The animal i'd hate to be.

The animal i'd hate to be

Right after this statement, im going to come right out with the animal i'd hate to be.

Remember Shaq? Im sure i mentioned him on certain blogging sites. Shaq was my lodger. A spider that inhabited my room and i allowed this because he was huge and i believe he got rid of all the other insects that sneak in. We were roomies for roughly a fortnight before Shaq got a little too big for his eight boots and tried to kill me by wrapping me up in his web that he'd maliciously placed in my doorway at face level. He had breached his contract and had to go. I used the trustee pint glass and paper trick and threw him out of my window. That was roughly a month ago, now. 

My surprise made a swift appearance when i had a letter sent through the very same window, dropped off by Dragonfly Mail Service. (The DMS are always on time with no complaints. Most people are too scared to complain anyway.) 

Here's how it read:

You,

The human boy that for some reason showed compassion and curiosity towards my presence in your base. If you are reading this then The dragonflies accepted the copper coin i stole from your room. I didn't think you'd mind me taking it after i spun you a blanket for your face. Your base was freezing and i saw you shivering. I just wanted to help! But a spider has to get by so i took the coin. I see now that you are a hoarder and do not tolerate people helping themselves to your hard earned property. 

I thought i'd let you know a little bit about a journey i've embarked on since getting evicted from your base. The landing was a shock. Thankfully i landed in the gutter so it wasn't hard on me. I started to feel a little safe until it rained. Proper rain too, not just little rain that's big to us spiders. It was the kind of rain that drops slug-sized and saturates anything underfoot and over head. I had to run. sixteen steps i took before enduring the most embarrassing event ever happened to me. I fell down the water spout. DONT LAUGH! You've never experienced the sheer terror that comes with falling down a water spout. It's not like that bit in the goonies (Yes i know what your human films are, it's all you do in your base you eventless being) where they're whizzing through slides looking scared but actually having the time of their lives. No. It's more like paralysis in darkness with the added terror of gravity. I landed in a river which sent me down fourteen consecutive waterfalls, through a green shaggy field into a bramble forest. 

Plenty of food here, if you can catch anything in the humidity. My webs keep getting cut by thorns that are manipulated by the gale force winds. I had to move but i had no bearings. I climbed up as high as possible to get a better view of my surroundings. I reached the highest leaf and began to look. It was fairly bright now so i used four of my hands to block some of the sun. I didn't have time to rue that idea before a heavy gust took my half grip away from under me where i felt the freest and most frightened i've ever felt. I was flying. Spiders cant fly but they can feel terror. I landed but continued flying. My abdomen was squeezing through my mandibles as my flight became unruly and disruptive. I was sitting on the back of a member of the DNS. "What the bug?" He shouted. He then did a somersault and let me fall. After noticing my size he grew hungry. He caught me in his mouth which im sure is possible and mumbled "Im delivering you to my family, we're not going hungry tonight!" whilst chewing on my leg. 

This letter is a last request granted by an honorable Dragonfly named Feilong.

Thanks for our time together; the warmth and easy supply of food, even the company and good films. Thanks for the good, easy times you allowed me during the later part of my not so long life.

Regards,

Shaq.

Man, i would not like to be that animal.

*****

Dafydd Evans

A pigeons religion

The tale of good old Rawk

Rawk the wizen pigeon emerged from the rubble. his perch was reduced to rubble just one day before. Funny how earthquakes can do that to certain train station buildings. Twenty six hours Rawk had to sit there trapped. The first five minutes were panic. Then  fifty five minutes of acceptance. Then twenty hours of despair and waiting.

Then there was four hours of enlightenment, probably due to hunger and a thinness of oxygen. In this four hours Rawk encountered a vision. He found it strange because every pigeon knows that you have visions, you don't encounter them. This must not have been his own vision, but one of a creature so powerful that it could summon it's visions. 

"You look like a blue and purple version of me with a few extra ounces of size. What are you?" Squawked Rawk.

"I HAM HIMPORTANT. YOU H'ARE HIMPORTANT. YOU MUST SURVIVE. YOU MUST TELL PIGEONKIND OF WHAT'S IMPORTANT. JUST INCASE THEY'VE FORGOTTEN."

"Whoat?"

