How beer saved my life

I was supposed to submit this on the 28th of August, however on that day i took my father to the doctors surgery as he needed some attention. My dad is a functional alcoholic and im annoyed about it. So that day i was a little dramatic and chose not to write about it.

I soon got over my little dramatic hump and put my mind to the title and found a little anecdote that synchronizes perfectly with the title. 

In my second year of university i moved there with a few of my friends. A bunch of single guys, ready to party, live it up and indulge in some healthy shenanigans.

I soon realised that i was a little less reserved than my friends after some tasty alcoholic yumyum juice. Once night during freshers week, a traffic light party i believe it was, i accelerated onto the road of blurry vision and low inhibitions. 

I wore green which means "come at me!". I saw a lady wearing green and i knew what that meant and so i attempted it. 

I cant remember much but waking up the next day and i saw the lady that i brought home with me. Something struck my fragile, hungover, puny brain when i noticed that she was wearing different clothes. When i asked her about it which sounded like "Uuughh, umm chain?" she replied "Yeah i've been home to freshen up and i thought i'd get changed while i was there.". Bless her for understanding the query of a caveman but i couldn't get past that she wore the reddest clothes she had.

We agreed to give each other a day and maybe hookup the next time we were out. But i couldnt get the giant red warning light out of my head. everything about her told me that she wanted a relationship and i had JUST moved into a house. I didn't want anything more than a bit of fun. I was 18/19 and little to no skills with relationships, other than "be childish".

throughout the next day and a half i worried and got teased by my friends but mainly tried to feorget about it all by immersing myself in my new brilliant environment that had a big tv, 3 game consoles and lots of booze.

One night there was a house party at my new place and it was filled with relatively close friends. we're were all merry, laughing and joking and competing on our videogames when the door knocked. We were warned by the landlord that our neighbor was an elderly, cantankerous man so we geared for a minor argument. A lady guest answered the door as she was welcome to. I was in the kitchen and i heared the door knocker venomously inquire "Who are you? Is Dafydd in?".

I had two choices. Bail: Run out the back door, jump over the wall and keep running, or Face the problem head on: Go and see her, talk to her and get her hostile sounding self out of the party.

I know what you think i did, but i was drunk and would've been sick if i did all that running. So i went with option 2 and left the house with her, after downing 3 shots and a can. A friend of mine joined me as he was mildly taken with her friend.

Now i cant remember a thing after leaving her house. i woke up in my own bed with  no one to talk to, just two or 3 text on my phone, all asking "how are you feeling?" I phoned the last person i knew was with me and he told me what i did.

"You were hilarious, butt. She clearly wanted you to stay with her and you clearly didn't want to be, like, tied down. You told her that in the park but you were like "We could just have fun together tonight" haha. She was like"It's cold out here, let's see how we feel in my house." So we went to her house and i was kinda chuffed because i was about to get it on too but we got in her house and i knew that was off the cards. Something happened to you. You didn't react well to the pressure she was putting on you"

"Oh shit, i didn't upset or hurt anyone did i?"

"You didn't say or do anything nasty, dont worry, hahaha, you did something so much more creative. you went to the kitchen and insisted on some water because you felt drunk. You poured the water on your head, the floor and the ceiling!"

"What?"

"Yeah, so then you felt bad about that, stopped laughing and decided the mop the ceiling. They didn't even know that they had a mop but you found one! Anyway her housemates made them make you leave. Then ***** was like let's go to yours and you said "No i need to be by myself. I'll see you around." and then you ran! Last night was the stupidest night i've had, looking after you."

"Sorry butt"

"It was a pleasure man dont worry. Get a bacon sandwich down you, buddy, ill see u later."

"bye, buddy"

I never heard off her since. I didn't have the diplomatic, mature, relationship skills to deal with her appropriately but beer made her go away. 

And that's how beer saved my life. 

I have grown up now. Honest.

*****

Both in appearance and in demeanour my father was a repulsive creature, so from the off: beer saved my life.  In this instance it was the twelve pints of Caernarfon Golden Earthy that my mother plunged ecstatically down the naive funnel of her gullet.  My father, you see, if one were to become drunk in his presence, would be struck by the misleading, but very persuasive, sensation that his company was enjoyable.  Upon waking morning next, the reckless imbiber would be privy to a snap realisation that this was emphatically not the case.

It is well documented that the night was one of rabid debauchery.  The story ran for several days in the front half of a moderately reputable newspaper, and was covered again in a special commemorative pull-out section the following spring.  The hoteliers reserved for the event a far colder place in their recollections.

“I have never seen the like before or since!” bawled the landlady as she appeared for a half a second as a talking head on a BBC retrospective many years later.  A shiny graphic undulated on-screen, attempting to depict what experts believe they have pieced together of the night from the available forensic evidence.  Nobody was any the wiser, and the entire production resulted only in a further spread of old fashioned VD.

As long as I knew him, my father walked with a limp but, when queried, his old school pals assure me that he was of near-Olympian fitness in his youth.  That’s the sort of woman my mother was.  A beauty worth tearing your cruciate ligaments over.

