Speed Writing

This morn, having forgotten my MP3 player and being too lazy to go back up the stairs to get it, I resigned myself to local radio. Halfway through, a guy talked about how great the new Formula 1 game is, as part of a competition to win a copy.

All of which got me thinking. In the last week, I've read a large number of complaints of this very game on various forums, all contrasting to numerous positive reviews in the mainstream gaming media. Numerous bugs have been reported, including one which stops some of your opponents having to do their compulsory pit stop, all adding up to some very angry gamers. I was glad to read these, as I had been considering purchasing a copy, after enjoying the F1 season so far.

All this confirms my suspicion and disillusionment with gaming journalism, which is a shame as my journalistic ambitions were probably fired by Your Sinclair, of which I was a loyal reader from the late 80s till it's death. It was a brilliant magazine, full of in-jokes and absurd humour that still appealed to my youthful self. Recently, I went over some articles at the wonderful "Your Sinclair - The Rock and Roll Years" website and was surprised at how much it still stood up. I've subsequently nicked loads of the reader's jokes from the 'Kindly Leave The Stage' section.

Yet now, it appears a lot of gaming magazines are firmly in the pocket of games developers. Exclusive previews given on certain 'understandings' about subsequent reviews. Nothing unique there, of course, as the music industry has long since did the same. But it's still depressing to see that the huge issues with the F1 2010 game were overlooked and 9/10 reviews dished out wholesale - journalists may well claim they were 'promised' that the bugs would be remedied before sale, as happened with one very infamous case several years ago that noted games hack Stuart Campbell discovered.

Not that any of this will concern Codemasters (the company behind the game) too much, as it's a cert copies will have shifted by the truckload. From my perspective, I just hope the people behind the long awaited Gran Turismo 5 have managed to keep some sense of ethics and pride in their work.

Three Chords and a Lyric About Something

Following my post about Felt, I did a little internet digging to find out more about Lawrence, and his current activities. I'd heard rumours, and hoped that's all they were, regarding his lifestyle of late. One forum mentioned a book that featured some extended interviews with the man.

The book was Song Man by Will Hodgkinson, whose brother was one of the people behind The Idler, a magazine I've long dismissed as tedious, middle class and having nothing to say to the true idle git. This genetic connection put me off, but luckily, a second hand copy was tracked down for a couple of quid. Result.

In a nutshell, it's the sequel to Guitar Man, in which a mid 30s-Hodgkinson sets out to learn guitar with help from various masters he's able to call on through his dayjob as a journalist. Subsequently, and somewhat obviously, he decides to write a song. And this is the story behind this book, with the added clause that he intends to record a single by a set deadline.

Lawrence appears in the first chapter, and my fears were confirmed when he's shown to be living the life of a junkie in a tiny flat, constantly in fear of being thrown out and onto the street. Hodgkinson loses points right away for describing Felt as "fey", but Lawrence seems to take to him (though the author is honest enough to admit he may just like the company) and acts as a kind of songwriting guide throughout the book.

Elsewhere, he gets 'lessons' from the likes of XTC's Andy Partridge, Bert Jansch and Richard Hawley, as well as picking the brains of songwriting genius' like Lamont Dozier, Hal David and Ray Davies, the latter somewhat predictably turning out to be a bit of a distant type. In between, he squabbles with the friend he wants to co-write with and his wife, who he wants to sing on the single.

Despite the author coming across as a bit of a dick at many points, Song Man is a decent read because of the songwriters interviewed. A highlight for me was when we come across Jake Holmes, who recorded a couple of albums in the late 60s that sold to nobody, but also wrote a song called Dazed and Confused, later to be ripped off by Jimmy Page. Hodgkinson is surprised to find he works in a very plush office/studio complex: it turns out he turned his hand to advertising jingles, notably the "Gillette - the best a man can get" riff, which has doubtless kept him in guitar strings for the past 30 years.

At the conclusion, the narrator gets his song penned and recorded, with help with a sympathetic friend who owns a studio. Lawrence is evicted from his flat and is living in a hostel in London's east end, constantly in fear of being mugged. Given this book was written in 2007, I hope the last three years have seen Lawrence - one of my favourite songwriters - get back on his feet, off the junk and living with a bit of security.

