark Air Museum. In an interesting coincidence, my Dad actually volunteers there now, but this badge is from many years ago — likely from an occasion when my Dad, his friend Mick and I went along to go and look at the aeroplanes.

I like how this badge says Bumblebee but doesn't actually depict Bumblebee. I did not have a Bumblebee toy, so I'm unsure where this would have come from.

Likewise this one; the only Decepticon toy I had was Astro-Train, who was a "Triple-Changer": he could be a robot, a space shuttle or a train. One of those always seemed somewhat less practical than the others.

Another tricky to photograph badge due to the reflective shiny bit. This is from Epcot at Disney World in Florida, I suspect from the second time we went, which would have been around… 1995, 1996 or so I reckon? (The first time we went was in 1985, and the second time was approximately ten years later.) It depicts the big "golfball" that houses (housed?) the Spaceship Earth ride. Epcot, if you're unfamiliar, is a campus that attempts to look at various aspects of "the future", as well as the history of how life and science have developed over time. It was thoroughly interesting as a kid, and I bet it's even better as an adult.

This one's a cool, understated badge. Promotional material for Fostex-brand audio equipment. No idea where it came from; I would guess a music shop or show.

This is from one of those trips I mentioned with my parents' friends from the East Midlands. Blue John is an attractive, semi-precious mineral that is showcased in a cavern in Derbyshire. It's one of those places where you get to go in a cool cave, but in an entirely safe, guided manner. I think I learned the difference between stalactites and stalagmites here; if you're curious what I learned, it's that stalactites cling "tite" to the ceiling, while stalagmites "mite" reach the ceiling if they grew enough.

This one would have been from a trip to Granada Studios in Manchester, where part of the attraction was the ability to walk on the Coronation Street set. For international readers, Coronation Street is one of several long-running soap operas we have in this country. I know very little about it other than the fact my Nan used to watch it.

This one would have come from a school book fair, where Puffin books made up the bulk of the inventory. Most of our "Reading Books" at school were Puffin-branded, and I had a fair few at home, too.

The Shuttleworth Collection was an air museum near Bedford, so quite close to where I lived as a kid. This would have been acquired during a visit there with my Dad — presumably when the aircraft depicted was on display.

Happy Eater was a chain of family restaurants here in the UK, usually found at service stations on major roads. They were not amazing quality, but they were popular destinations for kids' birthday meals and suchlike. This badge would have been acquired on one such occasion.

This one almost certainly came from a visit to Cadbury World, where you could tour the chocolate factory and find out about the history of chocolate — including trying the traditional Aztec chilli-and-chocolate drink. I remember it being a good day out.

This one, I think, is from the comedy show, Vic Reeves' Big Night Out, which my brother went to see. I'm not sure where, but I do remember him going to see it. This tour is where the Reeves and Mortimer double act was really born; Bob Mortimer has some fascinating stories about it in his autobiography.

This is a pin from Ely Cathedral, which is a cathedral in Ely, Cambridgeshire. I suspect we went there from school one day.

This is a musical badge from Coco Pops cereal. When it has a battery, flicking a switch on the back makes Coco's eyes flash and a bleepy rendition of the Coco Pops jingle from the TV ads play. An excellent tool with which to annoy every grown-up in a wide radius.

This is a promotional badge for the computer game SWIV by The Sales Curve, an unofficial follow-up to Taito's Silkworm. Back in those days, it wasn't at all unusual for arcade games to get homegrown "unofficial" sequels, and this was one of them that ended up arguably being better than its source material. I never owned a copy of SWIV myself, though, so I suspect this would have come via my brother, who was working on Games-X magazine at the time SWIV released.

This is a badge depicting the logo of BBC Radio 1, the popular music station for young people, from 1975-1990.

This is a badge depicting the logo of BBC Radio 2, the popular music station for old people, from the same period.

I bet you don't have a badge commemorating 50 years of pylons in the UK, do you? Be jealous!

Wimpy was a fast-food chain that was popular in the 1980s, and which has been making a slight comeback in certain areas in more recent years. They were noteworthy for having a long sausage called a Bender (which you could have in hot dog form as a Bender in a Bun, or included in a burger); in light of… alternative uses of that word, it is, today, known as a Bendy. Mr. Wimpy was the chain's mascot, with his uniform modelled after the traditional "Beefeater" uniform, emphasising the chain's Britishness. Here he is running around the rings of Saturn for some reason.

Here's another Mr. Wimpy badge that is only slightly racist.

Rainbird was a brand of software originally run by British Telecom. I have no idea what the "Dick Special" bit is about. Apparently it was a cancelled game. Thus, this likely either came from my brother on Games-X, or a computer show where the game was being previewed.

I imagine this was some variant of "pasta shapes in tomato sauce" with a spooky theme, though how I came by a badge promoting it I have no idea.

This is Paddington Bear. I'm pretty sure this badge originally belonged to my brother; I forget if he actually had a Paddington, but I have a vague memory of this once being attached to a teddy that may or may not have been a Paddington. Either way, I have it now, and the faded colours lead me to believe this is one of the older badges in the collection.

This was probably from a local newsagents or something. I do like the touch of the photograph at the top being rendered in the style of newsprint.

The Barbican Centre in London is a performing arts space; one day when I was a kid, they rebranded it the "Bearbican Centre" in an attempt to host the biggest ever teddy bears' picnic or something. There was a concert, as I recall, and the whole thing was a nice day out. Those who participated in the full spirit of things by bringing along a teddy bear (I think I brought a battered old Winnie the Pooh, or possibly Big Ted) got one of these badges.

No idea how I came by this as I didn't have an Intellivision and didn't know anyone with an Intellivision. Perhaps this came with a computer magazine or something? Either way, it's pretty neat. And I guess that answers my question as to whether or not Intellivision was A Thing over here. Unless this came from the States, which is… possible? But unlikely, I think.

From one of those times when the fire service comes to visit your school and put the fear of God into the assembled children about chip pan fires. Not sure how I feel about the mascot being an elephant who is nude aside from his belt, hat and boots.

It's great to be 6! The copyright on this is interesting, as it mentions both Hasbro Bradley and Walt Disney, so I assume there must have been something more explicitly Disney on the card this was attached to.

This appears to be from a brand of combine harvester, so I suspect this came from The Gransden Show, an annual agricultural fair held in my home village.

Likewise for this one. I can't think of any other scenario in which I would have acquired these, probably as freebies.

A rather fancy badge for BBC Radio Cambridgeshire. Not sure where this came from. Perhaps a visit to our school one day?

Get into books! GET INTO THEM.

Fun School 2 was a range of edutainment products for a variety of platforms, published by Europress. The Atari ST versions were composed in the STOS programming language. They were noteworthy for actually incorporating genuinely fun games where you happened to learn things. This one is from the package for the youngest players.

This one is from the "middle" package for slightly older kids.

And this was for the older kids. Only the older kids get the cool robot to play with!

This almost certainly came from a school trip to a local RSPB sanctuary. In unrelated news, we have seen a lot of jays at Center Parcs the last few times we've been to visit. They are greedy.

No idea on this one! Only thing I can find is a novelty song from 1982, but I have no recollection of ever hearing it.

Not sure on this one either. It's an elephant playing a grand piano. Perhaps from a kid-friendly concert or something?

The Jetsons had a movie? Apparently so, from 1990. I have no recollection of ever seeing it, but apparently I got this badge from it.

This, I believe, is from an airline company. TWA stood for Trans World Airlines. My only vague memory of them was flying on a plane called a "Tri-Star", which was a lot noisier than a Jumbo jet. I think we took a Tri-Star to get from one place to another on our trip to the States in 1985, which was a long trip where we moved around a fair bit. Beyond that, I forget the details, but apparently I got this as a souvenir at some point.

Not sure where this is from. The only hit for it on Google at the time of writing is someone selling the same badge on eBay for £1.97. It appears to be a promotional badge for something that dates back to the 1970s, but beyond that I have no idea.

If you thought Disney putting their characters on any old crap was a recent thing, I have terrible news for you. Here's Mickey and Minnie advertising the Abbey National Building Society, today known as Santander.

As the name suggests, the Commonwealth Institute is a place you go to learn about the Commonwealth. I have no recollection of ever going there, but I guess I must have done at some point. School trip, perhaps?

No idea, and as you can probably imagine, the term "Dolphin Club" is nigh-unGoogleable due to how generic a name it is!

Another self-explanatory one. This would have been on one of several family holidays down to Devon and Cornwall, likely one of the numerous occasions we stayed in Padstow. I remember very little about the museum. My main enduring memory of those holidays was going to Newquay and playing G-LOC in the sit-down moving cabinet.

Delabole Wind Farm was the first commercial wind farm in the UK, built in 1991, and is in Cornwall. I guess we must have paid it a visit during one of those aforementioned holidays?

The Museum of the Moving Image, or MoMI, is in New York. This badge must have been from 1985, as that's the only time I've been to New York other than on honeymoon with my first wife, and we didn't go there on that occasion. I remember this being a pretty cool museum, even in the '80s, though I often get it confused with Granada Studios in my head, as I believe both had interactive exhibits that allowed you to experiment with the tech used on real TV and film sets.

Duxford is another airfield-cum-museum that was reasonably close to where I grew up, so we had a fair few family trips there to go look at the planes, see air shows and suchlike. I remember both looking around the hangars at the planes, and having picnic lunches in the car park. They were good days out, as I recall.

Another bird-related badge. I suspect this also came from a trip to an RSPB sanctuary, or perhaps they visited our school to talk about endangered birds at some point. Either way, I remember being quite aware of the RSPB as a kid.

Clearwell Caves is in the Forest of Dean, which leads me to believe that we went there as part of our School Camp trip in Year 6. I didn't poo for a week on that trip because I was too afraid of the facilities.

Ferry Meadows was another school trip destination, with a particular emphasis on looking around at nature and doing sciencey things. I don't think it was a residential trip, but I do remember finding the name of the place quite striking. It just sounds nice, doesn't it? Ferry Meadows. It's near Peterborough, which is unfortunate, but you can't win 'em all.

This is a commemorative pin badge for Queen Victoria's diamond jubilee in 1897, which was celebrated between 1983 and 1997 with the Royalty & Empire exhibition in Windsor, developed as a collaboration between British Rail and Madame Tussauds. As you might expect from such a collaboration, it featured waxwork dioramas of events surrounding Victoria's diamond jubilee.

Finally, I have five Roland Pianos badges. At least some of these probably came with my Roland electric piano, but quite why I have five of them I have no idea. But there they are.

And that's the lot! Whew, that took a bit longer than I thought, but it's been interesting to go through them. If you happen to know anything about the ones I'm not sure on, please do feel free to chime in via the comments.

Otherwise, I'm off to bed!

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The post #oneaday Day 870: You unlocked a badge appeared first on I'm Not Doctor Who.

I tend to find when I'm alone in the house I want to behave… unusually. Last night I slept on the sofa for half of the night because I felt like it (and our sofa is quite comfy). I talk to myself. I tend to find that it's harder to break out of indecisive autistic funks. But I survive; I hang in there. I've done it before, I'll do it again, and I know it's not forever.

A lot of us probably don't think about loneliness as a serious consideration when we're younger. Indeed, when I was a teen, I remember people who were by themselves — voluntarily or otherwise — were routinely mocked as a "Larry" (as in "Larry Loner") because the norm was to have friends, and to be pretty much constantly surrounded by them.

Of course, that didn't stop some of us from feeling lonely in private, even when we did have friends. I often felt quite lonely and isolated due to the fact that I lived in a village that was seven miles away from where my school and friends were. When I was old enough to get the independence afforded by being able to cycle and, later, drive places by myself, it was a godsend; some of my fondest memories of my youth correspond with enjoying this freedom alongside others.

In fact, some of my absolute fondest memories of this time are also some of the least remarkable things that occurred, such as the one evening several friends and I drove to a pub in the middle of nowhere while listening to the cassette copy of my Essential Acid Jazz CD I'd prepared precisely for occasions like this, had a few drinks, stopped at the 24-hour Tesco petrol station for late-night sandwiches, and then went on our merry ways. It was a completely unremarkable evening, but it represented everything good about that time in our lives: the ability to be carefree; the ease with which you could surround yourself with people that cared about you; the freedom to do pretty much whatever you wanted, within reason. "Do what you want" doesn't have to be anything dramatic or fancy; sometimes, all you really want is to pass the time in good company.

I miss that. I really miss that. I am grateful and thankful to have the company of Andie most of the time, but when I'm on my own for a long period like this, I cannot help but wish for times past: times when people had time for one another, and when you could do things, with other people, on a whim without 1) having to prepare several months in advance, 2) without people being likely to drop out of proceedings at the last minute and 3) without people suddenly informing you that something you had been enjoying together for many years was actually not, in fact, to their taste, and that they didn't care it was important to you in particular.

We've gone terribly, horribly wrong somewhere. Human beings weren't made to be alone. And yet even with the myriad ways with which we can supposedly "connect" with one another today, it's hard not to feel exceedingly, excruciatingly lonely. Particularly when you really are, as I am right now, on your own.

Oh well. Nothing that can be done, really. Time to just make the best of thing and enjoy my last couple of days off before getting back to work on Monday.

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The post #oneaday Day 855: On my own appeared first on I'm Not Doctor Who.

I grew up in a household where farting was considered very amusing. Both my Dad and my Mum could let out an absolute ripper of a trump in their prime, and the culture of our family was that you did it without shame. The implication was that you were in a safe place and could be yourself, as disgusting as you wanted, and you would be accepted for it.

Curiously, though, I was not allowed to say the word "fart" as a child. It was considered a swear word. To this day, I'm not entirely sure why, though I guess it occupies the same tier as "crap" where, in the appropriate circumstances, you can probably consider it a mild profanity. Instead, we would typically just use the word "flatulence", which, despite being the scientific, medical term for it, is a very funny word indeed. Occasionally, if we came across a particularly amusing euphemism for it either on television or in other media (such as in The Beano, which I read habitually as a child) and would make use of that, but "flatulence" is the one that stuck, and "fart" was verboten. (I am allowed to say "fart" these days, though I'm pretty sure my parents still don't use it much.)

School is a complicated time to determine your outlook on farting, because you are faced with a variety of mixed messages. Were you to let out a honking grunt in the middle of a quiet lesson, would everyone laugh, or would everyone consider it disgusting and shameworthy? At least part of it is down to the overall way that you are seen generally; if you're one of the cool kids, farting is hilarious, while if you're an unpopular person for one reason or another, farting is the height of shame — so much so that even the accusation of having farted, even if you hadn't done so, could earn you the ridicule and censure of your peers.

Such was the case within lessons, of course. At break and lunchtime, that was a different matter. I have strangely vivid memories of an occasion during my time at primary school where my best friend Matthew and I were trying out shoulderstands (which we'd recently learned for the first time in PE) and discovered that the contortions involved in performing a shoulderstand not only churn up your guts a bit, they also slacken your ringpiece in a way that is eminently suitable for ripping a chuffnut. Thus we spent quite some time attempting to discover the optimal position in which to achieve salty guffs almost on demand.

I'm primarily talking about farting here, but burps bear mentioning, too. Burps, to my recollection, never carried the same possibility of shame as farting, and instead they had a variety of social functions. Those who learned how to burp on command became comedy gods, and those who could summon up a thunderous belch from the very depths of Hell itself could make use of them in a strangely aggressive, dominant manner. Again, I think back to my schooldays, and a particularly vivid memory is standing waiting for the bus with the other people from my village, and my sometimes-friend Dale repeatedly letting out some of the most earth-shaking burps the world has ever heard, on at least one occasion causing the headmaster of our old primary school (who lived near where we waited for the bus) to come outside and ask him to please stop doing that.

Farts are a sign of acceptance in a friendship group, though. People you can fart in front of without shame are people you can call true friends. And, unsurprisingly, I have a lot of weirdly "special" memories of times spent farting with people who are important to me. Some of the most vivid involve my friend Woody, who I would often end up sharing a room with if we were sleeping over at our mutual friend Edd's house, since we both lived a fair distance away.

On various occasions, Woody summoned up "canned veg farts" (absolutely rancid-smelling guffs that were akin to opening a bin that hadn't been emptied for a month in terms of the poisonous atmosphere they created), "water farts" (repeated, loud parps that he swore could be attributed to the amount of water he had drunk that evening) and "Emperor farts" (honking trumps that were preceded by a quote from The Emperor in one of the original three Star Wars movies). There was also the evening of "Did You Hear What I Just Felt", where a particularly vigorous anal fanfare was followed up by the briefest, quietest sound, a little like what raw chicken sounds like if you pick it up. He had to go and check himself after that one.

In somewhat later years, one of my most memorable days working at the Apple Store was the day we had a detailed discussion in Back of House about what the absolute optimal conditions for farting were, and we collectively determined that it was sitting on a hard, wooden dining chair while naked and slightly damp. If you have never farted on a non-padded dining chair, I highly encourage you to try it. You might be surprised.

Of course, it's also an important moment in a relationship when one or the other of you decides that now is the time to start farting in front of each other. It goes back to family; being able to rip out a salty grunt in front of someone without embarrassment, shame or fear is a sign of trust. And the expression of this trust is often unspoken; you never, ever have a discussion about "well, I guess it's time we started guffing around each other". It just sort of happens. And that's lovely.

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The post #oneaday Day 841: The politics of farting appeared first on I'm Not Doctor Who.

I miss my school days. While there are aspects of those days I'd rather not repeat, there were, on the whole, far more fond memories than sad or otherwise upsetting ones. I enjoyed having a sense of structure to my day; I enjoyed learning new things; I enjoyed having a group of friends around me.

I miss being part of musical groups. I miss the satisfaction of being part of something bigger than myself. I miss the inimitable atmosphere and sense of romance that formal performances brought. I miss surprising people with my capabilities, and earning the respect of people who might never have known who I was otherwise.

I miss my sixth form days. They were like school days, but better. I'd just learn the things I was truly interested in, and the rest of the time, I felt like I was spending good times in good company.

I miss sleepovers at friends' houses, keeping one another awake with relentless farting and impressions of The Emperor from Star Wars. I miss parties where the host thought making a Devil's Food Cake would be a good idea with a house full of drunken teenagers.

I miss that one endless-feeling summer when my parents went away and I had the house to myself. I miss having friends over every day to drink heavily and play Final Fantasy VII on the living room TV. I miss arguing with my friend Woody over whether or not my Japanese PlayStation fucked up the timing on Bust-a-Move (turns out it did, sorry Woody). I miss leaving a metronome outside my friend Edd's door because he'd flaked out early and gone to bed while we were playing Frogger on MAME until 3am.

I miss that first year of university, where it felt like there were endless possibilities ahead of us. I miss being part of a group of people who had been thrown together by chance, but who became fast friends. I miss showing up to morning lectures and only once having to leave because I needed to be sick after a heavy night. I miss having things to learn and do, but the freedom to approach them how I saw fit.

I miss the subsequent years of university, which was the first taste most of us had of living somewhere that was imperfect but charming in its own way. I miss piling around a friend's house to play Mario Kart and Perfect Dark multiplayer on his N64. I miss couch-surfing on a nightly basis.

I miss the university Theatre Group, where I initially felt out of place, but after inadvertently displaying my vulnerability one night in Edinburgh, feeling embraced and comforted by people who did, in fact, like and respect me. I miss growing to feel like I was an important part of that group as a whole. I miss exploring a fascinating form of self-expression. I miss truly finding my voice and my sense of humour. I miss learning to be assertive and confident.

I miss the early days of the Internet, which felt like a brave new frontier and an opportunity to connect with like-minded individuals in a way I had never really experienced. I miss those first real attempts to express myself freely, and learning to understand how to express why the things that were important to me resonated so deeply. I miss an age when going online was a time when you could truly be yourself, and didn't have to have your guard up at all times.

I miss playing board games with friends, on evenings where none of us had any real commitments save those we had made to our collective friendship. I miss communal takeaways. I miss that one drunk guy outside the Indian restaurant that one time who warned us that we'd "get our legs lifted" if we went in there. Still no idea what that means.

I miss having friends, whether we were going out and having a raucous, drunken night out or a quiet night in with board or video games. I miss the feeling of sharing my life with others, like we mattered to one another.

I miss a time where not feeling lonely was a normal state of being.

I miss lots of things. But I think I miss that last one the most.

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The post #oneaday Day 833: Things I miss appeared first on I'm Not Doctor Who.

I am pleased to report that Oliver is, as I type this, safely inside our house, and has given no indication he is going to escape. (I know, I know, he gave no indication that he was going to escape last time, but he doesn't even seem interested in sneaking out of the front door when we put the bins out any more, even.) This means that, barring any sort of major disaster which occurs over the course of the next 24 hours, we will be able to go away on holiday without any sort of guilt or unease, and just enjoy ourselves. (Hopefully no major disasters will happen between tomorrow and the 14th of September, either.)

I'm really looking forward to some time away. I'm looking forward to spending some time in the pool, for a combination of just relaxing in the water and actually getting a bit of exercise by, y'know, swimming. I'm looking forward to our spa day. I'm looking forward to our inevitable trip to The Pancake House, and buying at least one Massive Cake from the ParcMarket.

Center Parcs, in its various forms, has become rather special to me over the years, even though I know there are almost certainly plenty of reasons one could criticise it. And it all, as with so many other things in my life, extends back to my childhood and adolescence.

I forget exactly what year we first went to Center Parcs, but I do remember the trip itself. My brother was still living at home, and he brought his friend Alex with him. One of the most enduring memories of the trip was Alex, who fancied himself a bit of a womaniser, causing two girls to fall off their bikes by delivering a thoroughly Leslie Phillips-style "Hell-O!" at them as they rode past. My other enduring memory of the trip is the fact that, at the time, Center Parcs used those weird Dutch toilets where you poo on a little platform rather than into a bowl of water. Most disconcerting.

On that first trip, I was still pretty young, as I can determine from my brother still living at home with us, and thus I was still pretty nervous about things like water slides. I do remember going on "the slow slide" at the pool, which is the longer of the two, and enjoying it, but also being too scared to go on either "the fast slide" or "the big white slide", the latter of which is just a big wet slope made out of the slipperiest material known to man. These slides are all still present at the Center Parcs pool complex to this day, along with the Wild Water Rapids, which I did not go on on this first trip.

