I just had a birthday. 39. Thirty-nine! How did that happen? It’s a weird kind of hinterland age – half the people I know insist it isn’t old at all, while half are either too polite to agree or are in the same boat with me.
It’s strange, because I still feel like the same person I’ve always been – you don’t feel older exactly – you just are. Sure, you have more experience so might have made different decisions knowing what you know now, but that’s hardly something new.
I am making a bit more of an effort to take joy in the moments and places I can find it, because it feels like it’s more important at the moment in a world where too many people seem bent on making life as joyless as possible. So I took some time off work, bought some new CDs and Blu Rays and soaked up as much of the best parts of my life as I could. Went to the beach with my family on the weekend. The sun was shining but the sea was most definitely still cold. My eldest loves the water though, so I allowed her to convince me to get in, and had a great time just spending time not as a parent, but as a play mate, just remembering the simple yet potent joy of being young and spending a day at the beach.
I felt a few things wrapped up in a towel drying off afterwards. One of those things was cold. However, another was refreshed and enlivened. It seems that the way to stop myself feeling old is to act as though I’m still young! Is that wisdom? I don’t know. Sounds a little bit like it.
New occasional feature: Ending with a song relating to the post:
Oasis: Stay Young. “Stay young and invincible.”
Showing posts with label reliving lost youth. Show all posts
Showing posts with label reliving lost youth. Show all posts
Saturday, May 26, 2018
Thursday, February 26, 2015
The value in repetition.
I’m a repeater. My favourite records are played again and again until they wear out and must be bought again (Definitely Maybe, Parklife, Grace, Is This It?, Different Class, Songs for the Deaf and Appetite for Destruction amongst dozens of others, if you care). Throughout my childhood I re-watched my favourite films to death (The Time Machine (1960), War of the Worlds (1953), Goonies, Gremlins, Ghostbusters and Indiana Jones) and that hasn’t changed much since I’ve got older apart from the addition of a few others – Pulp Fiction, Lord of the Rings, and Fight Club along with many more. The hours I sunk into playing through Sonic the Hedgehog, James Pond, Alex Kidd, Road Rash, Flashback and Street Fighter II and more over and over again in my teens I have no doubt would be terrifying were they ever to be added up, and more recently, I’ve been through the Gears of War campaign more than once and can see myself playing though GTA V again before too long.
There are, I don’t doubt, many people who have quite the opposite point of view; when you’ve seen a film once, you’ve seen it, so what’s the point of seeing it again? But if I love it, why would I not want to see it again? Those records, those films and those games became a support system for me while negotiating the difficulties of adolescence. They were friends, they were retreats – they were my happy place. They still are, in a way.
Books also had their place. I’d like to be able to tell you that I loved books above all those other things; that I used to spend hours, days even, lost in them. Alas, I wasn’t that bright. I did like books – I would read Roald Dahl, comics and adaptations of my favourite films. As with films, music and games, I would re-read my favourites – Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, George’s Marvellous Medicine and a junior version of Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade – that would all become dog-eared and well thumbed, and later To Kill a Mockingbird would become my favourite. This recent article about books written for children kicked off this whole train of thought. It makes a good point about the validity of children’s books, as they have to be written with repetition in mind. They have to be robust enough to stand up to kids reading and re-reading them over and over again. While as adults we certainly do re-read our favourites, they are never tested to the extremes kid’s books are – I particularly like the Neil Gaiman quote in the article about how while he can’t justify every word of American Gods, he can of Coraline. Does that mean he thinks Coraline is a better book? I doubt it, but it does sound as though he takes special care over his children’s books compared to his adult books, and it’s probably because of the retellings the children’s books are subjected to.