Meet the New Boss

Generally, I'm not too keen on talking politics on this here blog, because there's so many people out there who can convey what I might think a whole lot better. But today, someone called Ed Milliband became leader of the Labour Party.

First of all, I was surprised to see he's 40 years old, when he looks about 18. The fact that he was competing against his own brother conjured up a nightmare vision in my head that there's a lab somewhere creating politicians. However, a wee bit of research shows his pop was some kind of Marxist, which is interesting enough. What is a bit depressing is that he seems another one of those whose entire life has been geared towards being a politician, rather then someone who's spent a bit of time in the real world with us proles first.

Nevertheless, Eddie can afford to chill the fuck out for the next few years. He can watch the current government fuck things up and devise some kind of plan to get into power, the only worry being his big brother having some kind of storp. Whether it'll make any difference to likes of myself, probably not. It'd be interesting if Ted decided to take the Labour Party back to some kind of socialist agenda, but I'm guessing we're more likely to see a full Beatles reunion.

In a way, it's strange to think that I've never voted Labour, given that I come from a town where, as my mother said, "if they put a donkey up for Labour, it'd still get in". My great-grandmother was involved in the party some 100 years ago and the idea of voting for anybody else would have doubtless never crossed my granddad's mind. Yet the world has changed, and Labour became New Labour, the graveyard for the dreams and aspirations for many a person.

Perhaps Miliband will surprise me. I'd like that to happen. I'm sure there's millions of left-wing voters like myself who'd love to back the Labour party again, especially after the Lib Dems jumped into bed with the Tories. He's got time to impress us, if nothing else it'll be interesting to see what direction he turns.

Youth Worshippers

Yesterday, between finishing work and meeting a friend, I mooched in a record store to kill some time. Within about ten seconds, this song started that instantly grabbed me. Questioning the chap behind the counter, he told me it was Saturdays = Youth by M83, and advised me to hang around a while to hear more of it.

Being in one of my more impulsive moods, I got through two more songs before hanging the cash over. The song that grabbed me, Kim & Jessie, sounds fabulous. Synth hooks, dreamy vocals and a great chorus that doesn't wear thin even after numerous repeats at the end.

Hearing it was probably the only way this would happen, as the album cover was enough to make me think "hmm... no" - a collection of angsty looking teenagers with fancy haircuts. Indeed, it seems that the general theme of the album is a celebration by head honcho Anthony Gonzalez of those years between 13-19. Again, if I'd known this beforehand, it would have put me off somewhat.

The reason for this is that my own teenage years where, for the most part, completely bloody awful, and any kind of romanticism of that period of our lives tends to bring snorts of derision from me. And I suspect anyone brought up in a town like mine (small, stuck in the middle of nowhere) spent the latter part of childhood sat in their room wanting to be older, so they could get the fuck away to somewhere else.

Certainly this was the case for me. I was spotty, skint and stuck at school - the main thing keeping me going was the thought I'd soon be old enough to a) not live with my parents b) drive a car and c) get served in the pub. The latter actually occurred pretty early: when you're 6ft 4in tall by the age of 15, it's not tricky to get a beer. At least on the rare occasions I actually had £1.50 or so spare.

For similar reasons, I always hated those soppy dramas based on teenagers that tried to confront "issues". Dawson's Creek in particular was the kind of thing that made me think the Trenchcoat Mafia might have been onto something. Groups of irritatingly attractive actors, moping in constantly autumnal settings, usually having lots of sex. And they always seemed to live in pleasant middle class areas, with big houses and cars bought for them by their parents.

Perhaps the problem is that there's never been much of an accurate portrayal of what counts as normal adolescence for most people, primarily for the reason is that it's so fucking dull and it takes a very talented soul to make that mundane existence into something entertaining: Sue Townsend's seminal early Adrian Mole books winning the prize for that one.

Despite these misgivings over apparent lyrical content, it doesn't get too much in the way of Saturdays = Youth. It's rare for me to enjoy modern music, but my appreciation of this is doubtless down to the 80s style synth tones and spaced out atmospheres that recall early Slowdive. Impressive stuff, and I'd go as far to say Kim & Jessie is my favourite single since Please Stand Up by British Sea Power.

