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

Teenage Years

Teenage Years

Today as I write this i am twenty four years old which means one of many things.

I have been a teenager.

What was it like? Brilliant! Well, the first half was, most definitely. I was on constant adventures; camping, lighting controlled fires, climbing buildings that i shouldn't be climbing, the usual capers a rapscallion in his teens should be involved in.

It was in that time i started to watch my sister play rugby each weekend. Id go mainly to meet up with some friends and we'd develop some activities which soon upgraded to shenanigans. Each weekend we were on a mountain or at least next to a field and found wicked things to do. Or we were in a rugby club watching older people get drunk and we'd hog the pool table.

We were truly free, though we rarely realised it as there were still rules in place that we had to bend somehow. It was this group of friends and the surrounding company of loud rugby players (and fans) that helped me increase my confidence. I was doing things and surviving. It kept getting easier.

Until i turned fifteen or thereabouts when i realised that i had quite the crush on one of the girls in the group. I just didn't know what to do about it, so i just played along all friendly like. How timid am I?

One halloween we decided to get a hold of some booze, which we drank. We got drunk. We (two boys and two girls) played spin the bottle. We threw the bottle away and just decided to do proper kisses on each other because it'd happen eventually.

I can't quite remember how clumsy it was. I only remember trying to do it for long enough so it didn't seem like i just wanted to get it over with. I've never been that nervous since.

The four of us are still friendly although we've grown apart. I'd like a drink and a catchup with them.

The second half of the teens are filled with exams, coursework and alcohol. Mainly the two former. I had a whale of a time through all of my teens but i also remember having a mild headache from the ages of sixteen and eighteen. Sixth form.

To a lot of the people that were in the sixth form at the same time as me, i was considered a pain in the arse. I was loud, slightly careless and daft. (I still am to some degree) Every responsibility I had I never realised it's potential as "responsibility" and i just plodded on.

Then i failed my first batch of exams and had to PAY for my re-sits. I remember the worry that wrapped around me, tangling me into a human scribble. I went for a walk up to the highest mountain i could see at the time (Tylorstown tip. Google it) and emptying my lungs, screaming towards my home valley. My, my it didn't half clear my head. I decided to face my responsibilities head on and knuckle down.

I believe that screaming my guts off of that mountain got me into university.

I was still a silly, playful dick-head. I was probably even more annoying to my peers, but i did work harder. I became responsible.

And now Im all grown up.

-ish

*****

There once was a child from the Rhondda,

An introvert, oft given to ponder,

Though I've grow up in taste,

Why should I now waste,

6 weeks of summer no longer?

*****

Dafydd Evans

Adam Gilder

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

Invent a new flavour of crisp

Invent a new flavor of crisps

I'd like to start this post by explaining that i've given myself many distractions during the upcoming week of this blog entry. It's deadline was saturday the twenty eighth of April and i am submitting mine on the first of May. 

I'd also like to point out that the title this month was provided by me and i truly regret writing the words down on the paper before putting it into the hat.

So here we go:

Ladies and gentlemen feast your eyes, mouths and bellies on a crisp. 

But what?

You've never heard of Prime Spud (trademark) before?

NONSENSE! Prime Spud (trademark) is the new crisp on the tip of everyones tongue. It has perfect texture. Perfect CRUNCH! PERFECT FLAVOURS!

That's right, our great variety of flavours will have you trembling with pure potato pleasure!

Flavours like: Number 1, number 2, number 3, number 5, number 7, number 11, number 13, number 17.......

Waaaaa?

THAT'S NOT WHAT PRIME SPUD (trademark) STANDS FOR!

We have REAL flavours, such as:

Dragon Age flavour. Wrap your tongues and bite your teeth into the tantalizing taste of Archdaemon Dragon stake flavour. It's Fiery!

How about Fallout: New Vegas Falvour? These crisps are RADIOACTIVE! And that's not even the best part! They taste better than a DeathClaw omelet! Mmmm.

If that's not you're style, why not try Dead Space flavour! Have you ever tasted pure zero gravity? It'll chop your limbs off! 

