The British Board of Film Classification made a bad name for itself back in the 80s. It banned a whole host of low budget graphic horror movies in its self-appointed role as protector of the vulnerable public. It took this role way too seriously and banned so many they ended up as a their own mini-genre - the 'video nasties'. Times changed, so did the BBFC and most of them are no longer banned.
Recently, the BBFC was accused of being up to its old tricks when it declined to give a rating to The Human Centipede II: Full Sequence. Even now, the BBFC do occasionally decline to rate films, but due to the notoriety of The Human Centipede: First Sequence this one is a little more high profile. A full statement has been issued by the BBFC setting out its reasons for the decision. If you're unfamiliar with Tom Six's movie, brace yourself.
The Human Centipede is a horror film in which a mad scientist kidnaps three people and surgically attaches them mouth-to-anus to see if they can survive as a single organism. Not having seen it, I can't really comment of the quality of the film-making, but there is allegedly a scene in which there is some shit-in-mouth action. It made it through the censors uncut with an 18 certificate because stupid, horrid and pointless as it sounds, it's harmless. It's clear the 'scientist' is batshit mental and as the bad guy, gets the appropriate bullet in the head by the time the film is over.
The Human Centipede II goes a little meta, in that there is a guy who gets sexually aroused by the first film and gets his jollies off by watching the 'money shot' repeatedly. The guy gets so obsessed with it that he goes as far as snatching innocent people off the street and building a 'centipede' of his very own. The BBFC statement refers specifically to a scene in which the guy rapes the girl at the tail end with barbed-wire wrapped around his little man. Obviously, this is not a film you'd want to see on a full stomach, but is it really necessary to not rate it? There have been other films comparable in extremity that the BBFC have given a rating to - A Serbian Film is full of incest, rape and murder, sometimes all at once, and includes scenes in which a man is killed by being raped in the head and the rape of a newborn baby.
So what's the difference? Why ban one and not the other? It would appear as though it's to do with the manner in which the material is presented. A Serbian Film, while containing truly horrific imagery presents events in a light that clearly shows that these things are not right and tries to make a point (which I fear was lost somewhat in the controversy surrounding it) about some of the most repulsive things hidden in the dark corners of the nature of humanity. For that reason, with a few minor cuts, the BBFC was able to pass it with an 18 certificate. The Human Centipede, as mentioned above, clearly shows that there is a very mad, very twisted person at the centre of it all who must be, and is, stopped. The Human Centipede II, so I understand it (and I may well be understanding it incorrectly, as I am going only on what the BBFC statement and a few pieces written on Empire online and similar places say), presents the dreadful events through the eyes of the perpetrator with a little more than a touch of sympathy. That is, to suggest that not only is it OK for him to be getting off on it, but that perhaps, if you want to, you can too. Basically, encouraging you to have a wank over the sight of a guy with a barbed-wire-wrapped dick raping a girl while she's being forced to eat someone else's shit. And, while I'm not sure it's exactly harmful as the BBFC infer, there is no doubt that it just ain't quite right.
I do agree that censorship is a very slippery slope indeed, but I don't think this issue is about censorship. I'm sure the BBFC realise it's no longer the 1980s and that declining to certify a film does not equate to a ban. Cinemas can still legally show films that have not been rated, and if someone really wants to see it, they could find a copy online without too much trouble. So instead of it being about censorship, I think the BBFC is coming from a moral standpoint. It's not the events that take place within the film, it's that those events are shown through a certain prism, and it's the prism that the BBFC has a problem with. It's not something that could be solved with a few strategic BBFC-recommended cuts, it's the theme of the film itself. When it comes down to it, the BBFC had little choice in the matter in the end. Films are rated using a finely-crafted predetermined set of guidelines, and the 'this gives us a hard-on, what about you' view the film takes to the events depicted meant it was never going to get by. Those guidelines are partly determined as a result of direct input from the general public - the same people critics accuse the BBFC of unfairly restricting the viewing rights of. Those preset guidelines can sometimes be responsible for some ratings that are not immediately clear - for example, why did American Beauty get an 18 rating? It's relatively mild - even the climactic death scene isn't particularly grisly. It turns out that it's because two characters manage to escape the drudgery of day to day life using the money one of them got from selling drugs, and the BBFC could not be seen to be condoning positive outcomes that result from illegal activity. It seems a little silly, however the BBFC have no choice but to abide by these predetermined guidelines.
In all honesty, you're never gonna get me to see either of The Human Centipede films or A Serbian Film, so issues of censorship and freedom to view aside, I couldn't really care less if they all got banned.
Sunday, June 19, 2011
Tuesday, June 7, 2011
What is so hard about not being a dick? In which I stick my oar in where it’s probably not wanted. Again.
Gender equality has been a bit of a hot button topic of late. The abortion rights debate continues to rage across the US, and thanks to the certifiable Nadine Dorries and Melanie Phillips, it's also gathering pace here in the UK. Certain politicians on both sides of the ocean have been attempting to categorise different types of rape into levels of seriousness, suggesting if you weren't kicked in the head several times as well, it's not proper rape. I'm pretty sure nobody wants to hear my opinions on any of this, but, well, it's my blog, so fuck it.
I wonder if it's possible for those pushing to curtail or even end abortion rights to really hate women as much as they appear to, or whether instead they haven't read enough to understand about foetus development and have been taken in by what the religious right preach about it. Are those wanting to force women to explain their miscarriages in court really taking into account how the person who just lost their unborn child must be feeling? Do those attempting to protect the imagined rights of the unborn not understand the difference between a developing foetus and a developed baby? The famous empty-craniumed pop fuck Justin Bieber illustrated how the point is missed when he was asked his opinion on abortion during a TV interview. "Isn't it like killing babies?" he asked, vacantly. No Justin, it's not. It's stopping cells dividing. It's terminating an unthinking lump of carbon and water. Once it gets past a certain point, say, 24 weeks, then yes, it's very much like killing babies. But then, that's why it becomes illegal at that point. Stick to singing and looking ten Justin. It's what you do best.
