Max Payne - silly name, great games. For the first two at least, and they were a long time ago. Indeed, it's been nearly a whole decade since we saw NYPD's finest in action. The comeback for his third run out has been highly publicised with adverts on TV and in cinemas, posters on bus shelters all over Manchester. I admit to being intrigued and buying it days after release. I completed it last night - so here's The Tedious World verdict.
So, we find our Max at something of a low ebb. Still understandably haunted by the murder of his wife and child, he's quit working for the Plod and retired to New Jersey where he embarks on a life where a good night is one spent washing down painkillers with a bottle of the hard stuff. Doubtless his habit worsened when he found out there was a terrible film put out in his name. Unfortunately, Max commits something of a social faux pas and has to quickly leave town. Luckily, an offer doing apparently easy bodyguard work in Sao Paulo, Brazil, comes up at the right time, and off he goes.
Thankfully for us, it's not that easy and before long, Max - the sorry sonofabitch - is caught up in all manner of carnage to which the only solution seems to be lots of gunplay. And what fun it is! Violence of the highest order is in store throughout, with not much time to breathe: when a game starts (like the first one, the story starts near the end) with the hero standing over a still-alive body that has lost an arm and been very well cooked from an explosion, ready to execute him, you know this isn't going to be a calming experience.
In the previous games, the use of bullet time was pretty much all there was to the action. Enter a room, see mooks, do a cool dive in bullet time while emptying your clips into their bodies. Job done. Now, it's a wee bit more complicated. Going in face first against five well-equipped bods wearing body armour is only going to end up with a rapid course of facial realignment through gun surgery. Essentially, you need to use cover to time your moves. Naturally, this can slow the combat down by the pace of the older games, but also adds tension of using your bullet-time at the exact right moment to emerge from behind a pillar and quickly dispatch a bit of lead into head.
A great feature is the slow motion shots of the final kills in an area: fire off the round and watch it glide through the air before it makes contact with the target, blood covering nearby surfaces while the body collapses limply. Yes, I'm probably a bit sick in the head to enjoy this so much.
All the same, Max is beyond burnt-out, the screen jarring and blurring to reflect his pickled state of mind. Neck a painkiller at a bad moment and it's a lot harder to get a clear bead on anyone. Diving into a room in slow-mo might look awesome, but our poor hero isn't as young as he used to be and he'll slowly get back to his feet - a fatal mistake if timed wrong.
The main strength for this gamer, however, is the story. Rockstar have a reputation on this front from the Grand Theft Auto series and they carry it off here in style. Mixing the insane action set-pieces from Hollywood shooters with a character straight out of a Humphrey Bogart flick: indeed, the first few chapters see our hero well under the influence of a few over the eight. Luckily, James McCarthy once again does a top-notch job voicing Max, being able to bring pathos and plenty of humour to the proceedings.
All these factors make that this is pretty much a totally linear game not a huge issue. Normally, I'll get frustrated by such games from feeling limited in my control. With Max Payne 3, you're having way too much fun watching Max go from one mess to another, from the penthouses and nightclubs of the rich to the extreme poverty of the slums, stumbling his way through hell motivated apparently only by sheer stubbornness.
One line that tickled me immensely is when Max reflects that he and the woman he is protecting from an endless stream of goons aren't exactly a SEAL team. Given his bodycount over three games must be well into four figures, he's a bit hard on himself. Mr Payne is nothing less than a human killing machine of the highest order, mowing down masses of helpless thugs with no help, taking insane risks fuelled only by large amounts of Scotch and pharmaceuticals. Top man!
A highly recommend experience in my book then, and I've not even touched the multi-player mode, which I'm told is pretty handy. The tourist board in Sao Paulo may want to give this a miss though...
Wednesday, 30 May 2012
Sunday, 27 May 2012
Plenty of Gaul
On a trip back home, my mother (for whose 60th birthday I was there) presented me with a box. It's part of a gradual moving of my stuff from my old bedroom and the attic into my current abode. This is taking the best part of ten years, so far. Should be finished by 2025, I reckon.
Anyways, in this box was a load of old football programmes from my youthful habit of buying football programmes. They didn't have to be related to the team I liked - I had a load of early 80s Watford, West Ham and Sheffield United ones for some reason.
But more importantly, all my Asterix comics were in there. Happy, happy, joy, joy! I can't remember exactly how I got into these wonderful books, though I guess that my parents may have had something to do with it, probably my dad, who has always been a history buff. To the uninitiated, they centre around the eponymous hero, a Gaul living in 50 BC. Julies Caesar has invaded all of Gaul bar one small village, holding out with the aid of a magic potion brewed by the druid Getafix - something I could have done with a few doses of the last few days, let me tell you.
Naturally, various adventures occur that see our hero and his best friend, Obelix, travel across Europe, the Middle East and even America, often trying to foil the plans of the Romans to finally see off the troublesome Gauls.