All these flavours and many more at your nearest Prime Spud Crisp stand. Or get them online at primespudcrisp.com/unreal/reallynotreal! Standard delivery charge.

 And for one month only you can get our limited edition flavour.

CROC FLAVOUR! You get the true taste of classic platformer legend Croc with a peppering of Gobbos just for good measure! It has that classic, colourful yet boring taste! GET IT NOW!

Prime Spud (trademark) 

stimulates your

Taste Bud!

*****

Another use for a crisp

Tetrahedron whined plaintively under the ferocious gaze of my dearest wife.  Such a coward, I thought, as I attempted to sidle through a nearby door.  No such luck.

"…and you, Maxi.  Why?!" she trilled at me.  Skies above!

Lounging in one of the many lounging rooms which festoon my manor house, Tetrahedron and I had been workshopping ways in which we could regain some favour in the eyes of our darling Queen Vicky-Tory I.  It is not easy to think up a novel gift for a Queen.  She is sure to have been inundated with an encyclopaedia's worth of novel gifts.  Our gift would have to be more than novel.  It would have to be trilogy.

"Dear Ian," I said to him "we are going to need a very trilogy idea to please Vicky-Tory."  He looked at me blankly.  Quite understandable, of course.  The joke doesn't really work, but I was damned if I wasn't going to use it.  I was irked, and it was the best I could do at the time, so he was going to have to lump it.  "What do you think, then?  Lay your ideas on me."

My good companion indulged in a spot of handwringing, his favourite pastime when he is caught without an idea.  If brains were like secret organisations then all of Ian Tetrahedron's secret operatives were often openly inoperative.  I gave him a moment, and saw the briefest blip from what I could only assume was a very lonely secret agent.

"Well~" Tetrahedron allowed, his hands having been entirely wrung "I've heard that Vicky-Tory is a bit of a snacker, Max, she loves new and interesting snacks."

"Does she?" I replied, feigning distracted disinterest, but in reality I was delighted to be given even this scrap of information.  After all, if this eventually was revealed to be untrue then blame would earth itself to Tetrahedron as the originator of the idea.  A very pleasing state of affairs.

"So I hear, so I hear.  Apparently, she becomes very enthused every time a potato crisping manufacturer runs a competition to invent new and novel flavours.  Rumours tell that she never invents flavours herself, but she is free and easy with her rewards for those who do."

Eyes aglitter with a plan spreading out organically in front of me, I smiled and clapped Tetrahedron heavily on the back.

We found ourselves in a large industrial building the next day, not in the main hollow but, passing through an officious-looking portal we were shown to a smaller, meticulously clean room.  It was a spacious kitchen area, the surfaces gleaming with fresh cleanliness and the reflections of the equally clean implements which adorned the walls.  The room's cupboards had glass windows, behind which we could see all manner of pots and pans.  In my suit, I felt a little out of place.  I would have felt worse were it not for the similarly besuited Tetrahedron beside me.  The presence of my correctly attired butler, Simkins, became an instant annoyance.  We'd brought him along as we figured that he had more practical experience when it came to… well, maybe not cooking.  Perhaps we simply felt he was more practically experienced generally.  He certainly has silver hair, which suggests an amount of experience.

I could have directly confronted Simkins, since it was his butlerian responsibility to clothe me appropriately.  How was I to know?  It is not for me to know which clothes I should wear, that is why I employ the man!  But it doesn't do to directly confront the staff.  It simply isn't Done.  The Willoughbys never confront their staff, and in this way we can hold our heads high and proclaim that we have the best staff; staff that never make mistakes.  Catching my eye, Simkins closed the space between us and with an imperceptible lowering of his head informed me that factory clothes for Tetrahedron and myself were contained in the rucksack he'd prepared.  I would have felt bad for doubting him, but fortunately I am a Willoughby, and so I hadn't.

Mentally wiping my brow I caught sight of a figure approaching us at a pace.  With a stride so strident it approached goose-stepping, the figure bore down upon us and in our turns visited us each with a wank-stopper of a handshake.