Some years later, we went on another trip to Center Parcs, and I took my friend Edd with me. This was partly as payback (positive) for his family graciously taking me along with them on a trip to Gran Canaria, and we had a good time. My enduring memories that time around are of being old enough to enjoy the slides a bit more, and having a great time on the Wild Water Rapids. A particularly vivid memory is of getting halfway down the Rapids, only for Edd to pop up from under the water going "Hoo-haa-haa!" (which is what we thought the blue SS guards in Wolfenstein 3-D said, rather than "Schutzstaffel", which you probably shouldn't shout in public) and pretend to machine-gun me. Good times.

I also remember an awkward conversation over breakfast in which Edd attempted to convince my Dad that bloody violence in video games was fine because "you just stop noticing it after a while". That, it turns out, was not the most convincing argument, but did not result in me being disallowed from playing games like the aforementioned Wolfenstein 3-D and Doom, even though I had historically not been allowed to watch 15- or 18-rated movies.

There was another trip to Center Parcs at some point where I went with my friend Craig, and my one enduring memory of that particular trip was seeing Savage Garden and Ray of Light-era Madonna on the television, and us both realising that we actually quite liked both of them despite historically having been "indie rock" boys.

Andie and I have now been to Center Parcs ourselves a number of times, and it still feels like a proper example of "being a grown-up" to go on a holiday like this by ourselves. I mean, I know we technically are both "grown-ups", but as I was talking about with my therapist recently, I still find it immensely difficult to think of myself as such. This is not an altogether unusual position to hold, it seems; no-one in this world really knows what they are doing, it's just some people are better at hiding that fact than others.

Anyway, tomorrow we are off for yet another excursion into the forest. I will continue to blog while I am there, as usual, but I may be quiet on the socials while I am away. It is nice to have a bit of peace and quiet — and this time around, it will be nice for said peace and quiet to not be interrupted by intrusive thoughts worrying about whether or not we are ever going to see our beloved pet again.

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The post #oneaday Day 821: Tomorrow is holiday appeared first on I'm Not Doctor Who.

As I found myself reviewing the latter-day issues in the magazine's run, though, I found myself feeling an intense sense of melancholy and almost mourning, I guess. Over the course of the publication's complete run, you can see at a glance when it was doing the best (full-colour covers with specially commissioned artwork or photography to appear prominently and attractively on newsstands) and when things started to go downhill (single-colour covers, the return to a subscription-only model) and when things were nearing the end (a switch to an A5 format, with less and less in the way of commercial releases covered each issue).

Here's a shot from Atarimania, which hosts a full archive of Page 6/New Atari User issues, that shows three stages of this evolution:

I found myself feeling sad all over again while working my way through these issues — because I remember this happening first time around. I remember getting Page 6/New Atari User every month, and in those latter years, feeling like something which had been a fixture in my life for as long as I could remember was ailing and would eventually die. Page 6 started before I was old enough to know what a computer or a magazine was, so it was always present throughout my childhood and adolescence.

Its final issue — in which the editor, Les Ellingham, made an unfortunately unkept promise to readers that there would be six more issues of the magazine before it finally closed for good — is a sad read. Even my Dad, who had been a contributor from midway through the magazine's run up until its very last issue, had given up writing about specifically Atari-related stuff, and was instead posting a regular column about the wonders of the then-nascent (at least in consumer-accessible form) Internet and World Wide Web. My article spreadsheet has just a single game-related entry for that final issue: a public domain version of Tetris for Atari 8-bit.

One of the most remarkable things about Page 6/New Atari User is that it wasn't the Atari ST coverage which lasted until the b(l)itter end. No; the last few issues contained pretty much nothing but Atari 8-bit coverage, which provided the first hints of the fact that the "Atari Classic" scene, as the magazine referred to it at the time, would continue to thrive in the years to come, even in the absence of a major specialist publication.

The ST scene is still alive too, but I can't help but feel like there's a lot more Atari 8-bit enthusiasts out there than Atari ST people. After all, the ST marked the beginning of the shift towards all home computing being PC-based; the ST certainly had its own distinctive, unique features, but it also marked a point where the distinction between purportedly different platforms was less pronounced in various ways. Thus, I suspect what happened, is people who were once ST enthusiasts just sort of… "upgraded" to MS-DOS and then Windows-based PCs and then never looked back. That's certainly what my family did — although I certainly never quite left the Atari machines behind, as they had been so important to me growing up, and continue to be important to me to this day.

Anyway, the thing I think I find most sad about the slow death of Page 6/New Atari User is that it was clearly taking a mental toll on Les. In some of the last few issues, he described how the editor of an American Atari newsletter had found himself succumbing to ill health, at least partly due to the stress of working on his publication, and he indicated that he had no desire to do himself a mischief in the same way — particularly because, in these latter years, he was also trying to support himself with handmade crafts. In one of the last issues, he mentions that he thinks he might have to get a part-time job to continue supporting himself, because between the magazine and his crafts, there was no longer enough money coming in to completely make ends meet.

But all good things have to eventually come to an end, and in the tech space in particular, the rate at which things progress can be absolutely mind-boggling at times. I don't think there's any shame in Page 6/New Atari User's eventual bowing out, even with the regrettably unkept promise from Les' final editorial. To consider that this was a publication which continuously supported both the Atari 8-bit and, once it hit the market, the ST, from 1983 up until 1998 is absolutely mindblowing. Les' refusal to let go until it was absolutely, definitely no longer viable to continue in any way whatsoever is incredibly admirable — as is the commitment of the freelance contributors who kept sending in articles issue after issue, without fail, like my Dad.

So yeah. While reliving the end of something that brought me so much joy as a child has made me a little bit maudlin, I also continue to celebrate everything this publication achieved — and continue to derive joy from it as I grow older, since I am now in possession of the complete run of issues that I grew up with.

It saddens me a bit that when something similar happens these days, in the form of a website going down and no longer being accessible, that there is often no easy way to simply look back fondly over past "issues" in the same way as you can with a magazine. There are many, many online publications that are just gone these days, and while The Internet Archive has done an incredible job of preserving some of them, there are others that we'll just never see again in any form. I know — I've worked on a bunch of them, and now most of my articles are now buried, nigh-unsearchable, in the archives of other sites that ingested the data of the closing publications, often introducing a bunch of errors in the process.

Page 6/New Atari User, though, that will always exist in the form that I knew and loved it. So although I'm sad all over again at the end of such an important publication, I know that I will continue to derive joy — and attain knowledge — from browsing that archive of issues over and over again. One day I might even get around to learning how to program the Atari 8-bits properly beyond simple BASIC. You never know.

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The post #oneaday Day 814: Death of a publication appeared first on I'm Not Doctor Who.

At some point, my then-wife and I made the decision to move back to Southampton. I forget exactly what the reasons for us doing this was — it may have been the fact that I had got a job at the then-new Apple Store in the WestQuay shopping centre, or it may have been some other reason — but regardless, we found ourselves coming back to Southampton, initially in a ground-floor flat in an area on what I will always think of as "the far side" of Southampton, known as Sholing.

My enduring memory of living in this place will always be, on our day moving in, walking in to the Indian takeaway that was next door to the block we lived in — as everyone knows, British moving days are fuelled by takeaway curry — and the proprietor of said establishment bellowing "WELCOME TO THE SHOLING!" as we walked in. It was a great little takeaway, that place, and I was always grateful for the warm welcome the owner provided.

We rented that flat off a woman who had a cat. We kind of wanted a cat, but we had lived in so many rented places that didn't allow pets that we didn't think to ask if we could have a cat. When we moved out, the landlady said that not only would she have been more than happy for us to have a cat in that flat, we could have had her cat. I'm still not entirely sure how to feel about that.

Anyway, it was a nice flat with some big rooms and a lovely oversized comfy sofa in the living room. My "study" of sorts, where the computer lived, was also a utility room, so I had to share space with the tumble dryer. My Sony Vaio desktop PC, which had been a loyal companion for a number of years, died in that flat, which I was annoyed about, because it was a great system. But one day it just started inexplicably screeching at me, and that was that. I eventually ended up replacing it with an iMac, which I got for a generous discount thanks to working at the Apple store.

At some point, we moved out of that flat. Again, I don't entirely remember why, but we ended up moving into the town centre of Southampton, into what appeared to be quite a new block of apartments. It was a really nice flat with a huge living room, a massive kitchen and a generously sized bedroom. It was a very comfortable place to live, with the only real hiccup being that one day I came home to the sound of rushing water downstairs in the block. It turned out the basement was flooding from somewhere, which ultimately knocked out the power in the whole building and meant I had to spend several days staying on a friend's sofa.

However, this is also the flat where my first wife and I parted ways, so as nice as it was, it will always be the most bittersweet of past places I lived, and the subject of a number of posts from around that time.

Due to a perfect storm of unfortunate circumstances, including not only the end of my marriage but also being bullied out of a job that I once loved, I ended up unable to stay in that lovely flat by myself, and having to temporarily move back in with my parents. At the time, I was mortified at the prospect of having to do this; today, I am eternally grateful for the fact they supported me while I picked myself up after such a massive setback.

While living back in my childhood home — which was still familiar despite having changed a bit — I eventually ended up meeting Andie, my now-wife. Both of us had experienced a somewhat challenging period in our respective lives, and ended up finding one another at what appeared to be a good time. I was also in the process of building a new career at that time, and I was gradually getting to a point where I felt I would be able to support myself again. So Andie and I eventually agreed to move in together.

We ended up moving to Chippenham in Wiltshire, which was near to where Andie was working at the time, and since I was working from home, I could do that from anywhere with an Internet connection. We had a nice house there, and were greeted almost immediately by the two cats who lived next door, Artie and Chester. Chester was a black cat who liked sitting on suitcases, and Artie was a long-haired tabby who liked shouting at towels. The pair of them were absolutely lovely cats who paid us a visit on many occasions, and we always welcomed them in.

During our time at Chippenham, we also decided that, in the absence of being able to have our own cats, we would try keeping rats, and we discovered the joy of these little creatures — as well as their sadly short lifespans. Also the smell, which you soon get used to. During our time at Chippenham, we had a wonderful time with Willow (who sadly did not live very long as she was quite poorly), Lara and Lucy.

Our house in Chippenham is another place I have somewhat mixed feelings about, as both Andie and I were facing numerous challenges in our own lives at that point in time — among other things, I lost my job at GamePro when we all logged in one morning to find out the parent company had unceremoniously laid us all off — and also there was apparently a murder in the Sainsbury's car park that was, like, two minutes away from our house.

Our next move was, once again for me, a return to Southampton. We found ourselves a lovely flat whose only mild inconvenience was the fact it was on the third floor, which made moving everything in a bit of a pain. We ended up having to buy a whole new sofa because the one we had bought while we were at Chippenham simply wouldn't go up the staircase; it lived in the garage for a whole year, and thankfully survived, though we ended up replacing it some time later.

This flat, I have fond memories of. Both Andie and I had overcome some significant troubles in our own lives, and things started to seem like they were getting back on track. I still wasn't in what I would call a position of stable employment, but I was getting by, initially by writing about odious mobile and social games, and subsequently being a founder staff member of the now-defunct USgamer.

We also still kept rats in this flat — Lucy, Clover and Socks — though after the last survivor of the various pairs we had cared for, our dear Clover, hung in there for a lot longer than we expected she would, we decided that we should maybe take a little break from keeping pets. It was sad to eventually say goodbye to Clover, but we feel like she stuck around for us even as she got old and life clearly became a bit harder for her.

Eventually circumstances dictated that Andie and I would be in a position to actually buy a house instead of renting, and that's how we ended up where we are now — and have been here for over ten years at this point. This is officially the longest I have lived in one place for, except for my childhood home. As I said yesterday, we're not ruling out moving someplace a bit bigger some time — just not yet — and we've done a lot to make this place into our home — not least of which is having cats. The dearly departed Ruby and Meg will always be in our hearts, and Patti and Oliver bring us so much joy in the here and now I cannot imagine ever being without such wonderful companions again.

I've lived in many places over the years. All of them hold their own memories, both good and bad. All of them have helped make me into the person I am today, for better or worse, and I'm sure I will always remember them all.

Want to read my thoughts on various video games, visual novels and other popular culture things? Stop by MoeGamer.net, my site for all things fun where I am generally a lot more cheerful. And if you fancy watching some vids on classic games, drop by my YouTube channel.

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The post #oneaday Day 798: Home is where the heart has been, part 2 appeared first on I'm Not Doctor Who.

Every so often, I like to think back over the various places I've lived, because they all have different memories attached to them. Some memories are good; some are bad. Most are good. In fact, I'd go so far as to say that I do have good memories at every place I've lived; it's just that some happen to have more bad memories to go along with them than others.

My first house that I lived in is the only one I don't remember at all, because we moved away when I was just one year old or so. We kept a vague attachment to the area in which it was, though, because some friends of my parents still lived in that area, and one of them was also our family dentist. When we'd go to visit these friends, my parents would often point out the house in which we used to live, but while it was interesting to know, I felt no real attachment to it. I felt more attachment to the homes of these friends, as we visited them quite a few times in my youth.

The next place I lived is the house my parents still live in to this day. That house will always be "home" more than anywhere else, I think. It's a nice house with an unusual split-level design, with the living room on a "middle" floor between the ground floor and the floor with all the bedrooms on it, and a garage that is below the ground floor, but still above ground, if that makes sense. (To put it another way, you go up some steps to get to the front door, and the garage is on the level where those steps start.)

My parents have made a few changes to that house over the years, but it's mostly still the house I grew up in. A bit older, a bit dustier, but most of the things I will always remember about it are still in the same place they always have been, and looking the same as they always have done. The cupboard where the biscuits are still squeaks incredibly loudly — we used to joke it was an "alarm" for someone "biccy-nicking" — and the upstairs toilet flush mechanism still doesn't quite work properly.

The first place I moved to after leaving home for university was a halls of residence. Well, technically I spent a week staying in another halls of residence for a pre-term music course, but I consider that more of a "trip" than actually "moving in" there. The place I spent a week was a bit of a shithole, being an old tower block that has, at some point in the intervening years, been demolished. The place where I spent my first year of university, however, was really nice.

It was a brand new complex when we moved in, meaning that everything was clean and in good condition. Remarkably, it was still clean and in good condition when we moved out, as the occupants of our flat were all pretty considerate about such things. Okay, most of us occasionally let the washing up pile up a bit, but we eventually all settled into a routine of keeping things neat and tidy in the communal kitchen, then if we wanted our rooms to be a pigsty we could. But since they were pretty nice rooms, none of us did.

I have fond memories of living in that flat, even if it's unthinkable now that I once lived out of a single en-suite room that was my own, along with a communal kitchen. It was good times with good people, and I was enjoying being at university. I have a few memories from there that make me wince slightly out of embarrassment, but on the whole I have no real bad memories there whatsoever.

In my second year, we all moved out into houses and flats around the city. I had agreed to move in with a friend's girlfriend (who was also my friend; the boyfriend in question was going to university in another city) and we had a fair amount of trouble finding a decent place for an affordable amount of rent; I forget exactly why, but I do remember it being a stressful time finding it.

Eventually we found a flat that looked pretty nice, but was in fairly shabby, dirty condition when we viewed it. The landlord promised that it would be cleaned up in time for us to move in. It very much was not, which meant that our moving in day was mostly spent cleaning. We eventually got it looking presentable, though, and once we were settled, it was a nice flat with absolutely enormous rooms. There was a huge living room at one end, then down a corridor there were the two bedrooms: my friend's first, then mine at the far end.

Oddly, my most vivid memories of living in this flat are of the fact that I lived two minutes' walk away from a Blockbuster Video, and quite often went in there to buy games and DVDs. I remember plucking up the courage to buy an erotic Kathy Lloyd Playboy DVD on one occasion, but I also remember buying Baldur's Gate II and Diablo II there.

This flat was a fair distance away from both the university and the rest of my friends, so I quite often spent time "couch-surfing", staying over at various people's houses so I didn't have to walk all the way home. My flatmate was quite often away to visit her boyfriend, so during those times, rather than sit all on my own, I would tend to spend my time with friends.

In my third year of university, we again found ourselves having trouble finding a place — but this time we lucked out by finding an absolutely lovely house that was incredibly cheap rent-wise. Sure, it was in a notoriously fairly shitty area, but the house was in excellent condition, and the landlords didn't seem to be scam artists. It was also, to date, the only house I have lived in that literally looked like the drawing of a house you draw if you can't draw a house. (See illustration.) That year, I was supposed to have a second housemate along with my friend's girlfriend, but despite always paying her rent and bills on time, she never even moved in. I don't know what happened there — and I was mildly gutted, as I quite fancied her — but still, she helped keep that house nice and affordable for the two of us, so we were grateful!

Again, I have fond memories of this house. There was a nice TV cabinet in the living room, where I put my enormous CRT TV that I bought from a second-hand shop in Portswood. It was surrounded by shelves, where I put my new PS2, and I vividly remember a friend of mine, upon visiting, telling me how much he loved the blue LED on the eject button. It is pretty nice, to be fair.

We didn't mow the lawn once during our time at that house. Well, not until it was approaching time to leave, at which point we discovered why you should mow your lawn more than once a year.

My most enduring memory of that particular house is probably my friends coming down and bringing a copy of the newly released Silent Hill 2 with them. I was given the task of playing it while the others watched, but the pair of them both fell asleep after a hearty curry and some relatively heavy drinking, and only woke up as I was rolling credits on the "In Water" ending.

We also had NTL cable in that house. I remember signing up for one night of the Adult Channel and setting the VCR to record it all. I also remember being mildly disappointed in the overall quality of the smut on the resulting tape, but it served its purpose.

In my fourth year of university, my friend had moved on, so I was moving in with a new friend I'd made through the university Theatre Group, along with some other people she knew but I didn't. We found a really lovely house that, again, was very affordable. It had a weirdly narrow kitchen, though, and a strange arrangement at the back where there was a standalone toilet, then a bathroom next to it. These were both on the ground floor, behind the kitchen. It was a very odd arrangement, but we learned to live with it.

One unfortunate memory I have of that place is, being the first one there, thinking I had pick of the rooms and thus picking the big one at the front. I subsequently found out that my friend had bagsied that room first, but I had already moved all my stuff in by then. She didn't seem to mind getting the room next door. She laid down laminate flooring as the first thing she did when she arrived. She was… like that.

I have good memories of that house, despite the fact that I didn't really interact with any of the other residents. My friend was absolutely never there, and I didn't really know the other two guys at all. I was intimidated by the one who was growing weed in his wardrobe, and the other one just gave no indication whatsoever that he really wanted to get to know me at all. They all seemed to appreciate my big TV and surround sound system in the living room, though.

I spent a lot of time drinking wine and… enjoying the company of someone who was quite special to me at that house. We'd drink until we were giggly, watch Spaced and Black Books on repeat, and… well, other stuff, too. It was nice, though I ended up wanting more from the arrangement than she did. Still, I have no regrets.

After finally finishing university, I moved to Winchester with someone I knew from my music course, who was training to be a midwife. We were extremely fortunate in this case to find a gorgeous flat almost in the dead centre of Winchester. It was fully furnished — and well furnished — and just a beautiful, beautiful place. We absolutely loved living there, but we could only enjoy it for a year, because after that the landlord decided that they wanted it back so their kid could live in it, which I suppose is all right.

I fitted an extension phone socket in that flat, without any consideration of the fact that I probably wasn't allowed to hammer that many pins into the walls of a flat I didn't own. Still, I wouldn't have been able to access the Internet if I didn't do that, and given that I was having my first contact with Final Fantasy XI around that time, I needed that Internet connection.

Probably my fondest memory of that particular flat is one I've shared numerous times before: the time I had several friends over to play LAN party Halo, and we all got drunk and took our shirts off. My housemate came home in the middle of all this, took one look at the living room full of half-naked, drunk men and declared the game "Gaylo" which, you know, fair.

It was in this flat I was first starting to have doubts about teaching — the career I had, at that time, chosen. While I never developed a problem as such, there were numerous evenings when I would seek, shall we say, chemical comfort after a particularly hard and trying day. Mostly gin and tonic, though a friend did once leave me an "emergency joint" that I made use of on one particular evening that felt like an emergency, only to discover it was so strong that after finishing it, I immediately threw up (in the toilet) and then passed out on the couch. To be fair, after that I wasn't thinking about the day I'd just had at the chalkface.

After being turfed out of that flat, we moved into a strange little cottage that backed onto a little river, quite close to the previous flat, so we didn't have to move far. It was in a bit of an awkward location on the Winchester ring road, though, and it subsequently transpired that the place was full of damp and mould that the landlady tried to blame on us when we eventually moved out. My housemate, who doesn't take shit from anyone, took her to court and… resolved the situation. I don't know exactly what went down, but I know we did eventually get our deposits back.

It was while I was living in that house that I met my first wife online, and after she moved back to the UK after spending some time abroad, she would often come down to visit and stay. As a result, I have some bittersweet memories of that time; I think enough time has passed now that they err mostly on the side of "sweet", to be honest, but I do know that my housemate did not like my wife-to-be very much. Still, it never came to a confrontation or anything, so that's all right, I guess.

After that, my wife-to-be and I moved away from Southampton so we could both be close to the schools in which we were working, which were in Surrey. Our new flat was technically in a shitty area, but it was actually a really lovely place; some sort of huge converted single-floor house with enormously high ceilings and massive rooms.

It was while we were living at this house that I had a nervous breakdown and finally determined once and for all that teaching was not, in fact, my chosen career. (That didn't stop me trying again once more later, but I recognised the signs and escaped from that before anything bad happened.) It's a shame, because my memories of this place are otherwise nice; it was a lovely place to live, and I was sorry to have to leave it.

You know what? That's two and a half thousand words, so I think I'm going to call time there and ponder the rest tomorrow. This has been a fun exercise, though, so join me tomorrow as I remember other places I have lived! Gosh, I bet you can't wait.

Want to read my thoughts on various video games, visual novels and other popular culture things? Stop by MoeGamer.net, my site for all things fun where I am generally a lot more cheerful. And if you fancy watching some vids on classic games, drop by my YouTube channel.

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The post #oneaday Day 797: Home is where the heart has been, part 1 appeared first on I'm Not Doctor Who.