Two things struck me reading them over again. One is the superb quality of the art by Uderzo - the level of detail in some frames is amazing. Secondly is how that now I'm older, I get so many more of the jokes. The six year old me probably wasn't aware of the humour of Caesar telling Brutus to put away a knife he's idly playing with or "You'll do yourself an injury" or references to someone being "sent to Coventrium".
Though Goscinny wrote the original French texts, huge credit must go to Anthea Bell and Derek Hockridge, who did the English translations. This involved renaming a lot of characters to give them English related puns, like the fishmonger being called Unhygienix and the elder being Geriatrix. Some of the best jokes involve the stereotypes of various countries: the British, for example, all have stiff upper lips, will end a battle to take high tea and say things like "Jolly good game, what?". The Swiss are portrayed as efficient and obsessed with keeping things clean while Corsicans are laid back but also prone to violent vendettas. All in good humour, of course, as the various parts of France are sent up too.
It was also only recently that I learned that the reason it begins raining in Asterix in Belgium is because Goscinny died while Uderzo was working on the art. The latter has spent the last 30+ years working on new strips alone.
There has also been various animated and real-action films, of mixed quality. The best (The Twelve Tasks of Asterix and Asterix in Britain) were excellent and I really must see if I can pick them up on DVD. And, of course, there's a related theme park near Paris that I always wanted to go to as a kid - denied, alas.
Anyways, in this box was a load of old football programmes from my youthful habit of buying football programmes. They didn't have to be related to the team I liked - I had a load of early 80s Watford, West Ham and Sheffield United ones for some reason.
But more importantly, all my Asterix comics were in there. Happy, happy, joy, joy! I can't remember exactly how I got into these wonderful books, though I guess that my parents may have had something to do with it, probably my dad, who has always been a history buff. To the uninitiated, they centre around the eponymous hero, a Gaul living in 50 BC. Julies Caesar has invaded all of Gaul bar one small village, holding out with the aid of a magic potion brewed by the druid Getafix - something I could have done with a few doses of the last few days, let me tell you.
Naturally, various adventures occur that see our hero and his best friend, Obelix, travel across Europe, the Middle East and even America, often trying to foil the plans of the Romans to finally see off the troublesome Gauls.
Two things struck me reading them over again. One is the superb quality of the art by Uderzo - the level of detail in some frames is amazing. Secondly is how that now I'm older, I get so many more of the jokes. The six year old me probably wasn't aware of the humour of Caesar telling Brutus to put away a knife he's idly playing with or "You'll do yourself an injury" or references to someone being "sent to Coventrium".
Though Goscinny wrote the original French texts, huge credit must go to Anthea Bell and Derek Hockridge, who did the English translations. This involved renaming a lot of characters to give them English related puns, like the fishmonger being called Unhygienix and the elder being Geriatrix. Some of the best jokes involve the stereotypes of various countries: the British, for example, all have stiff upper lips, will end a battle to take high tea and say things like "Jolly good game, what?". The Swiss are portrayed as efficient and obsessed with keeping things clean while Corsicans are laid back but also prone to violent vendettas. All in good humour, of course, as the various parts of France are sent up too.
It was also only recently that I learned that the reason it begins raining in Asterix in Belgium is because Goscinny died while Uderzo was working on the art. The latter has spent the last 30+ years working on new strips alone.
There has also been various animated and real-action films, of mixed quality. The best (The Twelve Tasks of Asterix and Asterix in Britain) were excellent and I really must see if I can pick them up on DVD. And, of course, there's a related theme park near Paris that I always wanted to go to as a kid - denied, alas.
Wednesday, 23 May 2012
Aches and Paynes
There's reasons I haven't posted for a few days now:
a) Is that I was up back in the homeland last weekend, as my dearest Mother was 60. So I was busy engaging in drinking, eating and other merriment.
b) Is that on my return, I swiftly came down with a sodding cold which has left me weak as a newborn kitten. That the weather has suddenly switched to "blazing hot" isn't helping.
c) Finally, any energy I do have is being conserved to play Max Payne 3. But I'll endeavour to post something this weekend.
a) Is that I was up back in the homeland last weekend, as my dearest Mother was 60. So I was busy engaging in drinking, eating and other merriment.
b) Is that on my return, I swiftly came down with a sodding cold which has left me weak as a newborn kitten. That the weather has suddenly switched to "blazing hot" isn't helping.
c) Finally, any energy I do have is being conserved to play Max Payne 3. But I'll endeavour to post something this weekend.
Thursday, 17 May 2012
Master of the Domain
As described in a previous post, the humble ZX Spectrum was my introduction to the fab world of video games. The next step up was the Sega Master System. My childhood best friend* had one and our games of Great Golf and Enduro Racer made me feel envious. Needless to say, I was a happy wee bunny the Christmas Day my parents were kind enough to stump up £99.99 as a present to me. That really was a fair wedge in them days.
As we have now with XBox vs Playstation, the battlelines of the time were either Master System or the Nintendo Entertainment System (NES). For me, there was no competition: I mean, look at the faithful Sega below.