The argument is of course, about the potential life being ended. So, OK, say we consider the rights of the potential human. How low do we go? Do any and all abortions become illegal? Should it be illegal to wank into a sock? After all, the sperm cells are all potential humans. Does it become illegal to have a period, to lose the potential life that was the egg? It doesn't really work setting out to protect the rights and possible future lives of potential humans in a reasonable manner because any limit you choose to impose discriminates against less developed potential humans. Set a limit of 12 weeks. Why do you hate the 10 week-old future humans so much, murderer? The 24 week limit is simply more sensible, because that is what scientific research and experience tells us is the most likely period of development where the foetus becomes viable - more than simply potential. Obviously, it's not always easy to be objective when talking about life and potential life, so the arguments for lowering the limit are understandable. But when it comes to a point where people are in favour of forcing you to carry a pregnancy to term in cases of rape and incest it becomes indefensible. Welcome to the world of the Republicans. Not just on the fringe of the tea party either - I'm talking McCain and Palin here, as well as others. What is wrong with these people? Oh right, I forgot. They've been indoctrinated into a religious cult which tells them they should give birth to their brother's or rapist's offspring on account of it being their god's will. Fuck sake.
Then there's rape. Rape, according to certain politicians with a right wing bent, isn't real rape unless there's a beating into the bargain. Violent rape is worse than non-violent rape, they say. Putting aside for a moment that I doubt there is such a thing as non-violent rape, then yes, it is. Duh. Obviously, being raped and beaten is worse than being raped. Just like being mugged and beaten is worse than being mugged. What is doesn't do, and what I think some people suggest it does do, is lessen the severity of rape that doesn't come with a bonus kicking. The example these mothercunters often use is being attacked and raped by a stranger must be worse than your lover not being able to control himself during sex when asked to stop. Fuck right off. Having been in that very situation of being asked to stop (due to a sudden and nasty cramp, if you must know), I can categorically confirm that there is no 'losing control'. Disregarding a request to stop is a fully conscience decision and is rape. Rape is rape is rape. There is no distinction. Don't ever fucking stand for it.
The same people try other things to justify rape. Dressed like that, she had it coming. She went into his house with him when she was drunk, what did she think was going to happen? They must know what they're letting themselves in for, acting like that. Not so. Before we were married, my wife (then girlfriend) was out and a guy within her circle of friends asked if he could go back to hers for a coffee. She agreed. She was still living with her parents at the time and made him coffee in their kitchen. Not expecting actual coffee, he left before he was half way through the cup. It's one of the reasons why I adore her so much. Someone dressing or acting a certain way is not the same as them giving you automatic permission to fuck them. Let me put it another way. I could walk down a street, naked, stiffy on display for all to see. At least, I could for a little while before getting battered, arrested, or both. You are still not allowed to assume I want you to have sex with me. If I stop next to you, put my hands on my hips and smile, but I say directly to you that I don't want to have sex, then you cannot have sex with me. No really does mean no, in all circumstances, behaviour and outfits notwithstanding.
There's the falsely accused thing as well. The miserable conviction rate causes many rapes to go unreported, or even for a victim to drop the charges. The unbalanced focus on the punishment for doing this is ridiculous. The damage to a life, to a reputation, is irreversible, they say. You get stigmatised for the rest of your days. Well yes, I imagine being accused of rape, falsely or otherwise, would suck a great deal. BUT NOT AS MUCH AS BEING RAPED AND NOT BEING ABLE TO DO A DAMN THING ABOUT IT DOES. Sheesh. Perspective, please?
Anyway, that's enough of me spouting off about stuff that I know very little about. I'll make sure the next post is about nice things. Rainbows, maybe.
I wonder if it's possible for those pushing to curtail or even end abortion rights to really hate women as much as they appear to, or whether instead they haven't read enough to understand about foetus development and have been taken in by what the religious right preach about it. Are those wanting to force women to explain their miscarriages in court really taking into account how the person who just lost their unborn child must be feeling? Do those attempting to protect the imagined rights of the unborn not understand the difference between a developing foetus and a developed baby? The famous empty-craniumed pop fuck Justin Bieber illustrated how the point is missed when he was asked his opinion on abortion during a TV interview. "Isn't it like killing babies?" he asked, vacantly. No Justin, it's not. It's stopping cells dividing. It's terminating an unthinking lump of carbon and water. Once it gets past a certain point, say, 24 weeks, then yes, it's very much like killing babies. But then, that's why it becomes illegal at that point. Stick to singing and looking ten Justin. It's what you do best.
The argument is of course, about the potential life being ended. So, OK, say we consider the rights of the potential human. How low do we go? Do any and all abortions become illegal? Should it be illegal to wank into a sock? After all, the sperm cells are all potential humans. Does it become illegal to have a period, to lose the potential life that was the egg? It doesn't really work setting out to protect the rights and possible future lives of potential humans in a reasonable manner because any limit you choose to impose discriminates against less developed potential humans. Set a limit of 12 weeks. Why do you hate the 10 week-old future humans so much, murderer? The 24 week limit is simply more sensible, because that is what scientific research and experience tells us is the most likely period of development where the foetus becomes viable - more than simply potential. Obviously, it's not always easy to be objective when talking about life and potential life, so the arguments for lowering the limit are understandable. But when it comes to a point where people are in favour of forcing you to carry a pregnancy to term in cases of rape and incest it becomes indefensible. Welcome to the world of the Republicans. Not just on the fringe of the tea party either - I'm talking McCain and Palin here, as well as others. What is wrong with these people? Oh right, I forgot. They've been indoctrinated into a religious cult which tells them they should give birth to their brother's or rapist's offspring on account of it being their god's will. Fuck sake.
Then there's rape. Rape, according to certain politicians with a right wing bent, isn't real rape unless there's a beating into the bargain. Violent rape is worse than non-violent rape, they say. Putting aside for a moment that I doubt there is such a thing as non-violent rape, then yes, it is. Duh. Obviously, being raped and beaten is worse than being raped. Just like being mugged and beaten is worse than being mugged. What is doesn't do, and what I think some people suggest it does do, is lessen the severity of rape that doesn't come with a bonus kicking. The example these mothercunters often use is being attacked and raped by a stranger must be worse than your lover not being able to control himself during sex when asked to stop. Fuck right off. Having been in that very situation of being asked to stop (due to a sudden and nasty cramp, if you must know), I can categorically confirm that there is no 'losing control'. Disregarding a request to stop is a fully conscience decision and is rape. Rape is rape is rape. There is no distinction. Don't ever fucking stand for it.