But I didn’t really get into reading until I got into my teens, when I found Robert Jordan, Professor Tolkien and Terry’s Brooks and Pratchett. I am in fact re-reading Pratchett’s Discworld series at the moment. I wrote this this ages ago about how you generally have differing points of view when coming back to something like a book series or TV show later in life, and a similar thing has happened with Discworld. My favourite hasn’t changed – previously it was Small Gods and so it proves to be the case still – the conceit that gods are only as real as they are believed to be and their power diminishes with their belief, leaving them to essentially die along with their last believer is such a stroke of inspired genius that I doubt Pratchett will ever top it (although he’s come close a few times). Taking the series in more general terms, however, my favoured stories were always the ones that involved the wizards of Unseen University, or Death. While they are certainly the funniest ones still, I’m much happier this time round in the company of Watch Commander Sam Vimes and witch Granny Weatherwax. I could be well off the mark here, but they feel somehow truer, as if their righteous fury at the injustices of the world is closer to Pratchett’s true view of the world and echo the points he’s really trying make under the funny. This piece written by Neil Gaiman about Pratchett and his anger being the ‘engine that powered Good Omens’ might suggest I’m not that far off the mark, after all.
As usual, I don’t really have much of a point, but I suppose what I’m getting at is you should spend time in the company of the things you love.
There are, I don’t doubt, many people who have quite the opposite point of view; when you’ve seen a film once, you’ve seen it, so what’s the point of seeing it again? But if I love it, why would I not want to see it again? Those records, those films and those games became a support system for me while negotiating the difficulties of adolescence. They were friends, they were retreats – they were my happy place. They still are, in a way.
Books also had their place. I’d like to be able to tell you that I loved books above all those other things; that I used to spend hours, days even, lost in them. Alas, I wasn’t that bright. I did like books – I would read Roald Dahl, comics and adaptations of my favourite films. As with films, music and games, I would re-read my favourites – Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, George’s Marvellous Medicine and a junior version of Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade – that would all become dog-eared and well thumbed, and later To Kill a Mockingbird would become my favourite. This recent article about books written for children kicked off this whole train of thought. It makes a good point about the validity of children’s books, as they have to be written with repetition in mind. They have to be robust enough to stand up to kids reading and re-reading them over and over again. While as adults we certainly do re-read our favourites, they are never tested to the extremes kid’s books are – I particularly like the Neil Gaiman quote in the article about how while he can’t justify every word of American Gods, he can of Coraline. Does that mean he thinks Coraline is a better book? I doubt it, but it does sound as though he takes special care over his children’s books compared to his adult books, and it’s probably because of the retellings the children’s books are subjected to.
But I didn’t really get into reading until I got into my teens, when I found Robert Jordan, Professor Tolkien and Terry’s Brooks and Pratchett. I am in fact re-reading Pratchett’s Discworld series at the moment. I wrote this this ages ago about how you generally have differing points of view when coming back to something like a book series or TV show later in life, and a similar thing has happened with Discworld. My favourite hasn’t changed – previously it was Small Gods and so it proves to be the case still – the conceit that gods are only as real as they are believed to be and their power diminishes with their belief, leaving them to essentially die along with their last believer is such a stroke of inspired genius that I doubt Pratchett will ever top it (although he’s come close a few times). Taking the series in more general terms, however, my favoured stories were always the ones that involved the wizards of Unseen University, or Death. While they are certainly the funniest ones still, I’m much happier this time round in the company of Watch Commander Sam Vimes and witch Granny Weatherwax. I could be well off the mark here, but they feel somehow truer, as if their righteous fury at the injustices of the world is closer to Pratchett’s true view of the world and echo the points he’s really trying make under the funny. This piece written by Neil Gaiman about Pratchett and his anger being the ‘engine that powered Good Omens’ might suggest I’m not that far off the mark, after all.
As usual, I don’t really have much of a point, but I suppose what I’m getting at is you should spend time in the company of the things you love.
Saturday, March 29, 2014
Magic.
Considering most of the people I know, this is probably
preaching to the converted, but hey, it’s been a slow month. You don’t need to
look to faith, neither do you need to look to Penn, nor Teller for magic. Not
real magic, anyway – that’s merely clever chicanery. Just pop to a book shop,
or a library, and it’s everywhere. The way you can get hooked on the right
words, the way Katie will explode with delighted laughter at the insults Willy
Wonka and Grandma Georgina trade during Charlie
and the Great Glass Elevator, the way an author can leave your head
spinning by merely stringing words together.