Good shape, nice black and red colour scheme. The NES, by contrast, looked like Commander Data's lunchbox. It also was a world away from the Spectrum gaming I'd been used to: no more loading times, lots of colour and better sounds.
Of course, this all came with a cost. I was used to paying £1.99 for a game, a month's pocket money. Even the cheapest games for this cost a tenner, and they tended to be of the atrocious quality of Transbot. Luckily, my Master System had Hang-On and Safari Hunt built in and ma and pa had managed to swing a deal somewhere so that California Games and Chase HQ were in the bundle.
The latter wasn't all that cop, but the former was an absolute classic. It looked great, sounded great and the range of events (Half-Pipe skateboarding, foot bag, surfing, skating, BMX, frisbee throwing) provided plenty of variety, especially if you played with a bunch of mates. I especially liked the BMX event, which allowed me to do tricks that in the real world would have resulted in a lengthy spell in a wheelchair.
But what really gives me a nostalgic tear in the eye is the box art of the early games. Take a look at this one, for World Soccer.
Here we see a disembodied leg, perhaps a distant relation of Thing from the Addams Family, trap the ball with no shortage of skill. The game itself was pretty limited: you could only play one-off games from two of eight teams (from memory: Great Britain (!), France, Germany, Italy, USA, Japan, Brazil and Argentina - spot the two put in for marketing purposes) or have a penalty shoot-out. Still, hours of fun at the time, especially when you pulled off a goal from an overhead kick.
The packaging on these early games was a long shot from the mess of images you get now. On the back, you'd have two screenshots and a brief description of the game. Essentially, you were taking a chance with your money and it wasn't until the 1990s rolled around and stuff like Sonic the Hedgehog put the kitchen sink on the box that it changed. All the same, it has a certain comforting uniformity about it - as I get when I hear that little jingle you got when you fired the console up.
I never moved on to the Master System's successor, the Mega Drive. I lost interest in gaming outside the Championship Manager series (an addiction to which doubtless left my friends and I with no time to do much else anyways) until I went to university and discovered the wonders of Playstation. All the same, the old girl lies in a bag under my bed, almost tempting me to fire it up one more time. Or I would, if the damn controller wasn't knackered...
*A few months ago, our mothers met in our hometown and the news was passed to me that he was living in Kidderminster, had recently got married and was expecting to become a father. That made me feel old.
As we have now with XBox vs Playstation, the battlelines of the time were either Master System or the Nintendo Entertainment System (NES). For me, there was no competition: I mean, look at the faithful Sega below.
Of course, this all came with a cost. I was used to paying £1.99 for a game, a month's pocket money. Even the cheapest games for this cost a tenner, and they tended to be of the atrocious quality of Transbot. Luckily, my Master System had Hang-On and Safari Hunt built in and ma and pa had managed to swing a deal somewhere so that California Games and Chase HQ were in the bundle.
The latter wasn't all that cop, but the former was an absolute classic. It looked great, sounded great and the range of events (Half-Pipe skateboarding, foot bag, surfing, skating, BMX, frisbee throwing) provided plenty of variety, especially if you played with a bunch of mates. I especially liked the BMX event, which allowed me to do tricks that in the real world would have resulted in a lengthy spell in a wheelchair.
But what really gives me a nostalgic tear in the eye is the box art of the early games. Take a look at this one, for World Soccer.
Here we see a disembodied leg, perhaps a distant relation of Thing from the Addams Family, trap the ball with no shortage of skill. The game itself was pretty limited: you could only play one-off games from two of eight teams (from memory: Great Britain (!), France, Germany, Italy, USA, Japan, Brazil and Argentina - spot the two put in for marketing purposes) or have a penalty shoot-out. Still, hours of fun at the time, especially when you pulled off a goal from an overhead kick.
The packaging on these early games was a long shot from the mess of images you get now. On the back, you'd have two screenshots and a brief description of the game. Essentially, you were taking a chance with your money and it wasn't until the 1990s rolled around and stuff like Sonic the Hedgehog put the kitchen sink on the box that it changed. All the same, it has a certain comforting uniformity about it - as I get when I hear that little jingle you got when you fired the console up.
I never moved on to the Master System's successor, the Mega Drive. I lost interest in gaming outside the Championship Manager series (an addiction to which doubtless left my friends and I with no time to do much else anyways) until I went to university and discovered the wonders of Playstation. All the same, the old girl lies in a bag under my bed, almost tempting me to fire it up one more time. Or I would, if the damn controller wasn't knackered...
*A few months ago, our mothers met in our hometown and the news was passed to me that he was living in Kidderminster, had recently got married and was expecting to become a father. That made me feel old.
Monday, 14 May 2012
Duck
Bass players rarely get the credit they deserve, unless they're frontmen like Sting or Paul McCartney, and even then it's rare their actual musical part is applauded. No, in the main, it's only their fellow bassists that take note of a fine piece of work and understand what they bring to the song.
As one of those sad, lonely doe-eyed drifters that often hang about with musicians, I was therefore saddened to hear of the death of one of our legends. Donald "Duck" Dunn passed away in Tokyo yesterday shortly after playing a gig alongside his musical partner of many decades, Steve Cropper.