As Strange as a Conspiracy

Ask people to name a 80s band with a mono-monikored frontman who dealt in lyrics of loneliness and angst, backed by a genius guitarist and most times you'd get the Smiths as an answer. But they were beaten to it by a Birmingham outfit called Felt, who released ten albums and ten singles in ten years.

Singer/guitarist/songwriter Lawrence (who ditched his surname) first appeared when he released the single Index, a low-fi affair that featured only himself. Soon afterwards, he met guitarist Maurice Deebank. Classically trained, he apparently had little knowledge of the bands Lawrence loved, such as Television, whose Tom Verlaine his singing style would draw comparisons to. Around this time, the only other constant to the line-up, drummer Gary Ainge, signed up. Strangely, he'd become the only person to appear on every Felt album.

The first two LPs, Crumbling The Antiseptic Beauty and The Splendour of Fear were both six songs long, with lengthy instrumental numbers dominated by Deebank's intricate playing mixing with Lawrence's downbeat vocals and minimal post-punk structures. More accessible moments like The World Is As Soft As Lace and Fortune were echos of their approach to singles - which were often short, poppy affairs, such as Penelope Tree and Sunlight Bathed The Golden Glow.

Throughout this time, Deebank would often quit the band for periods, only to eventually return. Bassists would also come and go, and Felt maintained only a cult appeal, being only on the small Cherry Red label and not having a strong work ethic when it came to touring or playing the media game. The singer once noted that "One interview a year is enough as long as it's a good one and the photos are right."

Things seemed to be going forward when they recorded The Strange Idols Pattern and Other Short Stories with producer John Leckie. An album of short, sharp songs that showcased Deebank's wonderful talents as well as Lawrence's sardonic view of life ("we may as well stay in our rooms until we die"). While it still didn't make the charts, it set a marker down for what might happen.

It's follow up, Ignite The Seven Cannons saw Felt recruit local keyboard genius Martin Duffy and getting the Cocteau Twin's Robin Guthrie on board as producer. With the latter came Elizabeth Fraser to provide additional vocals to what would be Felt's one brush with the mainstream. Primitive Painters sounded like nothing they'd did before (or would do): a clean verse/chorus structure, a epic guitar solo and Lawrence singing that we should "see my trail of disgrace/it's enough to scare the whole human race".

Shortly after a tour with the Cocteaus, Deebank left for the last time. He'd married a woman he'd met in Barcelona and would barely be heard of again, outside co-writing a St Etienne b-side. Years ago, I read an interview in which Richard Hawley said one of his fellow applicants to be in Morrissey's backing band in the late 80s was Deebank. I can't help but feel Moz missed a trick there.

Now signed to the youthful Creation label and with a stable line up (Lawrence, Duffy, Ainge and bassist Marco Thomas), it might have been the time to aim for the charts. Instead, Lawrence insisted on releasing a 20 minute long album of instrumentals called Let The Snakes' Heads Crinkle Themselves to Death. Then came The Ballad of the Band single, a moment of genius in which Lawrence first insults his former bandmate Deebank - "Where were you when I wanted to work?/You're still in bed, you're a total jerk" - before accepting that part of the problem is himself - "It's all my fault, I'm to blame/ain't go no money, ain't go no fame".

Following up a classic single needed a classic album, especially after the Snakes' Heads weirdness. So it proved with Forever Breaths The Lonely Word. Dominated by Duffy's organ lines and jangling guitars, Lawrence wrote a flawless album (the first without any instrumental numbers) that matched anything that the Smiths were doing at the time. It's centrepiece, the magnificent All The People I Like Are Those That Are Dead is as brilliant as it's title.

However, with Lawrence still being something of an eccentric (stories of his odd behaviour are many), the breakthrough never happened. Subsequent albums Poem Of The River and The Pictorial Jackson Review were both great - the latter featuring one half Lawrence songs, one half Duffy solo on piano. Duffy would also dominate the ninth album, Train Above The City, on which Lawrence merely named the songs and didn't play a note.