"TELL THEM. TELL THEM WHAT YOU KNOW H'IS HIMPORTANT TO YOU, TO THEM TO THE WORLD. TELL THEM SO THAT THEY CAN PASS H'ON YOUR WORDS TO HOTHERS THEY MEET SO THAT HEXPONENTIAL GROWTH OF YOUR WISDOM IS HACHIEVED AND THUS, THE PIGEON CAN THRIVE."

"But... What's important?"

"TWENTY FIVE HOURS YOU HAVE BEEN HERE. DURING YOUR FIRST FIVE MINUTES OF PANIC WHAT DID YOU WANT? WHY DID YOU WANT WHAT YOU WANT? YOU HALREADY HAVE THE HANSWERS! NOW GO FOURTH AND HEDUCATE THE WORLD!" The vision then turned into the world just before disappearing, which thrilled Rawk with the revelation that the world was round, not like a rectangle with teleportation devices at the edges.

Powered and inspired by this knowledge and quest, Rawk set to struggling and bravely persevered for forty five minutes. And got nowhere. His feet were neatly pinned by the devices that thwart pigeons from hanging out under train stations: The ouch-spikes. 

Suddenly Rawk had a glimpse of his first memory. He was terrified and the first thing he saw was two black beasts chew on a wailing smaller grey beast. He stayed hidden whilst peeping under his half a shell that had fallen on the floor. He noticed how easy it was for the beasts to peck through the now silent grey beast. Then he realised that the two big beasts weren't beast's at all. They were Mam and Dad! He called to them whilst pushing the eggshell from on top of him. "Rawk" they said and they picked him up and took him to their nest.

That's it! That's what Rawk had to do. He had to bite through his legs. He'd seen some older pigeons that had only one foot but he always had too much respect to ask them what happened. Rawk now looked at his legs and went to work on his left, getting as close to the ankle as possible whilst minding that an ouch-spike didn't poke his eye out. The harder he bit, the more pain he was in, which resulted in him biting harder to deal with it. The pain was fierce but he'd pecked himself a stump. Now it was time for the more awkward right foot. Two ouch-spikes to avoid, one protruding towards his face. He had to bend around in an uncomfortable position to get to his ankle, and even then an ouch-spike scratched at his breast. Rawk remained committed and cut through, leaving him with two stumps and a red line etched diagonally across his breast.

But at last he was free! And the freedom of flying came with a pang of mighty hunger. He stuck to the plan and flew to the nearest and most popular city centre. Then his mission took a back seat while he pecked at loose chips and seeds and cigarette buts, making sure to eat the edible things and discard the litter.

When his hunger was satiated the mission took the front seat once again. He flew for twenty seconds and the mission took another back seat while Rawk flew to a roof of a building, carrying a leaf of newspaper. He huddled into a corner, hiding under the paper and balanced neatly on his sore breast and he slept, dreamless.

Basic need fulfilled he flew back to the city centre and positioned himself under the large, black, unmoving, wingless beast (statue) and called to his kin.

With his wings akimbo and his eyes passionately closed he squawk the words:

"Fellow pigeons, hear me. I am Rawk and I have to tell you what you are here for. You see i nearly died yesterday but i was inspired and saved by the vision of something incredible. The vision sent me on an hurgent path to tell you all what's himportant! You must all listen to my words and be reassured lest you have forgotten what is significant in life!"

Rawks confidence grew with his words and he opened his eyes. The sight deflated him but he kept his wings out. No pigeon was listening. They were all bobbing on the ground looking for some food. Rawk looked at his stumps and his scar to remind himself of the severity of his life. He then looked out again.

"I will persist, for you may hear this even though you may not be listening. You all have beautiful lives and you must never forget this. Please know that what im about to tell you is imperative to our way of life and you must never forget it!"

As he said this a wingless beast threw some delicious bread to the ground and stirred his crowd into a frenzy. Rawk smiled. He realised that they already lived what he was about to say.

"Pigeons" Rawk commanded impotently, "Just coo what you need to coo!" And with that, he flew off for some free bread.

*****

A Pigeon's Religion

Herein I shall endeavour to relay to you the TRUE nature of the faith-leanings of our winged cousins.  All efforts should be made to shield yourselves from the widespread showering of ill-informed dreck which is being ploughed into you wholesale by none other than THE MAN.  This is the only true pigeon's religion.  Disbelieve all others.