The same people try other things to justify rape. Dressed like that, she had it coming. She went into his house with him when she was drunk, what did she think was going to happen? They must know what they're letting themselves in for, acting like that. Not so. Before we were married, my wife (then girlfriend) was out and a guy within her circle of friends asked if he could go back to hers for a coffee. She agreed. She was still living with her parents at the time and made him coffee in their kitchen. Not expecting actual coffee, he left before he was half way through the cup. It's one of the reasons why I adore her so much. Someone dressing or acting a certain way is not the same as them giving you automatic permission to fuck them. Let me put it another way. I could walk down a street, naked, stiffy on display for all to see. At least, I could for a little while before getting battered, arrested, or both. You are still not allowed to assume I want you to have sex with me. If I stop next to you, put my hands on my hips and smile, but I say directly to you that I don't want to have sex, then you cannot have sex with me. No really does mean no, in all circumstances, behaviour and outfits notwithstanding.
There's the falsely accused thing as well. The miserable conviction rate causes many rapes to go unreported, or even for a victim to drop the charges. The unbalanced focus on the punishment for doing this is ridiculous. The damage to a life, to a reputation, is irreversible, they say. You get stigmatised for the rest of your days. Well yes, I imagine being accused of rape, falsely or otherwise, would suck a great deal. BUT NOT AS MUCH AS BEING RAPED AND NOT BEING ABLE TO DO A DAMN THING ABOUT IT DOES. Sheesh. Perspective, please?
Anyway, that's enough of me spouting off about stuff that I know very little about. I'll make sure the next post is about nice things. Rainbows, maybe.
Monday, May 30, 2011
The death of a gamer. Long live the gamer?
When I was young, I spent a lot of time playing video games. It started with the Atari 2600, and Frogger, Demon Attack, Combat, Space Invaders, Super Breakout, Defender, Centipede, No Escape, Air-Sea Battle, Pac-Man and, most excitingly for my young self, Pole Position. One of my best friends who lived next door also had one, and round his we would play Dig Dug and others. By today's standards it's laughably basic, but the games were endlessly addictive, although often frustrating. Another friend had a Commodore 64 (or possibly a ZX Spectrum, it was a long time ago and the memories are hazy), but we were unimpressed. That early rejection set a pattern for me - consoles over computers for games every time.
Whenever we went on holiday, I could usually be found playing the 2p coin-flip games or Outrun, and later Virtua Racing, Sega Rally and Daytona. As time moved on, my friend got an Amiga (I forget which type). My parents couldn't afford to buy me anything new, so I kind of forgot about playing computer games for a while.
Then something happened. During a visit to my cousins, we were shown the new console they had and the single game they had for it. The console was a Sega Mega Drive and the game was Sonic the Hedgehog. My 12 year old self was completely blown away. This was so far beyond my previous experience with the Atari 2600 it was difficult to comprehend. The way the little blue fella would get impatient and tap his foot if you made him wait too long. The gorgeous visuals. That insane rotating special stage. And the speed of it. The speed of it. I was smitten. I wanted one more than anything I had ever wanted before. Unfortunately my parents couldn't afford one, but I was nevertheless delighted with the Master System they got me. I played and played and played. Sonic the Hedgehog and Alex Kidd in Miracle World kept me in front of my TV in my bedroom for months on end.
Then, on one glorious Christmas morning, I was completely pole-axed by the Mega Drive I unwrapped. I reckon mom and dad must have got it second hand, but back then I was flabbergasted by it. A number of my school years were lost down a Mega Drive-shaped hole (I did enough to keep up, but I was often consumed by new games instead of homework). Countless hours simply disappeared, dedicated to cracking the games: Desert Strike, Flashback, Road Rash, Wonder Boy in Monster World, Ecco the Dolphin, Street Fighter II (for which I had somehow convinced my parents to fork out £100, including two new controllers) and many more. Weekends were lost in neighbourhood tournaments played on Mortal Kombat, Micro Machines and Virtua Racing (another extravagance on my parents' behalf, costing a whopping £70). I often won; there were few games I couldn't conquer relatively quickly. I was so proud of my copy of Sonic the Hedgehog 2 and the fact that I was the only kid in my circle of friends to get a copy on the day of release that I took it in to school and put it on the corner of my desk for all to see.
At some point, Nintendo released the SNES. Some of my friends got one and a friendly but intense rivalry was struck up. I was firmly in Sega's camp. We had a better mascot - a supercool, superfast, superblue hedgehog versus some fat retarded plumber and his mate? We had more games - as the advert went, you had over 100 reasons to buy something 'mega', but only six to buy something 'super'. Who needed a gazillion different shades of green or the migraine-inducing 'Mode 7' bollocks when you had the playability and the speed? Take Street Fighter II; the SNES version looked and sounded a little prettier, but the Mega Drive version could move more than twice as fast. This is largely what my early 90s consisted of.
Then it started to go wrong. The next generation of consoles were coming. The Amiga CD32, the Atari Jaguar and Panasonic's 3DO amongst others. Sega developed add-ons for the Mega Drive - the Mega CD and the 32X. I wanted them. I asked for a Mega CD. I begged for one. I pleaded for one. I did not get one. On reflection, it was probably a good thing, but at the time I was pretty damn distressed - how could I keep up? I started to notice that the reviews the Mega CD games were getting were not particularly charitable, so I came to terms with not having one. Then came the Sega Saturn. Again, I wanted. Again, I was disappointed. Again, it was probably for the best in the long run.