By 1989, the ten year/album/single plan was almost complete. They left Creation, as the label was unable to release Me And a Monkey On The Moon by year's end. Produced by the late Adrian Borland, it was perhaps Lawrence's most personal work, starting with the mournful I Can't Make Love To You Anymore and covering subjects such as an experience of being molested as a child "because I looked so pretty".

After a final gig in Birmingham, that was it. Occasional mentions have been made of Felt in the media by the likes of Alan McGee and Stuart Murdoch from Belle and Sebastian, who is a huge fan. Martin Duffy has since enjoyed a very successful career in Primal Scream while Lawrence went back to glam rock with Denim for two albums, and has released occasional weird pop songs as Go-Kart Mozart. Talk of a documentary film, Lawrence of Belgravia, seems to have come to nothing. Last I read, he lives in a tiny flat in London and still dreams of writing a chart topper.

Life, Death and the Game

Despite thinking of myself as a big Manchester United fan, I'd never got round to reading A Strange Kind of Glory, journalist Eamon Dunphy's biography of Matt Busby, first released in 1991, despite the praise from many other supporters of it being "essential reading".

To be honest, I'd long regarded Dunphy as a bit of a gobshite from his appearances on Irish TV, where he always seemed to be slagging something or someone off, albeit often with justification. I had particularly enjoyed his slating of the United team before a European game against Roma in 2007. Stating Roma were a better class and dismissing United's chances, he was left looking a bit daft by the 7-1 result.

I'd also not been too impressed with his ghostwriting of Roy Keane's somewhat tedious autobiography, but when I caught sight of his Busby book at a friend's house last Sunday, it seemed harmless enough to take a look. A good move.

Dunphy was perhaps better placed than most journalists to write such a work. A professional footballer himself, good enough to play over 20 times for the Republic of Ireland, he'd started out as a youngster at Manchester United, though never making the first team. His own first hand experience of the goings on at the club give backing to the claims that some of his colleagues conspired to fix matches in the early 60s, an allegation new to me.

In terms of Busby, Dunphy does a sound job of explaining the man in the context of his background and upbringing. A Scottish Catholic, of Irish heritage, at a time of great sectarian prejudice, Busby seems to rise above it through the influence of his mother (his father being a victim of the First World War) and the freedom of the football pitch, on which he excelled and enabled him to escape a life down the coal mine when he signed for Manchester City as a 17 year old.

A point is made of young Matt's close relationship with his maternal grandfather, an Irishman and something of a lovable rogue. Dunphy suggests that the generally strait-laced Busby (whose only true vice would be gambling) enjoyed the company of such characters and would often less judgemental - hence his tolerance of the antics of George Best decades later.

The life of a footballer in the first half of the century is also laid out. Bound by a maximum wage and tied to clubs until they were no longer wanted or needed, players often ended up on the scrapheap. Billy Meredith, the legendary figure of both Manchester City and United, arguably the first superstar of English football, played till he was nearly 50 but still died with little to his name in 1958.

Busby also noted the limitations of the managers of the time. After serving as a PT instructor during the Second World War, he agreed to take the job as manager of Manchester United on the condition he had complete control of team affairs. Interfering directors were not to be tolerated. With a sympathetic chairman, he got his way. Recruiting Jimmy Murphy as his assistant, he set to work at rebuilding a club with little money, a bombed out ground and who hadn't won a trophy in over 30 years.

When the book reaches the 50s, and the origins of what become the "Busby Babes", it's great to read stories of young players like Bobby Charlton, Duncan Edwards and Wilf McGuinness spending evenings at the cinema or the skate rink. This is the romanticised side of the game back then - players doing it for love, crowds full of passionate local support etc etc. However, Dunphy also explains the world of illegal payments to parents by clubs to persuade them to let their son sign to them over rivals.

Even Busby himself is shown to be ruthless, intolerant of any dissent. Charlie Mitten and Johnny Morris, two vital cogs in the team of the late 1940s, are cast out when they step out of line with no mercy. Throughout his management, United - despite being the best supported and amongst the most successful team of the time - are paying star names well below what they would receive elsewhere.