As everybody well knows, the path to pigeon heaven can only be discovered by the enlightened and educated pigeon-fathers of The Cult of Curiosity (TKTC).  Here I will explain the, to the outsider, peculiar tic which infiltrates the faithful when they talk of The Cult of Curiosity (TKTC).  The suffix '(TKTC)' which MUST ALWAYS follow the name of The Cult of Curiosity (TKTC) is an honorific which, when fully revealed, reads 'They Killed the Cat'.  The cat has always been a fearful demon to the pigeon community, and The Cult of Curiosity (TKTC) became the renowned force they are today by proving their divinity, by the slaying of the cat.  Word of their deeds is has even been seen infiltrating the world of the speaking-monkeys, though quite clearly they do not fully appreciate it's import.  The Cult of Curiosity (TKTC) is the One True Way to pigeon heaven.

The Cult of Curiosity (TKTC) was founded by SkKwarr Flangeahgh, who was subsequently canonised as Saint Rupert, The Planner of the Killing of the Cat.  He was a very clever pigeon.  The miraculous deeds of his youth are popular yarns at the stolen-chip parties of all the teen pigeons.  Perhaps the most widely spake is the Tale of the Mocking Jumbo.  The story is a long and shaggy beast, but in the interest of time I will inform you that the denouement involves old Saint Roop stealing a jumbo sausage from a fatty at Brighton Pier, tossing it into the sea, and then returning to gloat.  Such malice was the frequent vice of Saint Rupert, which proves that he was the ideal candidate for plotting the killing of the cat.

But it is not Saint Rupert himself who did the deed.  Nonononononononononono.  It fell to a much younger piggyjin to Do the Deed.  Her name was Gfarreeelezzkuhbaaahhwwn.  It was she who slew the feline.  She was a celebrity in the pigeon world long before the act which is unambiguously considered the zenith of her activity.  She was Champion of the Order of the Oncoming Car, High-Priestess of the Movement of the Toilet-Statues, Full-Caan of the Stolen Chip.  It was she who slew the feline.

Cats are near impregnable, this is well known.  The inner layers of the cat may be wet, weak and greasy like reheated cottage pie, but it's thick outer crust is firmer than any natural material known to pigeon.  It is said in the holy manual of the Order of the Oncoming Car that even if a pigeon's beak attains maximum velocity and is tipped with the Diamond Nib of Gwak Lv. 5, still it is not a sure thing that the cat will be scratched.  A pigeon will sooner break through superadamantanium than a cat's shell.

But therein lay the rub.  The true genius of Saint Rupert, and the impeccable skill of Gfarreeelezzkuhbaaahhwwn, who was able to perform the deed.

Much like the Death Star, every cat is known to have a small, vulnerable aperture which, if it can be breached, will spell the end of it.  Saint Rupert discovered this, and calmly, evilly, he drew his plans against it.  This is how it went down.

First they scared the cat.  Different pigeon factions disagree vehemently on the method used for the distraction.  It is very important how it was done.  Pigeons are often killed for believing the wrong way.  It is right that they should be put to death.  ONE TRUE WAY.

So, yes, they distracted the cat.  It was done with a scary picture of a screaming dog.  The picture was dive-bombed into the cat's vicinity by a magpie POW who'd been promised her freedom for doing this task.  Afterwards, she was freed.  What I mean by this, of course, is that she was freed from life by the merciless fangs of a cat.  Duly distracted by its meal, the cat did not see the sure descent of Gfarreeelezzkuhbaaahhwwn.

WHOOOOOOOOOSH!

She buried herself bodily in the anus of the cat, not even a smidgeon of her pigeon toes remained in sight.  Well, let me tell you, the cat was surprised.  She began to caper around the garden, mewling and screeching.  "Shut up, you bugger!", a nearby monkey yelled.  But still, on she went, wailing and careening hither and thither in the greenery.

Have you ever wondered what it might feel like to have an entire pigeon forcibly dive-bomb its way twixt your innards?  Let me tell you, the idea only occurred to me roughly halfway through this story, and I wish it hadn't.  It seems to me that there are few more horrendous end-game scenarios than having a small, ugly bird wedged in your intestines.  If you can imagine it, stretch yourself further and imagine how bad a cat would feel in the situation, possessing as it does, a much smaller beefhoop than you.