"Basil Fullsugar, gentlemen," he declared, steadying himself and sucking a full breath through teeth clamped tight in an eternal grin.  Ah yes, one of Isabella's friends.  It never ceases to amaze me that my dearest wife, Lady Isabella Willoughby, manages to keep acquaintances with people so many and varied.  Such strange creatures, most of them.  This Fullsugar fellow was an entrepreneur who'd made his mark on the business world because of the fascinating and commendable things he thought to do with potatoes.  Quite scandalous, some of them, but you know the sorts of things that'll excite the plebs.  Who better to help us in our endeavours to win back the favour of our splendid Queen?

All kitted out appropriately, we were soon up to our navels in potato viscera, and we juddered industriously in a frenzy of creation.  We were Veg Lords, Masters of all that Grows Below Ground.  When the snackers of the world experience how delectable our snack is, we thought, they would curse themselves as buffoons for ever having delected anything else.  The value of deliciousness was about to be engorged beyond all recognition.  Or so we thought.

Fullsugar had insisted that he would accompany us to Court so that we could present our new flavour to the Queen.  You don't get to be a successful entrepreneur by missing a trick.  Fullsugar was a canny devil, he had developed a second sight which acted like a sheet of coloured gauze which could descend over his eyes and highlighted each and every trick in a prominent golden colour.  "I am a fucking trick!" each trick would scream, "don't miss me!"  And he didn't.  However, as the miners who discovered the sparkling faeces of the underground armpiglets now appreciate, not all that glitters is gold.

Resplendent in her regal finery, a shimmering magisterial glow hovering around her, Queen Vicky-Tory Thronetaker the First choked on a crisp.  A detonation of jagged fried tater shards hurriedly evacuated her mouth and settled in the hair of her nearby sycophants.  I swear I saw one of them pick a crumb out of his hair and ferret it away in his pocket; a potential family heirloom.

Shocked, hurt and angry, Vicky-Tory's gaze swept upon us like the beam of the lighthouse of utter buggery.  Had I not seen him since, I would swear that the look turned Tetrahedron to ash on the spot.  The Queen was quickly ushered to seclusion, and we three inventors made ourselves scarce.  We were confronted by Coyster, the Queen's secretary, as we attempted to make good our escape.  He pushed our crisps into our reluctant arms, and with eyelids at half-mast droned at us.  "Gentlemen, while some saucy individuals may delight that their rubber preventatives have the interesting flavours usually attributed to crisps, no single person, and certainly not our Queen, enjoys the situation being reversed."

We later discovered that Tetrahedron had gleaned his secret information from none other than Dominic leRevven, the greasy sponge, who'd set us up for a fall.  No doubt he was delighted by the stupendous scope of our regrettable misfire.  Condom flavoured crisps.  How was I to know?  I've never had the misfortune of tasting such devices, nor have I visited such on my dear wife.  No indeed.  We use no protection, and should we have the grand misfortune of falling pregnant then we will have an abortion as the Lord intended.

As I had done countless times before I glanced at Tetrahedron and wondered why I continued our acquaintance.  My wife fumed animatedly and the room become claustrophobic as it filled up with her copiously offloaded ire.  Slumped in my fourth favourite armchair, Basil Fullsugar was a pathetic, broken figure.  He had built his reputation on potatoes, and now his empire was mash.  How fickle is popularity I thought, safe in the knowledge that I had never had the ill-fortune of being popular.  Weeping wanly into his golden cufflinks, Fullsugar deflated even further.

Well, I thought to myself, though this has largely been a complete mess of a day, at least a well-respected, successful businessman has been brought to his knees for no reason at all.  Though nothing of worth had been achieved, nor any progression or advancement made, at least the status quo had been shaken up a little.  There's little worse in this world than stagnation, I thought to myself, dipping a bourbon biscuit into my milk and eating it with a single bite.

*****

Dafydd Evans
Adam Gilder

Rules. RULES!

Ever hear of the story about a little boy who broke all the rules? Have you heard the one about the boy who obeyed all the rules? What about the one where the rules broke the boy?