Together, with Booker T. Jones and Al Jackson Jnr, they made up Booker T and the MGs, he played on songs anyone with a vague awareness will have heard. Sam & Dave, Otis Redding and Eddie Floyd all benefited from his rocksteady playing, as did John Belushi and Dan Aykroyd when they asked him (and Cropper) to join their Blues Brothers Band. Duck starred in the subsequent film, puffing away on his pipe while bashing through Everybody Needs Somebody To Love.
When I was learning to play as a 16/17 year old, he was one of those players whose work I aspired to be like - not a guy you instantly notice but when you listen carefully, he's there holding down the groove and making the song as good as it can be. Coming from Memphis, he was exposed to and became proficient in many styles - he, along with Jones and Cropper (Jackson was murdered in the mid 70s), worked with Neil Young as well as the usual soul suspects. And all that is before you get into the large number of frankly superb Booker T and the MGs songs - cricket fans will have heard him on Soul Limbo, for many years the theme music for BBCs coverage.
Thanks for the tunes, Duck.
As one of those sad, lonely doe-eyed drifters that often hang about with musicians, I was therefore saddened to hear of the death of one of our legends. Donald "Duck" Dunn passed away in Tokyo yesterday shortly after playing a gig alongside his musical partner of many decades, Steve Cropper.
Together, with Booker T. Jones and Al Jackson Jnr, they made up Booker T and the MGs, he played on songs anyone with a vague awareness will have heard. Sam & Dave, Otis Redding and Eddie Floyd all benefited from his rocksteady playing, as did John Belushi and Dan Aykroyd when they asked him (and Cropper) to join their Blues Brothers Band. Duck starred in the subsequent film, puffing away on his pipe while bashing through Everybody Needs Somebody To Love.
When I was learning to play as a 16/17 year old, he was one of those players whose work I aspired to be like - not a guy you instantly notice but when you listen carefully, he's there holding down the groove and making the song as good as it can be. Coming from Memphis, he was exposed to and became proficient in many styles - he, along with Jones and Cropper (Jackson was murdered in the mid 70s), worked with Neil Young as well as the usual soul suspects. And all that is before you get into the large number of frankly superb Booker T and the MGs songs - cricket fans will have heard him on Soul Limbo, for many years the theme music for BBCs coverage.
Thanks for the tunes, Duck.
 |
| Top bass playing, top pipe smoking |
Saturday, 12 May 2012
Assembly Kit
Generally, I like to think I'm immune to hype. Sure, there's things I look forward to and on a couple of occasions I've bought games on opening day - Mass Effect 3 and Grand Theft Auto IV being the last two.
Despite that, I've been in a pant-moistening state of excitement about seeing Avengers Assemble and I finally got round to it yesterday. If, like me, you always state that Marvel kicks DC's dicks into the dust when it comes to having the best characters. I mean, OK, Batman is great, but Superman has always been dull and the most interesting characters they have - Green Arrow and the Question - are unlikely to get on the big screen.
Right - over the course of five films (Iron Man plus sequel, Captain America, Thor and The Incredible Hulk) it's been established that Nick Fury, agent of SHIELD, has been trying to put together a team to face any problems that may be beyond even his coping levels. Given he's played by Samuel L. Jackson, you best believe that would make it a very big problem indeed.
Which comes in the form of Loki, Thor's troublesome adopted brother, who has plans on taking over the world on behalf of some nasty alien folk. Some people, eh? The story follows a predictable path of recruiting all the team, but it works because we're not expecting Tolstoy here. We want action and a few jokes: and we get them in spades, including some top showdowns involving Thor against Iron Man and the Hulk.
Though I was never a Buffy fan, Joss Whedon obviously knows his stuff and puts in some pauses between all the smashing up. Captain America, being all about sacrifice and honour, isn't initially taken by the wisecracking rich boy that is Iron Man while Bruce Banner is a bag of nerves from knowing what happens if he gets a bit upset. Playing Banner, Mark Ruffalo has taken a lot of plaudits and rightly so - he even gets one of the best scenes that features a wonderful cameo from Harry Dean Stanton.
When his character does decide to go to town with his alter-ego, he does get a couple of the best moments. Including at least two where I thought the cinema audience I was part of was going to burst into applause. It helps, of course, that Tom Hiddlestone, who plays Loki, makes an ace baddie - hamming it up to great effect. Evoking the trope of "English accent = evil" too.
I'm sure there's plenty out there who have picked holes in the plot or certain aspects of the heroes. Maybe if the film hadn't worked on every other level, they'd have a point. But the only thing on my mind when I walked out was "man, I really want to see that again". It also made me want to go back and watch all the individual "prequel" flicks again and play through the Marvel Ultimate Alliance games as the Avengers.