I have two particularly fond memories of times when I have been able to indulge in some role-playing, and interestingly enough, neither of them involve a well-established, rules-heavy system. In both cases, they were simple acts of collective creativity — and they were vast amounts of fun as a result.

The first time wasn't really an organised session as such. I was in my second year at university, living in a grotty old flat that had very large rooms. Some of my friends from my school days had come down to visit, and they were sleeping in the living room; rather than retiring to my own bedroom down the hall, I decided to sleep in the living room with them. And before long, rather than falling asleep, one of our number kicked off a completely improvised role-playing session where our probably drunk, definitely tired and increasingly delirious selves got our characters into increasingly ridiculous situations — inevitably with the worst possible outcomes constantly happening to one of our number, because that was the funniest way things could go.

I forget the details of the "adventure", such as it was, but I do recall that my friend Edd found himself under attack by a giant penis monster at one point. So, naturally, he decided to cast the spell he'd made up called "REMOVE COCK", and you can imagine what the actual result of that was. It was an utterly ridiculous evening that I will always remember immensely fondly — and not a single die rolled along the way.

The other occasion was when I was around at a friend's house, and one of said friend's friends with whom I had previously become casually acquainted said he was going to run a role-playing game session for us, using what he described as a "freeform system" that he'd devised himself. Said system had just three statistics: Attack, Defence and Power, and all three of those statistics fluctuated according to the things we were doing; you'd "spend" points from each on various actions, and could regain them in various ways, usually by making progress through the adventure.

Because the system was so freeform, we were invited to come up with any kind of character we wanted. Being big into Japanese role-playing games at the time — not like now, obviously — my character was somewhere between a vaguely imagined half-elf character I'd mentally doodled at various points over the prior months, and basically Dante from Devil May Cry. Lots of flashy moves, big sword, pyrotechnics, all that sort of thing. His name was Rush Hurin.

Alongside Rush we had The Luggage from Discworld, a sentient suit of armour named Arryth, a cloud of amorphous pink gas and the archangel Tyrael from Diablo. It was a motley crew to be sure, but we had some grand adventures — and the skill of our dungeon master was such that he was able to devise dungeons and scenarios on the fly that meant we all had an opportunity to shine along the way.

Okay, yes, he pulled puzzles from a straight-up Big Book of Puzzles that he brought along with him — and on more than one occasion we entered a room in a dungeon with an elaborate-looking mechanism that had a big sign on it saying "COME BACK LATER" — but even using that "source material" and occasional little "cheats" to keep things flowing along, we ended up with an enormously entertaining adventure that culminated, as I recall, with us fighting a skyscraper-sized flaming demon, each using our own unique abilities to bring it down in various ways — culminating with The Luggage swallowing it and sending it to an unknown other dimension, as most of our other encounters concluded.

Both of these were great fun, yes, but I also just kind of… hunger for an opportunity to play something as basic bitch as Dungeons & Dragons, even though I know that's not fashionable any more. I always thought Vampire: The Masquerade would be fascinating to play, too — hence why I had a bunch of sourcebooks for it back in my early 20s — but that, more than almost anything else, strikes me as something you very much Need The Right Group For.

Why am I talking about all this? Well, I watched an episode of Mythical Kitchen this evening where they had the cast of Critical Role on there, and it reminded me that I've never… watched, listened to, whatever you do with Critical Role, and I was thinking I should probably correct that at some point. Sure, it's not quite the same as being part of my own campaign, but I think I might enjoy it… maybe it's time to add it to the "bedtime listening" rotation.

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The post #oneaday Day 765: Role-playing appeared first on I'm Not Doctor Who.

I remember my first encounter with PlayStation vividly. My brother had come home to visit, and, as he often did, he had brought some gaming hardware with him. On previous visits — and prior to me getting my own SNES — he had brought both a Super Famicom and Mega Drive back with him on various occasions, but this new PlayStation thing was one of the most exciting things I had ever seen.

We loaded up Ridge Racer and you could play Galaxian while it was loading. Supposedly you could unlock some stuff if you could win the Galaxian game before the game finished loading, but I didn't manage that right away. (I mastered it some time later.) Then, once Ridge Racer was loaded, it was another example of something we'd previously described the SNES as being: "like having an arcade machine hooked up to your TV".

This feeling didn't go away with Tekken, which my brother had a prerelease copy of. He also had Raiden Project, which, while less obviously "impressive" than both Ridge Racer and Tekken, I found myself enjoying a lot, and still consider one of my favourite PlayStation titles to this day.

Eventually, my brother left behind this Japanese-model PlayStation at my parents' house for me to have — he had got his own British model. I was thrilled, particularly once I learned the "pen-lid trick" — a means of circumventing the console's region and copy protection by propping the disc tray open and carefully timing the swapping of discs. It was a good way to wear out your laser before long, but until I got my own UK PlayStation, it was my main means of experiencing PAL releases.

My friends got PlayStations around a similar time, and we all really enjoyed them, each cultivating our own little collection of games.

Then came Final Fantasy VII. I first heard about this from my brother, and one thing made me want to pick it up immediately: he told me that it was the first game that had made him and various other people he knew cry. This might seem like a strange reason to be excited for a game, but having been enjoying point-and-click adventures on PC for a few years at this point, I was immensely excited by the possibilities that interactive storytelling offered, and I was curious exactly what this game actually was.

I started to play it and was initially confused. Why did the screen go all swirly and then I couldn't move, but I had to select things from a menu instead? Why did the characters look different when they were walking around to when they were in battle? Why were numbers popping out of things?

I'd encountered the RPG genre in a very early form back on the Atari 8-bit, but had always found those games to be difficult to understand as a child. Some years later, I got into HeroQuest and Advanced Heroquest, and started to understand how numbers and turn-based combat worked together. And with Final Fantasy VII, I quickly learned how the computerised take on an RPG worked — and that I liked it a lot.

My friends loved it, too. We all swapped stories of our custom-named parties at school, arguing over who had given their characters the "best" names and who had recoloured the text window the most attractively garish combination of shades. We all agreed it was an incredible experience, and played it multiple times in succession — often in immediate succession. I estimate over the course of one particular summer, each of us must have played through the entirety of that game somewhere between six and ten times.

My parents went away for a few weeks and left me in charge of the house. I hosted an ill-advised party that I got into a lot of trouble for — I have to laugh in retrospect — but the best thing about that summer was having my friends over pretty much every day, and we would just play Final Fantasy VII together while eating Pot Noodles and getting steadily quite drunk. On one particularly memorable occasion, we challenged one another to play from the beginning and stay up as long as possible; we played through the night and into the next morning, hitting each other with sofa cushions to wake each other up if we looked like we were nodding off. It was a truly wonderful experience, and absolutely a treasured memory.

It all feels so far away now. I would love to have a summer like that which I just described again, but it feels like a far-off dream at this point.

Still, I mean I am still in touch with some of those friends, so perhaps, just perhaps, we could make something like that happen once again sometime. Maybe.

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The post #oneaday Day 754: Late '90s promise appeared first on I'm Not Doctor Who.

Over the course of our discussion, I described a curious phenomenon that I've been sort of passively aware of for a while, and that is the fact that I don't really remember living through my thirties. Specifically, the period between about 2009 and (I estimate) about 2016, 2017 or so is a length of time that I feel just sort of… disappeared. And the disappearance of that period — and possibly a bit more either side of it — is what leads me to feel like things which were actually Quite A Long Time Ago are still relatively "recent" or at least fresh in my memory.

I hadn't really contemplated why this had happened, but it didn't take long to figure out: I had a rough time in that period. Let's ponder, shall we?

In 2009, when I was 28, I lost a job that I had previously thought would have me set for life; it was a job that I loved, that I was good at and which even paid reasonably well for the time. Unfortunately, it was snatched away from me by some true shithead managers who were on a real power trip at the time, and that kicked off a very long period of exceedingly uncertain employment.

In 2010, my first marriage fell apart for reasons that, in retrospect, I understand, but which, at the time, had me feeling the lowest I have ever felt. Having lost my job and, now, my partner, I was left alone in a flat I couldn't afford to keep living in, with no job, facing down the prospect of having to move back home with my parents. At the time, this felt mortifying; now, of course, I am exceedingly grateful to my parents for having supported me while I was at my lowest until I was able to pick myself back up and effectively start over.

In the following years, I will keep the details vague out of respect for the individual in question's privacy, but I found myself supporting someone with an addiction problem. I had no idea how to do this, and there is not really a "how-to" guide on doing this effectively. The person in question conquered their issues pretty much by themselves (and by that I mean "without professional psychiatric or medical assistance"), and I will be eternally impressed by and proud of them for this, but the experience of acting in a supporting role at the time left me with… some emotional scars, shall we say. I am not entirely sure I have fully processed everything that happened at this time, though I should also add that I lay no blame or ill-will at the feet of the affected person, and that's all I will say on the subject.

During these years, I was working regular freelance for various websites. I had a good gig working for GamePro, but we all got given the boot just before Christmas one year. Some time later, I worked for USgamer, but got laid off from that particular gig on my birthday. These were the most "regular" jobs I'd had since 2009, and it had not gotten any easier over the years to know what I was "supposed" to be doing. Every time I felt like I was getting somewhere, it felt like the rug would get pulled out from under me.

I took a job in a completely unrelated field — updating website content at energy company SSE — but found myself fundamentally incompatible with the incredibly patronising way that company does business, and got unfairly dismissed at the end of my probationary period. Some time later, I found myself doing a similar, equally tedious but mostly inoffensive job at sports tech maker Garmin, which was stable but absolutely mind-numbingly boring. I left that one voluntarily (and on good terms, which was a nice change) to take up what would eventually become the position I hold to this day.

All along the way, I was feeling a sense of near-constant instability, like I could never settle; like I had never reached an unknown destination I felt like I was constantly on the way towards. I faced setback after setback, challenge after challenge. At times it felt like I wanted to give up. But I eventually made it to where I am today, with a stable home life, a stable working life and stable financial security. It was realising that I had those three things that made me feel like I had, at last, been able to properly "start over", and that my life was no longer a thing of shame; a string of endless difficulties and non-achievements that just didn't appear to be going anywhere.

So in retrospect, I'm not really surprised that I don't really remember my thirties all that well, because a lot of things happened, and a significant, statistically significant proportion of them were Bad Things that I'd really rather not dwell on. I know those years happened — and there are probably blog posts covering a lot of them right here on this site — but, even knowing that they probably helped shape the person I am today and helped strengthen my own resolve as a "survivor", it's hard not to feel like it would be nice to have them all back.

Still, that's not a thing you can do, unfortunately, so here I am, at 2am in the morning, aged 45, pondering a lost decade of my life. Do I have a point to all this? You'd think I would, wouldn't you. But you know what? I don't think I do. And that's probably all right.

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The post #oneaday Day 749: The lost decade appeared first on I'm Not Doctor Who.

I've been thinking about school again. I do that a lot for some reason. Nostalgia for happier days in the past, perhaps. A melancholy reflection on a failed career. Or an earnest desire to go back. It doesn't really matter. I do it a lot, regardless.

One of the things that my brain has decided to fixate on today is the concept of "school books" — specifically, exercise books. I don't know why, but I really liked having a book for each subject's work.

Obviously, from a practical, logistical perspective, it makes sense to have one book per subject, particularly in secondary school, because pupils tend to have different teachers for different subjects. But it also makes sense in primary school to a certain degree, as it allows the teacher to clearly demarcate different subjects' work — which is taught at different times in the week — and for the pupils to easily compartmentalise the various things they've been learning.

I don't know. There was something inherently pleasing about every subject having its own colour, and I bet a lot of schools around the country used a similar colour scheme. We had red for English Language, green for English Literature, grey for Maths, orange for Science, blue for Languages, a different green for the subjects grouped under "Humanities" at our school (Geography, History, R.E.), and your Journal would be a different colour according to what year you were in.

That Journal was a handy little thing, too. It was essentially a weekly planner where we could record any homework we got from our subjects and the date it was due; it was then, of course, up to us to check it regularly and ensure we actually did that homework. This was before any sort of handheld electronic devices with reminders on them — pre-"smart" mobile phones didn't become particularly widespread among me and my peers until we were into sixth form. It was a good and healthy thing to do, I think; it helped teach us matters of personal responsibility — and also occasional bullshitting on the inevitable occasions when we had forgotten to check it properly.

The Journal was treated like some sort of holy book, though. Every single week, we had to get it signed by our parents to prove that they had seen we had been recording our homework, and every week, our form tutor had to sign it to confirm that our parents had signed it. A space on each week's spread was also set aside for any communications between our form tutor and parents — for more serious infractions, of course, you got a Letter Home from the school office, but for minor things (and not necessarily problems!) there was this space in the Journal.

Heaven help you if you doodled anywhere on your Journal, though. Defacing it in any way was an immediate ticket to having to buy — yes, buy — a new one. As you might expect, the end of term rolling around was an immediate signal to many of us to immediately deface the crap out of the Journal for the term just gone. These defaced Journals became companions to "The Rough Book" among me and my friends — there was something about the neatly laid out tables in the Journal that made it ripe for customising with ridiculous doodles. My favourites were ones where we absolutely covered the page with tiny stick figures, all standing on the various lines of the table, flinging themselves off the edge and getting up to no good. I kind of wish I still had some of those.

It was the same for your subject exercise books, of course. Some teachers insisted that, as our inaugural piece of homework for a new term, we should cover our exercise book as a means of discouraging and/or preventing any doodling on the cover. Most people went the "wrapping paper" route, but there was a fun degree of self-expression among us all, and there was always some posh git who would laminate the cover of their book at their Dad's office or whatever.

I realise, of course, that the relative strictness with which we were taught to treat our school equipment can be looked on, from some perspectives, as being stifling to creativity and borderline authoritarian. School in general has always been designed as a means of, among other things, socialising us into becoming "good citizens" — and part of that, at least when I was at school, involved treating things with respect — whether they were the things that had been given to you by the school, the things you had brought in from home, or the things your peers were using.

It didn't always happen, of course, but there was a certain degree of pride that pretty much everyone had in their school possessions. Outside of covering books, one of the best ways to express one's individuality was through the stationery you brought to school — and the pencil case in which you kept that stationery. Some folks had cool, branded, zippered pencil cases; others had little tins. I remember my proudest pencil case at school was a Nintendo-branded tin with Super Mario Bros. pixel art on the front; it was also one of my least practical pencil cases due to its size, but I loved it nonetheless.

Anyway, you'd think I'd have a point about all this but I really don't. Something just got me thinking about the colour of school books, so that's what I've talked about today. Hey! They can't all be winners. Or perhaps you found this absolutely fascinating, in which case I am happy to have served.

Either way, at 20 past midnight I think it's probably time to go to bed.

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The post #oneaday Day 547: School books appeared first on I'm Not Doctor Who.

I often think about my time at school and, while there were certainly elements of my experiences as a teenager I am very glad to have left behind, there's a lot I miss — to such a degree that I often find myself wondering if there is any sort of way one can get oneself into a situation, as an adult, that works similarly to school. A situation that isn't, like, prison or something.

I thrived in school — particularly secondary school. For the most part, I dealt well with the inherently predictable nature of a timetable — though I have recurring quasi-nightmares about being back at school and not having a clue what my weekly schedule is — and I didn't even mind having homework all that much. I did well in lessons, though I tended to be fairly quiet rather than the sort of person who was always the first to answer teachers' questions, and I ended up with good grades. Not perfect grades, mind, but good grades, nonetheless.

I'm not really sure what it is about the school experience — as opposed to, say, university — that I find so particularly appealing. Perhaps it's the inherent variety of things that you study, at least up until you start choosing "Options" for Years 10-11 and, if you're going on to do them, Years 12 and 13. There's definitely an element of that, because when I think back on some of my fondest memories of time at school, the visual part of the memories is very much associated with my "lower school" experience — Years 7-9.

That was the time when you study all sorts of things, with multiple subjects every day, and each and every day was packed with things to do. Sure, you didn't always like every one of those things you had to do each day — for me, Maths and P.E. were my particular bugbears — but you endured them, along with the things you actually liked, and sometimes you'd even surprise yourself with how well you ended up performing. I have zero achievements of note in P.E., but I did get an "A" in Maths at GCSE, which was pleasing.

Early secondary school is a time you get exposed to a lot of things you wouldn't have thought about studying, too. I remember being surprised how much I enjoyed language lessons — particularly German, which I liked more than French — and Science, although not a subject I had any intention of pursuing beyond a passing interest, was always full of interesting and unusual situations.

As you might expect, my biggest strengths were English and Music. In English, I relished the opportunity to write a lengthy essay about something we'd been studying — whether it was on the "language" or "literature" side of the fence — while in Music, I was often quite ambitious with my compositions, and in terms of performance I was considerably ahead of anyone else in my class thanks to the years of private piano lessons I'd had by that point.

It was nice to be good at something, and to have tangible proof that I was good at it in the form of good grades, certificates and, eventually, qualifications. I think that might be one of the things I miss the most in life as an adult — the simple knowledge and confidence that you can do something, and that someone is going to acknowledge that you are good at something, even reward you for it. It didn't have to be a big reward — I was a sucker for the "Merits" and "Commendations" we had at secondary school, and those were just little signatures on a page of our Journal and occasional certificates — but that little bit of acknowledgement that yes, there was something you were good at, and that gave you value as a human being, was pleasant.

I am not, obviously, advocating for modern employers to start implementing systems of "Merits" and "Commendations" for their employees, because I feel that most people would probably find the whole thing incredibly patronising. Interestingly, back during my brief period of time working for the shithole energy company SSE, I found myself thinking that a lot of the way the company did things was like how it was back in school — but in that situation, it was a negative thing. The difference? SSE wasn't interested in celebrating the successes of people and the things they were good at — they were, instead, obsessed with making themselves, as a company, look good, and specifically going looking for things they could reprimand their employees for.

Schools have to have a solid behavioural policy in place, of course, but I always found it pretty easy not to run afoul of it — and on the few occasions when I did, I knew it was a completely fair cop. SSE, meanwhile, would bollock you if you didn't hold the handrail when going up some stairs, for going under your desk to pick up a pen you'd dropped without wearing a "bump cap", and for not reporting the fact that you'd spilled a tiny bit of water from your cup carrying it back from the cooler to your desk — and all that absurdity meant that there was no time left to actually praise anyone for doing a good job.

So you can't just transplant elements of the school structure into a corporate environment without thinking about the things that make school good for those who thrive in that environment. I don't know what the answer is, and at this point I'm not even entirely sure what the question is any more either. I'm rambling. I'm tired. I'm a bit cold. So I think I'll leave that there and go to bed!

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The post #oneaday Day 541: Back to school appeared first on I'm Not Doctor Who.

When I originally went to secondary school, my school was known for having a good sixth form. For those unfamiliar (i.e. not British, I suspect), a sixth form is where you go for "further education" (as opposed to "higher education", which is university) after your compulsory 11 years of school in the UK. It's called sixth form as a hangover from the old method of numbering school years, where primary education didn't really have a fixed method of distinguishing year groups beyond "infants" and "juniors", and then secondary education from 11 onwards started at "first form" all the way up to "fifth form". Today, primary education starts at Reception, then goes from Y1 to Y11 as one continuous run from primary to secondary, with most secondary schools starting with Y7. While some people do refer to sixth form as "Y12 and Y13", the term "sixth form" has, for one reason or another, stuck.

Anyway, none of that is the point. The point is, my school used to be known for having good sixth form provision. It's one of the reasons I went there, as I was a bright child and it was probably a given that I was always going to stay on into post-compulsory education, and indeed I did — two years of sixth form, then four years at university. I was fortunate enough to be in a year group that was the first to take advantage of a brand new sixth form centre built (well, adapted from the former upper school dining hall) on the premises, and it was a really lovely facility. I had a wonderful time there; I enjoyed my studies, I made and solidified a number of friendships, and, as I've remarked a number of times in this blog, I think I count those two years as possibly the happiest, most content of my life.

Every so often, I like to check in on my old school. No real reason, I'm always just curious how it's doing. It never was an amazing school, outside of the sixth form provision, and it's certainly had its challenges over the years. What I was rather surprised to see when I took a Google Street View down to the premises was this:

(Pixelations are mine; I just don't want randos looking up my old school for whatever reason.)

I saw those doors and thought, hang on. That doesn't look right. That building used to be the pride and joy of the school campus, so why haven't they painted the doors for what looks like several decades at this point?

It's because, it seems, the sixth form that was once one of the best things about that school is no more — and, in fact, it has not been a thing since 2015. (The photo above was taken in 2016, which just goes to show how frighteningly quickly a building can start looking dilapidated and shitty.) I found this out from looking at the school's Wikipedia page — I was surprised to discover it even had a Wikipedia page — but there it was, the cold, hard facts. I followed the links to see the news and yes, it seems it's true; the "Post-16 Centre" where I had such amazing, wonderful memories, is no more.

Now, I suspect the school today has made use of this building rather than just leaving it there; there's no way for me to know short of actually going to visit it, and I haven't been there in person for probably more than 30 years at this point. I see from its prospectus and willingness to book out its various large "venues" to the community — something the school had always done, making it a true "community school" — that it has a "performing arts space" that may or may not make use of that old space. Hard to tell, really.

Regardless, I feel a bit sad about this. That sixth form centre opened with such positivity and excitement for the future, and it was genuinely exciting to be part of it. The facilities were good, there were comfortable common areas to relax and socialise, and we felt proud to be part of something new and wonderful. I was surprised and saddened to see that the dream for that space apparently hadn't lasted; the school now has no sixth form provision of its own at all, instead collaborating with another local school (a longstanding "rival" back when I was there, but now part of the same "educational partnership", whatever that means) to provide sixth form provision for both schools' students.

I don't know if all this is because sixth form numbers were on the decline, or the building wasn't cost-effective, or whatever. All I do know is that it's a shame, and I feel a bit sad. You really can't go back, but at least you always have those precious memories, I guess.

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The post #oneaday Day 436: RIP my sixth form appeared first on I'm Not Doctor Who.

As a Kid Who Could Do Music, I was involved in performances of various kinds from a pretty early age. I have fairly vivid memories of, as a primary school-age kid, participating in the Bedford Music Festival, at which I would play piano duets and trios with other equally young pianists from my local area who were studying under the same teacher. I remember taking the Yamaha YS-200 keyboard to my Nan and Grandad's house to put on "concerts" for them, complete with synthesised applause when I finished a piece. And, of course, when we had visitors, I was often asked to play for them on my piano at home.