I am Maximilian Willoughby, and this is how beer saved my life the second time, and took my mother from me.

It was a cruise liner of incomparable splendour; a sleek, pure-white jet of ambition-in-steel, cleaving its way through the North Atlantic Ocean.  If you had binoculars and a taste for that kind of thing, you could see Norway out to the East, but I had no mind for that.  Of course, given my time aboard again, I would dearly love to see Norway, but such activities numbered not among my priorities in those days.  Why squint about for the old Viking homeland when such magnificent pleasures lay aboard ship?  If I should like to see barbarians in their barbarous natural environs I should be the type who is regularly seen ‘in town’.  I must most effusively assure you that I do not carouse with the rough classes.  I carouse only with gentlemen and ladies, of the kind who now populated the ship.

Ah, yes.  The ship.  The H.M.S. Alabas Nana, so called in reference to her alabaster hue, and due to her looking like a banana.  Of course, she looked less like a banana whilst she was afloat, but when seen from beneath the ocean, it became easier to appreciate the apposite naming.  I was a red-blooded young buck at the time, I am told that I brought to mind the image of a powerful and dynamic elk, ready to clash antlers with any and all rivals, to gore in order for the right to gore whomsoever I chose.  I was very impressed with the triumph that was the Alabas Nana, but I was more engrossed in matters of the purple banana.

The most ravishing beauties in all the Empire were all around me.  All varieties were present.  Some festooned the deck in scanty waterwear consisting of as few strands of material as was possible.  Those few lengths were as thin as would hold without causing them to shred the wearer like superheated piano-wire through an ice-sculpture of a pianist.  Others billowed along the windy rails in flowery dresses, seeming to my eyes - fogged by desire - half-jellyfish, half-beautiful lady.  I must warn all hyperlibidinous youngsters that it is wholly unadvisable to read the works of H.P. Lovecraft at any time.  Though, if you will insist on that course of action, it is advisable to avoid doing such in the following contexts:

1) Around ladies.  They are not in any way interested in the gruesome horrors of a twisted American.

2) At sea.  Much of Lovecraft’s oeuvre involves monstrosities either appearing at or deriving from the sea.  Read about mermaids instead.

3) Around ladies at sea.  Especially if you discover you have some strange, undesired and unexpected, lusty fetish for briny femme fatales.  It can quite destabilise a fellow.

Consider yourself warned.

There was much to feast upon for a passenger who was prepared for a banquet of female flesh.  I was well-equipped, shall we say.  No sooner had I boarded the craft than I mentally readied myself for a journey of variety.  One dusky afternoon I very suddenly had the tap of flowing femininity jerked firmly closed on me.  Her name was Guirana Sashma, but she insisted “you call me Dee-Anna”, and I did.

I was infatuated with her from the off.  I was stuck to her as though I was a puppy she had cable tied to her boot by its face.  I even made the noises.  Her hair roared around her head, a savage mane of sandy blonde, her shocking amber eyes held me in mesmeric awe.  I was the prisoner of her charm, and how I longed to deserve my incarceration.

It was a family holiday.  With my parents and familial entourage aboard, I was seldom free to pursue my dearest Dee-Anna.  My father liked Dee-Anna, my mother less so.  I knew if I was to achieve even a purloined afternoon with my goddess I would have to concoct an ingenious way to keep my dear parents much away from my person.  Like a demented chicken that has had sex with blueprints, I hatched a plan.

I was to meet dearest Dee-Anna on the top deck of the ship.  It was busy that night, an ensemble of Scottish Communists were making a rousing go of water caber toss, to the dismay of all cultured individuals aboard.  Using the celtic roughhousing as cover, we sped across the deck and, clamping our hooks to the railings, we rappelled several feet down the side of the ship.

We kissed, how we kissed!  Spiralling gently with the swing of our descent I felt as though I had been taken to heaven and that I could keep my body.  All the better for the retaining of my natural urges.  Our spinning slowed, and I gazed, enraptured, into her eyes.  Such a deep amber were they that I swear I saw a yellow shark swimming therein.  But the moment was aborted.

With a lurch of my stomach, I realised that the counter-swing had begun.  I glanced up, seeing our ropes intertwined and speedily disentangling themselves.  Panic shot up my leg, and from the spreading warm feeling I was getting, down hers.  There was only the spin and the holding of our breaths, and then the wires came loose.

We flew apart.  She crashed heavily into the craft, and my mouth ‘O’ed in shock as I saw her raised above, her wire being reeled by the burly arms of the Scotch Trotskyites above.  They had been drawn to look because she had been screaming throughout, I now noticed.  Without a pause, they began to haul me in, but with a merciless snap, my wire gave.

Such a plunge I have never felt since, the sensation of my heel longing for my larynx.  Every meal I had ever had was reversing into my mouth.  From above I discerned a descending angel, arched into a textbook classic-style dive.  Majesty beyond compare.  As the figure approached I realised with crushing embarrassment that it was my very own mother.  She crashed into me, taking me in her arms but 10 feet from the Atlantic’s reach.