Thanks to one of our local libraries, I’ve recently had the
good fortune to read the following:
Kurt Vonnegut’s Slaughterhouse
5, Cat’s Cradle and Breakfast of Champions,
all three bona-fide classics of American fiction. Vonnegut’s writing style
curiously echoes that of J. G. Ballard, in that it is largely descriptive and
unemotional, but occasionally you get suckered by a passage of such
breathtaking beauty or haunting pain, you feel like you’ve been punched in the
gut; particularly in Slaughterhouse 5
which recounts much of Vonnegut’s experience in World War 2, during which he
was present at the bombing of the German city of Dresden.
Neil Gaiman’s The
Ocean at the End of the Lane, which recently won book of the year, for
obvious reasons. There are some books you read that just hit that sweetest of
spots and transport you to that moment in childhood when you are finally able
to read for your own pleasure and you discover such wonders that you never
suspected your imagination could hold. It’s like that, and every page holds
such joy that the spell it holds you in doesn’t break, even after the final
page is finished. With the exception of Good
Omens, which was written with Terry Pratchett, I’m quite late to Gaiman,
but boy am I glad I caught up. American
Gods, Stardust and Anansi Boys are
all marvellous, if not quite as transformative as The Ocean at the End of the Lane.
Jasper Fforde’s The
Song of the Quarkbeast, which is set in one of Fforde’s wonderful alternate
versions of the UK. Aimed at younger readers, it is not quite as engaging as
his other work, particularly the Thursday Next series and Shades of Grey, but is still great. Fforde is one of those writers
that have such an astonishing grasp of the English language that genius
wordplay and clever puns abound in his novels. The Thursday Next books are, if
you can believe this, as good as Pratchett’s Discworld series. They are out
there, no doubt, but if you’re not put off by all the weirdness then Fforde’s
writing is hugely enjoyable.
Tuesday, February 18, 2014
Growing up, guitars and good friends.
When I was in my teens, the big musical thing was Britpop. Now, that isn’t my fault, so don’t be too hard on me. The thing about music is it isn’t necessarily what’s best in a technical sense that becomes your favourite. Sure, everyone can appreciate decent lyrics and great playing. But your favourite music often becomes your favourite because of how you felt, or what you were doing, or even how old you were when you heard it. So when I first really got into music, following a brief flirtation with the mighty Jovi, it was to the strains of the Britpop movement. Blur’s Parklife was the first record I truly fell in love with (and to this day I remain so), but Oasis slowly eclipsed Blur as my favourite. As with so many of today’s leading guitar acts, Definitely Maybe inspired me to buy a guitar. I lacked both the talent and the will for it to go any further than a hobby, but being able to play first Oasis, and later Stereophonics, Blur and Weller was among the greatest joys of my teenage life.
One of my childhood friends, Ian, loved Oasis as much as I did, and there is no doubt that we bonded tremendously over this mutual love. Entire weekends would disappear learning Slide Away or Champagne Supernova; Ian singing, me playing guitar. Our friends were probably bored half to death listening to us, but we didn’t care. Then we got older, and things change as they always do. Girlfriends, jobs, moving all conspired to move my guitars to a cupboard under the stairs. Late last year Ian died of a rare form of Leukaemia, and now I find myself remembering all those weekends spent playing guitar. Turns out I can’t listen to Live Forever all the way through without crying anymore.
We never did get a band together. But in the end that isn’t what matters. What matters is the comfort of the memories I have of those years. There has been much talk of Ian looking down on us and the things we’re doing with approval and love. If you’ve read enough of these you’ll know that in my heart that’s a belief I can’t share, but at times like these I feel and understand the need people have for it, and I cannot give enough kudos to the vicar who spoke at Ian’s funeral, who happily admitted that he had been tasked with giving the ceremony just enough religion ‘to get him in’, and the good grace with which he managed this.
Thoughts now turn to those guitars, gathering dust under the stairs. I think maybe I’ll bring them out again into the light of day and give Don’t Look Back in Anger a whirl. It feels like a modest tribute, but somehow the most heartfelt.