The tales of the 50s team, enjoyable as they are, are tainted by the knowledge of what will happen next. The Munich Air Disaster is the obvious sharp turn from which the story changes. Busby changes, physically and mentally. No longer the tracksuit manager of before, he takes a more backstage role. Dunphy writes of personal experience of other players showing little or no respect for their manager, with the tide finally turning to the Hollywood ending of the 1968 European Cup triumph. Busby retired a year later.

But as every good United fan know, the story doesn't end there. The club went into steep decline afterwards, recruiting three managers in quick succession and suffering relegation in 1974. Jimmy Murphy, after years of 70 hour weeks, is cast aside with no reward. Busby, having spent years plotting for local businessman Louis Edwards to snare the chairman position - with the apparent agreement their sons would eventually take positions on the board - sees his choice renege on the promise. Edwards junior would later take control of the club and oversee the floatation on the stock market that some would argue has led to current problems.

A compelling book, the best praise I can give is that I read it at every possible moment, it surely is as essential reading as people will tell you for an insight into the man who made Manchester United what they are today. Betrayal, power, greed - sometimes real lives are more exciting than fiction.

Decisions, Decisions

I'd noticed Alpha Protocol a few weeks ago while browsing a games shop, and it's box art proclaiming it as "The Espionage RPG" caught my attention.

See, while I like some aspects of RPG games, mainly the in-depth storylines and the need for more thought than action, I've never been all that into the more traditional elements such as non-human playable characters. Hence why I prefer Final Fantasy VII and VIII over IX.

That Alpha Protocol was set on Earth, in pretty much the modern age was an appeal. A quick check of some reviews showed that it had taken a right battering in some quarters on it's release back in Spring, but when I saw it going for £15, I elected to take a punt.

To start, the only element on RPG here is the fact you 'level up' your character and build his skills up over time, meaning that while you may not be able to hit the proverbial cow's arse with a banjo at the start, focus on your rifle skills and you'll soon by adding an extra hole in the head to terrorists at 500 yards, albeit at the expense of other skills such as stealth or hand-to-hand combat.

In theory, this allows the player to play to their strengths, but on my first run through, in which I built up my stealth/sneaking skills to such a level that I was essentially able to slice and dice my way through groups of enemies without raising an eyebrow.

Which brings me to the big criticisms of Alpha Protocol. The actual game engine is absolute tosh. It feels very previous generation and almost behind Metal Gear Solid 2, which came out around eight years ago. A case of point: sneaking in a hotel lobby area, I hid behind a reception desk and leaping over the obstacle would have enable me to get past a pesky guard. Yet the game didn't allow me the option of this. This may have been fine on a PS2 game, but Sega really need to buck their ideas up if this is the best they can do.

Where Alpha Protocol does succeed, for me, is the story. Despite having to play as a pillock of biblical proportions, the game does a good job of making it feel like your style of play is being noted. Characters will comment on your previous actions and the way you dealt with situations, which is always a satisfying touch.

The box art makes the comment that "Your weapon is choice" and it's true that throughout the game, you're forced into a large number of big calls. Do you save your friend, or disarm a bomb that will kill hundreds of innocent strangers? Execute a rival at the first chance or try to press them for information? It does make for an interesting storyline and this gamer at least found himself wanting to get through the next mission to see what would happen next. Which it turned out was a pretty typical fare of global conspiracy brought out by the greed of corporations.

Of course, the virtue of "choice" only holds up if my decisions have any real effect on the conclusion of the game. On my (just concluded) first run through, I attempted to take the most ethical stance possible (in my view, at least) by not ventilating anyone's body unless absolutely pushed. The true question of the game's mechanics is whether if I play as a complete homicidal maniac, I'll get a totally different experience. Only one way to find out...

It's History

Last week, while slobbing out at the abode of a good friend, she played me the EP/Album or whatever it was by Freebass, the band put together by Peter Hook, Mani and Andy Rourke, with some guy who used to be in Haven doing the vocals.

It was harmless enough stuff, but I got bored enough by the end to press the "stop" button and put on some Echo and the Bunnymen while my friend was outside having a tab. The reason I bring this up now is that the whole project, having been years in planning, apparently, has all come crashing down in somewhat messy fashion.