In a swimming pool it would have been a trophy-winning splash, but it is difficult to impress in the context of a sea.  SPUH-LASH.  It was damn cold, I remember.  I first became acutely aware of how unimpressive splashes are when viewed in the ocean moments later, when a beer keg bombed nearby us.  I later found out it had been a last-ditch effort to save us by the Celts, who I began to feel I’d given slightly short shrift.  Ma-ma and I climbed upon it.

After that trip my mother was indeed lost.  It was a dreadful week of floating and drinking only seawater and eating what seagulls we could grab.  Eventually, we reached Norway.  My mother was entranced by the country, and never returned.  I myself was somewhat shocked by the culture of the place.  You know, they’re quite civilised these days.

*****

Welcome back to the only blog on the internet. Well the only blog I’ve written. Well the only blog I’ve written this year (if I read as often as I wrote I would never have finished a book, which I totally have). Now before we begin with the main body of text that will make up the funny story relating to the heading, there is some admin I must address. It seems that a lot of you were interested in the pasty pen that was mentioned in the last entry. This interested me too as I have no recollection of ever owning or using a pasty pen. Fortunately for you, I am a master genius and have invented a new one. Here is how it is made. First, walk in to your local bakery, or a Greggs if you live in Britain, and ask for a pasty. It has to be one that is big enough to fit a pen (I’ll tell you why in a minute). Say thank you and finish your transaction courteously. Next, go to your local stationary store, or WHSmiths if you live the UK, and ask for a pen. It can be a marker or a ballpoint or even a gel glide but it has to be small enough to fit in a pasty (wait, for fuck sake). Lastly, stick the pen in your pasty so that only the tip is poking out. This way you can do your work and eat your dinner at the same time. Just don’t eat the pen. (Patent Pending 2012). Next week I will explain how you can get your hands on a steak bake iPad.

When it comes to alcohol I’ve never really had a very good relationship. As a teenager I flirted a little with the devils tipple. As a student I came on heavy to Satan’s bevvy. And as an adult I have no taste for it (what rhyming?). But I can say with the greatest respect and gratitude that without alcohol I don’t think I would be alive right now. The story begins back in High School, or Cymer if you are me (which you are not, but I am). I was never very popular outside of my extensive group of friends. Within my group of friends however, I would say that I was the leader, the Boss. They would come to me with problems, presents and prostitutes (ignore the last one). It was a position of power that required my attention around the clock. I had people hanging on the bell all day and never giving me a moments peace. I felt like a hundred and eleven year old hobbit trying to arrange a birthday party. So, on occasion I would allow myself a small alcoholic drink (of immense strength) to relieve some stress. Stress of course being the number one killer of high school kingpins. Or so I thought. As it happens, jealous second-in-commands are the number one killer of high school kingpins and I was about to find that out the hard way (not all the way though or I wouldn’t be writing this, so don’t worry).

I was, as it was customary, taking my Friday morning movements (jogging or shitting, I can’t remember) when the door to the cubicle burst open and in came my best friend. I would have shook his hand all polite but mine were busy with other things. Oh, and he had a knife in his. I sprung up and gave him a clout with the only thing at hand (yes, I was wiping my arse or jogging). Now covered in shit he chased me back to the common room where, due to my awesome speed, I already was. I throw my glass of high octane spirits at the tissue on his face then set the bastard on fire (teach him to interrupt a jog). That was the first time alcohol saved my life (although not beer). There were more attempts on my life in the months that were left in school and somehow they all ended in a similar way. I don’t know if this was a skill I became proficient in or whether the writer was too lazy to think of any more incidents (fourth wall, never!). Shortly after that I left the safety net of private education (or public in American) and became an university student.

Having lost my celebrity status in Uni, I decided to take up golf. Pub golf. This seemed to be a popular way of making friends and having people idolize you. All I needed was an inert ability to imbibe copious amounts of alcohol in as little ‘sips’ as possible. I would have to practice. So I drank and drank and drank each night until I could take down a whole bottle of beer in a single ‘sip’. I worked at it and eventually practice paid off.  I entered the local PGA Tour (Pub Golf Arseholes) and I was all ready to take my place, back in the upper echelons of society when disaster struck. A lighting rig, high above my head, had been wired wrong (some years ago by some cowboy builders but the student union didn’t have the money to put it right) and burst in to flames. The flames subsequently set fire to my drink, just as I was slamming it back. Soon my mouth was ablaze and no one knew what to do. Everyone was apanic (too right it’s a word). I, however, remained calm. Having set many a person’s visage on fire I also knew how much liquid it would take to put it out. Exactly one beer. This was the moment I had been waiting for (in a situation I wouldn’t have imagined). Grabbing a bottle from the bar I chugged the golden nectar back in one almighty swig. The fire subsided and everyone was cheering. The only injury I sustained was a very burned tongue and a retarded mustache growth. That was the time that alcohol, beer specifically, really saved my life.

I am now an adult and as I said earlier I have no taste for alcohol. Well, actually, I have no taste for anything because of the burned tongue thing. I can’t even taste the pasties that I have on my pens (that’s why I forget them, duh!). So until next time, don’t forget to be aware of your drinking (spirits are flammable and beer isn’t).

*****

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