I watched from the sidelines as Sega took on Sony's first crack at the console market only to get soundly beaten by the PlayStation. Sony couldn't even bother to design games - they left that to the third party developers. The Saturn was notoriously difficult to program for, while the PlayStation was much easier. The number of new releases that included a Saturn version dwindled and Sega disappeared from the industry they once, with Nintendo, dominated. Nintendo eventually entered the fray with the N64, and held their own where their once biggest rivals stuttered and died.
Sega tried again by releasing the first of the next generation of consoles in the Dreamcast. By now I didn't have to rely on my parents and bought one for myself. It was marvellous. Sonic Adventure bought Sega's mascot into the 3-D market and perfect versions of Sega's best arcade releases Crazy Taxi, Sega Rally and Daytona were wonderful to play at home. Soul Calibur and Dead or Alive 2 were hugely intricate considering the simple aim of beating the crap out of your opponent. Capcom released an exclusive chapter of their infamous Resident Evil series in Code: Veronica which genuinely scared the absolute crap out of me. Metropolis Street Racer was utterly revolutionary in that it allowed you to race in accurate versions of London and other major international cities, and it has since survived on other platforms as Project Gotham Racing. Most impressive of all was Sega's own Shenmue which cost millions to develop and was as engrossing as it was possible for a game to be back then. Set in Japan in the 1980s, you literally lived someone else's life as they hunted for their father's killers. It was so intricate that the day to day weather in the game matched the actual day to day weather in the part of Japan in which it was set at the time that it was set. If it rains in the game on, say, April 16th 1984 at about 2 in the afternoon, that means it rained in the same area of Japan at 2pm on April 16th 1984. I was smitten all over again. Internet access and the potential for future online gaming caused a buzz as well. It was not to be.
Everyone kind of expected the Dreamcast to wither and die when Sony released the PlayStation 2. And that's exactly what happened. For the second time, this corporate giant was waltzing in with a new console and slowly choking the life out of my dear Sega. The first time, with the pointless Mega Drive add-ons and awkward to program for Saturn, they probably deserved it, but the Dreamcast easily held its own against the PS2, but thanks to previous form never stood a chance. Bloody Sony and its bloody PlayStation. Thanks to the lessening of support from both developers and consumers, the Dreamcast lost the fight even before Nintendo entered with the GameCube and Microsoft came on board for the first time with the Xbox. Even they struggled against the overwhelming dominance of the PS2. Thanks to the first two incarnations of the PlayStation effectively destroying Sega in the console market, I have an irrational hate of PlayStations of all kinds. After this, Sega announced that they were developing no more consoles and were concentrating on game development only, and I decided that my gaming days would also come to an end. Sony had ruined it all for me. Although, to be honest, Sega kind of ruined it for themselves by destroying their reputation with the successive failures of the Mega CD, 32X and Saturn.
Nowadays, with the PS3, Xbox 360 and Nintendo Wii, gaming is no longer the domain of children and teenagers. The games are vast, intricate and cinematic in scope. Even Charlie Brooker likes them, and he hates almost everything. Sega's release of Bayonetta has recently peaked my interest, as has news of the forthcoming Sonic Generations (if only to relive some of the happiest times of my young life). In addition, the idea of blasting the crap out of someone on the other side of the world through my TV has a certain appeal. Back in the days of the Mega Drive, I used to be almost unbeatable at most games I played. How would I do against your average Italian gamer?
I've bought an Xbox 360. I think it might prove to be a waste of time and money for a number of reasons, not the least of which are my commitments to family and work, meaning I'll not have a great deal of time to play. Still, there's nothing wrong with reliving the memories of a pleasantly simple childhood, is there?
Whenever we went on holiday, I could usually be found playing the 2p coin-flip games or Outrun, and later Virtua Racing, Sega Rally and Daytona. As time moved on, my friend got an Amiga (I forget which type). My parents couldn't afford to buy me anything new, so I kind of forgot about playing computer games for a while.
Then something happened. During a visit to my cousins, we were shown the new console they had and the single game they had for it. The console was a Sega Mega Drive and the game was Sonic the Hedgehog. My 12 year old self was completely blown away. This was so far beyond my previous experience with the Atari 2600 it was difficult to comprehend. The way the little blue fella would get impatient and tap his foot if you made him wait too long. The gorgeous visuals. That insane rotating special stage. And the speed of it. The speed of it. I was smitten. I wanted one more than anything I had ever wanted before. Unfortunately my parents couldn't afford one, but I was nevertheless delighted with the Master System they got me. I played and played and played. Sonic the Hedgehog and Alex Kidd in Miracle World kept me in front of my TV in my bedroom for months on end.
Then, on one glorious Christmas morning, I was completely pole-axed by the Mega Drive I unwrapped. I reckon mom and dad must have got it second hand, but back then I was flabbergasted by it. A number of my school years were lost down a Mega Drive-shaped hole (I did enough to keep up, but I was often consumed by new games instead of homework). Countless hours simply disappeared, dedicated to cracking the games: Desert Strike, Flashback, Road Rash, Wonder Boy in Monster World, Ecco the Dolphin, Street Fighter II (for which I had somehow convinced my parents to fork out £100, including two new controllers) and many more. Weekends were lost in neighbourhood tournaments played on Mortal Kombat, Micro Machines and Virtua Racing (another extravagance on my parents' behalf, costing a whopping £70). I often won; there were few games I couldn't conquer relatively quickly. I was so proud of my copy of Sonic the Hedgehog 2 and the fact that I was the only kid in my circle of friends to get a copy on the day of release that I took it in to school and put it on the corner of my desk for all to see.
At some point, Nintendo released the SNES. Some of my friends got one and a friendly but intense rivalry was struck up. I was firmly in Sega's camp. We had a better mascot - a supercool, superfast, superblue hedgehog versus some fat retarded plumber and his mate? We had more games - as the advert went, you had over 100 reasons to buy something 'mega', but only six to buy something 'super'. Who needed a gazillion different shades of green or the migraine-inducing 'Mode 7' bollocks when you had the playability and the speed? Take Street Fighter II; the SNES version looked and sounded a little prettier, but the Mega Drive version could move more than twice as fast. This is largely what my early 90s consisted of.