Firstly, Rourke elected to up camp to New York. Now, Mani and Hooky have had something of a tiff, with Failsworth's favourite son accusing Salford's own of profiting from his dead mates (Tony Wilson and Ian Curtis, I assume). Ouch.

My own personal stance is that Hook is obviously free to do what he likes. As a man whose life was changed by listening to Joy Division some 13 years ago, it does make me a little sad to see him doing shows where he performs Unknown Pleasures with some mates and his son but, hey, I didn't pay to watch it and it's his legacy anyways.

(Incidentally, it's funny to me to note that when I first put down Closer on my parents' turntable that sunny August afternoon in 1997, they were barely known to those without a keen interest in music. They certainly didn't get much ink in the press except maybe the odd mention of Ian Curtis' suicide. Their rise to being firmly established in the rock canon alongside the Beatles, Stones, Sex Pistols etc etc has probably made some people very rich.)

Through the Mani/Hook spat, my attention was brought to this blog - http://fuc51.blogspot.com/ - and I've spent the evening reading through. The writer(s) make some very good points about the suffocating effect the past is having on the Manchester music scene. References to Joy Division, Smiths, Stone Roses, Happy Mondays and so on pepper the city in the same way, as many have noted, the Beatles do Liverpool.

No doubt there are a glut of great new bands around Manchester. In fact, I'd be willing to bet a few are at this very moment (10pm) playing to about 10 people in a city venue, ready to be told by a promoter he won't be booking them again. The question is whether the media (by stopping the lazy references to the past on any band from the Greater Manchester area) and the general public of Manchester are willing to get behind some positive change.

I'm not sure if there's any solution to the problem, if it even is such. Nightclubs such as South do a brisk business, it would seem, and anytime I've been past the FAC251, there seems to be plenty of student punters willing to pay up to dance away to the sounds of 1990. Perhaps, like with football, the people running things are happy to let things continue as they are as long as the cash flows in - that it's not healthy for the long-term future is an issue that needs quickly brushed under the carpet and held down with a pile of Special Edition Reissue CDs.

I could rant on, and I'm sure if a stranger reads this, they might think "DC, you're nowt but a whining get. Get up off your skinny arse and do something", to which I'd respond "piss off, you uncivil bastard" and hit them round the chops with a frozen loaf of bread. Then, when their nose had stopped bleeding, I'd tell them "see, I've done stuff before, and it came to zilch. But I'm trying again, I really am."

Where I Feel Safest of All

The other week, whilst lugging an old TV over to a friend's digs in Rochdale in the evening, I spent an unpleasant 20 minutes of so waiting to get on the motorway.

Nothing exciting in that, of course, but the thought that occurred to me, watching traffic crawl along both in and out of Manchester was "fucking hell, some people must do this every single day they go to work". Spending an hour or so a day chugging along at five mph, stopping and starting constantly.

I'm lucky in that where I work is a fairly smooth 15 minute drive. The prospect of timing that by four or five both ways every day would bring about a rapid decline in mental health, much as I love driving my car.

A few years ago, I did have to spend about three hours a day commuting, but at the time I was stuck on the buses. This does actually make it slightly more tolerable, as at least you can read a book or drift off into a daydream. In a car, you have to constantly keep eyes out and your foot on the clutch, which is quite frankly a bit tiring.

In conclusion: I'm writing this to remind myself that while my job may be incredibly dull, it does have some positives.

Future Shock

After a determined effort over the last week, I finally got round to completing Fallout 3 yesterday, giving myself a nice glow of self-satisfaction that you get from completing such an epic masterpiece of a game.

I had bought it maybe around 18 months ago, and put in a good 50 hours in completing it first time round. But then the "Game of the Year" version come out, with five add-on packs, giving me an excuse to go through it all again and pick up on stuff I'd missed before. At the conclusion of the final mission of the "Broken Steel" add-on, I'd logged 80 hours in, breaking the 78 hour record from Final Fantasy VII.