One of my childhood friends, Ian, loved Oasis as much as I did, and there is no doubt that we bonded tremendously over this mutual love. Entire weekends would disappear learning Slide Away or Champagne Supernova; Ian singing, me playing guitar. Our friends were probably bored half to death listening to us, but we didn’t care. Then we got older, and things change as they always do. Girlfriends, jobs, moving all conspired to move my guitars to a cupboard under the stairs. Late last year Ian died of a rare form of Leukaemia, and now I find myself remembering all those weekends spent playing guitar. Turns out I can’t listen to Live Forever all the way through without crying anymore.
We never did get a band together. But in the end that isn’t what matters. What matters is the comfort of the memories I have of those years. There has been much talk of Ian looking down on us and the things we’re doing with approval and love. If you’ve read enough of these you’ll know that in my heart that’s a belief I can’t share, but at times like these I feel and understand the need people have for it, and I cannot give enough kudos to the vicar who spoke at Ian’s funeral, who happily admitted that he had been tasked with giving the ceremony just enough religion ‘to get him in’, and the good grace with which he managed this.
Thoughts now turn to those guitars, gathering dust under the stairs. I think maybe I’ll bring them out again into the light of day and give Don’t Look Back in Anger a whirl. It feels like a modest tribute, but somehow the most heartfelt.
Wednesday, September 7, 2011
Not so grim up North.
We went to Blackpool the weekend just gone. Now, the last time I went to Blackpool I was ten. That’s 22 years ago. In all that time I’ve retained fairly strong memories of it. I remember adoring the Pleasure Beach, loving the Sandcastle, watching the dazzling Illuminations, being on the Piers, up the Tower. Hell, even enjoying a visit to Madame Tussaud’s (although I was too scared to go through the horror exhibit). Feasting on rock, sugar dummies, candyfloss – enough sugar to fell a horse. The donkey rides on the beach. All those things, and probably more that I’ve forgotten. The overwhelming memory is one of joy.
It seemed that as I got older, I became aware of a different type of reputation Blackpool has. An unpleasant place full of stag nights and hen parties, where drunken fools with condoms on their heads rule the streets, a scummy beach and a sea full of, literally, shit. While I accepted that this must be the case and that the Blackpool my ten-year-old self loved so much had gone, I never forgot what it was like to visit that place as a child.
It was, therefore, with some trepidation that we began to approach Blackpool that Saturday morning, invited by family. In my childhood memory I remember seeing the Tower, and feeling the excitement it generated, and a nostalgic echo of that resurfaced upon seeing it on the road this time. Before long, also from some distance out, the Big One came into view. The Big One is around a decade old now, but is still a hugely impressive sight. I remember reading about it when it premiered – the tallest and fastest roller coaster in the world. I adore Alton Towers and love roller coasters, but I could well imagine myself chickening out of going on this beast. It’s no longer the world’s tallest or fastest, but it still holds the record for tallest in Europe.
The views along the promenade are much as I remember them, the Tower and the Central Pier on one side, and the Pleasure Beach, Sandcastle and South Pier on the other. I don’t think I ever went to the North Pier, and it remains a mystery to me. Yes, it’s cheesy, yes it’s typically English, yes the beach really isn’t up to much, but the giddy rush of pleasure I got from revisiting one of my most treasured childhood memories was enough to get me excited all over again, 22 years on.
It was shocking just how much the Pleasure Beach had changed. The Pleasure Beach is the most visited theme park in the UK, surprisingly more popular than Drayton Manor Park, or Alton Towers. When I was last there, the Big Dipper dominated the park, and was by far the highest thing in sight. Standing below it was dizzying, riding it looking below even more so. Now, it is surrounded by more than one ride that makes it look a little fish in a big pond. It doesn’t reach as high as Infusion, and barely stretches a third of the height of the Big One. The Revolution, which once seemed so mighty, is dwarfed and seems rather paltry by comparison to its newer cousins.