I haven't heard, read or told any one of these. Until now!

The boy who broke all the rules
Sammy was eight and lived in his treehouse. He built it himself from wood that he stole from the pallet factory not far from his parent's house. He stole his dad's hammer and pulled nails out of the useless furniture he found dumped in skips and dumps. He wasn't supposed to go wandering the way he did and he filled his parent's with worry but he always came back in high spirits.
His treehouse was built without plans but to his credit, it was quite strong even with it's jagged edges and creaky walls. He lived there as long as he could, until he grew out of it's limited space. Against his want he lived back with his parents to take advantage of its size and heat and significantly smaller distance to a shower. Much like the treehouse the boy grew into a quite strong being with jagged edges and creaky walls, in that he didn't react well to a simple telling off and he didn't let people get to know him. He often dismissed orders, not for a lack of respect , although many people saw it as that, but for desire to do his own thing. He lived in his own body and wanted it to move to his own will. Although, he wouldn't dismiss an opportunity to indulge himself in a good idea, regardless of the lips that expressed it. He wasn't daft.
This man had created a blanket of independence and wrapped himself snugly in it. So snug in fact that his independence had manifested a deadly efficiency. The man was a builder, a craftsman, a man of vision and excellent hands. He honed his skills during his years of constant exercise and experience. His curiosity had fueled him into a master. He had developed an ability to maneuver his hands to create any shape, any tool, any object that his world needed or his mind wanted. This had earned him a comfortable living as his skill was in demand. The boy who broke the rules was now a man who made his own.

The boy who obeyed all the rules
The boy who obeyed all the rules was truly adorable. He did what he was told, like you'd expect from a boy with such a title. He was well kept and life was easy. He always knew what he had to do and did it to the best of his ability. School was easy and quiet. He had a couple of close friends, all of which were loyal to each other. They knew this was important in an environment as volatile as school. Their defense was to remain unnoticed to the kids who enjoyed mischief and drama, while quietly nabbing the attention of the authority figures who set the rules they obeyed so well. The close friends hit their late adolescence hard and had developed a need to impress their peers, mainly the ones with pretty eyes and full breasts. But the boy had his rules. One that was ingrained was to not have a girlfriend, for they distract him from his work. The rules, set in place by his family were there to protect him from his life's path (also set by his family) to be a doctor. A credit to society. So the boy did what he was told, achieved the necessary, perfect grades and went to university, where despite living away from his family he followed his rules and kept to himself and achieving his necessary, perfect grades and went on to be a doctor.
It was here that his life was turned upside down. True, there are many rules to follow when you're a doctor. Certain diseases and illness' require certain, specific treatments in order to achieve the desired results. However, patients, a.k.a. people have such different rules of engagement. To deal with this he used one very important rule: Ask Questions.
He asked beyond the necessary questions; "How/why are you not well" or "what happened". He asked about them. Their lives, their stories, their interests and so on. He learned that most of these people were there because they broke a certain rule. He also learned that these same people usually had a reason to break the rules. Through this he learned that rules are useless without your own reason to follow them, which he realised that up until now, he hadn't.
This was a conclusion that changed his life and lead to a new beginning.

The rules that broke the boy
There was this boy who broke the rules deliberately to be "cool". This eventually got him into jail. He changed the way he did things. He followed some rules that lots of people followed. But then he realised that man of the rules that the mass of people were following often contradicted themselves. This put a lot of stress on his mind and he couldn't figure out what to do so he jumped off a cliff. The rules broke the boy.

*****
"I never was one for rules," quoth leRevven, tossing back his caramel locks with a vicious whip of his neck. His hair flowed straight back to its original position, running in the well worn rivulets of his ludicrously flamboyant 8-inch collar which jutted directly to the heavens. Blinking languorously at me and indulging in a sneer which revealed one of his canines, leRevven flumped impolitely into my favourite armchair. Swinging his legs over an arm, and arching himself so as to be looking at me upside down, he continued.