It wasn't until secondary school that I really started doing a lot of public performance, though. I joined a number of the musical groups at my school, including the concert band, jazz band (known as Dance Band), orchestra and choir, and through being a member of those groups (as well as my solo performance abilities), I participated in, I think, pretty much every school concert that happened between me joining the school in Year 7 and my leaving it after Year 13.

I absolutely loved school concert night, for a whole host of reasons. Firstly, it was simply fun to perform: to take all the hard work we'd done in each group's weekly rehearsals and finally show off what we'd accomplished. I don't remember any major disasters happening at any time, either; the leaders of the various groups (also the school's main music teachers) were all pretty fastidious about ensuring we could perform things to the best of our ability, and they also seemed to make good choices of pieces that were appropriate to the overall ability level of the group as a whole.

For those who have never performed as part of a large ensemble, it's quite something. Your part might not stand out as the most important or recognisable, but every instrument playing something plays an important role in the overall texture and timbre of the piece being played. If you're playing it right, people might not notice you as an individual performer — though this does, of course, have the side effect that if you play it wrong, people will definitely notice.

For me, it was satisfying to be part of something bigger than myself. It was fascinating to see a rather tedious 3rd Clarinet part actually having some importance to a greater whole. And it was wonderful to feel a connection with the people around you, all of whom were there for a common purpose: to make music, to entertain people, and to express themselves.

I think this is a big part of the reason that I always found school concerts to be immensely romantic occasions. I've talked before about how, throughout secondary school, I fell in love with a lot of girls, and many of these flights of what were ultimately passing fancy started on the evening of a school concert. There was something curiously intimate about sitting next to someone in the middle of a large ensemble, performing with them, supporting one another. That feeling of connection was even stronger with the other members of your section, and particularly with your partner on your specific part.

And so it was that I inevitably came away from each school concert feeling like I was on cloud nine, not just for a satisfying performance that had gone down well with the supportive audience of parents and teachers; not just for the feeling that there was something in this world that I was good at, that gave me value; not just for the praise I got from my teachers, my peers and other parents, particularly when I performed solo; but because I had, through the music, enjoyed what I felt was an incredibly intimate moment of connection with another person.

I'm almost certain that my fellow 3rd Clarinet partners at various points didn't feel the same way, which is why I never attempted to "make a move" on anyone — not that I had the confidence to do that, anyway. But for that evening, that wonderful, romantic, evening when the school concert took place, I felt genuine happiness and closeness with other people, quite unlike at any other time in my life.

I kind of miss it. I haven't been a member of a musical ensemble for a very long time and my clarinets and saxophones haven't been out of their cases for many years, either. But I still have those pleasant memories; the recollection of the feelings that I felt at the time. It didn't matter that they were one-way or unrequited; to have just been there in the moment was enough, and that's what makes those memories intensely, deeply precious to me.

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The post #oneaday Day 313: Memories of Me: the curious intimacy of school concerts appeared first on I'm Not Doctor Who.

I've talked before about how I think my schooldays, and particularly my time in Sixth Form (which was at the same school) were among the happiest times of my life. Once I'd got over an initial bout of bullying in Year 7, of course, which was resolved by me punching my tormentor firmly in the face just as the headmaster was coming around the corner.

One of the reasons I think back so fondly on my time at school — particularly secondary school, which is what I'm going to focus on today — is because I had a lot of great teachers who inspired me, encouraged me, recognised the things I was good at and generally did a great job of making me feel like I wasn't a completely worthless human being with terrible hair, atrocious dress sense and a complete inability to socialise normally. (Retrospectively, of course, I recognise that the latter aspect — and perhaps some of the others too — stem from my autism, but I didn't know that back then.)

I thought I'd describe a few of them today. I don't know what happened to any of them after I left school, as I didn't stay in touch with any of them — something I kind of regret a bit, now — but I can say, with confidence, that they made a positive impact on my life in some way, and the memories I have of the time I spent learning with them are some of my most treasured.

Let's think through subject by subject.

In the English department, I had a run of excellent teachers over the course of the years of both compulsory and post-compulsory education. There was Ms Derbyshire, who reminded everyone of Victoria Wood with her general demeanour and tone, and who had a delightful sense of humour. There was Mr Bowie, who was probably the "coolest" teacher in school, who knew his stuff and managed to be knowledgeable without being a nerd. He taught me about Jeff Buckley. There was Miss Idziacysyk (I think that's how you spell it — it's been a very long time since I wrote it and Google is no help!), who took no shit but was also a really knowledgeable teacher of both English Language and English Literature. And there was Mr Lack, who was a kind and gentle soul unless you pissed him off.

In Maths, I should give particular praise to Mr Wilbraham, who had a… strange reputation to anyone who had never taken classes with him — a reputation I shan't repeat out of respect for him… and the fact we never really knew if it was true or not — but who turned out to be an excellent, friendly, supportive and good-natured teacher. I disliked Maths intensely, but I put up with it and somehow managed to remain in the top group for it throughout the entire time I was forced to take it, and the lessons with Mr Wilbraham in Year 10 and 11 were probably the closest I had to "favourite Maths lessons".

In Science, I had a lot of great teachers, too. There was Miss Bartlett, who everyone fancied because she had long blonde hair and wore quite short skirts, but who also got us involved in doing practical experiments pretty much from our first lesson in Year 7. There was Mr Allured, who had a booming voice you could hear a mile off, and a personality (and moustache) that made him feel like everyone's dad. And there was Mr Maskell, who looked like Harry Secombe and was a cheerful soul, always keen to show us his "volcano" experiments in the fume cupboard.

Music was a focus of my time at secondary school, and I had a wonderful time studying with, at various times Mrs Choy-Winters, Mr Murrall, Mr Wrigley and Miss Garrick. Each had their own specialisms, but all were incredibly supportive of me, and keen to make use of the fact that my musical skills, particularly on the piano, were significantly ahead of pretty much all of the rest of the school. I ended up doing a lot of accompanying various musical groups during my time at school; school concert nights were some of my favourite times of the year. There's probably a whole post in me just on school concerts, so I'll save any further discussion of that for then. I will just add that I have recurring mild nightmares about disappointing my Music teachers and no-one else from this list.

I managed to wangle things at GCSE so I could do Theatre Studies alongside Music instead of having to do an Art or Technology class I really didn't want to do. There was only one drama teacher at our school, known as Miss Unsworth — although the headteacher Mr Cragg occasionally taught drama lower down the school — and she was quite the character. She was definitely a "theatre person", and she taught us a lot both through our lessons and in the productions of The Wizard of Oz and Twelfth Night I took part in during my time at school.

In Modern Languages, we had the good fortune to have a native German speaker known as Herr Haubert. We used to take the piss a bit because of his somewhat stern attitude, his rather severe moustache and the fact he perpetually smelled of spearmint — for some reason, our teenage selves became convinced that this was because he was always chewing mint flavoured condoms, not actual mints or gum, which would have made more sense — but I can't deny that he was a good teacher. Immersing us in the target language right from the first lesson, I can still remember a decent amount of German that I learned in those classes. Not enough to be confident or fluent, but definitely enough to get by in an absolute emergency.

In the Humanities, or "Hums", we had several great teachers. There was Mr Watts, who was our formidable head of Sixth Form, an excellent history teacher and someone who didn't believe anyone under the age of 15 had any right to exist in his line of sight; Mr Mason, an ageing hippie who taught Geography and could bring an entire class to silence by lowering the volume of his voice rather than raising it; and Mrs Lloyd, who helped make my A-Level Sociology studies entertaining and fascinating.

I had a look back at my school's website, knowing full well that I was there a very long time ago at this point and thus was unlikely to see any familiar names, and I was proven correct. I suspect many of the people I've just mentioned have retired or perhaps even passed on by this point, which is somewhat humbling to think about. Wherever they are and whatever they're doing, though, I hope they know that they had an impact on me, and that I still think about them very fondly. It's true that your school days play a crucial role in defining who you are — and the teachers who guide you through those school days are an incredibly important part of that.

So thanks to all of the teachers of my youth, both the ones I've mentioned and the ones I've inevitably forgotten. My life may not have gone exactly as planned in numerous ways, but I always felt I had a solid foundation to build from, and it was all thanks to them.

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The post #oneaday Day 312: Memories of Me: the teachers who inspired me appeared first on I'm Not Doctor Who.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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The post #oneaday Day 232: Memories of Me: Lost love appeared first on I'm Not Doctor Who.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Want to read my thoughts on various video games, visual novels and other popular culture things? Stop by MoeGamer.net, my site for all things fun where I am generally a lot more cheerful. And if you fancy watching some vids on classic games, drop by my YouTube channel.

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The post #oneaday Day 231: Memories of Me: First Days at University appeared first on I'm Not Doctor Who.

Sometimes I wonder what pieces of actually helpful information go in one ear and out the other in favour of the long-term storage of memories I don't really need to (or in some cases want to) hold on to.

Chief among these are some memories of primary school that I just can't get rid of. Most people I know can't remember a lot about their primary school days, and for sure, there are doubtless many, many days at primary school that I cannot remember. But these particular instances — or perhaps just general vibes rather than specific memories — have stuck in my head over the long term, and they're not going anywhere.

"Lazy work. Very poor."

I learned quite early on that despite not being particularly terrible at it, I absolutely hated maths lessons. And so it was that in either Class 1 or Class 2 — definitely the Infants half of the school, either way, so I would have been no older than maybe 6 or 7 — that I had two, to me, utterly shameful pages in my maths exercise book.

On the left of the spread, a maths lesson where I had completed one (1) sum in the entire lesson. This has been marked as "Lazy work." On the right, a separate lesson where I had completed three (3) sums in the entire lesson, two of which I had got wrong. This, in turn, was marked "Very poor."

I was upset by this spread of pages, even though I knew both comments were completely and utterly deserved. I don't remember why I had such outstandingly bad performance in these two lessons in particular — as I say, I wasn't particularly bad at maths, overall, and was always in the "top group" for it — but that negative feedback shamed me into trying a bit harder in subsequent sessions. I don't recall having any work in my exercise books ever being so shameful ever again. So… I guess it sort of worked, despite making me feel like shit?

Lunchtime fury

I don't know why (or rather, I've forgotten why) but in my later years at the primary school I went to, I spent a lot of my lunchtimes being furious and taking out my aggression on one of the "dinner ladies", actually a volunteer who would keep an eye on the kids in the playground at lunchtime.

I vividly recall deliberately getting furious about something in front of her and trying to provoke her, on multiple occasions, but not why. I would kick over the bin, I would yell at her, I would, inevitably, get in trouble. I feel like I was trying to achieve something or make a point, but that point is long lost, leaving me with just memories of ill-focused fury.

Perhaps it was a defence mechanism of sorts. I got bullied a lot at primary school, particularly by the older kids when I was still in the Infants classes, so perhaps I thought if I was extra annoying to the dinner lady, I would be taken into a sort of "protection", despite being "in trouble" myself. Retrospectively, that seems like the most logical conclusion, but I can't be sure that was ever the reason at this point.

Pissing myself in P.E.

For some reason, having to go to the toilet during lesson time at school has always been the ultimate taboo. In secondary school, it's discouraged because it's often assumed that those who "escape" lessons, ostensibly to go to the toilet, will take the opportunity to skive off, go for a smoke or otherwise do something they shouldn't be doing. In primary school, it is perhaps a little less justifiable.

And so it was that I commenced a school P.E. lesson in my '80s shorts, urgently needing the toilet and being told I couldn't go. This was an inaccurate assessment of the situation, because I could, in fact, "go", and did so right there on the playground. Oddly enough, I don't remember being mocked or anything for it; I just remember being curiously fascinated by how pissing with clothes on could still result in piss going everywhere, not just "wetting your pants", as the vernacular had it.

The Log

At primary school one day, we were inexplicably provided with a large log, ostensibly as something to play on and around. And The Log was, for quite a long time, a really cool place to play.

The more daring kids would climb atop it and run along it, but for many, the greatest appeal was "making piggy dust", which involved getting a twig and scraping away at the wood to create sawdust. Over time, we carved the shit out of that damn log, making it so it had natural platforms and footholds along the way; the poor thing lost all its external bark as part of this process — and, I recall, the teachers and dinner ladies often made half-hearted attempts to discourage us from "making piggy dust".

I don't know what ultimately happened to The Log. I'm pretty sure it remained in its place at the edge of the playground for the entire time I was at primary school, but it, unsurprisingly, was no longer there the last time I happened to pay a visit to the school in question.

It

Most of you reading doubtless have variations on Tag (or "It", as we called it) that you played in the playground. The ones I can recall are thus:

• It: One person is "It". They have to tag someone else, who then becomes "It". Sometimes the semicircular areas at the ends of the netball court on the playground were considered "homey", where you couldn't be tagged, sometimes they were not.
• Bulldog: One person starts as "It". When they tag someone, that person also becomes "It". The game continues until everyone is "It". "Homey" was more commonly in use in Bulldog than in It.
• Chains: As Bulldog, but all the Its had to hold hands, making an increasingly long human chain the longer the game went on. This game inevitably turned dangerous, leading to it being discouraged by most teachers and dinner ladies who were on duty.
• Top Gun: The rules for this one were ill-defined, but it was mostly It, but instead of tagging you had to repeatedly punch someone in the arm. (That was you "hitting them with your machine guns").

To determine who was "It" to begin with in any of these games, some variant of "Foot In" was used. For the unfamiliar, this involved someone yelling "FOOT IN FOR BULLDOG!" or whatever we were playing, and everyone who wanted to play standing in a circle with one foot in the middle. Then, whoever started shouting "FOOT IN FOR [whatever]" would perform one of the following rhymes, pointing to each foot in turn according to an accepted rhythm that wasn't necessarily matched to the syllables or words:

• "Ibble obble black bobble, ibble obble out." (Whoever was declared "Out" would not be it and would remove their foot from the circle. The process would then repeat until everyone except one person was "Out", and that person would become "It".)
• "Ip dip dog dip, you are not it." (Officially this was supposed to be "ip dip dog shit" to better rhyme with "It", but we knew better than to swear in earshot of teachers and dinner ladies. As with "ibble obble black bobble", this resulted in a gradual elimination of people until you were left with one "It".)
• "Ip dip dog dip, you are it." (A surprise variation that usually occurred when the caller calculated the least popular member of the group would end up as "It" if they said the rhyme this way. Almost always resulted in arguments.)

Learning the word "Shit"

One time in Class 2, we were doing some… form of class work. I forget what. I was in Blue Group, which was a group of the most "able" kids, and we were being taught by Mrs Powell, who wasn't our regular teacher but who would often cover things when Mrs Robson, our usual teacher, was not present. This was one of those days.

I think we were doing some sort of English exercise. Like I say, I don't remember exactly what. What I do remember is Natalie Forster, the only girl in Blue Group, spelling out "S – H – I – T" to herself while writing something down. Having never heard the word before (I was like 6 and my exposure to even PG movies had been somewhat limited) I promptly said the unfamiliar word out loud.

"Shit?" I enquired, confused. I thought she was trying to spell "ship" but had gotten it wrong somehow. I genuinely didn't know it was a swear word at the time. But the rest of Blue Group did. "Ummmmm!" came the inevitable cry of kids around you about to tell tales on you. One of Blue Group — it may even have been Natalie Forster herself — reported my inadvertent transgression to Mrs Powell, who yelled at me.

"I certainly hope you did not say that, Peter Davison," she bellowed, loud enough for the whole class to be looking at me. "Or I shall have to wash your mouth out with soap and water!"

Ah, public shaming and threats of physical abuse. They don't make 'em like they used to.

Bundle

One kid would shout "BUNDLE!" and jump on another kid. Then everyone else would jump on him. (It was always a "him", as girls never got involved in Bundles.) The result was a large and painful pile of boys. There was no game here, it was just something we did. This is one of those things that I understand was quite common, but I have no idea how the concept is transmitted from one schoolyard to another. I don't remember being explicitly "taught" it, it was just something that one day we knew we had to do whenever someone shouted "BUNDLE!"

Dizzyland

This was a game of sorts that involved putting both arms out to your sides, shouting "DIZZYLAND!" while giggling, then spinning around as much as you could for as long as you could without falling over. Bumping into each other was encouraged. Theoretically whoever stayed standing the longest was the "winner", but I don't recall it ever really getting to that point, as we were usually gently discouraged from doing this by teachers and dinner ladies on duty.

Bumper Cars

Fold your arms. Then run as hard as possible at another person. Ideally they will have folded their arms also, so you "bounce" off each other, but there was often a certain amount of catching people by surprise involved. There was no real "game" here, again, it was just something we did for a while. Eventually, someone would get bored, and Bumper Cars would cease.

Mr. Edwards

Teacher of Class 3 (years 3 and 4) at my primary school when I was there was Mr. Edwards, a rather hippie-like individual with a mullet and a moustache. I remember him being a good teacher who was always pretty calm about things, and we used to have a nice regular "Circle Time", where he'd get out his guitar and we'd sing stuff like Worried Man Blues together.

I don't remember a lot about lessons under Mr. Edwards, but I remember his class having a thoroughly nice vibe to it all.

Mrs. Barratt

Mrs. Barratt was in charge of Class 4 (years 5 and 6) at my primary school, and everyone who was not in those classes was terrified of her. She was a severe older lady who drove a Mercedes and spoke posh, like. She had a reputation for cracking down on troublemakers with an iron fist, so most people were afraid of ever crossing her. In fact, I remember coming to the close of my time with Mr. Edwards and being genuinely scared of joining Class 4 the following school year; I desperately wanted there to be a shift round of which teachers did which classes (as there had been a couple of times while I went through the years) and Mrs. Barratt to avoid our cohort altogether, but it was not to be.

Happily, Mrs. Barratt turned out to be one of the absolute best teachers. She was clever, she was funny, she encouraged everyone to do their best. She absolutely didn't take any shit from anyone, but it was rare anyone in her class gave her shit, because they respected rather than feared her.

I attribute at least some of my love of learning and writing to Mrs. Barratt, because she would set us interesting research tasks for a bit of light homework to bring in the next day, and in carrying out those assignments I learned a lot about topics I otherwise wouldn't have known anything about. I also vividly remember somehow incorporating "antidisestablishmentarianism" and "floccinaucinihilipilification" into the Daily Spellings lessons (and spelling them correctly), which got me some credit.

Mrs. Barratt's class is also the first time I remember doing a lot of things, with two of the chief ones being making cakes and science experiments. We wouldn't actually bake the cakes ourselves, but we'd do all the prep work, mixing and putting into tins and suchlike in class, then they'd be baked in the school's oven in the staff room for us to take home at the end of the day.

As for the science experiments, the one that sticks in my mind is one where we'd put an empty tin on a little electric camping stove and put cling film over the top, and we'd see the cling film "bulge" out as a visible demonstration of how hot air rises. I don't think we actually performed this one ourselves, as I suspect we wouldn't have been trusted with camping stoves at the age of like 10, but I do remember being so struck by the stern warnings that "if you don't take this off soon enough, it will explode" that I incorporated "exploding can-stove-cling-film" traps into some of the first ever custom HeroQuest quests I created for myself, not realising that "explode" meant "the cling film will pop" rather than "action movie-style explosion with fire and smoke".

So it's fair to say my time at primary school was… mixed at best. I have some good memories and some awful ones. Certain aspects of the experience helped shape who I am today, for better and worse. But regardless of all that, it seems these memories are there to stay, for one reason or another.

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The post #oneaday Day 209: Memories of Me: Primary School appeared first on I'm Not Doctor Who.

I am, to put it politely, not someone who has had a lot of luck with women over the years. It's probably more accurate to say that I was not someone who had a lot of luck with women over the years, given that I am happily married, but hopefully you get what I mean. There were not many notches on my bedpost before I settled down.

Probably my most confusing relationship began during my first year at university. I had joined the university Theatre Group, and, while I felt quite awkward around a lot of its members still, I had enjoyed being part of a production of "The Scottish Play", and my involvement with the group only grew after that first year.

It was around Christmas time in my first year at university. The Theatre Group had hosted a nice meal down at a restaurant on the Southampton waterfront that doesn't exist any more, and somehow — I genuinely cannot remember how — I had become engaged in conversation with a young woman I hadn't encountered prior to thar evening. I shall spare her real name for the sake of privacy, so let's call her X.

As I say, I don't remember the exact circumstances of how we got talking, but I do remember that the evening concluded with me walking her back to her halls of residence, having a good snog and exchanging phone numbers. It was nice. Although in the intervening years, I have attempted to recall where her halls of residence were — they weren't one of the more "well known" ones in Southampton — and am not entirely sure they exist any more, or indeed if they ever did.

Regardless, I thought that was a pretty swell way to end an evening, and as such we made arrangements to see one another again. With Christmas coming up, I also bought her a small gift — in retrospect, probably too much too soon — which took the form of a small cuddly gorilla because, I believe, she had at some point indicated that such things were cute.

Not long after providing said gift, I was unceremoniously dumped via text, and I thought that was that. Except it wasn't. What it actually was I don't really know, aside from the fact that it really was jolly confusing for… probably three or four years in total.

We took a trip to London together and went to see an art film called Intimacy which had a lot of naked cocks in it, and we held hands throughout the film. She came to the house I was renting on several occasions, and we shared a fair few moments of intimacy, though something always felt a little awkward and off a out them — probably my fault for feeling disbelief that anyone would ever want to do such things with me. And we texted a lot.

I don't remember much of what we talked about, but we did text one another a lot. Initially, because I was quite confused about the nature of our relationship and not quite sure if I should push things, I wasn't quite sure how to act. But over time, I came to feel like I was enjoying these messages — if secretly dreading any time someone would ask "who've you been texting all evening?" and not really having a coherent answer.

There have been times over the years where I wonder what might have been there. There have been times where I have wondered if I missed a great opportunity. And there have been times when I think back on that whole situation and still have absolutely no idea what to make of it all.

So here's to you, X. Our time together may have confused the fuck out of me — and indirectly taught me that communicating clearly is probably the best basis for a solid relationship, even if it can be difficult at times — but I certainly think back on it fondly.

As the fat disgusting mess I am today, I think I'd probably be ashamed to show you what became of me, but 20 years ago? You certainly made life interesting for quite some time, to be sure.