The cat died.  Not from shock or anything short term like that.  No, the cat spent the best part of 3 months uncomfortably smudging around, being poked fun at by the other cats, who knew full well what Tibbles was concealing in her faecal womb.  A grown up pigeon.  Gfarreeelezzkuhbaaahhwwn died on impact, thank goodness gracious, but she took her sweet time rotting.  She slowly souped into a green, deathly sleeper cell which poisoned the living cat from within.  Sleeper cell, more like sleeper smell! (hysterical laughter and applause).

This is a pretty horrible story.  In the end, all the pigeons went to heaven, where there were lotsanlots of stolen, traditional British food for them to gorge on, and they did.  The Ned.

*****

Hello and welcome to the new format blog entry from ACRE member Luke ‘Handsome Boy Aint He’ Sampson, wherein I actually try to write a fucking blog and not leave it months and months before writing one (even if the one I write is in fact funnier than the other threes combined efforts for the entire year). So apparently some arsehole decided that the first entry would be titled ‘a pigeon’s religion’. I have no idea what that even means because I don’t know two of those words already and I’ve eaten the other one so there. Anyway, I thought I would give it a go and see where it goes (hopefully a tunnel to the bottom of a tub of meatballs in Subway…mmm).

Let me first try to make sense of the word that I do know, Pigeon. This is not to be mistaken with the flying rodent that congregate around Ponty square and plot about shitting on poor, defenceless OAP’s and passing avian flu on to sickly, pale children. They are to my knowledge called Pijuns, which is a homophone of Pigeon but sadly that is where the similarities end (and no I don’t mean a Blackberry Curve or a Samsung Galaxy, a homophone is when two words sound the same, fucking idiot). No, a Pigeon is of course a measurement of time. This is plain to see if we look closer at the word. Segment the word into two and we have: Pig, a farm yard animal usually kept for meat and recreation and Eon, a long time. Now I know what you’re thinking, “Ye, stupid, we can all see that it is two words and we know what both of them mean but what does the word mean put together, div?”

Well, it is clearly the largest amount of time imaginable by a pig (or a billion years whether the pig likes it or not, whichever comes first). But to really fathom just how large we need to look at how a pig perceives the other three dimensions in his life (because time is the forth dimension, not fucking wind or snow or cold seats like Ice Age will try and have you believe, smug cunts). To do this I put 100 pairs of 3D glasses on 100 pigs then made them watch The Avengers. The results were very surprising. After only an hour of the film half the pigs had fallen asleep (or comma, I’m not a doctor of animals), about five per cent had started screwing and the rest were rooting for Loki to win. When I put this through my fancy computer programme it told me that the reason for this was that pigs see 3D in super slow motion which was making the film very boring (except for the Loki bits). With this in mind I was able to come up with an hypothesis on the Pigeon. It is as follows:

A Pigeon is a very long time. Too long in the opinion of the pig. It’s like watching Titanic or the new King Kong when you’re already tired. It transcends time as a linear factor and takes into account  the emotional state of the pig. As a term to be used by humans it would be the expression of something taking longer to do than you have the energy for at that particular time. Like sex before breakfast. 

So, being pleased with my understanding of the word Pigeon I have pondered as to its relevance in the title. But having still no idea what the other two words mean I decided to do some research. And wouldn’t you bloody know it, I found the word religion. Apparently it refers to a group or organization that all follow a set of rules that were laid out by someone called God. They do the same things all the time except for a Sunday (or a Friday if they are the curly haired ones) when they have a rest and pat themselves on the back for getting tickets to see God in concert. From what I can see the title cannot be referring to the Muslim ones because they think pigs are filthy (which they are, that’s a fact rather than a religious pillar). If I didn’t know any better (which I do) I would say the title makes more sense with Pijuns since they are organized and terrorists. But, alas, it is not so I’ve taken my research along a different path. I asked some famous people from ‘religion’ what was the longest thing imaginable to judge which of them had feelings most closely resembling a pig. 

First up was Big Bad Ratigan from the Vatican, Pope Benedict 16^th. His idea of a pigeon was absolution. He felt that it would take more time than he had energy to forgive all the sinners in the world (which is fair enough since it would take several days just to cover the wanks I’ve had writing this entry). Next to be put on the hot seat was Dai Lama, King of the Buddhi. He said it was a pigeon to eat solid food after midday. I understood what he meant straight away because I remembered Napoleon Dynamite trying to feed him in that film he was in and he was having none of it (although he looked a lot better after a shave I must say). Lastly I spoke with a strange magician on the street called Henry Christopher. He had an haircut like Tung Po from Kick Boxer and wore a shit pair of jeans under his costume. Also he said that he wasn’t greedy which was a lie because we was eyeing up my pasty pen (details to be revealed at a later date) the whole time I was eating it/writing with it. Anyway, he said that he always had energy to do all the tasks that needed to be done (possible ADHD) but that people he stopped in the street often said that it was a pigeon to even contemplate stopping for him (I would agree with this).