"In all honesty Max, I've come to see rules as things which apply exclusively to women, foreigners and the poor."

Dominic Grothandler leRevven, Viscount Yellowpool, is a man who puts the dick into lack of decorum. Swinging his kinkyboot clad feet playfully over the side of my armchair, I concentrated very hard on the possibility that he in fact was an apparition of my overtired mind, but as much as I willed him away, there he remained. For all his declared disinterest in rules, his face obeyed the edict of gravity, and I was treated to the oddness of having the flab of his face sinking to his forehead. I redoubled my efforts to will him away.

"Nevertheless, dear heart, our good Queen sees things differently, and so here am I, to collect her dues, as per the rue-ells."

In many of the lands of this world who deign to appoint monarchs make the claim that those who reign therein are God's chosen. Fortunately, or perhaps unfortunately, for us, our Queen is actually God's chosen ruler. We know this for certain because of the intriguing and rather colourful goings on which are the meat and potatoes of her Court. Early on in her reign, the voices of dissent were many and varied, as the aristocratic class had become used to the jellyspined rule of her predecessor, King Andreas "Jellyspine" Fondura IV. We perhaps should have foresaw a different approach by taking note of the way in which our current Queen came into power. It will go down in history as the least complex, most direct coup de tat ever witnessed. There was young Jellyspine, giving in to us as usual, in the middle of a hearing, sat in his throne, kinging well and good, when Vicky-Tory Towncharger simply storms in, lofts a mace above and her head and mushes him entirely. Poor bastard.

She was an ageing marauder who'd tired of the constant travel and the limited amenities that brought with it, and she'd seen fit to alter that situation, because she could. Vicky-Tory was not born with a silver spoon in her mouth, but she'd bloody well got one there now. Her moniker, Towncharger, had been earned as she was avoiding justice in some far flung shanty town, and in the course of her making good her escape, she found she was being blockaded by an entire town, which had slunk from nearby to assist. Not lacking resolve, she'd reared back on her trusty steed Hog and simply charged. Rumours have it that even the taverns dived out of the way.

She was definitely a frightening sort of woman. At least Jellyspine would have been utterly anaesthetised as the mace made pudding of his skull; as she towered over him he would have been eye-level with her thighs, which were the sort of thighs which could grind a horse to dust between them. Legend says that to see her thighs is to leave your mind with no room to think of anything else.

Since taking the throne, Queen Vicky-Tory Thronetaker I had decreed very little, she simply asked that anytime a noble left the country, they are duty-bound to present the Queen with a gift on their return. I had recently visited the Duchy of Bastard, a small stakeholding in which I have an interest, and due to Circumstances whilst there, I found it necessary to beat a hasty retreat. Gifts the last thing on my mind, I returned home, and that explains why I was being graced with the presence of my dear, dear friend Viscount Yellowpool.

"Where's the gift, Max?"

I became slightly irked by his insistent tone. Sat in the corner with his head bowed and hands between his thighs, Tetrahedron, the Duke of Frisbee, was clearly entirely engaged in an attempt to will himself elsewhere. He had accompanied me on my excursion, but since he was a man of a more Bastardly outlook, he had not flown when the situation orgied. As such he had remembered a gift for our dear Queen. He had already handed leRevven the gift, a curious girdle with an ornate statuette of a long mushroom jutting out of it. Quite what the good Duke was thinking I don't know, but not knowing the use of such an accessory, I cannot begin to speculate. As good a friend as Tetrahedron is, he hadn't remembered to pick up a second gift from me, and for that he was in the shithouse, what?

Mercifully, it was at this point that Lady Willoughby cannoned into the room, and like trick photography leRevven vanished from his rude position in my very favourite armchair, and reappeared, stood rigidly to attention, several feet further into the room. His face was glistening with a sheen of what we refer to as the "leRevven Lady Willoughby Sweats". Isabella does have quite the effect on Dominic, childhood friends as they are. She simply smiles and hurries to a task at hand when I bring it up, but through the grapevine I've discovered that his tremulosity around her stems from a youthful hijink where she held him captive for several days at the bottom of a well on her, quite expansive, family estate. Dominic cannot hear the name of Crosshill Quartz without twitching very noticeably.