Then it started to go wrong. The next generation of consoles were coming. The Amiga CD32, the Atari Jaguar and Panasonic's 3DO amongst others. Sega developed add-ons for the Mega Drive - the Mega CD and the 32X. I wanted them. I asked for a Mega CD. I begged for one. I pleaded for one. I did not get one. On reflection, it was probably a good thing, but at the time I was pretty damn distressed - how could I keep up? I started to notice that the reviews the Mega CD games were getting were not particularly charitable, so I came to terms with not having one. Then came the Sega Saturn. Again, I wanted. Again, I was disappointed. Again, it was probably for the best in the long run.
I watched from the sidelines as Sega took on Sony's first crack at the console market only to get soundly beaten by the PlayStation. Sony couldn't even bother to design games - they left that to the third party developers. The Saturn was notoriously difficult to program for, while the PlayStation was much easier. The number of new releases that included a Saturn version dwindled and Sega disappeared from the industry they once, with Nintendo, dominated. Nintendo eventually entered the fray with the N64, and held their own where their once biggest rivals stuttered and died.
Sega tried again by releasing the first of the next generation of consoles in the Dreamcast. By now I didn't have to rely on my parents and bought one for myself. It was marvellous. Sonic Adventure bought Sega's mascot into the 3-D market and perfect versions of Sega's best arcade releases Crazy Taxi, Sega Rally and Daytona were wonderful to play at home. Soul Calibur and Dead or Alive 2 were hugely intricate considering the simple aim of beating the crap out of your opponent. Capcom released an exclusive chapter of their infamous Resident Evil series in Code: Veronica which genuinely scared the absolute crap out of me. Metropolis Street Racer was utterly revolutionary in that it allowed you to race in accurate versions of London and other major international cities, and it has since survived on other platforms as Project Gotham Racing. Most impressive of all was Sega's own Shenmue which cost millions to develop and was as engrossing as it was possible for a game to be back then. Set in Japan in the 1980s, you literally lived someone else's life as they hunted for their father's killers. It was so intricate that the day to day weather in the game matched the actual day to day weather in the part of Japan in which it was set at the time that it was set. If it rains in the game on, say, April 16th 1984 at about 2 in the afternoon, that means it rained in the same area of Japan at 2pm on April 16th 1984. I was smitten all over again. Internet access and the potential for future online gaming caused a buzz as well. It was not to be.
Everyone kind of expected the Dreamcast to wither and die when Sony released the PlayStation 2. And that's exactly what happened. For the second time, this corporate giant was waltzing in with a new console and slowly choking the life out of my dear Sega. The first time, with the pointless Mega Drive add-ons and awkward to program for Saturn, they probably deserved it, but the Dreamcast easily held its own against the PS2, but thanks to previous form never stood a chance. Bloody Sony and its bloody PlayStation. Thanks to the lessening of support from both developers and consumers, the Dreamcast lost the fight even before Nintendo entered with the GameCube and Microsoft came on board for the first time with the Xbox. Even they struggled against the overwhelming dominance of the PS2. Thanks to the first two incarnations of the PlayStation effectively destroying Sega in the console market, I have an irrational hate of PlayStations of all kinds. After this, Sega announced that they were developing no more consoles and were concentrating on game development only, and I decided that my gaming days would also come to an end. Sony had ruined it all for me. Although, to be honest, Sega kind of ruined it for themselves by destroying their reputation with the successive failures of the Mega CD, 32X and Saturn.
Nowadays, with the PS3, Xbox 360 and Nintendo Wii, gaming is no longer the domain of children and teenagers. The games are vast, intricate and cinematic in scope. Even Charlie Brooker likes them, and he hates almost everything. Sega's release of Bayonetta has recently peaked my interest, as has news of the forthcoming Sonic Generations (if only to relive some of the happiest times of my young life). In addition, the idea of blasting the crap out of someone on the other side of the world through my TV has a certain appeal. Back in the days of the Mega Drive, I used to be almost unbeatable at most games I played. How would I do against your average Italian gamer?
I've bought an Xbox 360. I think it might prove to be a waste of time and money for a number of reasons, not the least of which are my commitments to family and work, meaning I'll not have a great deal of time to play. Still, there's nothing wrong with reliving the memories of a pleasantly simple childhood, is there?
Thursday, May 19, 2011
What the hell happened to Aberystwyth?
So we went on holiday for a week to Penbryn, which is on the Welsh coast about 30 miles South of Aberystwyth. The holiday was marvellous and the place is lovely - quiet and relaxing with dramatic scenery and plenty of beaches. On the way there we stopped for a while in Aberystwyth. For a long time, Aberystwyth was a bit like a second home for us because Rach got her degree there and we'd spend most of our weekends there before I went back to my University in Stafford. There's an old assumption that the English aren't fond of the Welsh and that, well, just about everybody hates the English. Anyone with half an ounce of sense can see these for the bollocky generalisations they are and that while there are a few people who act that way, they are in a retarded minority. Which is why YOU SHOULD NOT TAKE THE TITLE OF THIS BLOG POST SERIOUSLY.
Anyway, we came to love Aberystwyth, and while there was one local shop close to the University buildings where the shopkeepers would start talking loudly in Welsh every time you walked in the door, most people were lovely. We loved going out of an evening, we loved spending time on the beach, and generally being together there. I will spare you the mushy romantic bollocks, but it's safe to say that the time we spent there was very special to the both of us.
Cut back to our lunch stop en route to Penbryn. We attempt to park, but the only free space has some pleb standing in it like some kind of statue erected in honour of pricks. We stop and Rach opens the window and politely asks if he's saving the space for someone. I think his unfriendly grunt was supposed to be an affirmative response. Instead of pressing the matter, we just move on - there's no telling what the crunt might do to our car if we argue or force him to move.
We find another car park - the fee is a £3.00 flat rate whether you're staying for 10 minutes, 2 hours or all day. This is infuriating and as it turns out seems to be the same for every car park in Ceredigion. This is bloody ridiculous, but that's another subject, which I won't waste time writing about. We need cash for the car park, so me and Katie head off to find some while Rach and Emily stay with the car. The first place we come to is a Co-op where I buy some chocolate and get some cash back. No fucker in the vicinity smiles at me, Katie or anyone else. It's seems grim and unhappy compared to what I remember. When walking back to the car I see the first car park we tried - the crunt is still standing in the place. Maybe he's mental and not actually holding it for anyone.