The post #oneaday Day 190: My most confusing relationship appeared first on I'm Not Doctor Who.

It's peculiar exactly what memories your brain — or, well, more accurately, my brain — chooses to hold onto. One would think that your most "sticky" memories would be those that were defining influences on you; those which played a key role in shaping you into the person you are today. But I find that very difficult to believe when I contemplate some of my most vivid memories from years gone by.

For example, I vividly remember one lunchtime at primary school, my friend Matthew and I went to the rear of the school fields and did shoulderstands because we thought it would make us more likely to fart. I will freely admit that as a 43 year old man I still find farting far more amusing than I probably should, but I'm not sure that specific memory played a particularly developmental role in appreciating toilet humour. I haven't done a shoulderstand for probably more than 30 years and I doubt I could right now.

I have several other primary school memories, and unfortunately not all of them are particularly positive ones.

I remember playing one lunchtime with a girl I was friends with; we were doing some sort of "pretend play" involving swordfighting using sticks, and my mother happened to walk by the back of the field during lunchtime (it was a public right of way) and saw this play, misinterpreting it as me hitting the girl in question with a stick. I got in trouble for that, despite me knowing very well that I was perfectly innocent.

I remember one P.E. lesson at primary school — very early, infants level, class 1 or 2 — where I really needed to go to the toilet, but I wasn't allowed, and I ended up pissing myself in the playground. Rather than being embarrassed, I found it oddly fascinating how the piss would actually come out through my shorts.

Another P.E. lesson from the same "infants" period, so year 1 or 2, I somehow managed to shit myself without realising it. I didn't notice until I got home and my mother asked why there was a brown stain on my arse. Genuinely not knowing that I'd actually shat myself, I suggested that I must have fallen in some mud at some point. The contents of my pants a little later revealed this to not be the case, though to my mother's eternal credit, she simply made a comment along the lines of "it must have been some very strong mud to go all the way through your pants". To this day, I genuinely don't know how I shat myself without realising it.

Another time at school, again in the infants period, I felt sick during storytime, and yakked all over the floor. Once again, I found myself oddly contemplative about the experience rather than particularly embarrassed.

None of these experiences are what I'd necessarily call "formative". I mean, yes, I have low self-esteem and I'm sure none of those particular events helped in the development of that particular personality trait, but I don't think any of them were the root cause of it. Why do I hold on to those memories? They're not particularly "precious" or anything, though at a pinch I might suggest that I hold onto them because recounting them as an adult is at least slightly amusing.

There are others from later years, too. I've recounted the tale of "not remembering how to make friends" on my first day at secondary school numerous times.

Then there was the time I overheard someone I thought was my friend taking the piss out of me while sitting behind me in the county concert band, and when I jokingly confronted them about it, not wanting to believe that they'd actually been being mean, and them not exactly denying it.

There was the one time I did step out of my comfort zone and introduced myself to someone at university.

The time I sat, all dressed up and ready to go out, brooding in the window of my hall of residence kitchen, hoping someone would find me and I could unleash the hormonal sadness I was feeling because the girl I liked had got with a guy from downstairs.

That one Halloween I felt an incredible sense of self-confidence and liberation after completely hiding my entire body and face. Another Halloween where I dressed up as a monk and ended up not being entirely sure if I'd scored with a girl or not, since she had taken me back to her house, let me in and given me her phone number, then just sort of vanished.

That one evening in grotty student nightclub Kaos where a random bloke asked me if I'd ever done ecstasy, then almost immediately afterwards I scored with a veritable Amazon of a woman (my friend Owen called her "Xena", but her actual name was Beki) and the same bloke shook me by the hand, giving me a knowing wink and a smile, saying "yeah, mate, you'd definitely enjoy ecstasy". (I've never done ecstasy.)

I could go on. There are myriad little snippets of my life that are lodged away in my long-term storage that I don't really know why. I feel like these are the things that will flash before my eyes before I die, and I doubt I'll be any clearer on the reason why they're there at that point, either. Hopefully I won't have to think about that for a while, yet.

I don't really have a conclusion to these musings. I just think it's interesting all the useless memories our brains seem to hold on to. If there is a reason for it, I don't know what it is. Perhaps all those memories did shape me in some way and helped turn me into the gibbering wreck of a human being I am today. In which case… aren't I better off forgetting all of them?

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The post #oneaday Day 164: Random access memories appeared first on I'm Not Doctor Who.

I have a recurring dream. I am told it is quite a common one — or variations on it are, anyway — but I'm going to talk about it regardless, because I've been sitting staring at a blank page for half an hour and haven't been able to think of anything else to write today. So indulge me, if you will.

In my recurring dream, I am back at my secondary school. I am hanging out with my friends from that time, which is 30+ years ago. And I am not attending one of the music group rehearsals that I'm supposed to be participating in after school. I am, apparently, deliberately not attending it, and I am standing in a place with my friends that is within line of sight of the music block. My music teacher Mr. Murrall is standing outside the music block with his arms folded, just staring at me with a disapproving expression on his face. I feel bad. I feel guilty. And yet I do not — cannot — walk over there, apologise for whatever reason I have not showed up to rehearsals, and get back involved.

This dream is sometimes complemented or accompanied by a scenario in which I am preparing to go on stage, either to perform a piece of music or act, and I absolutely have not practiced the thing I am supposed to be performing. If I'm supposed to be acting, I don't even know my lines a little bit. If I'm supposed to be performing, I don't really know the piece of music and, usually, my instrument is not in any condition to be played. For some reason, the musical variation of this dream always involves the clarinet, which was always my "second instrument", and the problem is usually that the only reeds I have for it are in an absolutely awful state that would make playing near-impossible.

These sorts of dreams are clearly anxiety-related. I suspect they may also stem from a sense of mild guilt that I don't do as much music in my free time as I used to — though I have been a bit better since we got the new piano, and my Mum has been kind enough to purchase me a frankly absurdly expensive new stool as an early Christmas present, so that will make me even more likely to make time to play. I haven't touched the clarinet or saxophone for years, however; since both are instruments best played in a group situation and I have no suitable group to be part of, I haven't used either of them for a long time.

Times and lives change, of course, but music has always been an important part of my life, even when it comes to my other interests. One of my favourite things about video games, for example, is listening to their music and coming to understand all manner of different styles — and, if I'm lucky, tracking down some piano arrangements to be able to pay homage to my favourite tracks in my own way.

Once that nice piano stool arrives (which may be as soon as tomorrow), I wonder if I will be free of those dreams? I doubt it, I suspect, as dreams are rarely so literal; I suspect these particular scenarios come from a more general sense of anxiety than something specific. But at least I can say to myself that I'm making an effort to make the time for something that has always been — and always will be — important to me.

Want to read my thoughts on various video games, visual novels and other popular culture things? Stop by MoeGamer.net, my site for all things fun where I am generally a lot more cheerful. And if you fancy watching some vids on classic games, drop by my YouTube channel.

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The post #oneaday Day 158: Obligations from 30+ years ago appeared first on I'm Not Doctor Who.

It's Halloween! I used to really enjoy Halloween, but as you get older it becomes more and more of a wet fart of a celebration, unless you have kids. For the last few years, we haven't even had any Trick or Treaters visit — though we did have a couple tonight. For my sins, I spent the evening editing a 75 minute video about Atari games rather than actually playing the horror game I am in the middle of (Spirit Hunter NG) but such is the way of hyperfixating. I could have stopped partway through the project, but my brain kept saying "go on, you're nearly done", and before I knew it, I was done. I wish I could find that sort of motivation for anything that actually mattered.

Anyway, Halloween. I have a few fond memories from various years. The earliest one I can recall was from when we were in America. I talked a little about this trip to America when I revealed my longstanding (and mostly overcome) fear of the wimdotch wib hamdongs, but there were lots of other things that happened on that trip. One of them was spending Halloween with someone my parents knew. I can't remember who the people were, what their names were or even if they were actually American or just British folks who had ended up living out there, but one thing I do remember is the lady of the house baking brownies.

I had never had brownies before this Halloween visit to this mystery family, and my introduction to them was with the most amazing home-made brownies I have ever tasted in my life. I have spent the intervening 35+ years trying various types of brownie from all manner of sources, and not one has ever matched the brownies I had that one October night in 1985. And I don't know why. Surely a brownie is a brownie? All I remember that might be a distinguishing factor is that these home-made brownies had walnuts in, and as a fussy kid I didn't think I liked walnuts. (I still don't.) But baked into those brownies they were wonderful.

So yeah. I hope before I die I can have at least one brownie that is even half as good as the brownies I had that night. I will continue to feel unfulfilled until that happens.

Another completely unrelated memory is from a Halloween night at university. Scary Movie had just come out, and Scream was still fashionable, so, being a shy sort, I figured dressing up as the Scream killer would be a great Halloween costume. And it was! The really interesting thing I found was that by completely hiding my entire appearance, I suddenly had way more self-confidence than I had ever felt in my life. I was laughing and joking with complete strangers, doing the "WAZAAAPP" thing from Scary Movie, and I was having a thoroughly lovely time.

I can't remember anything else about the evening other than the walk into Portswood, Southampton dressed as the Scream killer — I suspect once I arrived at my destination I proceeded to get absolutely twatted off my face on cheap cocktails — but that feeling of being nigh-invincible on the walk to the venue is something that has stuck with me ever since… and is a feeling I'd love to recapture at some point, somehow.

Anyway, my Halloween has been mostly uneventful, as you can probably tell, but it's now ten past midnight, my video has finished rendering and I still have to work tomorrow. So I should probably go to bed, huh.

Sweet screams or whatever.

Want to read my thoughts on various video games, visual novels and other popular culture things? Stop by MoeGamer.net, my site for all things fun where I am generally a lot more cheerful. And if you fancy watching some vids on classic games, drop by my YouTube channel.

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The post #oneaday Day 146: Spooky scary brownies appeared first on I'm Not Doctor Who.

We're on holiday! After a three hour drive earlier today — which honestly already feels like a lifetime ago — we are safely ensconced in our accommodation at Center Parcs.

The last few times we've been, we've stayed in the apartments that are near the main plaza of shops and restaurants, but this year it was only a little extra to get a two-bedroom lodge in the woods, so we've gone for that as a little extra added luxury. It's lovely having lots of space. Indeed, there's an entire (bed)room we probably won't use at all; presently, it's where I dumped my suitcase so it wouldn't clutter our bedroom.

We haven't done very much today. It's been nice to just relax with no worries or commitment to anything, so we've been enjoying that today. We had some nice dinner bought from the shop and an amazing cake, then the rest of the evening has been spent lounging, looking at the wildlife while the light was still present, then watching some TV (old school broadcast style!) and playing some video games.

Tomorrow we're likely going to hit the pool… sorry, the "Subtropical Swimming Paradise", and from there, who knows? We have some idle intentions of maybe going to the gym, playing some pool and going bowling, but we're just going to take each day as it comes and decide according to what we feel like.

The Lodge brings back some nice memories. When I came to Center Parcs as a teen with my family and some friends, we always stayed in a lodge (or a "villa" as they were known then) and while some things have changed — the appliances are more up to date and the TV is, of course, a wall-mounted flatscreen instead of a hulking great CRT — but aside from that, the layout feels comfortably familiar.

It's bringing back fond memories of my friend Ed attempting to explain the appeal of Wolfenstein 3-D to my parents over breakfast — as I recall, his 12 year old self arguing that you "just don't notice" the bloody violence after playing a whole didn't go down too well.

It's bringing back fond memories of my friend Craig and I watching MTV and realising that we both liked quite a bit broader a spectrum of music than the indie rock that was fashionable at the time — after that holiday, I remember going out and buying Madonna and Savage Garden albums on the strength of the tunes we liked on the TV.

And it's bringing back fond memories of a trip when I was young enough for my brother to still be living at home with us, and him bringing his friend Alex along. My enduring memory of that pairing was Alex, who thought he was God's gift to women, causing two girls to fall off their bikes by saying a distinctly Leslie Phillips-style "hell-O!" as they passed by.

A lot of good memories here, then, from both the recent and distant past. It'll be good to add a few more to the mix this year.

Want to read my thoughts on various video games, visual novels and other popular culture things? Stop by MoeGamer.net, my site for all things fun where I am generally a lot more cheerful. And if you fancy watching some vids on classic games, drop by my YouTube channel.

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The post #oneaday Day 129: Current holiday appeared first on I'm Not Doctor Who.

Occasionally it is a good icebreaker when hanging out with people that I have known for many years, as coming out with something that apparently only I remember often makes people laugh. And, as we all know, making people laugh is a good means of keeping a social situation going. (There are only so many times you can get away with starting a story with "Do you remember when…?" in a single gathering, however.)

I have no idea what causes my brain to remember the things it does, however. Let me give you an example, and you'll see that there's really no reason I should remember this particular incident.

When I was at school, a member of my main friendship group was a kid called Daniel. His main distinguishing features were his crooked teeth and his very outgoing, borderline insane nature — the latter of which frequently came to a head in Drama lessons. (An unrelated memory to the one I'm about to recount is the time my friends and I put together a short play called "The Time Trial of Dr. Paradox" in which Daniel played the titular villain, whose crowning moment was when he screamed "I want him tracked down by 2400 hours!" and knocked a small globe onto the floor, causing it to go rolling away and make our mutual friend Andrew almost piss himself with laughter.)

Our drama teacher for one year was actually also our school's headmaster at the time, one Mr Cragg. Mr Cragg was a pleasant sort of middle-aged man, all beard and jovial nature. He would have made a good Father Christmas if his hair was white. He enjoyed playing theatre games in Drama lessons, and one day we were playing one that involved fruit. I don't remember the exact game itself, but the bit of the memory I have inexplicably clung on to in the intervening 15+ years is the way in which Mr Cragg said the word "raspberry" ("Razzzberri!"), which my aforementioned friend Daniel found immensely amusing for weeks afterwards. He also found the word "Bilberry" similarly amusing, but that's fair enough; I found it quite amusing, too, because it sounded a bit like "dildo".

Well, okay, not really, but we were in our early teens; I'm not even going to pretend we had a particularly sophisticated sense of humour.

What puzzles me is how and why that memory has endured for so long. Why on Earth do I remember the way my old headmaster said the word "raspberry," and the fact my friend Daniel found it incredibly amusing? I find it difficult to believe that if I ever saw Daniel again — I haven't seen him since leaving school — that if I walked up to him and went "Razzzberri!" he'd have the slightest fucking clue what I was on about.

Ah well. I suppose it makes for good stories. Or at least confusing ones.

The post 1251: Bottomless Memory for Irrelevant Nonsense appeared first on I'm Not Doctor Who.

For the longest time, I've kept a specific CD-R hanging around. Somehow it's survived all the different house moves I've gone through since leaving home and is still intact. I'm more impressed that I haven't lost it or accidentally thrown it out than by the fact it still works, but I guess that's pretty cool, too. (Edit from 2026: I have now lost it. I found the case but there was nothing in it. I am sad.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The post 1129: Disc of Memories appeared first on I'm Not Doctor Who.

He had no idea how she felt about him. He was too young to understand the feelings rattling around inside his head, so how could he expect to make someone else understand them? His love lived purely in his imagination, and he was happy for it to remain that way. In reality, she was his friend; in his mind, every time he closed his eyes, she was so much more.

His imagination had always been powerful, but it seemed to outdo itself every time she entered his thoughts. As he drifted off to sleep at night, he would close his eyes and picture her face; shortly afterwards he would be involved in some grand adventure either with her, or in an attempt to rescue her. He had fought his way through caves, forests, dungeons, castles and surreal landscapes made of warped shapes and bizarre colours; always, she was there waiting for him at the end, or by his side as he struggled.

One day, the bad news came. "She's moving away," they said. "And soon." He didn't know what to do with this; he didn't think he could stop it, but he desperately wanted to. He had no idea how to start, though. He was still too young; too young to understand these confused feelings in his head; too young to understand the emotions welling up inside him. He wanted to talk about it to someone but couldn't muster up the courage. His love for her was locked away in the deepest, darkest, most private part of his soul, and he couldn't let anyone in, because he feared that he wouldn't be able to get them out again afterwards. He relished his inner peace, and resented anyone who tried to defile it without an invitation; he was the one in control of his feelings; he was the one who had to deal with them, always alone.

The fateful day approached, and he began to recognize the growing knot in his stomach as a yearning to be by her side; a longing to be the one she would always come home to; a desire to give her one of the few keys to that deep, dark, secret place within his soul. He knew that he had to tell her how he felt, and he knew that he would only get one chance to do it.

The day arrived. One by one, his classmates bade her farewell, and after what seemed like an eternity, it was his turn. He looked up into those sparkling eyes and she smiled at him the way she always did. He smiled back.

Though they had both only spent a few years together out of their own respectively short times on the planet, he knew she had had a profound effect on him, and he knew that he should say something meaningful at this point.

A tense feeling wrapped around his throat, like a noose trying to choke the life out of him. He tried to speak the words he longed to say — I love you, I'll miss you, please don't go — but they wouldn't come. They stuck in his throat, lodged beneath the invisible force that choked him so.

"Bye," he said quietly.

"Bye," she said, smiling.

He wanted so badly to embrace her; to kiss her; to tell her how he felt. But he couldn't. He smiled at her one last time, turned and walked away, knowing that he would probably never see her again.

He was sad for a long time after that. It felt like a piece of his very self had been ripped out and replaced with nothing but inky blackness. There was a void in his soul where she had once been; he had wanted to let her in, not realising that she was already there. And now she was gone.

The pair exchanged letters for a while; his heart raced every time one of those distinctive coloured envelopes plopped through the letterbox — he swore she either used perfumed envelopes or sprayed them with her favourite scents — and he wrote back as soon as he got some time to himself.

As time passed, though, the letters became less frequent and eventually stopped. His own life was moving on by now; moving too fast for him to keep up with, and certain things from his past started to fall by the wayside. He saw it happening and regretted it, but he knew deep down within his heart that she probably felt the same way too. The black void in his soul started to heal, and he focused on trying to enjoy the present rather than gazing into space reflecting on what once was, and what might of been.

New loves — always unconfessed, assumed to be unrequited — came and went, giving him the familiar feeling of butterflies in the stomach for a few fleeting weeks before disappointment set in. But though the gap she had left deep inside him had mostly healed, he still held a place for her, even though he knew it was futile. She was gone, far away by now, carried away by the winds of change to distant climes, well beyond his reach. The fog of forgotten friendship descended, and he no longer knew where to find her. She was gone.

He opened his eyes slowly. The light of the morning sun was streaming into his room through the window, blasting rays of light through the panes of glass and casting a pattern on the bedspread. It looked like a nice day outside, but he knew that this was all he would see of it.

He had lived a good life. If he could do it all over again, there were some things he would have done differently, but for the most part he had no regrets.

Except when it came to her. If he had confessed his love to her when he had had the chance, how might his life have unfolded? Would it have ended the same way? Would all the other trials had endured and good times he had enjoyed have come about? Or would it have been completely different?

There's no use wondering now, he thought to himself. It's much too late for anything but one last glimpse.

He closed his eyes again, and there she was, exactly as he remembered her all those years ago. He gazed into her sparkling eyes. which were now wet with tears.

"I love you," he said. "I always loved you. And I never stopped loving you. Not for one second."

"I know," she whispered, a tear rolling down her cheek, but a cheerful smile still playing across her delicate lips. "I know."

As the flame within him flickered and dimmed, he smiled to himself. It didn't matter that it was all in his mind. That was where she had always lived for all these years; that was where she belonged. But it was time to say goodbye.

"I love you," she whispered.

Then he was gone.

The post #oneaday Day 951: First Love appeared first on I'm Not Doctor Who.

But there were good times too. So I thought I'd share a few.

The Rough Book

Our school library used to sell exercise books for a few pence, just in case you lost yours and wanted to replace it without having to tell your teacher that you'd lost your book. The librarian (Mrs Miller, no! We will not let you go!) asked no questions, though, other than "what colour would you like?"

And so it was that my friend Ed and I brought in the concept of the "Rough Book" — an exercise book ostensibly for quick scribblings, sketching and note-taking but which usually ended up completely covered in graffiti, drawings of cocks and an elaborate middle two pages flamboyantly depicting the name of whichever girl I had made the mistake of telling my friends I fancied that week.

A key part of the Rough Book's appeal was keeping it secret, and for the most part we managed to do so without it being confiscated or even spotted. It was immensely satisfying but also a bit sad to reach the end of one — while it was possible to look back on all the silly drawings we had done over the course of a few weeks, the book's "magic" was lost, and it usually found its way into the bin eventually — largely because we didn't want our parents and/or teachers seeing all the pictures of cocks and swear words we'd scrawled all over every available inch.

Music Concerts

Our school used to do two big concerts a year — one in the summer, one around Christmas time. The weekly rehearsals for the various groups tended to revolve around practicing pieces for these big events, which always enjoyed a strong turnout from parents and friends of the school. Going to music groups was one of my main forms of socialising at school — since I lived seven miles away, it wasn't always easy to just pop over to a friend's house for pizza and video games, and music groups gave me a chance to make some new friends and see some of my existing friends in a new context. They were fun.

There was something special about concert night, though — a strange, almost romantic atmosphere in the air. Inevitably, being a horny teenager, I'd interpret this atmosphere as "God, I'd really like to get off with someone" and spend as much of the evening as possible attempting to flirt with the girls from the clarinet section. (Ahh, Nikki. How hot you were.) Being a zitty, socially-incompetent loser with crap hair, I inevitably failed to drum up the confidence to do anything to take advantage of the romance in the air, but all of the girls were good enough to humour me and not just tell me to fuck off, which was nice.

Learning Shit

You know, I actually enjoyed the whole "learning" part of school. (This is probably why I was bullied so much.) I loved the fact that on any given day, we got to learn German, saw a plank of wood in half, spectacularly fail to compose a "reggae" piece and listen to our maths teacher make up an anecdote about the time he went windsurfing and knew he was exactly 200 metres from the shoreline. Exactly how much of that stuff has been retained over the years is perhaps questionable (my use of German nowadays can probably be filed under "racism", or "Englishman Abroad" at the very least) but I enjoyed learning it at the time.