So the religion that was most pigeon was the Henry Christophers because if nobody is willing to stop for them, they have no flying hope of following them (especially on one of their stupid conga lines through town). All that was left to get to the bottom of the title was the word ‘A’. Now, unfortunately, I checked the dictionary and discovered that the word ‘A’ does not exist. It’s just not in there. Therefore, after all that research, I have had to discontinue the investigation so I guess we will never know what was meant by ‘A Pigeon’s Religion’.

*****

Dafydd Evans

Adam Gilder

Luke Sampson

Video Gaming

Video Gaming

I’ve no truck with these video games that plant people in front of their televisions like so much vegetation. Ian is mad for them, of course. His dear old lady mother had her face well-raisined from years of watching the future Duke of Frisbee addle himself on generations of Grand Theft Auto. You’ll not find yours truly, Maximilian Willoughby, whiling it away on such gadgets and distractions. I haven’t the thumbs for it.

One dismal day, with the sky greyed out by pregnant purple-black fluffies, I hid indoors and was tempted to trying by Frisbee. He was gaping in lobotomised ecstasy at an array of screens upon which ran armoured spacemen, opening all aggressive on each other with spacearms. A man to a screen, his friends fanned out along the line. Vaguely sensing his pal’s rainy day distress, the Duke himself reluctantly allowed his good friend Maxi to take the control. I had little idea what could be done, and my spaceman made it only a few steps before I was mercilessly ambushed. After being killed for a fifth time and without being able to fire a single round I cast the controller firmly away. Catching Tetrahedron with the full blaze of a haughty eyeballing, I removed myself to a distant alcove to sulk. No question that the Duke was relieved to see me go. He had cultivated his gaming identity to proudly mirror the worthiness of his grand title, Ian Tetrahedron; Duke of Frisbee. He was far from desirous for Turgid-Fingers Willoughby to bring disrepute to his unmottled reputation.

The closest I allow myself to video gaming is when I suspiciously eye vending machines. I am deeply perturbed by any purchase I am forced to make where I am not availed of the opportunity to use my charms to secure a fairer compromise. The vending machine offers none of this, it simply demands an unquestionable, set price. True, they can be tricked and jostled, but I find this brutish and unsatisfying. If there is no other course, I watch from a distance while Simkins does the jostling. This way I can at least imagine myself akin to a mob boss.

These peculiar types who enjoy computerised entertainment surely just lack the means and/or the imagination to see to their own amusements in the real world. I’ll share this yarn with you, it will more than weather another recounting.

One glorious Summer our generous yellow orb was so eager to visit that we enjoyed a pointedly prolonged blistering. The sheer audacity of the sunshine drove the oxygen from every house, forcing our nation of sallow cretins to embrace the wilder side. I braved the Duke’s abode, offloaded his deoxygenated shell into a rudimentary gambo and trollied the unfortunate to the, relative, safety of the outdoors. Little did he know, comatose as he was, that we’d soon discover the most satisfying episode of gaming ever to be enjoyed.

Tetrahedron is a fellow for who land was, presumably, made for. He took to the owning of it as a seagull takes to the eating of the vomit of drunkards. That is to say, opportunistically and distastefully, but with aplomb and a great degree of success. We were utilising only a small amount of his land at the time, picnicking, although to our credit we were enjoying the expansive view, which in a way was finding an occupation for large tracts of his property. I was blonding my summery Fu Manchu with healthy doses of mischievous mustard, which was instigating a sandwich mutiny, when I saw a group of children following the leadering on the private property which I had been occupying with my landscape appreciation. I was on my feet in a nano and my legs became a cartoon watermill which churned me to proximity.

“Now! Now, now, now!” I eulogised, transfixing the trespassing oiks where they stood. One squealed like a piglet in the embrace of a Vauxhall, and I battled for control of my facial muscles. I kept it stern and authoritative; they stayed frozen. The squealer shook slightly, and the pot he was wearing about his head see-sawed, eventually taking a dive to earth. His hair, now revealed, sprang out, each strand a piglet’s tail to match his vocalising. He fell to his knees and truffled the pot back into his possession.