If I had to pick one tiny flaw, and it's not a flaw as such, it's that I would have liked to have heard some references to Hank Pym, and maybe a passing reference to Spider-Man during the climatic battle in New York. But no matter - you should see this if you have any passing interest in the characters. I've been reliably informed that you don't even need to have seen the previous films in the series to enjoy it.
The amount of wedge the film has brought in, Joss Whedon may well be the hottest director in pop cinema at the moment. Where he goes next will be interesting, as will where they take this particular franchise next. Top marks to the bods at Marvel then - but can you please let Ryan Reynolds make the Deadpool film he really wants to? Also, will DC have the balls to do a Justice League film in answer, instead of yet another Superman reboot?
Despite that, I've been in a pant-moistening state of excitement about seeing Avengers Assemble and I finally got round to it yesterday. If, like me, you always state that Marvel kicks DC's dicks into the dust when it comes to having the best characters. I mean, OK, Batman is great, but Superman has always been dull and the most interesting characters they have - Green Arrow and the Question - are unlikely to get on the big screen.
Right - over the course of five films (Iron Man plus sequel, Captain America, Thor and The Incredible Hulk) it's been established that Nick Fury, agent of SHIELD, has been trying to put together a team to face any problems that may be beyond even his coping levels. Given he's played by Samuel L. Jackson, you best believe that would make it a very big problem indeed.
Which comes in the form of Loki, Thor's troublesome adopted brother, who has plans on taking over the world on behalf of some nasty alien folk. Some people, eh? The story follows a predictable path of recruiting all the team, but it works because we're not expecting Tolstoy here. We want action and a few jokes: and we get them in spades, including some top showdowns involving Thor against Iron Man and the Hulk.
Though I was never a Buffy fan, Joss Whedon obviously knows his stuff and puts in some pauses between all the smashing up. Captain America, being all about sacrifice and honour, isn't initially taken by the wisecracking rich boy that is Iron Man while Bruce Banner is a bag of nerves from knowing what happens if he gets a bit upset. Playing Banner, Mark Ruffalo has taken a lot of plaudits and rightly so - he even gets one of the best scenes that features a wonderful cameo from Harry Dean Stanton.
When his character does decide to go to town with his alter-ego, he does get a couple of the best moments. Including at least two where I thought the cinema audience I was part of was going to burst into applause. It helps, of course, that Tom Hiddlestone, who plays Loki, makes an ace baddie - hamming it up to great effect. Evoking the trope of "English accent = evil" too.
I'm sure there's plenty out there who have picked holes in the plot or certain aspects of the heroes. Maybe if the film hadn't worked on every other level, they'd have a point. But the only thing on my mind when I walked out was "man, I really want to see that again". It also made me want to go back and watch all the individual "prequel" flicks again and play through the Marvel Ultimate Alliance games as the Avengers.
If I had to pick one tiny flaw, and it's not a flaw as such, it's that I would have liked to have heard some references to Hank Pym, and maybe a passing reference to Spider-Man during the climatic battle in New York. But no matter - you should see this if you have any passing interest in the characters. I've been reliably informed that you don't even need to have seen the previous films in the series to enjoy it.
The amount of wedge the film has brought in, Joss Whedon may well be the hottest director in pop cinema at the moment. Where he goes next will be interesting, as will where they take this particular franchise next. Top marks to the bods at Marvel then - but can you please let Ryan Reynolds make the Deadpool film he really wants to? Also, will DC have the balls to do a Justice League film in answer, instead of yet another Superman reboot?
Thursday, 10 May 2012
Occupy My Mind
Using a quote from a Buzzcocks song for my last post reminded me just how I view my life at times as a fight against the lurking menace of boredom. The title of this blog was supposed to be a jokey reference to how I view the world, but also to write about the things that help in the war.
Of course, it's an inescapable presence in my life at times: I have to go to work most days and like most of us, that's an experience that goes beyond tedium. Therefore, in my free time I find it important to avoid going anywhere close to boredom so as to make the most of it. It's an interesting arena though - after all, standing at a bus stop doing nothing is very dull, but lying on the sofa doing nothing can be the exact opposite. If I was smarter, I'd possibly be able to work out some correlation of waiting into this, because having to wait is never fun. Staring into space in your own time, on the other hand, can bring you all manner of brain entertainment.
Thinking on it, waiting may well be the most dreary thing I could do. It's time wasted before something you want to occur happens. It's like when you're at the bus stop in the morning, and it's late, and you can't help but think "I could have had another five minutes in bed, damn it". It's the one huge downside of air travel - you have to piss about waiting for two hours before you finally get on the sodding plane. In an airport, time ceases to have meaning except for the feeling you can sense your body wasting away at three times the normal speed. I think Will Self was correct in his assertion that it's all to numb the senses before you engage on what will be the most weird experience of your life: I mean, do you know how a huge tube of metal somehow wretches itself free of gravity and hurtles itself through the air? I can tilt my head at this moment and see some of them descending at hundreds of miles an hour to Manchester Airport, and the thought of it still makes my head hurt.