Except maths. I hated maths with a passion. Maths homework used to make me genuinely angry. In retrospect, this was silly, because a lot of things in the real world involve maths to various degrees. Granted, I have little use for quadratic equations in my daily life (and thus can't remember what they are) but things like basic algebra and arithmetic occasionally come in handy.

The Canteen

I typically used to take a packed lunch to school, so eating in the canteen was a rare treat. They served chips and pizza and other awesome things, most of which Jamie Oliver has probably banned by now. In the upper school dining hall (which was later converted into part of the new sixth form centre that my year was the first to pass through) you could get chips and frickin' cheese.

The Teachers

Yeah, I actually miss the people who taught me. It would probably be horrifying to see how much they've aged by now, since the mental image I have of all of them is how they were between the years of 1992 and 1999, but there were some truly fine folks at the chalkface of my school. There were scary teachers, friendly teachers, knowledgeable teachers, weird teachers and, yes, hot teachers — but I can't remember any that I particularly disliked as such. (Except for the guy who taught me four-part harmony for A-Level music, but he was a peripatetic music teacher and thus didn't count.) I wonder how many of them are still there. I also occasionally wonder how many of the students I worked with during my thankfully short teaching career will remember me in years to come?

That's enough waxing nostalgic for tonight, I think. Time to sleep.

The post #oneaday Day 946: Things I Actually Miss About School appeared first on I'm Not Doctor Who.

It's funny what sticks in your mind and what you subconsciously decide to purge on the grounds that it's completely unimportant. It's not always a case of big life events staying in your mind and the day-to-day stuff disappearing, either — often the strongest memories are those from seemingly irrelevant happenings.

For example, I can think back to my own primary school days and have vivid memories of doing shoulderstands on the field with my then-best friend because we thought it would allow us to make ourselves fart. (It didn't. And to this day I'm too scared to try and make myself fart on the grounds I might shit myself instead.)

I also remember the fact I used to get very angry with one of the dinnerladies and regularly kicked the bin that stood in the corner of the playground. I do not, however, remember the reason I got so angry with her — though it was probably an attempt to exorcise the pent-up frustration I felt from being pretty ruthlessly bullied throughout most of primary school.

Or how about the time I discovered the word "shit" was a swear? I must have been about six or seven at the time (I was in "Class 2", anyway) and I was sitting on the "Blue" table with the other clever people, most of whom were rather fickle about who they were friends with — some days they'd accept me, others they'd specifically exclude me. We were doing some sort of spelling exercise, and Natalya Forrester (all names in this post have been changed to protect the not-so-innocent) was spelling out the words out loud as she wrote them down. "Ship… S-H-I-T…" she said. "Shit?" I responded. "UMMMMMM." replied my compatriots, who promptly reported me to the supply teacher covering the class, who in turn threatened to wash out my mouth with soap and water.

Once we'd left primary school and were going to our secondary school, which was seven miles away, we had to wait for the bus outside our old stomping grounds, which suddenly looked very small. Oddly enough these occasions of waiting for the bus provide some of my most vivid memories from the time. It was during these periods that I learned how to make myself burp under the expert tutelage of Dave Oyster, who could sustain an ejaculation of oral flatulence for an impressive ten seconds or more at a time — loud, too.

Other secondary school memories include sitting in our tutor room and my then-best friend (the same one I'd been attempting to fart with some years previously) sneezing all over his hand and spraying stringy snot all over himself — and then eating it. Urgh. It was also at this point that I decided that my then-best friend might not be best friend material any more. The final breaking point was when he inexplicably sat in his seat miming masturbation and muttering "I'm a wanker! I'm a wanker!" at me, presumably hoping I'd find it funny. I didn't. Next registration, I went and sat next to my new friend Ed and never looked back. The thunderous look I got from my former best friend burned like fire, but then I remembered that he thought he was a wanker, so I silently agreed with him and moved on with my life.

I don't remember a great deal about specific lessons at secondary school, though I do have oddly fond memories of GCSE Maths class — not because I liked the subject (I fucking hated it) but because of the various ways we used to mock our possibly-an-alcoholic teacher. His first initial was A — to this date, I don't know what that stood for — and we decided that this must stand for "Abraham" because that would be funny. There was also a group of three girls whom he often called on to answer questions (also I fancied two of them) who became known as "Abe's Babes". Also he liked to add context to the mathematical problems we were working out, so often referred to himself doing unimaginable things for his age and demeanour, such as windsurfing and hang-gliding.

There are plenty more memories lurking in there, too — both good and bad. And I have no doubt that these bizarre, seemingly irrelevant mental snapshots will continue to stay with me for a long time to come. I can't help feeling that maintaining these memories in my mind is what helps me call upon "childishness" or "immaturity" (for want of a better word) if the occasion demands it — for contrary to the way the world works these days, seemingly requiring kids to "grow up" at younger and younger ages, being able to draw on your "childish" side lets you enjoy life in a way that stuffy old adults can't. In my case, it's the side of me that lets me enjoy My Little Pony and colourful Japanese role-playing games; the side that lets me fantasise and come up with amazing stories that I rarely finish (or, in some cases, start); the side of me that lets me sit around with friends and casually insult them for a whole evening without anyone getting upset.

Of course, it's also the side of me that doesn't really understand what insurance is, how economics work and what the fuck the stock exchange is for, and the side of me that always forgets whether cream-coloured clothes with small bits of colour on them go in the "white" or "coloured" laundry load. But I think I can live with that.

The post #oneaday Day 801: Long-Term Memory appeared first on I'm Not Doctor Who.

Sports and me have never really got on. There are a variety of reasons for this but the long and the short of it is that said antipathy towards each other meant that 1) I was usually picked last for the teams in PE (when I wasn't, it was usually Steven Finnegan instead) and 2) my body isn't exactly a rippling temple of man-beef.

That doesn't mean I haven't tried to get involved with sports over the years. I was in my Cub Scout football team, for example, a team so terrible we were sponsored by a junkyard. Our best result ever was 1-0 to us. Our worst result was 20-0 to them. No, that's not a typo. Twenty-nil.

Despite my ambivalence towards sport, I do also have some fond memories of various school sports days, particularly if it happened to be a nice day out at the time. I can't remember a lot about primary school sports days, but secondary school sports days tended to be a pretty big deal, bringing most of the school to a standstill for a wide variety of track and field events.

My tutor group (the erstwhile 7FMQ, later 8QU, 9QU, 10QU and 11QU) were the very souls of apathy for the most part. There were certain events that people just plain didn't want to enter, which would have put us at a significant disadvantage on the leaderboards (yes, this was in the day when it was still acceptable for school sports days to have "winners" and "losers") had I not stepped in.

I'm not sure why I stepped in, given that I knew full well I was crap at sports, was not very good at running and wasn't particularly agile. Therefore, you may be thinking, it would be somewhat foolhardy for me to enter both the 800m race and the high jump, but enter them I did, and I learned a number of things. Firstly, that I was surprisingly quite good at high jump, and secondly, that I was very poor at pacing myself when running — something which I still struggle somewhat with today.

The problem stemmed from the fact that I had never even considered running a long(ish)-distance race before, so I didn't really know how they worked. As such, I was off the starting blocks like a fucking rocket and exhausted by the end of the first lap. This gave the rest of the pack, who had been pacing themselves somewhat more modestly, ample opportunity to catch up. I don't think I finished last, to my credit, but it certainly wasn't very far off. After the race ended, I went back to my tutor group's area of the field, lay on the floor and didn't move for a very long time.

The thing that sticks in my memory about that race, though, is not the fact that I ballsed it up so spectacularly. It's the fact that for once, the rest of my tutor group was rooting for me. I spent a lot of my school days feeling like something of an outsider thanks to my awkward social skills, my weird accent, my crap hair and my forehead and nose's tendencies to flare up with greasy zits. I was a geek and someone who did well, too, which made me pretty much the polar opposite of "cool". Thankfully, barring a few exceptions, I was mostly left to my own devices to hang out with my equally geeky friends (most of whom had better hair than me) but this meant I didn't feel a particularly strong sense of camaraderie with the rest of my tutor group.

Until that day. I heard them cheering for me as I ran past them on the first lap, and staggered past them on the second. And when I finished, far from being admonished for my poor pacing, I was congratulated and praised for getting out there and giving it a shot. It was a surprisingly special moment that's stuck with me over the years. And while in short order things went back to being the way they had always been, for those few short minutes when I was on that track, I meant something. I was cool.

The post #oneaday Day 764: Sports Day appeared first on I'm Not Doctor Who.

Following a conversation with Andie, I thought I would challenge myself to name as many teachers from my own schooldays as I possibly could, along with the contribution they made to making me the person I am today, for better or worse. Mostly the better, I think, which doubtless they'll be delighted to know if they do happen to be reading this, as unlikely as that might be.

If you are one of my old teachers and you are reading this and I forget to mention you, I apologise in advance.

Anyway. Let's consider these in roughly chronological order.

At primary school, our early years were accompanied by Mrs Place. I have to admit I don't remember a great deal about her, but I think given my tender age at the time, that can probably be excused.

Class 2 in primary school was taken by Mrs Robson, whom I also can't remember a great deal about. I do remember her not being there one day though, and me being tricked into saying "shit" to Mrs Powell the cover teacher by Natalie Forster, the bitch.

Class 3 was taken by Mr Edwards, who had a bit of a mullet and a moustache. He liked to play the guitar at every opportunity, meaning that "Circle Time" (the point of which I'm still not sure of even having been a primary school teacher myself) more resembled a campfire singalong than anything more meaningful. It was fun though.

Class 4 was taken by Mrs Barrett, a formidable lady by all accounts who had some very old-school values. The rest of the school was terrified of her, because she had a withering look that could cause geese to fall dead out of the sky if she so desired it. Once you got into class 4, however, it became apparent that she wasn't so scary after all, and even had something of a sense of humour. Her insistence on strict discipline meant that she ran a tight ship, and her class achieved well. Crossing her made you feel like, as cliche as it sounds, you had let yourself down.

On to secondary school, and my form tutor was Miss Quirk. She was Scottish, had short black hair and said "poem" as "poyem". She taught Maths, but I don't think I ever had a lesson with her.

Elsewhere in the Maths department was Mr Wilbraham, who may or may not have had a drinking problem. He was certainly rumoured to have a drinking problem, but I can't say we ever saw any direct evidence of that. He was another of the Mrs Barrett breed — regarded with fear and misunderstanding from afar, but actually turned out to be very pleasant to work with once you were in his class. He didn't help me enjoy Maths, however.

The English department was my second favourite department. At various points, I was taught by Ms (not Miss) Derbyshire, who was a bit like Victoria Wood when she was being funny; Mr Bowie, who was the obligatory male teacher whom all the girls fancied, was very cool and convinced me to explore the music of Jeff Buckley; Miss Idziacszyk (I think I've even spelled that correctly), who was a good, knowledgeable teacher, particularly at A-level. On one memorable occasion, Mr Bowie came with us to a local recording of Songs of Praise which our steadfastly secular school had, for some reason, been invited to. On that occasion I had my shortest ever relationship with a girl — we went out for a week, during which time I saw her once, kissed her once before she decided she wanted to go back to the way things were before.

The Music department was my favourite department. Initially staffed by Mr Murrall and Mrs Choy-Winters, later by Mr Murrall and Miss Garrick (whom my erstwhile best friend Craig fancied the pants off) and even later by Mr Murrall, Miss Garrick and Mr Wrigley. All of the teachers in the department were laid-back, fun and a pleasure to be with both in lessons and outside. By far the highlights of my time at secondary school were the school concerts, during which staff and student were able to interact in a way that just wasn't possible in the normal classroom.

Up in the Upper School were the Geography and History departments. Here, two particular teachers stood out — Mr Mason (pictured above) on the Geography side, and Mr Watts on the History. Mr Mason had long hair and a porn star moustache, and always spoke in a calm, quiet voice. Instead of shouting when he got angry, he went quieter. It was terrifying.

Mr Watts, meanwhilem was the exact opposite. He could shout your face off, and frequently did. Despite his deservedly formidable reputation, he was an excellent teacher. Okay, I can't remember a lot of what we covered in History, but I certainly remember the lessons I had with him — and the occasions he looked out of the window, saw a year 7 kid and just tutted and shook his head.

Mrs Lloyd taught Integrated Humanities and Sociology. She knew a lot about her subject and was also one of those teachers whom it was very easy to talk to. Perhaps it was the nature of the subject itself, which often dealt with issues that affected us directly, or perhaps it was just her nature. Either way, I remember her very fondly.

Then there's the senior staff. I have fond memories of Mr Cragg the erstwhile head teacher for understanding fully why I turned around and lamped Murray Crofts in the face after the little cunt had been harassing me all day. And Mrs Knight, who was a motherly figure to much of the school in many ways — right down to inflicting embarrassing discipline on those who stepped out of line. (One of the worst punishments, particularly for younger kids, was to be forced to have lunch with her, or to to be on "Five minute report" to her.)

There are doubtless plenty of others I've missed — Miss Cuthbert, who was one of heads of Sixth Form, and regularly tried unsuccessfully to get us all being a bit more religious; Miss Stafford the art teacher, whom I didn't spend a lot of time with (as is probably apparent from the pictures which accompany these posts); Mrs Graham the formidable and terrifying Home Ec teacher.

I know one thing, though — as difficult as schooldays were at times, I'll remember the adults who got me through it for the rest of my life, even more so than those whom I considered close friends at the time, but have since drifted far away to pastures unknown.

I now know first-hand how hard your jobs were, Sirs and Misses. I respect you even more than I did back then. Those of you who have the courage to remain in education with the kids of today, I salute you.

The post #oneaday Day 736: To Sir and Miss, with If Not Love then At Least Fondness or Enduring Memories appeared first on I'm Not Doctor Who.

So I thought I'd start an occasional series based on bizarre incidents which have occurred throughout the course of my life that probably aren't that bizarre in reality, but certainly amuse me if no-one else. These will not be presented in anything even remotely approaching chronological order — they will simply turn up as I think of them and when I feel like it. Much like the inspiration for the vast majority of other entries in this increasingly-lengthy blog, in fact (for which I salute you if you've been reading since the beginning).

Preamble over, I shall begin. Are you sitting comfortably? Here we go.

At university (the University of Southampton, UK, to be precise, if you're picky about that sort of detail) I was a member of the university theatre group, which underwent a number of name changes during my time with them. Initially it was the "Blow Up Theatre Group" (I, to this day, don't know why), then simply "Theatre Group" and later "Rattlesnake! Theatre Group" (the reasoning for which I now, sadly, can't remember).

The point of this story is not the name of the theatre group, however, but rather the shenanigans which I and the other participants got up to.

At one point late in my university career, I got together with a friend with whom I was a member of the group and we decided that we were going to put on a production of Shakespeare's Twelfth Night. As was fashionable at the time, we decided to set it in the 1920s era. (I say "fashionable" — my sole basis for this assumption is that my secondary school also set its production of Twelfth Night, in which I played the role of Malvolio, in the 1920s) We were all set to begin rehearsals when my friend and co-director decided that now would be a really good time to go on a lengthy skiing trip. (She came from a family with money and was somewhat prone to flights of fancy.)

I wasn't sure what was going on until I got a gushing, apologetic email from her announcing that she didn't feel she could be responsible for the show and decided to leave me in the sole role as director. I, of course, had never directed a show before and had not a fucking clue how to lead a ragtag group of wannabe actors into producing a show. Fortunately, the remainder of the crew rallied behind me and helped out, and I was enormously grateful for their assistance — even if the stress of carrying out the project gave me both a spectacularly tramp-like beard and more than a few nosebleeds, somehow and inexplicably earning me the nickname "Beast Man" in the process.

The show went well. It ended up being somewhat farcical in its execution, but this, in fact, worked in its favour and helped make the typically obtuse Shakespearean humour somewhat more digestible to a modern audience. We were all pretty pleased with how the whole thing turned out, but by far the most memorable thing about the whole fiasco was the aftershow party.

I can't even remember whose house the aftershow party was at, just that it was quite an event. Several key events from that evening stick in my mind, however, starting with a member of the cast sitting in a wicker chair that he thought looked rather comfortable and then discovering that it was not, in fact, as pleasing to sit on as it looked. Said chair was consequently dubbed "The Chair of Eternal Disappointment" and became a focal point for the evening, helped in part by the amount of drink and weed which was in circulation throughout the course of the celebrations.

At some point after midnight, a small splinter group of partygoers decided that it was time to leave our generous hosts' house behind and go and seek adventure elsewhere. Thus followed one of those journeys across town which meandered so much you ended up completely lost, but somewhere cool.

In our case, we found ourselves on the banks of the river Itchen (I think) on a makeshift beach covered in gravel and some unpleasantly dirty-looking seaweed. There, we indulged in what all good luvvies should do at approximately 4am in the morning — improvisatory theatre. We laughed and giggled until the sun started to peek its head over the horizon, at which point things took something of a turn for the bizarre.

One of our number, who already had a particularly loud, bellowing voice, was somewhat intoxicated through a cocktail of various chemical substances coursing through the pleasure centres of his brain, and thus became even louder than usual. As such, we were unsurprised when he proudly announced that he was going to go for a wee in the river. He took off his shoes and socks and paddled into the water, then happily stood in profile to us, got his (clearly visible) cock out and started to piss into the Itchen. (It's nothing worse than the filthy river was usually full of.)

Following this display, which he was not at all abashed about, he decided that now would be a really good time to see what the dirty seaweed on the beach tasted like. Stomachs in throat, we watched him pick up a piece of the filthy, slimy crap from the floor and gleefully stuff it into his mouth.

What followed was the kind of facial expression you get from anyone who puts something they find distasteful into their mouth but doesn't quite want to spit it out. He chewed on it for an alarmingly long period of time before letting the mangled remains of the goopy crap spill forth from his mouth.

"Ugh," he cried. "It tastes like oil and poo!"

Despite the hilarity that statement caused, the fact that one of our number was reduced to eating seaweed tipped the rest of us off to the fact that it was probably time to head homewards. Of course, we had no fucking idea where we were, so again followed a meandering course through the back streets of the city until we eventually found ourselves on familiar territory and, bizarrely, craving Jaffa Cakes.

Unfortunately, the era of 24 hour shopping had not made a big impact on Southampton by this point, and so we found ourselves stranded outside a closed and shuttered newsagents' store begging to whatever gods we did (or didn't) believe in for them to let us in for Jaffa Cakes.

Unsurprisingly, the gods in question did not yield and the shutters remained firmly closed. This, it seemed, was the final straw — it was time, once and for all, to go home. We all went our separate ways — walking, naturally, using that bizarre amount of stamina that total intoxication gives you — and found ourselves back in our own houses, safe and sound, ready for bed just as the rest of the world was waking up.

The following day was, naturally, a complete writeoff. But I'm almost certain that if I spoke to anyone else who was there that night, they'd remember the events as clearly as I do. It was, to paraphrase one Mr Stinson, legendary.

The post #oneaday Day 611: That Happened: "...Oil and Poo" appeared first on I'm Not Doctor Who.

The only frustrating thing about the whole shebang is the fact that most places I go away to are inevitably attached somehow to either my awesome girlfriend Andie, who currently lives 150 miles away from me; or to friends I left behind back in the Southampton area (about 120 miles away) when I was forced to depart last September.

In some senses, this is good, though, as it means I get completely out of the daily "grind", as it were, by going somewhere markedly different from the places I see every day. Even if I do go out while I'm back at home, it's inevitably to the same old places time after time — local shop, local supermarket, post office, local coffee house. And while I know Southampton and Winchester pretty well having spent the best part of 10 years living and working in the area, the fact I don't live there now is enough to keep them feeling fresh, pleasant and not "new" as such, but places I feel I can rediscover each time I visit.

Now, granted, Southampton's a bit of a shithole and if you want to do something on a Saturday night that isn't getting pissed (and, by extension, into a fight) or going to the cinema, there's actually really not a great deal to do — not in the town centre at least. But as I've said on several occasions in the past, it's a place in which I lay down some "roots" and even if I end up never moving back there to live — which is looking increasingly likely — it will always be if not a "home" then certainly a home away from home.

Winchester, on the other hand, is a place I'd return to in a flash given the opportunity. My favourite place I've ever lived was in Winchester. It was a gorgeous big fully-furnished flat with a dishwasher, heated towel rails and a dressing room off the main bedroom. The furniture provided was good quality, not the usual hand-me-down shite, and while I was there, even though I was working a soul-crushingly awful job in the secondary music classrooms of Hampshire, it was a haven I could return to of an evening and feel like I had come "home". Of course, as Sod's Law tends to go, this dream-come-true of accommodation was snatched up by the landlord, who rather inconsiderately wanted to give it to their daughter, so we ended up living in a nice-ish cottage that was unfortunately afflicted with a great deal of damp and mould, and smelled disconcertingly of gas in the living room.

I often wonder where I'm going to end up next. I hope it's somewhere good that I can lay down some roots once again and start afresh. For now, there are weekend escapes like the one I'm on now with Andie, and right this second, that's the best life has to offer, so I'm damn well going to enjoy it.

The post #oneaday Day 516: Away Game appeared first on I'm Not Doctor Who.

I'm not sure if everyone else's brain works in this way or if it's just a side-effect of being a massive nerd. But most people have something that they're extremely interested in, and will remember all sorts of useless facts about to bore their friends with down the pub. If you're lucky, you'll be friends with people who also know useless facts. If you're unlucky, you'll have all this knowledge squirrelled away with no-one to share it with—which is why the Internet exists, of course. And if you're particularly unlucky, you'll be friends with someone who's an even bigger nerd than you and is fond of correcting you every time you slightly misquote Ghostbusters. (Seriously. Fuck that guy.)

But I don't think it's necessarily a bad thing. Imagine how dull life would be if the only things wedged into your long term memory were your unique taxpayer reference number, your national insurance number, every password you've ever used and the sites they work for, and those arbitrary user IDs online banks insist on you using rather than allowing you to pick your own ID that you might be able to remember. And, of course, your car's MOT expiration date. (Sometime in August. I think.)

No. I'd much rather have cool stuff lodged in my brain that I can surprise and delight people with. (I have nerdy friends who find the fact I can remember Lester Chaykin's keycode from Another World immensely amusing… possibly at my expense, but I don't care at this point. Embrace who you are, I say.) Cool stuff in your brain allows you to become An Authority on a subject. And being An Authority is fun, because it means people come and ask you stuff about things you're interested in. It's like having people respect you and your opinions.