“This is the land of the Frisbee Duke,” I continued, smelling the clouds, so haughty was my flamboyant offensive. “What are you about, coming here?”

“We’re onna quest fotha ‘Oly Grail, in we?” was the noise which came from a verminous youth at the back, an impressive approximation of human speech for one of so unfortunate a genetic build.

“Well, it is not to be found here,” I sentenced, then I bade them follow, and delivered them into the custody of the house staff, to be shipped from the estate and back to their negligent guardians.

It was seeing them stood in one of the Hall’s stony antechambers that gave me the idea. With their wooden swords and branch staves, in utensil armour which lolled off them in ill-fitting glee, I was made wealthy with gifts from the epiphany troll. Tetrahedron was piled messily on a chaise longue, glad to be inside again, but still sullen in his exile from a console.

“Ian…” I began, “are you still under the yoke of soothsayers in the Westernmost field?”

His eyes sought out the back of his skull, leaving only whites to face the inquiry. It was a, rather fraught, yes. I knew then for what endeavour this intrepid band had been delivered to me.

“You four,” I addressed them. They were all aquiver now. “I have a solution to unweave this knotty affair we’re tied in.” All ears perked as though they’d supped black coffee. “Give up your quest for the grail and accept mine in replacement. Do so, and your parents need not know of this trespass.” All eyes widened in the very same manner as a lady when heavy with child. I scrutinised my ragtag band.

“You brave four shall be known as the Knights of Frisbee. It is now your sworn duty to rout the cardwizards from the perimeter of the Westernmost field and back onto common land. To this end I christen you with your knightly names. You sir,” I indicated the halest among them, “are to be called Montford Hale.” The little sausage swelled with the helium of pride and damn near took off. “And you,” my finger swung to the secondmost, “shall be known henceforth as Henceforth Secondmost.” A little confusion germinated, and I cooled my creativity. “You,” this was the ratty speaker from before, “are Ratkinder.” Luckily the grub had no German. “Lastly we have you, Sir Truffledandy Baconpiglet.” The chubby one split a frown, like a damaged doughnut. “Now off with you, to arms!”

I was rather full of it for the rest of the afternoon. I’d given something back to the community. The kids would inconvenience the mystics, and with any luck the mystics would give a little lesson to my roaming Knights. I was warmed by the heat of my one stone killing and then igniting an entire flock of birds. I had chilled quite considerably by nightfall, however, with no regrouping yet apparent. I laid my concern on Tetrahedron. He was the Frisbee to their Knights, after all. He told me to quiet my fretting. I inquired as to the nature of his quietude. He assured me of his confidence in the plan’s success. I asked him to clarify. He told me the kids would certainly be successful in the rout. I asked him why. He then indicated a large cabinet, which stood much depleted. Only dusty chainmail and heavy gloves haunted the furnishing.

“I don’t follow, my Duke.” As he then used words to explain, realisation hit me like a woman scorned. It was his old armoury cabinet. It had been filled heavy with his peculiarly violent trinkets. Asian blades and early firearms, as well as sharp little nasty things to throw at people.

“They were my Knights, Maxi, I couldn’t send them out equipped as they were.”

Entirely agogged, my fine moustache picked dirt from the ground at my feet. It was a logical course of action for the Duke to take, but I’d never known Ian to show initiative.

Skies above, the sight that awaited us!

The Knights were as ripe strawberries, so reddened with blood were they. One of them had even set the caravans alight. Soothsayers, mystics and cardwizards were dead; men, women and children. I saw the body of one with some of the nasty thrower-type things decorating her. I felt a curling in my top lip.

“I am a little shocked,” I managed, “especially at you, Sir Baconpiglet.” And I was. But more than this I was impressed with what the dispassionate youth can achieve when they are properly equipped and motivated. Feeling quite entrepreneurial at the helm of my pubescent Knights, I savoured the success of my own little crusaders.

Coughing in the woodsmoke, I did my best to smile broadly, but failed somewhat.

*****

I am terrible at video games, and that infuriates me.  The thing is, I'm a sore looser, and the world of video games does nothing to help me get over this personality flaw.  It's a bit like an exaggerated version of reality; if you haven't the skill, then you will die.  And if you want to, you can boil it down to that; I do not want to die. 