While there, we also see a hen party in full flow along the sea front, with a group of girls staggering around and generally acting up. This is at lunch time. It will only take a few more of these to turn our beloved Aberystwyth into Blackpool.
I'm not an idiot. Not completely, anyway. I know that this doesn't mean my Aberystwyth has gone, but just that I got a bit annoyed at some dick standing in a parking space and let it colour the whole visit - after all, why should I have a problem with a group of women celebrating their friend's upcoming marriage? I don't and I got a bit annoyed at myself for getting annoyed at them. If you follow me. It's just that this visit has kind of tarnished the place for me a bit now. I'm going to go back one day I think, just so I can reacquaint myself with the Aberystwyth that my wife and I found and loved when we were teenagers.
Anyway, we came to love Aberystwyth, and while there was one local shop close to the University buildings where the shopkeepers would start talking loudly in Welsh every time you walked in the door, most people were lovely. We loved going out of an evening, we loved spending time on the beach, and generally being together there. I will spare you the mushy romantic bollocks, but it's safe to say that the time we spent there was very special to the both of us.
Cut back to our lunch stop en route to Penbryn. We attempt to park, but the only free space has some pleb standing in it like some kind of statue erected in honour of pricks. We stop and Rach opens the window and politely asks if he's saving the space for someone. I think his unfriendly grunt was supposed to be an affirmative response. Instead of pressing the matter, we just move on - there's no telling what the crunt might do to our car if we argue or force him to move.
We find another car park - the fee is a £3.00 flat rate whether you're staying for 10 minutes, 2 hours or all day. This is infuriating and as it turns out seems to be the same for every car park in Ceredigion. This is bloody ridiculous, but that's another subject, which I won't waste time writing about. We need cash for the car park, so me and Katie head off to find some while Rach and Emily stay with the car. The first place we come to is a Co-op where I buy some chocolate and get some cash back. No fucker in the vicinity smiles at me, Katie or anyone else. It's seems grim and unhappy compared to what I remember. When walking back to the car I see the first car park we tried - the crunt is still standing in the place. Maybe he's mental and not actually holding it for anyone.
While there, we also see a hen party in full flow along the sea front, with a group of girls staggering around and generally acting up. This is at lunch time. It will only take a few more of these to turn our beloved Aberystwyth into Blackpool.
I'm not an idiot. Not completely, anyway. I know that this doesn't mean my Aberystwyth has gone, but just that I got a bit annoyed at some dick standing in a parking space and let it colour the whole visit - after all, why should I have a problem with a group of women celebrating their friend's upcoming marriage? I don't and I got a bit annoyed at myself for getting annoyed at them. If you follow me. It's just that this visit has kind of tarnished the place for me a bit now. I'm going to go back one day I think, just so I can reacquaint myself with the Aberystwyth that my wife and I found and loved when we were teenagers.
Thursday, May 5, 2011
Was it worth it? In which I stick my oar in where it’s probably not wanted.
So. The very bad man is dead. Super-Barack got the guy after a couple of years, while Bushtucker couldn't do it in eight. Apparently Bill Clinton got closer to killing him than Bush. Probably while getting his dick sucked. America celebrated loudly and proudly. "I'm pleased that the last thing Osama bin Laden saw was the power and might of the American military" tweeted Rose McGowan. Street parties materialised instantly, with smiling faces reminiscent of the jubilation some Middle Easterners exhibited one devastating September day.
To be fair, you can't really blame the US. The loss of the towers was one of the most shocking events to happen in my lifetime. I remember watching it with a feeling of spaced out detachment - seeing the buildings go was like seeing some impossible vision dreamt up for a new Roland Emmerich movie. Then you start to think about the number of people dying, about the panic and terror they must be feeling and the tears start to fall. Those of us not directly affected cannot even begin to imagine how it must have felt. I have read several accounts from people retelling their view of events that day, most recently this one which never fail to bring the tears back unbidden.
It's just, in the joy, some of the cost seems to have been forgotten. This isn't Kill Bill, after all. Rip-roaring rampages of revenge aren't really appropriate, and to me this certainly smacked of pointless vengeance for the sake of closure. On the whole I don't think we British go in quite so much for closure and therapy. Must be our stiff upper lips and habit of bottling everything up. It's not going to improve things in Iraq or Afghanistan. It's not going to stop Al-Qaeda being arseholes. It may even make things worse in the long run by provoking a further counter-attack in the way revenge for the sake of revenge tends to do.
I understand the lack of objectivity from America, I really do. What the country suffered was gut-wrenchingly awful. A body count in excess of 3000 innocent people. Who wouldn't feel even the smallest amount of satisfaction at the man responsible for it getting his unholy comeuppance? I'm certainly not sorry to see him go.
But there's still that nagging feeling that maybe it wasn't worth it. Are the deaths of tens of thousands of innocent Iraqis, Afghans and Pakistanis worth it? It's normal to place more importance on your own innocent countrymen than on innocent foreigners, especially in situations like this. But more than three times as many dead than September 11 as a direct result of America's hunt for one man? Is Rose McGowan happy that the last thing all those innocent people saw was the power and might of the American military? I doubt it. And you don't just get accidental civilian casualties. There are some, in all armies and in all wars, so in no way is this the province of the US alone, that see the nationality or the colour of the one they are trying to kill, and assign the 'enemy' tag to everyone of that nationality or colour. That's why you get a group of soldiers gang-raping a 14-year-old girl before murdering her, her six-year-old-sister and their parents. Assuming this is true (the place I read it didn't seem to quote sources), I would imagine Ms. McGowan would be rather ashamed of this small minority of the American military.
The September 11 atrocities, dreadful and indefensible as they were, were attacking a symbol of Western capitalist dominance over the rest of the world. It seems to me that the trail of dead left by the invading forces is every bit as inexcusable. Should we not weep equally as hard for the loss of life on the opposing side, which seems more personal and hate-fuelled? I think we should.