And sure, not everyone necessarily understands why you're so obsessive about Buffy the Vampire Slayer/Final Fantasy/Dungeons and Dragons/the collected interactive works of Jane Jensen/Minecraft/Twilight/Formula 1/porn stars of the 1980s/the board game Agricola. But it's important to you, and it gives you something to explore when you haven't got anything better to do—and something with which to bond with like-minded people via the Internet (or even real life if you're very, very lucky.)

It must be kind of sad to not have anything to obsess over. Do those people have any fun?

The post #oneaday Day 106: A Wealth of Useless Knowledge appeared first on I'm Not Doctor Who.

This was in the days before digital cameras were particularly widespread, of course, so these were actual photos on actual paper. I took a lot of photos, but there was still no way it'd be possible to take as many as you can with today's cameras. That meant that each captured memory had to be just so, and there was no going back to try again; you caught it, or you missed it. Simple as that.

Of course, nowadays, it's much easier to capture and keep a memory, assuming you don't do something ridiculous to your computer like take it into the bath with you. But that doesn't mean photos lose any of their impact, or the memories contained therein. I'll bet I can take a random selection of photos from my iPhoto library and be able to explain each and every one of them.

In fact, let's do just that. I'll give you ten, just so we're not here all night. Hold on, I'll be right back.

So without further ado, here we go.

Would you look at that? We went and got a nice one to begin with. This is the wedding day (obviously) of my friends Rob and Rachel. Instead of confetti, they had bubbles. It was awesome, and we all ate a lot of food and got quite drunk. Fact: Rob and Rachel were one of the first couples I knew who got together at university and are still going strong today. I salute you, you lovely pair.

Aha. There are actually two separate stories behind this one. The guy in white makeup is, I believe, a chap called James Gaynor, who was starring alongside me in a production of Marivaux's L'Epreuve, also known as A Test of Character. He was playing a character called Frontin, I was playing a character called Lucidor. Lucidor was in love with a girl called Angelique, who was played by a most lovely lady named Sarah, but there was a long and complicated plot involving Frontin pretending to court her on Lucidor's behalf and it all got a bit French.

As for the mobile phone and the text on it: the mobile phone was mine at the time (Nokia REPRESENT), "sonicfunkstars" was the name of the fake band I made music under (using Sony's ACID Music software and approximately 24 CDs of samples, most of which I probably never used) and "txtr's thumb" was the name of my second album. Interestingly (not really), "sonicfunkstars" is still my Xbox LIVE ID, and it's one of the only places on the Internet where I'm not "angryjedi" or some variant thereof. The other is YouTube.

(Exclusive: I found the title track from said album. It used to irritate the fuck out of anyone with a Nokia phone. You'll see why.)

Ah yes. I can tell you exactly what is going on here. This is during my second year at university. The location is my friend Chris' bedroom. Under the desk is Sam, who is drunk, and spent most of the night seeing what tiny spaces he could contort himself into.

Lying on the floor is Steph, who is reading a book—possibly Bridget Jones' Diary. In the background is her erstwhile boyfriend Brett, my most enduring memory of whom is when he burst in the front door of Steph's house, furious that "someone's drawn knobs all over my car". Someone had indeed drawn knobs in the snow that was all over his car, and Sam and I naturally knew absolutely nothing about it.

But that was not the occasion in this photo. No. This was simply a social gathering at Chris' house—Sam, Steph and I were all flatmates in the first year, so we often took the opportunity to hang out together. We'd "lost" a couple of flatmates along the way to other social groups, but we'd stuck together for a lot of the time.

One of whom was the rather magnificent Beki, seen pictured here with Sam, again. This photo was taken on our hall of residence bar's "70s Night", a night where only the six of us from Flat A33, Hartley Grove Halls, Southampton, made the effort to dress up. Sam is wearing a woman's shirt.

Whizz forward to last year, and we have a picture of a game of Scotland Yard in progress, one of the very few games I'm aware of that provide you with a hat as part of its components. Pictured is Tom. Not pictured is Sam. And me. Obviously.

This Post-It space invader adorned the front wall of Ruffian Games' studios in Dundee. Obviously a little light relief after getting Crackdown 2 out the door.

Back in time to the first year at university again, we see here the midst of Operation Shopping Trolley, our attempts to stealthily remove the shopping trolley that had inexplicably appeared in our flat overnight. "Inexplicably" as in for once it wasn't one of us who had brought it up. Notice the cunning ninja disguises Sam and I have adopted.

This is Dungeonquest, one of either the best or worst games ever created depending on your outlook. It's a game where you have an approximately 23% chance of survival (they tell you this in the instruction booklet), and is almost completely determined by blind luck. Combat is resolved almost literally by rock-paper-scissors… except here it's slash-mighty blow-leap aside. I was astonished to discover that they have actually remade this monstrosity. I was also quite tempted to pick up a copy, but that would be a very silly idea.

To this date, this is still the most literary piece of graffiti I've ever seen, found on the back of the cubicle door in the gents' toilets in The Hobbit pub, Southampton. The whole door was something to behold; there were full-on conversations and slagging matches going on between various wall-writers, an excerpt of which you can see here. Theatre Studies was repeatedly accused of gayness. A bit rich coming from people hanging out in gents' toilets.

And why don't we end with this one, then? This offensive masterpiece was produced by the cast of Southampton "Rattlesnake!" Theatre Group's production of Alan Ayckbourn's Round and Round The Garden whilst finishing off rehearsals prior to taking the show to the Edinburgh Fringe. We'd all gone a little bit stir crazy by then, and so we took to lite-vandalising the whiteboards in the lecture theatre where we'd been rehearsing. ("Lite" because you could just rub it off. But we did leave it there for the lecturer to discover in the morning.)

Look closely and you'll see a selection of details; Pac-Man re-imagined to become Sonic the Hedgehog eating shit, some stickpeople having a threesome, some anagrams, a victim's eye view of the Ku Klux Klan looking down on someone they've just thrown down a well, an out-of-context stage direction from the play made to sound dirty just by the simple addition of "just the way I like it" and my excellent drawing of the entire cast of the show, except me, because while I was quite happy to draw all the others I didn't feel confident drawing myself. Also, BUTTOCKS.

There you go. Proof that I have an incredible memory for silly crap. And proof that even if you've forgotten me, I probably haven't forgotten you.

The post #oneaday, Day 31: Looking Back Through a Lens appeared first on I'm Not Doctor Who.

To clarify: I have been drinking quite a bit and as such this post may not be the most coherent thing in the world. But I make not apologies for this as drinking is fun, in moderation.

To whit, I went out with an old friend tonight; my friend Woody, who is someone I went to school with. I didn't get to know him, really, until I got into Sixth Form, when we spent a lot of time each lunchtime playing Uno, eating cheese and bacon baguettes and playing a bit more Uno. But since that time, we've stayed in touch and occasionally gone out to get a bit drunk.

Tonight was one such occasion. I haven't had the opportunity to go out and get pissed for quite some time. Actually, that's not quite accurate. The last time I went out to get pissed was New Year's Eve, during which time I managed to drink a lot and somehow spectacularly failed to get drunk whatsoever. This may have been something to do with the amount of Kinect gaming that took place during that time. Dance Central, it seems, is a suitable antidote to drinking.

Tonight, though, was another matter. Plied with Sambuca and beer prior to going out to the delightful pubs of Cambourne (imaginatively named due to its geographical proximity to both Cambridge and Bourne), we drank quite a bit and reminisced about the good old days.

As you get older, the opportunities to do something along these lines get more and more infrequent, so it's worth taking them when you can. Because sometimes, there's nothing better than sitting down with a good friend, chatting about days gone by, remembering times you'd got intoxicated on substances of your choice and the silly things that had occurred as a result of said intoxication.

Woody, incidentally, is someone who has managed to remain all but invisible to the Internet, which is something of an achievement in this day and age. But you might say that makes the memories I have with him all the more precious, as the only record of his existence I have these days are the few photos I have of him now. Most of which involve being drunk.

The UK has a drinking problem, it's clear from just walking down any big city high street on a Friday night. But sometimes, just sometimes, it's nice to spend some time with a friend getting off your tits and having a good laugh about days gone by.

That's what happened tonight. And I hope it happens more often.

The post #oneaday, Day 15: Regression appeared first on I'm Not Doctor Who.

I have two examples in mind here. Just recently, I had the good fortune to be reunited with a buddy from school with whom I'd kept in idle contact with—the occasional Facebook comment or tweet—but hadn't seen face-to-face since the time he visited me during my first year of university, got roaringly drunk with me and then proceeded to assist me in the consumption of a pound of Tesco Value mild cheddar cheese at about 3 in the morning. Actually, there was an incident subsequent to that which involved several people vomiting out of the window of a house onto the corrugated plastic roof of what passed for a "conservatory" in student accommodation. But the cheese incident is the one that remains fresh in my memory.

Said incident was at least ten years ago now, but when we met up in the village pub for a pint and a chat it was like that time had ceased to exist—or at least didn't matter. We hadn't seen each other for ages, and yet suddenly we were back to talking about the word "COCK!", driving in search of "old man pubs" and ending up in the local Tesco garage's forecourt at 2 in the morning eating pre-packed sandwiches because the nearest club (15 miles away) was shit and/or full, and the old man pubs in question were either shut or had vanished into some sort of rural space-time anomaly. It was, to say the least, awesome. Not all reunions go this way, and I'm sure there are plenty of people I was at school with who are completely different people now. But then I have no idea where they are now, so a reunion is unlikely anyway.

The other example I have in mind is something I wrote about way back on Day 106; the idea of crystallised memories. I probably didn't coin this term but it's one I'm particularly fond of: the idea that inanimate objects can possess memories and trigger powerful emotional responses simply by their presence. A crystallised memory can be a tiny thing, like a dirty penny you find in the depths of your coat pocket. Perhaps you remember how it got so dirty. Or where you found it. Or what you were doing when you dropped it into your pocket.

Alternatively, as the case may be, a crystallised memory could be a whole city. Cities are places that are full of life, constantly on the move, changing, morphing, filling with people during the day and evaporating them in the dead of night. But some things don't change amidst all the chaos—pretty amazing in itself, when you think about it—and those are the things which hold powerful emotional responses, powerful memories, senses of nostalgia, whatever it is you want to call it.

Sometimes, these things which have remained constant amidst the chaos of the daily tsunami of people that pass by them are enough to remind you of something or someone important, something that is, at times, long-forgotten. Tiny little memories which, at the time, seemed inconsequential, unimportant. And yet they are the ones which remained most vivid. A river that you once saw a hundred rubber ducks racing along. A swinging teashop sign and the delicious delights found within. The low beam that you bang your head on as you clamber into an "authentic" old pub.

Sometimes you see all those things again and they cause you pain. They remind you of what once was and what is now no longer.

And sometimes you see all those things again and they bring comfort. They still remind you of what once was and what is now no longer. But something, somewhere, causes the negativity and the pain to slip away and you're left with those things that you should cling onto, the crystals that shine the brightest, the ones which glitter eternally.

Time heals all wounds, they say. But the good stuff that all the blood and pus and "discharge" from the wounds hides? (That was gross. Sorry.) That sticks around a whole lot longer.

The post #oneaday, Day 290: Ever Onward appeared first on I'm Not Doctor Who.

The most recent mind-blowing moment I had was during this last week when I had my little expedition to the woods. I was standing in the middle of a forest with absolutely no trace of civilisation except a little crude wooden bench by the side of the muddy path. And somehow I had better mobile signal than I do in the house I'm sitting right now. So, without thinking, I popped out my iPhone and fired up eBuddy to say hello to my buddy Chris in California. He responded back and we had a nice discussion about music.

Let's just think about that a minute. I was in the middle of a wood in Cambridgeshire, England. Chris was somewhere in sunny California. And yet there we were, chatting away like this was a perfectly normal thing to do. That's awesome.

One of my favourite gadget moments, though, was a good few years back now. I was up in Edinburgh at the Fringe with the Southampton University Theatre Group, or "Rattlesnake!" as we'd inexplicably decided to call ourselves. At the time, I had somehow managed to end up with the responsibility of keeping the Theatre Group website up to date. I'd prepared a special Edinburgh page and everything, and I decided that it would be pretty awesome to keep an online diary. The concept of "blogging" was but a pipe dream for all but the biggest nerds (even bigger than me) at this point. And doing so via a mobile device was absolutely out of the question.

I did, however, have my Palm Tungsten with me, to date my second-favourite gadget after my iPhone. You could play Shining Force on it, for heaven's sake. That's awesome, if beside the point. No, the reason my Palm came in handy was that I could type up my diary entries into the Notes application on it and then use the handily-provided SD card (32MB!) to transfer said material to a computer in the conveniently-located Internet café we found one day.

One may ask why I didn't just type said diary entries straight into the computers. Well, the advantage of doing it on the Palm was that I could write things as they happened. I could write a rehearsal report. I could write what we were up to in the park. I could write about flyering the Royal Mile. The Frankenstein pub. (AMAZING) Being on top of Arthur's Seat drinking sake as the sun rose. (DOUBLEPLUSAMAZING)

Sure, I could have written about these things after the fact. But the immediacy of being able to write about it there and then was pretty damn cool. Each new generation of gadgets makes this sort of thing easier and easier to do. And while it has its downsides—the sea of people filming concerts on their mobile phones instead of actually watching the damn things being one—on the whole I think it's really great to be able to share life's exciting little moments (or, in the case of some of you out there, the details of your latest bowel movements) with people that you care about it. Of course some of this is vanity. But the other side of it is being able to share things with people that you don't get to hang out with as often as you like.

So gadgets are awesome. For everyone. Not just nerds.

The post #oneaday, Day 270: Go Go Gadget, uhh, Gadget appeared first on I'm Not Doctor Who.

Or they might be video game soundtracks. Game soundtracks are quite unique in a way in that their technology has evolved very quickly. So rather than evolving over the course of hundreds of years like classical music, they evolved very distinct identities with each new generation of hardware, roughly a decade at a time. Today, we're in a peculiar situation where we have game soundtracks that are, at times, indistinguishable from movie soundtracks. But at the same time, we also are getting game soundtracks that deliberately hearken back to the distinctive sounds of the past. Which is confusing. But awesome.

So I thought I'd share a few pieces of music that I've enjoyed over the years. And, where applicable, if I can remember (and if they're not too embarrassing) the memory that's attached to them.

The Atari ST had a deeply, deeply terrible soundchip, especially when compared to its technically superior rival, the Commodore Amiga. That didn't stop a variety of composers such as Alistair Brimble trying their best to compose catchy tunes. I don't have a particular memory associated with this piece of music (besides playing Fantasy World Dizzy, that is) but this piece of music was oddly memorable. I'm not sure why, because it's not a spectacularly good piece of music. But it had that "hook".

Starfox/Starwing had a very distinctive soundtrack. The synth sounds used throughout coupled with the reasonably-convincing electric guitar sounds were actually far better than most of the stuff that the N64's execrable sound chip belched out. This piece of music in particular stuck with me. I remember playing Starfox/wing with headphones on in the lounge and getting told to be quiet because I was finding it all a bit exciting and going "Whooa!" a lot. C'mon. The first time you do that corkscrew descent to the surface of Venom? That was awesome.

I'm not afraid to admit I cried like a girl when (OMG SPOILER) Aeris/th died. I bought Final Fantasy VII specifically because my brother had said it was the first time a lot of people had felt genuine emotion from a video game. I wasn't disappointed. Aeris/th's death may be something of a cliché now. But at the time, what happened to her was shocking.

Silent Hill 2 is a game that's stuck with me for many years. Its powerful imagery, heartbreaking story and excellent theme song are partly to blame for this. The fact that I was so captivated by the story that I played through about 95% of it in one night is probably more to blame for this. I associate this piece of music with staying up that night, and also feel an emotional connection to it which I'm buggered if I can actually describe.

Not a game soundtrack, but Speed's score became my job interview soundtrack for a while. It was good driving music, so I'd listen to it on the way there and, assuming it hadn't all gone horribly wrong, on the way back too. Added a bit of drama to the commute if nothing else.

You might have forgotten about the 2204355 Dancing Chicken Man by now, but I certainly haven't. Why? Because the music on that video is now inextricably tied to my last weeks in Southampton. I was sitting up late one night contemplating the futility of existence (as you do) when SnakeLinkSonic posted a tweet which simply read "I CAN'T STOP WATCHING" and included a link to the original Flash animation that started all this nonsense off. The animation and the music made me laugh so much at I time when I was feeling so utterly terrible that I can't help but have it stuck in my mind. It reminds me of the days counting down until I'd have to leave and make a fresh start… a fresh start which I'm not sure has quite happened yet.

Basically, if there's ever a game featuring me, and I have to face a boss at the end of Disc 1, I want this music to be playing.

Again, not a specific memory attached to this one, but the Split/Second score is awesome and oddly inspirational. As such, I've adopted it as my official Going For A Run soundtrack. And it really works.

Last of all, this piece also doesn't have a specific memory attached to it (because I'm creating said memory right now), but it was introduced to me while I was writing this. (Thanks, Donna!) It's a pair of Dulcimers, an instrument I knew of but don't think I'd ever seen before. This piece is gorgeous; the sound of the instruments is full, resonant and has a sense of "purity" about it. I like it very much.

So there's some music for you. Hmm. That post took rather longer to put together than I thought it would. Oh well! Good night. Tune in tomorrow for the next episode in the thrilling series of events that has been taking place at the top of each post. Have I really just killed myself off?

The post #oneaday, Day 263: Original Sound Track appeared first on I'm Not Doctor Who.

So I thought I'd share a few stupid memories today for no apparent reason. I have hundreds of these. So this topic may return at some point in the future. For today, I'm going to focus on memories from my childhood.

First up: the ad starting at 2:17 of this vid right here:

Phurnacite. I'm still not entirely sure what it is, or was. But I remember this advert freaking me the fuck out when I was little despite, I believe, only ever seeing it once. Watching it now, it's completely laughable, overacted and utter nonsense. For the longest time, I couldn't even remember it was something to do with cookers. I remembered the image of the "doctors" with the masks on, though, and the woman crying going "HOW WILL I FEED MY FAMILY?"

Why do I remember that? That holds absolutely no benefit to me whatsoever unless taking part in a particularly specialist pub quiz on the subject of TV adverts from Christmas 1989 that freaked me the fuck out.

On a related note, the magazine advert for Mindscape's surgery-em-up game for the PC, Life and Death, also featured doctors in masks, bloodstained swabs and the like and also freaked me the fuck out. I have never been in hospital for an operation, and those adverts were the reason I was terrified of the prospect of ever having to do so. Disappointingly, Google Images has let me down on an actual picture of said advert. But it was in an issue of A.C.E. magazine. Which was 1) possibly the best multi-format magazine of all time, now sadly defunct and 2) the only games magazine I'm aware of that rated games out of 1,000.

At some other point during my childhood, another completely random memory I have is to do with visiting the chap who was my best friend at the time. We'd acquired some weird little toys called "Wiggly Gigglies" (yes, laugh it up, it was the 80s) and much to my chagrin, friend in question had acquired a glow-in-the-dark one. I was fascinated by the idea of a glow-in-the-dark anything at the time, so one or both of us decided that it would be a really fantastic idea to lock ourselves in his airing cupboard to see that luminousness at work. Unfortunately, the airing cupboard wasn't really big enough to even fit two kids inside, so I ended up shutting two of my fingers in the door and it really fucking hurt. It didn't break them or anything, but they were bleeding a bit. I went home shortly afterwards, and resolved never to do two things: touch a Wiggly Giggly again, and shut myself in an airing cupboard again.

In that case, the pain is probably the trigger to the memory. But as I kid, I hurt myself quite a bit—kids will be kids and all that. It's strange how that incident in particular sticks in my mind.

Let's cap this off with a third memory. What I like to call The Great Injustice. It was lunchtime at primary school, and I was enjoying a game with a girl called Anna with whom I had something of an off-on-off-on friendship in that way primary school kids do. Particularly kids of the opposite sex.

I forget the exact details of said game, but it involved swordfighting. Or rather, stick-fighting. Our school field had a number of big trees on it, and they often dropped decent-size sticks that were great for mock swordfights. And so it was that Anna and I were staging some sort of battle for some reason. It was fun. Lunchtime ended and we went inside.

When I got home that evening, I got absolutely bollocked. Turns out my mother had been wandering past the school field at the time we'd been playing our game, at a point when I'd evidently been "winning". As a result, I found myself in a lot of trouble for "hitting a girl with a stick". And no amount of protestation could convince my parents that it had, in fact, been just a game, and if you talked to Anna she would back up my story. Because, after all, who believes the screeches that come out of the mouth of an eight-year old when they're in trouble?

Hmm. These aren't terribly positive memories, are they? Perhaps I should make more of an effort to remember things that didn't freak me out or make me incandescent with an eight-year old's rage!

The post #oneaday, Day 261: Random Access Memories appeared first on I'm Not Doctor Who.

You'll surely excuse the enthusiastic gushing and emotion that is shortly to follow. You'll hopefully agree that it is justified by the time I'm done. I might be funny tomorrow. If I've had any sleep. Otherwise I'll just be grumpy. "No change there then," I hear you say.

As has hopefully been made abundantly clear by now, I am leaving Southampton very shortly. Some might say "imminently". Specifically, on Friday. The vast majority of my stuff was taken away yesterday, meaning I'm currently ensconced in a hollow shell of a house that is but a shadow of what it once was, which was in turn a shadow of what it once was prior to that. But now's not the time for such thoughts.

Today was intended to be a day of tidying up final bits and cleaning up. And indeed it has; I've packed up, tidied up and hoovered the bedroom and study, with more to be done later this evening. But today has also been a time to see friends, some of whom I haven't had the chance to see for some time, and some of whom weren't able to make it out on Friday for drinking and WUBWUBWUB.

So I spent the morning overcaffeinating myself with a "cafe crawl" alongside Ben "xoorox" Willmott (with accompaniment from Mike "Sex Panther" Porter in the first coffee shop) and then getting on with a bit of Java-fueled tidying. Having not slept terribly well last night, the experience of exhaustion coupled with hyperactivity was… curious, to say the least.