At it's worst, my VGR (video game rage) sees me bashing myself and anything that's at my reach and inexpensive, to within an inch of its' life.  I can't seem to accept loss in that particular context. 

Nowadays, video games are very good at giving you an incentive to play them, whether it's unlocking hidden easer eggs, or just earning achievements.  I am fully aware that an achievement for destroying X amount of enemies in method Y is completely and utterly irrelevant to the real world, but by God I want it! 

Computer games can be both good and bad.  They can promote liberal though, as they do in RPGs that allow the player to choose the sexuality of their character.  They can be used to provoke thought regarding moral and political standpoints, and they can be used to develop thinking skills, such as creativity and problem solving.  

To be honest, I think that video games will soon replace films, because they offer an immersive storyline in an alternate reality, with an interactive element which films cannot, by their very nature, offer.  Although the appeal of watching a story line unfold in the passive manner which a film offers will never really disappear from humanity, it will, i think, wane.  Because, for me, art is about people, and people need involvement.  Video games provide a level of involvement and, to a certain degree, ownership, over their art which is hard to find in other sources. 

 *****

At last we've reached the fine topic of video gaming. A subject that i part take in so much, i find i have little to say about it. 

When i was young my favorite video game was called "Find the home movies and tape over them with anything on late night then forward through them to see if there was a good film with boobies in and secretly watch it on my own just to be naughty." But i couldn't really put that into a box, patent it and make myself a fiscal bomb that would explode my bank account into a plane to the Bahamas where i could live my days all happy.

But, then again, "Find the home movies and tape over them with anything on late night then forward through them to see if there was a good film with boobies in and secretly watch it on my own just to be naughty." was never about making money, it was about being sneaky and enjoying myself and also , like it says in the name, being a little bit naughty, just for the thrill.

Then i found a brilliant thing that didn't involve videos at all. It involved cartridges with brilliant pictures on them and a machine that made them come alive whence attached to your television. These were called Video Games. I called them "games" for short. 

My first ever game was Sonic the Hedgehog which set a pretty high standard for my opinions on games yet to come. Soon came Streets of rage 2, Dessert Strike, Earthworm Jim, Ecco the dolphin.....The list goes on. The cartridges started morphing and newer, better looking games came along. Then Compact disks.

Now-days video games come in many shapes and form. Im not just talking about the format you can play them on: Console, iPad, Internet, hand held... the list continues. But we have a plethora of genres that we can indulge ourselves in. 

I can enjoy them all. I've played fighters, strategies, first person shooters, hack and slash, RPG and even sudoku on my phone (i guess that's a puzzle game). 

I realise that this blog is just a list of things so far. Here's how i feel about it: Good, bad, silly, weird, stupid, tired and horny.

Although i love internet flash games and enjoy the odd hand held game im going to leave them alone for now. I also don't own an iPad so that can snuff off too. Im going to write here my feelings about your console games, classic and modern.

They both have such differing qualities. (duh (i just wrote "duh". Who the heck am I?)) It was the retro games that drew me into the life and love of controlling a picture on a tv screen with my hands. I think the main thing that appealed to me was the challenge (because they were harder back then) and the brilliant music that must've been necessary in the creation process because it never seamed to fail for me. 

From there it was an easy lubrication into the games that were more about the graphics the world they created for you to explore. Details became incredibly important and it made for a much more stimulating experience. I tip my hats to Ninja Theory for making the all out effort to make their characters look real in their expressions. They've also made me realise my goal of having the same job as Andy Serkis, which is basically gurning and making noises whilst acting brilliantly.

But wait! Im forgetting the RPG. Of course, over time they made STORIES more and more elaborate and challenging and down right brilliant to get through (sometimes).

My first RPG was Final fantasy VII. Less about graphics, more about story.

I went on to pursue new RPG games and discovered Knights of the old Republic. A brilliant Bioware game. I remember going to school and bigging up Bioware and then feeling bad because i never knew what Baldur's gate was. (I've played it now. It's hard) But i feel that Bioware have gone from strength to strength in story telling through video gaming. (I've even played the old Fallout games) 

Bioware, I salute you.

I'll end this entry with a Top Five. Game series'. But it'll have to be in no particular order because fuck you it's hard.

• Metal Gear Solid

• Zelda....

• Gears of War

• Final Fantasy

• Uncharted

*****

Adam Gilder
Gethin Down
Dafydd Evans