The game deserves such a large amount of attention due to the massive detail found throughout the world you inhabit, which is a huge reproduction of a 300 years post-Nuclear war Washington DC, referred to by characters as the Capital Wastelands. To surmise the backstory: you've been brought up in the safety of a "vault" underneath the ruins of civilisation by your loving Doctor Dad (voiced by Liam Neeson) after the mother dies at your birth. After a tutorial acting as bits of your childhood, Pop elects to scarper from the Vault and, obviously, you have to go follow.

The world of the Wasteland is a pretty bleak one - giant mutated cockroaches, scorpions and bears roam the land along with gangs of human raiders who want nothing more than to chop you up and steal your gear. More sinister are the giant 'Super Mutants', who look like skinhead versions of the Incredible Hulk and whose sinister origins and plans are revealed throughout the game.

Though there is a core storyline that makes up the spine of the game, it also allows you the option to wander round the DC ruins, visiting settlements and either helping or hindering the good (and bad) citizens you come across. Central to how people react with you is the "Karma" system: do nice things and you get good karma, which means certain people are more likely to help you. Act like a complete bastard by robbing and murdering, and the same people aren't going to welcome you with open arms, but others may well have work for you.

For some reason, I found myself always trying to do the "right" thing by people and so missed out on some missions, such as helping out a slaving ring capture some new 'recruits'. Instead, I opted to blast them off the face of the earth in a rain of righteous shotgun shells.

Fallout 3 isn't a game for those who aren't keen on bleakness and a sense of existential despair. There's very little happiness or joy, and most the people you meet appear to just want to get by without being murdered/enslaved/eaten. In this context, doing someone a favour and having them show gratitude does actually provide a sense of well-being, until you realise this isn't real life and then you feel a bit daft.

While the 'original' ending did strike me as a tad unsatisfactory (and sudden), with the add-on packs, matters conclude far better and also allow you the option of wandering the lands post-game to pick up on missed bonuses, missions and other distractions. This isn't so much a draw for me, but for those of you (hello, Terr) who like to gain every achievement and trophy, it's a real boon.

Playing Fallout 3 was something of an experience, and at the moment it sits in my "Top Five Games Evah!" list. Casual gamers may find it too deep and requiring of too much effort, but anyone with an interest in story and immersion should pick this up - and if they haven't already, and it has been out a couple of years now, so what's the excuse?

280281 (The Conclusion)

And we have arrived, at last, at the top 10 UK singles from the day I was born. Excited? Then you should get a life. In the meantime:

#10 - The Oldest Swinger In Town - Fred Wedlock
Another song that gains a first ever listen to these ears and one listen was far too many. Comedy records, for the most part, are complete and utter shit. This doesn't buck the trend.

The jist is some old codger going out to the clubs to pick up young lassies and getting up to all sorts of mischief. It's terrible beyond words and it smacks of the kind of novelty thrash that Simon Bates or Noel Edmonds probably played constantly in that stupid 'ironic' way they did to make it a baffling huge hit.

#9 - Southern Freeez - Freeez
Freeez would have a much bigger (and much better) hit a couple of years later with IOU, but this was their first shot at the top.

Taking cues from the kind of commercial pop-jazz that George Benson had made big bucks from, it's easy to make the jump to assume this was the soundtrack to wanky cocktail parties in the London jet set. Vaguely funky bass and percussion fight it out with synths and smooth vocals singing meaningless lyrics. It's never made quite clear what "doing the Southern Freeez" is, exactly. Harmless enough, I suppose.

#8 - (Do The) Huckleback - Coast to Coast
As I'd never heard this before, I was chancing my arm it was some kind of floor-filler 80s funk number of the ilk of the Gap Band further down the charts.

How wrong I was. Instead, it's a kind of insight into a nightmare world where Showaddywaddy were as influential as punk. Honking Bill Haley-style sax careers all over the place as we're urged to dance whatever style the band doubtless demonstrated if they got to perform this on Top of the Pops.

I'd imagine this ties in with the Stray Cats in people getting retro, though this is a far more innocent offering - I doubt the Huckleback involves doing anything vaguely sexual and would be perfect to the kids to shuffle around to whilst on holiday at Butlins in Ayr or Pontins at Southport (shudders at childhood memories).

#7 - The Return of the Los Palmas Seven - Madness
First, I'll come right out and say that the only CD I had when I got my first stereo was Divine Madness, so therefore this band will always have a soft spot in my heart. And indeed, many of the songs still stand up very well today.