Anyways. Boredom. On one of my random Google related searches, I came across a scan of the Glasgow Herald from around 1974. A quick look of the TV listings page made me glad I was born when I was: to say there were sod all on is putting it lightly. Bar an episode of Mission: Impossible it made for grim reading and I came to the conclusion that a big reason people have always had children is just to break the sheer tedium of existing.
And yet, it wasn't always so that I looked to the computer or TV for distraction. When I was a wee laddie, I could spend an hour sat by the roadside watching cars pass by, creating lists of which models were the most popular - Ford Escort, probably. I never did see the Porsche 911 that I was always looking for, but it turns out my dad did a similar thing growing up. I also followed in his tradition of getting cheap kicks by rolling on my side down the dry moat at Penrith Castle. There'd be loads of us doing it, and pop told me that his dad had the same thing. It makes me wonder if I just need more stimulation nowadays or if those truly were more innocent times.
Of course, it's an inescapable presence in my life at times: I have to go to work most days and like most of us, that's an experience that goes beyond tedium. Therefore, in my free time I find it important to avoid going anywhere close to boredom so as to make the most of it. It's an interesting arena though - after all, standing at a bus stop doing nothing is very dull, but lying on the sofa doing nothing can be the exact opposite. If I was smarter, I'd possibly be able to work out some correlation of waiting into this, because having to wait is never fun. Staring into space in your own time, on the other hand, can bring you all manner of brain entertainment.
Thinking on it, waiting may well be the most dreary thing I could do. It's time wasted before something you want to occur happens. It's like when you're at the bus stop in the morning, and it's late, and you can't help but think "I could have had another five minutes in bed, damn it". It's the one huge downside of air travel - you have to piss about waiting for two hours before you finally get on the sodding plane. In an airport, time ceases to have meaning except for the feeling you can sense your body wasting away at three times the normal speed. I think Will Self was correct in his assertion that it's all to numb the senses before you engage on what will be the most weird experience of your life: I mean, do you know how a huge tube of metal somehow wretches itself free of gravity and hurtles itself through the air? I can tilt my head at this moment and see some of them descending at hundreds of miles an hour to Manchester Airport, and the thought of it still makes my head hurt.
Anyways. Boredom. On one of my random Google related searches, I came across a scan of the Glasgow Herald from around 1974. A quick look of the TV listings page made me glad I was born when I was: to say there were sod all on is putting it lightly. Bar an episode of Mission: Impossible it made for grim reading and I came to the conclusion that a big reason people have always had children is just to break the sheer tedium of existing.
And yet, it wasn't always so that I looked to the computer or TV for distraction. When I was a wee laddie, I could spend an hour sat by the roadside watching cars pass by, creating lists of which models were the most popular - Ford Escort, probably. I never did see the Porsche 911 that I was always looking for, but it turns out my dad did a similar thing growing up. I also followed in his tradition of getting cheap kicks by rolling on my side down the dry moat at Penrith Castle. There'd be loads of us doing it, and pop told me that his dad had the same thing. It makes me wonder if I just need more stimulation nowadays or if those truly were more innocent times.
Tuesday, 8 May 2012
I'm Living in This Movie...
I can't remember if it was Julian Cope or Ian McCulloch who said they lived their lives as if a film camera was on them at all times. Typical singer egotism, really, and probably essential if you're going to front a band.
Having never really wanted attention all that much, it's not a way of living I think would be healthy for me. Not that I haven't had my moments. Ten years ago, I was in my last year of university education and one of my teachers is someone who has gone on to be a tiresome right-wing columnist. That's come as a surprise to me, as at the time he was just very tedious, to the degree that when I found myself at the train station at eight in the morning to head off to uni, the thought of another snoozefest of a lecture made me think my time would be better spent elsewhere.
On a whim, and as I lived in Surrey those days, I jumped on a train to Woking. At the time, I was a big fan of the Jam, which may well have swung the decision. It didn't turn out to be a good one, as there's pretty much the square root of nowt to do there. All the same, it meant a lot of Weller's songs about suburban boredom made a bit more sense.
It was only just after nine when I rolled in and I absent-mindedly wandered into the town's shopping centre. The place was empty and I didn't see another soul for about 20 minutes, people working in shops excepted. I could hear my every footstep echo round the hall and for a moment or two, I was expecting a horde of zombies to burst out from behind the escalator and chase me around until they cracked open my skull and feasted on the goo within.
On a slightly more rational level, I did actually get mildly paranoid for a bit that I'd be collared by security and arrested for trespassing when the place was closed, but thankfully some good citizens of Woking finally turned up to satisfy their consumer needs and I was able to buy a magazine in WH Smiths in relative ease of mind.
Other than that, about the only time I can remember thinking I was living my life like I was in a film is at work when it all goes a bit like the first 20 minutes of Office Space, where the main character has to deal with the same kind of idiots all day. I can relate to that one far too well.
Having never really wanted attention all that much, it's not a way of living I think would be healthy for me. Not that I haven't had my moments. Ten years ago, I was in my last year of university education and one of my teachers is someone who has gone on to be a tiresome right-wing columnist. That's come as a surprise to me, as at the time he was just very tedious, to the degree that when I found myself at the train station at eight in the morning to head off to uni, the thought of another snoozefest of a lecture made me think my time would be better spent elsewhere.