The first stop was Nickelodeon Land, newly opened this year, as it was really for Katie we came. Katie’s current favourite TV show is Dora the Explorer, so it was to Dora’s World Voyage we headed first. Rach took Katie on while I stayed with Emily. I did feel quite bad for Emily who had no choice but to sit there and watch everybody else have fun. Katie had been buzzing with excitement for days, so finally getting to try a ride out made her grin from ear to ear. What I’ll remember mostly from this two-day trip is Katie’s blissed-out smile barely leaving her face. As we moved from Spongebob Squarepants-themed rides to a Rugrats-themed log flume, Katie looked like she couldn’t have conceived of a place where it was possible to have so much fun. Meeting Dora left her quite stunned, so we had a bit of a break there, lest we break her and spoil her for good. Also, it started to pelt down. As we walked off, it was quite funny watching a three-piece girl band come on after Dora and with no audience whatsoever due to the pouring rain, launch into Walking on Sunshine. There is almost nowhere in the Pleasure Beach to shelter from the rain, so we all got thoroughly drenched, including poor Emily who, thanks to her absent-minded parents, had no rain cover for her pram.
After drying off and waiting for the rain to ease, we ventured back out, where Katie tried the biggest ride so far, the Flying Machines. They work a bit like the Flying Dutchman, and, obviously, Katie loved them. We moved on to one of a few carousels, which moved rather fast, had horses that were bloody difficult to hold onto and made me very nervous trying to ensure nobody fell off. Katie was oblivious, totally fearless and loving every second, shouting “Giddy up Horsey!” and “This is the best ride ever!” as we flew round.
I had been staring at it all day, and I was eventually persuaded to go on the Big One. The thing about roller coasters is the build up. The nervous excitement as you get pulled up the ramp, and the way your stomach flips as you go over the crest just before plunging down the other side. The Oblivion at Alton Towers is particularly cruel, as it pauses for a moment right on the edge of its vertical drop, just to extend that terror. And then, you’re over and the adrenaline rush comes. It’s addictive. The Big One is so high that much of the joy of the anticipation dissolves, leaving you with a terrifying pit in the middle of your stomach. The climb is horrifying. It lasts forever. The signs don’t make it easier, helpfully informing you when you pass 100 feet, then 200 feet and you just keep climbing. The view is astonishingly spectacular, and is something you would usually only get from the window of a plane or a helicopter. Going over the crest is sickening. Mercifully, it doesn’t pause at all. Then comes the 205-foot plunge and it all makes sense. When the anticipation is that much worse, the adrenaline-fuelled pay-off is that much better. It is incredible. My body was buzzing so much from the release of chemicals that my legs had gone warm. After all of that fearful build up, your stomach doesn’t flip over as much as you expect – not even as much as it does on the Oblivion. The rest of the ride is also very good, including a second crest nowhere near as high as the first, but still higher than anything else in the park. It’s also much longer than I’m used to. The rides at Alton Towers are great, but they are over extremely quickly. The Big One gives you an extended ride after the initial drop.
After taking Katie on a few more rides, we headed back to our hotel. We walked back through the Illuminations, which Katie did enjoy, but as she was already an hour past her bed time she was a little too tired to really enthuse about them. Emily, on the other hand, after a cold and wet day suddenly came alive, and was utterly mesmerised by the sea of flashing colourful lights. The Tower looked particularly impressive.
The next day we took Katie to the Sandcastle, which is the largest indoor water park in the country and just over the road from the Pleasure Beach. Katie loves going to swimming pools and playing in the water, but this was the first time she had seen something like a water slide and that look of surpassing happiness became once again fixed on her face. There are few things that please a parent like that kind of face on your child. We started gently, with the smaller slides, and gradually got to the bigger stuff. Each time we went down a slide, she would jump up and down in excitement and shout “Again, again!” Even Emily could have some fun this time.