Just as Ben and I were parting ways, I ran into the very fine and lovely Elana "dollydaydream" Moylette (second from right in the header image, fact fans) who has been a great and wonderful friend over the last few years, ever since I trained the crap out of her at our local Apple Store. She was very keen for me to catch up with her later, and that's what I've just done.

I've got to say, I am 100% glad I did. I am now the proud owner of possibly the best gift anyone has ever got me (and I got a Super NES one Christmas) – a beautifully-made scrapbook/photo album full of wonderful memories. It's something that will be utterly irreplaceable in years to come, and evidence that however I might be feeling about the circumstances surrounding my departure from here, I've touched the lives of a whole bunch of people, and they, too, have enriched my life.

While it sucks balls that I am leaving, I've found it deeply touching that there are very obviously so many people out there who genuinely care about me, appreciate me for who I am and, above all, have helped me survive one of the most difficult periods of my life that I've ever been through.

So to all those people who've made it clear that I'm not going to be forgotten as soon as I drive off on Friday, thank you, from the very bottom of my heart. You are awesome, and I'll never forget you or what you've done.

Hah. The comic I pre-prepared to go at the top of this post the other day seems rather flippant now. Still, there's no arguing with The Robot.

The post #oneaday, Day 234: Dear Friends appeared first on I'm Not Doctor Who.

I say this as a result of a memorable evening one night at university, a good few years back now. It was one of those evenings where we had just decided it was vitally important to get as blind drunk as possible, as is often the wont of people at university. At least one member of our circle of friends was in possession of some of the more "creative" spirits and liqueurs available, so we pooled our resources in an attempt to create The Next Big Thing.

To be fair, given the evidence we'd discovered on how easy it is to make a putridly-coloured yet remarkably tasty cocktail, we had faith in our own abilities to produce something delicious.

Shortly after arriving at university, we had all discovered the joy of the Juicy Lucy, a pint-based cocktail made up of a glug of vodka, a splash of Bols Blue, a bit of Taboo and then the remainder of the glass filled up with roughly half-and-half of orange juice and lemonade. The resultant glass of green liquid looks remarkably like what happens if you fill a pint glass with water and then squirt too much Fairy liquid into it. It also turns your poo green if you drink too much of it, a fact which several of us were unprepared for and thus spent a not-inconsiderable amount of time fretting the next day that we had some form of terrifying bum-cancer.

Alongside the Juicy Lucy was the even-simpler concoction dreamed up by our hall of residence's bar on "Hawaiian Night" (a night when everyone was supposed to wear Hawaiian shirts, and they turned the heating up full)—the Passion Wagon. The Passion Wagon was, again, a pint-based cocktail consisting of a shot of Passoa (passion fruit liqueur) and a bottle of Reef. That's it. It came out bright orange and tasted like Five Alive. It did not, to my knowledge, do anything unpleasant to the colour of one's bodily fluids or waste matter.

So going on that evidence, we figured that making a cocktail was pretty much simply a case of finding things which might taste nice together and then combining them together in a glass. Also, that vodka, when added to any drink, immediately makes something "more alcoholic" without making it taste any different.

How wrong we were. The first mistake we made was forgetting that Baileys curdles quite easily. After creating a number of drinks that looked like someone had spunked in, we decided that we weren't skilled enough to do that clever thing where you make the Baileys float on top. So we left that alone. For a while. Then we elected to try combining various different flavoured liqueurs together. The least (or most, depending on how you look at this) successful attempt was dubbed "The Brown Sauce", owing to its resemblance in taste to HP Sauce. For the readers unfamiliar with the wonder of HP Sauce, it is good on a bacon sandwich. It is less good in liquid form and drunk.

Eventually we gave up and went back to staples like Archers and lemonade. We didn't have another home-made cocktail night after that. We left it strictly to the professionals.

The post #oneaday 214: You're Not Tom Cruise appeared first on I'm Not Doctor Who.

Things that stay the same can provide comfort and a sense of familiarity. Whether this is the discarded magazine that's been sitting on the floor next to the bed for the last six months because you couldn't be arsed to find a home for it, or the friend you went to school with, that sense of familiarity can help provide some kind of firm grounding, even when all else is chaos.

Back on Day 106, I used the term "crystallised memories" to describe static objects that had memories inexorably attached to them. In some senses, this is a similar concept. But the memories that are attached to the objects can change over time. Things that are constant stay, by their very nature, constant.

Take this evening. I went to visit a friend I was at school with. Although he's got a house, is living with his girlfriend and came to the disturbing (to him) realisation that he's been working the same job for ten years, he's still the guy I went to school with. Perhaps not visually. But certainly in attitudes and behaviour. We get together, and we start acting like a couple of sixteen year old dickheads like no time whatsoever has passed. When in fact a significant proportion of both our respective lives has passed, with significant changes afoot for both of us.

We contacted another friend via Xbox LIVE while I was there. Again, a constant in terms of attitude, behaviour, character. It was like nothing had changed.

After I left my friend's house, I went for a drive to the local supermarket to pick up a couple of things I needed. This drive, again, was comfortably familiar. Although there have been some minor changes to the road layout in a few places, for the most part, these were the roads I learned to drive on, so I know them like a thing you know the layout of really well.

This is good. This sort of thing makes the whole "moving on" thing that much more bearable. The idea of moving to a new city was somewhat appealing; but the idea of being alone there and not knowing anyone was not. Taking a step "backwards" and picking up where I left off with these people while at the same time rebuilding my life into the image I want it to go into? This is (hopefully) a good thing. We shall see, I guess.

My life, and that of a number of other people too, is all chaos and flux right now. I long for the time when everything settles down and I can just start enjoying myself. I hope it won't be too long before that happens. Positive steps have been taken this week. So let's hope those positive steps lead to full-on positivity.

Things can't be that much worse than they have been. The needle has to swing the other way sometime. I'm hoping now (or at least "very soon") is the time.

The post #oneaday, Day 193: Constants appeared first on I'm Not Doctor Who.

He leaned over and grabbed his phone, squinting at the time through blurry vision. It felt too early. But it was a perfectly normal time to get up; quite late for some, even. It didn't feel important to get up, though. He wanted to stay lying there, gazing at nothingness, contemplating all that had come to pass and all there was to come. But at the same time, he knew that would achieve nothing. He remembered simpler times, when lying in bed meant something different; a time when it meant closeness, comfort, intimacy. Now, what did it mean?

His phone chimed as a well-timed message from a friend broke his reverie and stirred his mind into action. He was grateful to her for that; she always knew the right time to say something, even if it was just "hello". He quickly tapped out a message back to her and lay back down, closing his eyes for a moment, phone clutched in his hand.

It vibrated in his hand; a reply, and an admonishment that he should really get up rather than lying there feeling sorry for himself. Smiling weakly to himself, he did so, and staggered out of the bedroom into the hallway, through the living room and into the kitchen.

The fridge was almost empty; it had been ever since that day. He'd only stocked up on the essentials as and when he needed them. There was little point doing anything elaborate for one. There was a pack of bacon, already open and wrapped in tin foil. He picked it up and walked over to the grill, flipping it on and laying the foil out on a tray. He carefully removed two rashers of bacon from the pack and washed its sliminess from his hands, then slid the tray under the rapidly-heating grill.

More memories popped into his head; unwelcome guests. Once, there would have been four rashers on that tray, and once the kettle would have been boiling ready to make a cup of tea, perfectly timed to be ready as the bacon finished. The radio would have been on, blaring out some sort of interminably awful pop music, and the room would have felt full of life. Now it felt like a shadow of its former self, like a graveyard. Spirits inhabited the room, but they'd never be coming back.

The smell of the gradually-grilling bacon wafted to his nostrils as he got out a plate and two slices of bread. He'd butter the bread for her and leave his plain. And when it was done, he'd carry them all back to the bedroom and climb back into bed, ready to eat the food, listen to something together and, after that, enjoy a moment or two of quiet intimacy.

If he did that now, though, there would just be that same awful silence. There was no reason to go back into that room now he was up; the shadows would just claim him if he did, and the day would be gone.

He pulled the tray out from under the grill and flipped the bacon quickly with his fingertips, cursing to himself at how hot it was. Then he slid it back under, that smell filling the whole room now. It was a smell that most people find comforting, whatever state they're in; happy, sad, hungover, sober—there's always room for a bacon sandwich. He wasn't sure how he felt about it right now, as tied to these memories as it was. But he wasn't about to let things he could do nothing about spoil his enjoyment of the best thing about the morning.

It was time. He pulled the tray out again and quickly transferred the bacon to the bread, cursing again at how hot it was. The rapidly-diminishing bottle of HP sauce was already upturned ready to spill its contents onto the sandwich, just as it should be.

And he closed the sandwich, walked into the living room and sat on the couch, staring at the switched-off TV. And thus began another day alone.

The post #oneaday, Day 177: Sandwich appeared first on I'm Not Doctor Who.

Everyone is in a better mood in the sunshine. And, judging by the number of people in town, everyone skips work in the sunshine, too. I went to the park and sat in the sun for a bit and there were people from all walks of life all around. There was the chav in the open shirt who kept stroking his chest. There were the noisy, screechy girls. There were excited little kids on their half-term break headed for the playpark. And there was me.

Sitting in the sun is nice. There's something extremely pleasant about the weather being good enough for you to be able to sit (or indeed lie) on the grass and just relax. If it's been raining or snowing, or if it's cold, you'd never even think about lying down on the ground and dozing for a bit. But as soon as it gets a little bit sunny? Everyone seems to come down with narcolepsy. Well, except those people playing frisbee.

Lying in the grass is one of those things that triggers memories, particularly of being very young. I can remember lying on the grass at primary school on hot sunny days. Sometimes my friends and I would just lie there. Other times we'd talk. Other times still we'd attempt to do those stupid moves from P.E. that no-one ever does in real life. And on one memorable occasion, a friend became convinced that by doing a shoulderstand and "squeezing a bit", he could make himself fart at will. (He couldn't.)

Besides school, other grassy memories are mostly picnic-related. I have oddly strong memories of visiting the Imperial War Museum at Duxford and sitting in the grass having a picnic as we watched the planes take off, land and do various pieces of death-defying aerobatics. Thinking about it, I don't think we were actually sitting on the grass, more hanging around the car in deckchairs eating sandwiches. But sandwiches always taste better outside, as everyone well knows.

So it's been a nice day. A very nice day in fact. Even the fact that I clearly got a bit burnt judging by the tingling on my ears right now (either that or someone's talking about me) didn't detract from the niceness of the day. So that's good. Nice days are good. Nice days are much-needed. Nice days have been away for a long time, so it's, well, nice to see them again.

Let's hope this lovely summery weather continues for some time, and that we see more in the way of girls in tiny shorts and less in the way of shirtless bald chavs staggering through parks with cans of Tennents Extra clutched in their desperate sweaty gorilla-hands. And maybe some English people can get a proper tan instead of feeling the need to pointlessly slather themselves with orange paint.

The post #oneaday, Day 138: Days in the Sun appeared first on I'm Not Doctor Who.

Earlier in the day I did get a moment to record one more piano piece. I posted it on Tumblr earlier but I'm not sure who got the chance to hear it. A few people did, I guess, and it even got a couple of reblogs. But I thought for those people who don't "do" Tumblr, I'd post it here too.

The song in question is Aerith, or Aeris, or Flower Girl or whatever you want to call it. It's the piece from Final Fantasy VII that makes everyone cry. There are two reasons for this – one, it's a beautiful piece of music, and two, the most memorable point of the game in which this piece of music is heard is where Aerith/s dies. (Oh come ON! Surely everyone who is ever going to play Final Fantasy VII knows that by now.) This scene is widely regarded by many as one of the first times where computer games genuinely started to encourage emotional investment in their narratives – at least on consoles. Developers of adventure games on PC had been trying this for a long time already, but Final Fantasy VII was the first mainstream console game which people admitted crying to.

It's a cliché and a bit of a joke these days, of course, but it was my brother telling me about the sheer emotion in the game that made me originally want to pick up Final Fantasy VII. I'd never touched an RPG prior to that point and had no idea what HP, MP and Limit Breaks were. My life was shortly to change forever.

The piece of music itself, though; it's always held a peculiarly personal meaning to me, and I can't pin down why that is. I think it possibly may be something to with the fact that the older Final Fantasy games allowed you to rename your characters, so in my game, it wasn't "Aerith" dying, it was someone I knew. This made it all the more traumatic.

When I play the piece nowadays, I don't necessarily think of someone dying. But I do always find myself thinking of someone. I always feel that the character of the piece represents gentle, total, unconditional love and/or affection towards someone. So inevitably while playing it I find myself thinking of someone special to me in some way. The exact person who comes to mind has changed many times over the years, but the reason for my thinking of them hasn't. They are important.

iPhone users, click here to hear the track. Everyone else, use the Flash player below.

The post #oneaday, Day 137: Flower Girl appeared first on I'm Not Doctor Who.

In through the door, into the hall. A door, usually shut, stands open, looking in one direction. Beyond the door, the darkness of the night creeps in. The other doors remain steadfastly shut, waiting for me to reveal their contents, be they painful, joyful or wrathful.

Passing through the open door, its inviting portal beckoning me within. Flashes of terrible possibilities scream through my head and I wonder if any of them are true, but none of them are. Everything is as it was, only with a layer of meaning removed. Floor once well-trodden with hard labour stands pristine and new as if nothing had ever been there. There is space, empty space, but imperceptibly, outside the gaze of reality, the memories are still there. There they sit, watching stoically, not judging, just being. But then they are not there and there is just space again.

The space we once shared together forever changed, only a discarded sleeping bag and some crumpled cushions holding memories of what once was and what eventually came to be. And the silence. The silence is deafening.

Back into the hall. Hand trembling, I open a door. A door I feared to open. Inside are nothing but spirits. What the room once was there is no trace of, not physically. But the memories are here too. Standing in the corner. Stretched under the window. Sitting in the single lonely chair. They are here, looking at me, not a trace of judgement in them. Do they have faces? I can't see, and then they are gone again.

Back to the hall. Hand trembling, I open another door. Another door I feared to open. Inside it is like the room behind the open door, everything as it once was but with a layer of meaning stripped away to reveal – what? Is there deeper meaning left beneath?

I sit. Two crystallised memories stare back at me, in physical form this time. I wondered if they would remain strong or shatter like everything else. But they are here. It fills me with great sadness and great joy to see them, for they represent the good times. They were alive, and took in everything that once was. Do they still live? They do, but they do not understand. Part of what gave them life has gone, but the other part remains. Do they still live? They do. And they bear a missive.

The message should make me weep, or wrathful, or sicken with heartbreak, but it does not. Something about it is calming. Perhaps its words merely float on my surface to be absorbed at a later time. The meaning is there and was already there, but right now I do not feel it. I feel little but reality loosening its bonds on my mind and my soul.

I rise off the ground and float through this home, this place of memories, stripped and gutted of part of that which made it what it was, and I feel…

The post #oneaday, Day 118: Homecoming appeared first on I'm Not Doctor Who.

Look around the room you're in right now. Look at some of the things that are sitting in it. And not just the big things, or things which are specifically designed to evoke a memory, like photographs.

What memories are attached to, say, the lamp by the side of your bed? Or the clock radio? Or the bookcase? Or the books which lay discarded on the floor? Or that mark on the wall? If you think about it, you can probably attach a memory to every tiny little thing that you can see in any room – assuming you've had the time to "get to know" that room, of course.

When you move on to a new place, sometimes other peoples' memories are left behind. They may take away the things that can be carried, packed into boxes or loaded into a van, but some things can't be taken away. A whole room can hold memories, both good and bad. And it doesn't have to be just one memory at a time. In the room where I am right now I can see things which represent good times, things which represent bad times, and things which represent the very worst of times. Some objects in this room represent more than one thing. Some things hold conflicting emotions. Those things are confusing, but the important thing to remember is that the object holds all of those memories, not just the bad ones.

It's easy to let bad memories and bad experiences colour everything that you do. They say bad experiences and bad memories help to make you stronger. It may well be true, but it doesn't make them any easier to live through, or to relive. But, as received wisdom has it, it's the sum of our experiences that make us who we are. And it's by examining the sum of those experiences that we, ourselves, can learn to understand who we are.

I'm not sure I really know who I am. I've drifted along for so long, wondering if I'm doing the right thing for myself and for other people. I don't feel like I've found it yet, and recent events (which I won't be going into detail about here) have made me think that no, clearly I'm not doing the right thing – for myself, more than anything else. It's a selfish attitude to take, but when it comes down to it, the only person's destiny that you have any control over is your own. You can't always live your life for the approval of other people, least of all if you're not happy yourself.

So that's why when some of these crystallised memories disappear, when some are left behind and some are taken with me to wherever life takes me next, I know that's just another step. There have been missteps, and there have been backwards steps, but they're all steps nonetheless; steps on that long, arduous, exhausting and frankly irritating journey that they call life.

I'm kind of ready to get where I'm supposed to be going now, thanks. I thought I was already there for a while, but there actually seem to be some significant engineering works in the way. Where's the nearest replacement bus service?

The post #oneaday, Day 106: Crystallised Memories appeared first on I'm Not Doctor Who.

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.

The post #oneaday, Day 52: Nostalgiarising appeared first on I'm Not Doctor Who.

I wanted to talk about my memories of the Final Fantasy series generally, as it's a series that will always be close to my heart for a variety of reasons. I'd never even heard of it prior to Final Fantasy VII's release, but I was intrigued when I heard my brother discussing it and he mentioned the oft-quoted fact that it was "one of the only games that had ever made anyone cry". It sounds trite now, of course, as everyone knows what FFVII's "big shock" was, and the moment has lost its emotional impact. But I remember playing that game for the first time and not knowing what was going to happen – so when that moment at the end of Disc 1 came, I genuinely felt something. It hadn't been spoiled for me. I knew something tragic happened at some point in the game, but that was it. I wasn't prepared for them to kill off a main character like that. It was, of course, even more traumatic for the fact you could rename every party member in FFVII, so it was like someone I actually knew died. (Shush. I was young and stupid.)

Of course, killing off main characters isn't something that FF has traditionally shied away from, but being unfamiliar with the series prior to that moment, I wasn't to know. In fact, not only was I unfamiliar with the FF series, I was unfamiliar with the RPG genre in general, my only real experiences with it having been Alternate Reality on the Atari 8-bit (which, when I played it as a young child, I really didn't understand) and the dreadful Times of Lore by Origin on the Atari ST. Neither of them had gripped me, perhaps because of the deficiencies these games held in the narrative department. Alternate Reality just didn't have a story full stop (besides that which you made for yourself) and Times of Lore was just… well, crap. So, suffice to say I hadn't felt particularly inspired to pursue an interest in the RPG genre – not until FFVII turned up, anyway.

A particularly fond memory of VII comes from one long summer when my folks were away in America for a few weeks. It was the first time I'd been left home alone and, among other things best left for discussion another day, my friend Woody and I spent a lot of time playing Final Fantasy VII. At one point, we played it for thirty-six hours continuously, whacking each other over the head with couch cushions when the other looked like they were falling asleep. Eventually, we did pretty much both pass out, with some peculiar dreams and talking-in-sleep going on. The tequila probably didn't help matters.

We fell asleep as we were in FFVII's Ancient Forest looking for the Apocalypse Sword prior to the endgame. I remember falling asleep to the music there and it infecting my brain. I can't hear that track these days without thinking of the peculiar sensations of sleep deprivation, slight drunkenness and square eyes from staring at the TV for too long.

It was some time after discovering FFVII that I decided to explore the rest of the series and uncovered the world of the music of FF. I managed to track down some scans of the elusive "Piano Collections" books for FFIV, V and VI online and tried playing them. They're wonderful arrangements – actually properly written for the piano, rather than simply transcribed – so the performance of them has become something of a trademark of mine over the years. Hearing any of those tracks always fills me with a sense of deep joy and nostalgia – not necessarily for the games as such, but because they remind me of times past – of good times with friends, of things that happened around the same time as me playing them – all sorts. Playing the games themselves has much the same effect. It's actually been many years now since I played FFVII, VIII or IX. Although they are now somewhat aged, I don't think the soft spot I have for them will ever leave me, and I'll always carry the memories of what I was doing when I played them. (FFVII – that long summer. FFVIII – first year at university. FFIX – visiting my bro in America one Christmas.)

Yeah, I know. How lame to tell a Final Fantasy story. But I don't care.

The post #oneaday, Day 51: Final Fantasies appeared first on I'm Not Doctor Who.

I wasn't drinking alone, I might add. I'd spent the evening over at my buddy's house having a curry, playing some board games and drinking the aforementioned gin. We discovered gin a week or two back and decided that it was, for now at least, our tipple of choice thanks to how easily it went down, particularly when accompanied by some ice, tonic and lemon. It's a lovely summer drink, too. Not that it's particularly summery right now, though the sun did come out for a bit today.

I was a heavy drinker back in university – weren't we all? – but over the years my tolerance for alcohol seems to have dropped quite a bit. I have vivid memories of many  bizarre nights at the university bar accompanied by luridly-coloured cocktails and obscene creations involving unholy combinations of absinthe and Baileys (actually not as bad as it sounds… though your liver might disagree). We also had one particularly amusing and unpleasant night where we decided to invent our own cocktails… or at least attempt to. They weren't terribly successful, with the most memorable one of the evening being one we dubbed "The Brown Sauce", so named because of its resemblance in taste to HP sauce. No drink should taste of HP sauce.

Then there was the university orchestra's trip to Poland, land of super-cheap drinks. One bar did this thing called (if I remember correctly) a "six-shooter", which was exactly what it sounds like – six shots of some bright blue shit for about a pound. More cocktails were invented there, too.

Nowadays, drinking's a relatively rare indulgence for me. Drinking the amount of gin we did last night is something that none of us involved have done for a while (at least not all together). It was fun, and it made my pathetic losses at both Agricola and Ticket to Ride matter rather less. Of course, at roughly 4am I found myself regretting quite how much I had drunk, but at least I was mercifully hangover-free in the morning.

Hmm, that totally wasn't where I was intending this post to head. Oh well. It's late and I'm actually sitting in bed right now, so maybe I'll save something more coherent for tomorrow when I'm a bit more awake.

For now – good night!

The post One A Day, Day 31: Out of Sync appeared first on I'm Not Doctor Who.