On a whim, and as I lived in Surrey those days, I jumped on a train to Woking. At the time, I was a big fan of the Jam, which may well have swung the decision. It didn't turn out to be a good one, as there's pretty much the square root of nowt to do there. All the same, it meant a lot of Weller's songs about suburban boredom made a bit more sense.
It was only just after nine when I rolled in and I absent-mindedly wandered into the town's shopping centre. The place was empty and I didn't see another soul for about 20 minutes, people working in shops excepted. I could hear my every footstep echo round the hall and for a moment or two, I was expecting a horde of zombies to burst out from behind the escalator and chase me around until they cracked open my skull and feasted on the goo within.
On a slightly more rational level, I did actually get mildly paranoid for a bit that I'd be collared by security and arrested for trespassing when the place was closed, but thankfully some good citizens of Woking finally turned up to satisfy their consumer needs and I was able to buy a magazine in WH Smiths in relative ease of mind.
Other than that, about the only time I can remember thinking I was living my life like I was in a film is at work when it all goes a bit like the first 20 minutes of Office Space, where the main character has to deal with the same kind of idiots all day. I can relate to that one far too well.
Thursday, 3 May 2012
The Name Game
As you may or may not know, Bert Weedon shuffled off his mortal coil the other week at the grand old age of 91. Bert was a top man who can hold claim to being the first British guitar hero, being as he was a major influence Hank Marvin and then anybody who was anybody who emerged in the British music boom of the 60s, despite wearing specs and being forced to stand behind that talentless git Cliff Richard half the time.
Rockin' Bert also staked his claim at legend status by writing the "Play In a Day" guitar tutoring books, which are still snapped up by aspiring fret-Gods to this day. He even managed a UK #1 album in 1976, so he gets the all-round "Top Man" status for me and I hope he felt he'd lived the good, productive life that he had.
But this post is not about him per se. It's about his name and others like it. Bert. You don't hear it much anymore, do you? Unless you watch Sesame Street, of course. My great-grandfather was also a Bert. But he didn't play guitar - I gather (given he died in 1977) that he was a big guy who drank lakes of whiskey despite having a congenital heart defect. In any case - you don't hear of kids called that name anymore do you? Same as two of my grandparents - Frank and Esther. I've not heard annoyed mothers screaming those names on the bus.
Names, like anything, can fall in and out of fashion. Some are like Levi 501s - never at the cutting edge, but always there. Peter, Paul, Elizabeth or Sarah. You always have them names in any school over the last 100 years.
It's like my own family. My other grandpop was called Joseph, his name taken from an uncle. He named his three sons Joseph, James and Thomas. The last two were named after his Uncles, and so it goes as far back as we know, like they had a pool of five or six names for each gender they had to use every generation. It stopped when it came to us, thankfully. Equally so, a close friend of mine has the name surname and middle name as his dad and grandfather. In the name of sanity, when his good lady wife give birth to a son, he changed the pattern.
It's weird how new names suddenly become in vogue, though. When I was a lad, I never knew a single Chantelle. Nowadays, there seem to be loads of them. How? The same way I hear mothers down Didsbury way calling their little daughters "India". How did anyone think that was a good name? Perhaps they called their other kid Pakistan and they're always rowing.
Mind you, it reminds me of one of my pet hates: people who name their children on the basis that they "look like an"". All babies look the sodding same, skin tone excepted. Horrible little screaming things.
In this matter, as with so many others, we can turn to the man who should be Poet Laureate, Mr Nigel Blackwell.
"A woman who described herself as “A little bit Bridget, a little bit Ally, a little bit Sex And The City” and chose to call her baby boy Fred as a childishly rebellious attempt at a clever reaction to those who might have expected her to call him Julian or Rupert. Bit of advice: call him Rupert, it fits, and besides it’s a good name. Don’t be calling him Fred or Archie, with all its cheeky but lovable working class scamp connotations, unless you really do have plans for him to spend his life in William Hill’s waiting for them to weigh in at Newton Abbot."
Rockin' Bert also staked his claim at legend status by writing the "Play In a Day" guitar tutoring books, which are still snapped up by aspiring fret-Gods to this day. He even managed a UK #1 album in 1976, so he gets the all-round "Top Man" status for me and I hope he felt he'd lived the good, productive life that he had.
But this post is not about him per se. It's about his name and others like it. Bert. You don't hear it much anymore, do you? Unless you watch Sesame Street, of course. My great-grandfather was also a Bert. But he didn't play guitar - I gather (given he died in 1977) that he was a big guy who drank lakes of whiskey despite having a congenital heart defect. In any case - you don't hear of kids called that name anymore do you? Same as two of my grandparents - Frank and Esther. I've not heard annoyed mothers screaming those names on the bus.
 |
| Bert - grumpy git and Eric Cantona lookalike. |
It's like my own family. My other grandpop was called Joseph, his name taken from an uncle. He named his three sons Joseph, James and Thomas. The last two were named after his Uncles, and so it goes as far back as we know, like they had a pool of five or six names for each gender they had to use every generation. It stopped when it came to us, thankfully. Equally so, a close friend of mine has the name surname and middle name as his dad and grandfather. In the name of sanity, when his good lady wife give birth to a son, he changed the pattern.