I guess the truth is I don't really know how to feel. I'm not sad he's dead, but I'm sorry so many others had to die on both sides of the conflict to achieve that end.
To be fair, you can't really blame the US. The loss of the towers was one of the most shocking events to happen in my lifetime. I remember watching it with a feeling of spaced out detachment - seeing the buildings go was like seeing some impossible vision dreamt up for a new Roland Emmerich movie. Then you start to think about the number of people dying, about the panic and terror they must be feeling and the tears start to fall. Those of us not directly affected cannot even begin to imagine how it must have felt. I have read several accounts from people retelling their view of events that day, most recently this one which never fail to bring the tears back unbidden.
It's just, in the joy, some of the cost seems to have been forgotten. This isn't Kill Bill, after all. Rip-roaring rampages of revenge aren't really appropriate, and to me this certainly smacked of pointless vengeance for the sake of closure. On the whole I don't think we British go in quite so much for closure and therapy. Must be our stiff upper lips and habit of bottling everything up. It's not going to improve things in Iraq or Afghanistan. It's not going to stop Al-Qaeda being arseholes. It may even make things worse in the long run by provoking a further counter-attack in the way revenge for the sake of revenge tends to do.
I understand the lack of objectivity from America, I really do. What the country suffered was gut-wrenchingly awful. A body count in excess of 3000 innocent people. Who wouldn't feel even the smallest amount of satisfaction at the man responsible for it getting his unholy comeuppance? I'm certainly not sorry to see him go.
But there's still that nagging feeling that maybe it wasn't worth it. Are the deaths of tens of thousands of innocent Iraqis, Afghans and Pakistanis worth it? It's normal to place more importance on your own innocent countrymen than on innocent foreigners, especially in situations like this. But more than three times as many dead than September 11 as a direct result of America's hunt for one man? Is Rose McGowan happy that the last thing all those innocent people saw was the power and might of the American military? I doubt it. And you don't just get accidental civilian casualties. There are some, in all armies and in all wars, so in no way is this the province of the US alone, that see the nationality or the colour of the one they are trying to kill, and assign the 'enemy' tag to everyone of that nationality or colour. That's why you get a group of soldiers gang-raping a 14-year-old girl before murdering her, her six-year-old-sister and their parents. Assuming this is true (the place I read it didn't seem to quote sources), I would imagine Ms. McGowan would be rather ashamed of this small minority of the American military.
The September 11 atrocities, dreadful and indefensible as they were, were attacking a symbol of Western capitalist dominance over the rest of the world. It seems to me that the trail of dead left by the invading forces is every bit as inexcusable. Should we not weep equally as hard for the loss of life on the opposing side, which seems more personal and hate-fuelled? I think we should.
I guess the truth is I don't really know how to feel. I'm not sad he's dead, but I'm sorry so many others had to die on both sides of the conflict to achieve that end.
Monday, April 25, 2011
Not built for public speaking.
I am pretty useless at debating and arguing in person. I cannot think of appropriate responses to challenges and I can never find the right words to make my point. This is one of the reasons I like to write this blog - I think I write better than I speak, after I've had time to consider what it is I should say to best make my point. My biggest weakness is that I often use a hundred words when ten would do. I've learnt that for me it's often better just to shut my mouth and lose an argument because whatever I say on the spur of the moment will make me sound like an idiot. After a drink, I sometimes forget this and talk utter shite, and I also forget I have a volume control on my voice. I suspect, however, that I am not alone in that particular trait.
I got to thinking about this after a conversation I had with a friend in which I was asked to confirm whether or not I find Professor Brian Cox attractive. I wrote about science and what it means to me here and I have a huge amount of respect for the new poster boy of physics and cosmology. I refused to answer, because any yes or no answer I gave would not necessarily be what I meant. I think they occasionally read this thing, so I'm going to try to answer it here.
At the route of my refusal to answer is my hatred of being labelled, classified and grouped together with others who are similar. I hate it happening to me and I hate it happening to other people as well. I'm not gay and I'm not straight. I'm not bi either. I am physically attracted to the female sex, but there's a range of different types of attraction. I don't want to put myself inside him particularly, but hell yes, Brian Cox is attractive. I may not fancy his arse much, but I do fancy his mind and his enthusiasm for what he does. To instantly reply to my friend's question in the negative would be, I felt, to disassociate myself from gay people, to intentionally distance myself from any and all elements of homosexuality. I find myself extremely intolerant of any form of intolerance and any assumption that there should be any normal way to live, to be or to love. If you've read certain posts on here, you may think I'm fairly intolerant of religious people but that is not true. A religious person that does not attempt to bring me onside or to indoctrinate others in any way is fine. Public displays of religiony things, like praying, is just dandy. The religions themselves I have less time for, but that's another post. The 'I don't mind, just don't bring it near me' is prejudice masquerading as acceptance. It's like the Tories trying to appeal to environmentalists.
As soon as you take it upon yourself to educate yourself, all reasons and excuses for prejudice disappear. You learn that thinking of being gay as a 'lifestyle choice' is utter bullcrap as sexuality is one of the many things decided in the womb and completely outside a person's control. You learn that to deny the truth of evolution is one of the most absurd things a person could do - the biological, genetic and fossilised evidence of the unifying theory of biology (that's a scientific theory, not a regular one - read up on the difference before you embarrass yourself and declare it's 'only a theory') is so far beyond the ability to successfully debate against that the number of people who still genuinely try is bizarre and frightening. How do these people trust doctors and their diagnoses when the diagnoses are based on where the bacteria lie on the phylogenetic tree, which was developed by studying and building on evolution? You learn that Republicans denying the evidence of man made climate change are basically declaring to the world that they will compromise on anything and cross any boundary if it gains them votes, power and wealth.
All these things and more underlie my refusal to answer the question of Brian Cox's attractiveness. Cox's Wonders of the Solar System and follow up Wonders of the Universe speak so clearly to a way of thinking I feel passionately about, that he becomes a person I find extremely attractive in a number of ways, sexually being the least relevant. Anyway, he's not exactly hard on the eye is he?