"Ehurghahahaha, Isabella, bella!" released leRevven, a gatling staccato of nerves escaping his vocal aperture. Lady Willoughby swept across the room, her skirts trailing out behind her dramatically, giving the impression of a swimming octopus entangled in drapes.

"Domma! Why didn't you tell me you'd come!? Here you are hiding away with Maxi and Ian, when you could have the pleasure of my company! Surely you've become unstable to have chosen them over me?"

Making a noise like a plug being pulled out of a bath of golden syrup, leRevven swallowed and, gesturing slightly too energetically, whined

"It is on business I'm afraid, Bella, in and out."

"You're being run ragged by that Vicky!" declared Lady Willoughby stridently, a cartoonish pout swelling on her.

"Yes, indeed," I quickly interjected, so as not to appear sidelined by my better half.

"Ehurghno, no," he assured us, "it's an honour to serve her Majesty. Collecting gifts for her is a joy!"

The dawn of false realisation broke over Lady Willoughby's face with the subtlety of nuclear holocaust. Fortunately, in his state of jitters, her thespianic efforts slipped past leRevven unnoticed. Delving wholehandedly into her expansive pockets, Lady Willoughby extracted a vial which contained a vivid electric blue substance of jam-like consistency.

"Here's Maxi's gift from Bastard, he offered it to my protection when he returned. You know how absentminded he can be!" she whinnied, releasing a full bellywobbler of a guffaw afterwards.

"Ha." I rejoined, to show game.

"It's a salve, Dommy. It's possibly the most exciting thing that Maxi could have brought back. It is said to heighten all the senses. I know that Vicky's days of adventuring are behind her, but should she ever take it upon herself to embark on some grand effort, she is sure to enjoy herself far more should she utilise this lotion."

Understanding well her meaning, Dominic leRevven had the vial in his gloved hands and quickly exeunt, ever eager to escape Isabella. As Lady Willoughby shook her head at Tetrahedron, I thought of how I owed so much to my darling life companion. I had so very nearly come acropper of our Queen who, while not a vicious tyrant, enjoyed gifts to a frankly excessive degree. Her eyes then fell on me, and as I offered a silent thankyou by way of a nod, I wondered which would have been the worse for me, bearing the scorn and whispers which would have accompanied my lack of gift, or missing out on whatever use my dear wife had originally intended when she'd purchased that vial.

Curtly goodbyeing Tetrahedron, we retired to the bedroom.

*****

The act of completing this piece causes me to both flout and conform to rules. I flout it by completing it passed the agreed upon deadline, it conforms to them by having me actually complete it.

I have always had a strange relationship with rules, being someone who both respects and gates them. I loathe being told what to do, and am often the sort of person who is a reverse psychologists' nocturnal emission. But the, I respect the boundaries which are imposed by them.

I think this has a great deal to do with my being a person who is easily irked. I can also have a certain rigidity about me which I actively try to work against.

But rules are important, like it or not.

I like to imagine a game of chess. The amount of patterns and combinations that can be created is phenomenal, as is the fact that you could spend a lifetime studying the game in order to attempt to master it. But this is only made possible by rules, because without rules, the pawn would swamp the board, the queens would terrorise the board and the knights would trample everyone.

Equally, if we had chaos and no rules, then society would be like this game.

But rules are a touchy subject in society, because depending on what rules you like and what rules you don't can dictate how acceptable you are and by whom you are accepted. Political rules, social rules, sexual rules, behavioural rules. They're all complex issues that are decided upon by the majority and is often decided upon unofficially, unspoken. And when were we given the choice?

We are almost certainly living the life decided upon by our ancestors. We are reaping the rewards and the chastisements of our forebears.

To sign off from this unfunny and, to be honest, hastily written piece, I leave you with this thought;
Rules are only as valuable as the people who abide by them.

*****

Dafydd Evans
Adam Gilder
Gethin Down