This, however, isn't one of their classics. For one, it's missing the lyrical wit and observation that, say, House of Fun or Baggy Trousers has, or even the irresistible dance beat of their other big kind-of-instrumental hit, One Step Beyond. What can be said is that it's the sound of a band stretching their wings from their roots, and Madness were lucky that their audience followed while others haven't been so. This was their seventh single, and it peaked at this very position. Funny, that.

#6 - Jealous Guy - Roxy Music
Labelled "A Tribute" on the single sleeve, this was on it's way to being Roxy's sole chart topping single. Might have been nicer if had been Street Life or All I Want Is You, but those are the breaks.

My main feeling of Roxy is that my mother was a huge fan, based on having a crush of Bryan Ferry as a young lady. This caused a bit of a row over dinner one Sunday when she insisted to my Elvis-loving dad and brother that she always preferred Washington's finest to the fat warbler. Naturally, I took her side.

As "A Tribute" goes, it's harmless enough. Ferry's croon suits the self pity of the lyrics, and yet the main feeling is that Lennon's original, recorded about a decade beforehand, has aged far, far better.

#5 - St Valentine's Day Massacre - Motörhead/Girlschool
Around this time, Motörhead were at the top of their game, still riding high on the Ace of Spades single and album. Teaming up with all-girl heavy rock band Girlschool must have seemed a good idea, and so it proved with another big hit.

The lead track is a cover of an old Johnny Kidd song, Please Don't Touch, and it's what you'd expect: 100mph thrash with Lemmy growling along with his female counterpart. It's not my cup of tea by a long way (perhaps due to a total lack of amphetamine in my system) but it's quite fun in it's own way. Interesting to note that Motörhead's drummer at the time, "Philthy Animal" Taylor was on a rest at the time, due to a pub-related mishap involved lifting an Irishman as high as he could.

#4 - Woman - John Lennon
Exhibit (a) in the case that McCartney wasn't the soppy one in the Beatles is this piece of candy floss fluff inspired by John's other half.

This was on it's way down from being a chart topper, but you have to wonder how it would have done had Mark Chapman elected to use that gun just on himself. As slush goes, this is right at the top of the cup, as our man apologises again as he never "meant to cause you sorrow or pain". It's pretty much covering the same ground as Jealous Guy, but without a Phil Spector production around it.

Not that the song is hateable, it's just a bit anonymous. I once heard it playing in a supermarket in Estonia, and that kind of seems it's natural habitat.

#3 - I Surrender - Rainbow
Another ex-member of Deep Purple (see Gillian way back down the chart), only guitarist Richie Blackmore scores the huge hit, which I wouldn't be surprised if he reminded his singer about on those DP reunion tours.

This is the kind of thing for which the term "AOR" was invented for. I'm convinced that whoever wrote it is still cashing in large royalty cheques from the amount of radio play this surely gets. It's all built around hooks, and the lyrics must have taken all of about five minutes to knock together. But yeah, pretty cack, really.

#2 - Vienna - Ultravox
I've never quite known what to make of this song, as I have the vague suspicion it's not actually about anything, despite the pretenses it carries with that grandiose arrangement.

Ultravox were pioneers of the whole synth sound back in the late 70s, before Gary Numan stole all their thunder. This may well have been a last desperate throw of the dice at the time, helped by dashes of yer-actual piano showing that they actually play to refute those rumours about the new wave of synth-poppers being all style and no substance.

Which this song may well be. It sounds pretty, but it's also overblown to fuck and part of me always want to laugh at the chorus line of "This means nothing to me, oh, Vienna!" just for it's sheer pomp.

#1 - Shaddup Your Face - Joe Dolce Music Theatre
And after all that, we come to this. Is it a big a disappointment to you as it was to me? The day I was dragged out into this world, the most popular song around was by some wretched one-hit wonder putting on the dodgiest of dodgy Italian accents.

I could write more about this... but it's just crap, pure and simple. The joke doesn't have a chance to wear thin, because it's not funny in the first place. What were people thinking? I demand answers for this travesty!