I got to thinking about this after a conversation I had with a friend in which I was asked to confirm whether or not I find Professor Brian Cox attractive. I wrote about science and what it means to me here and I have a huge amount of respect for the new poster boy of physics and cosmology. I refused to answer, because any yes or no answer I gave would not necessarily be what I meant. I think they occasionally read this thing, so I'm going to try to answer it here.
At the route of my refusal to answer is my hatred of being labelled, classified and grouped together with others who are similar. I hate it happening to me and I hate it happening to other people as well. I'm not gay and I'm not straight. I'm not bi either. I am physically attracted to the female sex, but there's a range of different types of attraction. I don't want to put myself inside him particularly, but hell yes, Brian Cox is attractive. I may not fancy his arse much, but I do fancy his mind and his enthusiasm for what he does. To instantly reply to my friend's question in the negative would be, I felt, to disassociate myself from gay people, to intentionally distance myself from any and all elements of homosexuality. I find myself extremely intolerant of any form of intolerance and any assumption that there should be any normal way to live, to be or to love. If you've read certain posts on here, you may think I'm fairly intolerant of religious people but that is not true. A religious person that does not attempt to bring me onside or to indoctrinate others in any way is fine. Public displays of religiony things, like praying, is just dandy. The religions themselves I have less time for, but that's another post. The 'I don't mind, just don't bring it near me' is prejudice masquerading as acceptance. It's like the Tories trying to appeal to environmentalists.
As soon as you take it upon yourself to educate yourself, all reasons and excuses for prejudice disappear. You learn that thinking of being gay as a 'lifestyle choice' is utter bullcrap as sexuality is one of the many things decided in the womb and completely outside a person's control. You learn that to deny the truth of evolution is one of the most absurd things a person could do - the biological, genetic and fossilised evidence of the unifying theory of biology (that's a scientific theory, not a regular one - read up on the difference before you embarrass yourself and declare it's 'only a theory') is so far beyond the ability to successfully debate against that the number of people who still genuinely try is bizarre and frightening. How do these people trust doctors and their diagnoses when the diagnoses are based on where the bacteria lie on the phylogenetic tree, which was developed by studying and building on evolution? You learn that Republicans denying the evidence of man made climate change are basically declaring to the world that they will compromise on anything and cross any boundary if it gains them votes, power and wealth.
All these things and more underlie my refusal to answer the question of Brian Cox's attractiveness. Cox's Wonders of the Solar System and follow up Wonders of the Universe speak so clearly to a way of thinking I feel passionately about, that he becomes a person I find extremely attractive in a number of ways, sexually being the least relevant. Anyway, he's not exactly hard on the eye is he?
Friday, April 15, 2011
An early sign of middle age.
"I used to be 'with it'. Then they changed what 'it' was. Now 'it' seems weird and scary to me. It'll happen to you too." - Abe Simpson.
I'm 32 next month. This feels old. I know to a 50 year old it's nothing - still a shining beacon of youth. I also know to a 20 year old it sounds like the best years of my life are behind me. Being or feeling young or old is relative - there is some truth to that 'only as old as you feel' spiel. Maybe 32 feels old to me because I can remember how it felt to be 17, when the thirties seemed another life away.
Attitudes to certain things change as age increases - I mentioned that already here, but I noticed something this week that is beginning to happen with increasing frequency and is an indication that I'm getting older: I am getting annoyed at the NME.
I've read the NME for years. Loved it for years. For years, it's told me where to find some of the best music on the planet. I always loved the writing; how the writers would describe the music. It's becoming increasingly undeniable to me that the writing is a little youth oriented, and is starting to sound stupid to me. I don't think it's anything to do with the magazine changing, I think it's me. I think I'm getting older, and 'it' is making less and less sense to me, just as Abe Simpson predicted. Take this week's issue. Here are three examples of what I think are supposed to be descriptions of music. "For a man who sings like a dismal hippo, he makes rather a lovely racket." How, pray, is a dismal hippo supposed to sound when he sings? "Like trying to beat out loneliness with a dustbin lid." Um, pardon? Is that anything like The Beatles? "Akin to someone dripping poison in your ear." This is actually supposed to be a recommendation. It is nonsense, and it annoys me because it doesn't tell me how those three songs are supposed to sound. Were I barely five years younger, I don't doubt I'd have loved reading such descriptions of music.
It's not the NME's fault. It just doesn't make sense to me anymore. Guess I'll have to start reading Mojo instead.
I'm 32 next month. This feels old. I know to a 50 year old it's nothing - still a shining beacon of youth. I also know to a 20 year old it sounds like the best years of my life are behind me. Being or feeling young or old is relative - there is some truth to that 'only as old as you feel' spiel. Maybe 32 feels old to me because I can remember how it felt to be 17, when the thirties seemed another life away.
Attitudes to certain things change as age increases - I mentioned that already here, but I noticed something this week that is beginning to happen with increasing frequency and is an indication that I'm getting older: I am getting annoyed at the NME.
I've read the NME for years. Loved it for years. For years, it's told me where to find some of the best music on the planet. I always loved the writing; how the writers would describe the music. It's becoming increasingly undeniable to me that the writing is a little youth oriented, and is starting to sound stupid to me. I don't think it's anything to do with the magazine changing, I think it's me. I think I'm getting older, and 'it' is making less and less sense to me, just as Abe Simpson predicted. Take this week's issue. Here are three examples of what I think are supposed to be descriptions of music. "For a man who sings like a dismal hippo, he makes rather a lovely racket." How, pray, is a dismal hippo supposed to sound when he sings? "Like trying to beat out loneliness with a dustbin lid." Um, pardon? Is that anything like The Beatles? "Akin to someone dripping poison in your ear." This is actually supposed to be a recommendation. It is nonsense, and it annoys me because it doesn't tell me how those three songs are supposed to sound. Were I barely five years younger, I don't doubt I'd have loved reading such descriptions of music.
It's not the NME's fault. It just doesn't make sense to me anymore. Guess I'll have to start reading Mojo instead.
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