It's weird how new names suddenly become in vogue, though. When I was a lad, I never knew a single Chantelle. Nowadays, there seem to be loads of them. How? The same way I hear mothers down Didsbury way calling their little daughters "India". How did anyone think that was a good name? Perhaps they called their other kid Pakistan and they're always rowing.
Mind you, it reminds me of one of my pet hates: people who name their children on the basis that they "look like an
In this matter, as with so many others, we can turn to the man who should be Poet Laureate, Mr Nigel Blackwell.
"A woman who described herself as “A little bit Bridget, a little bit Ally, a little bit Sex And The City” and chose to call her baby boy Fred as a childishly rebellious attempt at a clever reaction to those who might have expected her to call him Julian or Rupert. Bit of advice: call him Rupert, it fits, and besides it’s a good name. Don’t be calling him Fred or Archie, with all its cheeky but lovable working class scamp connotations, unless you really do have plans for him to spend his life in William Hill’s waiting for them to weigh in at Newton Abbot."
Tuesday, 1 May 2012
Roy of the Rovers
Well, when I'm wrong I'll be the first to hold my hands up. Honest Harry Redknapp didn't get the gig, and instead Roy Hodgson is the new England manager.
Roy Boy actually seems like a decent choice: rumour is that Trevor Brooking - one of the four man panel that made the choice - has a long-standing grudge against Redknapp after he replaced his good mate Billy Bonds as West Ham manager. Harry probably didn't do himself any favours in his recent time up before the beak where he essentially made himself out to be a functioning illiterate by way of a defence.
You have to hope, for his sake, that Hodgson's "nice guy" image is a mask and he has the guts to totally dissemble an underachieving squad wholesale. One journalist has remarked that the players will just laugh at the new manager - if that was true, then he should just sack off the offending overpaid dicks and bring in others who are willing to listen and learn.
Certain quarters of the press, of course, have put the boot in. Daniel Taylor on the Guardian - who I thought knew better - has done this and even stated the FA needs to answer questions on why they ignored 'Arry. Like bollocks they do - the FA are not the local council and can essentially do as they please. In any case, Redknapp's main quality has always been his ability to wheel and deal in the transfer market, buying the right player at the right time. This isn't something that carries over to the international scene.
What the FA are banking on, I think, is Roy Hodgson being able to get involved in every level of the England scene - the kind of work Redknapp doesn't strike me as being interested in, much like Fabio Cappello. Conversely, Hodgson is known for his interest in tactics and training, and I reckon he'd put the time into organising youth teams and the like.
You'd like to think the press will give the new man a fair shout - but it's not very likely. While Bobby Robson managed to survive not only a dismal showing at the 1988 European Championships and not qualifying at all for the same tournament in 1984 before managing England to their best showing since winning the World Cup, it's unlikely anyone will show Hodgson the same patience. Good luck to him, he's going to need it. Bet West Brom fans are gutted, though.
Roy Boy actually seems like a decent choice: rumour is that Trevor Brooking - one of the four man panel that made the choice - has a long-standing grudge against Redknapp after he replaced his good mate Billy Bonds as West Ham manager. Harry probably didn't do himself any favours in his recent time up before the beak where he essentially made himself out to be a functioning illiterate by way of a defence.
You have to hope, for his sake, that Hodgson's "nice guy" image is a mask and he has the guts to totally dissemble an underachieving squad wholesale. One journalist has remarked that the players will just laugh at the new manager - if that was true, then he should just sack off the offending overpaid dicks and bring in others who are willing to listen and learn.
Certain quarters of the press, of course, have put the boot in. Daniel Taylor on the Guardian - who I thought knew better - has done this and even stated the FA needs to answer questions on why they ignored 'Arry. Like bollocks they do - the FA are not the local council and can essentially do as they please. In any case, Redknapp's main quality has always been his ability to wheel and deal in the transfer market, buying the right player at the right time. This isn't something that carries over to the international scene.
What the FA are banking on, I think, is Roy Hodgson being able to get involved in every level of the England scene - the kind of work Redknapp doesn't strike me as being interested in, much like Fabio Cappello. Conversely, Hodgson is known for his interest in tactics and training, and I reckon he'd put the time into organising youth teams and the like.
You'd like to think the press will give the new man a fair shout - but it's not very likely. While Bobby Robson managed to survive not only a dismal showing at the 1988 European Championships and not qualifying at all for the same tournament in 1984 before managing England to their best showing since winning the World Cup, it's unlikely anyone will show Hodgson the same patience. Good luck to him, he's going to need it. Bet West Brom fans are gutted, though.
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