Afterwards, Katie was utterly knackered, and we made plans to set off, but not before experiencing some of the other side of Blackpool. We had lunch opposite the Central Pier in ‘family friendly’ pub Uncle Peter Websters, with shit-stained toilets and menu with almost nothing available, which didn’t appear very friendly to our family at all. We then had a quick trip onto the beach, as the weather had been sunny and warm all day, the polar opposite of yesterday’s downpour. Well. Maybe it’s because we were so close to the Central Pier, but the scummy brown foam coating the tidal pools and being washed up on the beach was certainly in line with the reputation Blackpool’s beach has got itself. I do wonder about parents just letting their kids play in the scum pools. I do not lie; there were kids playing in the scum pools.
On the whole, the weekend was as expensive as a week in a caravan park, and at times the Blackpool I hear people talk of in disgusted tones definitely made itself known. However, the memory that will mostly remain is again one of joy – some mine, most Katie’s. And I did come home with some rock and a sugar dummy.
It seemed that as I got older, I became aware of a different type of reputation Blackpool has. An unpleasant place full of stag nights and hen parties, where drunken fools with condoms on their heads rule the streets, a scummy beach and a sea full of, literally, shit. While I accepted that this must be the case and that the Blackpool my ten-year-old self loved so much had gone, I never forgot what it was like to visit that place as a child.
It was, therefore, with some trepidation that we began to approach Blackpool that Saturday morning, invited by family. In my childhood memory I remember seeing the Tower, and feeling the excitement it generated, and a nostalgic echo of that resurfaced upon seeing it on the road this time. Before long, also from some distance out, the Big One came into view. The Big One is around a decade old now, but is still a hugely impressive sight. I remember reading about it when it premiered – the tallest and fastest roller coaster in the world. I adore Alton Towers and love roller coasters, but I could well imagine myself chickening out of going on this beast. It’s no longer the world’s tallest or fastest, but it still holds the record for tallest in Europe.
The views along the promenade are much as I remember them, the Tower and the Central Pier on one side, and the Pleasure Beach, Sandcastle and South Pier on the other. I don’t think I ever went to the North Pier, and it remains a mystery to me. Yes, it’s cheesy, yes it’s typically English, yes the beach really isn’t up to much, but the giddy rush of pleasure I got from revisiting one of my most treasured childhood memories was enough to get me excited all over again, 22 years on.
It was shocking just how much the Pleasure Beach had changed. The Pleasure Beach is the most visited theme park in the UK, surprisingly more popular than Drayton Manor Park, or Alton Towers. When I was last there, the Big Dipper dominated the park, and was by far the highest thing in sight. Standing below it was dizzying, riding it looking below even more so. Now, it is surrounded by more than one ride that makes it look a little fish in a big pond. It doesn’t reach as high as Infusion, and barely stretches a third of the height of the Big One. The Revolution, which once seemed so mighty, is dwarfed and seems rather paltry by comparison to its newer cousins.
The first stop was Nickelodeon Land, newly opened this year, as it was really for Katie we came. Katie’s current favourite TV show is Dora the Explorer, so it was to Dora’s World Voyage we headed first. Rach took Katie on while I stayed with Emily. I did feel quite bad for Emily who had no choice but to sit there and watch everybody else have fun. Katie had been buzzing with excitement for days, so finally getting to try a ride out made her grin from ear to ear. What I’ll remember mostly from this two-day trip is Katie’s blissed-out smile barely leaving her face. As we moved from Spongebob Squarepants-themed rides to a Rugrats-themed log flume, Katie looked like she couldn’t have conceived of a place where it was possible to have so much fun. Meeting Dora left her quite stunned, so we had a bit of a break there, lest we break her and spoil her for good. Also, it started to pelt down. As we walked off, it was quite funny watching a three-piece girl band come on after Dora and with no audience whatsoever due to the pouring rain, launch into Walking on Sunshine. There is almost nowhere in the Pleasure Beach to shelter from the rain, so we all got thoroughly drenched, including poor Emily who, thanks to her absent-minded parents, had no rain cover for her pram.
After drying off and waiting for the rain to ease, we ventured back out, where Katie tried the biggest ride so far, the Flying Machines. They work a bit like the Flying Dutchman, and, obviously, Katie loved them. We moved on to one of a few carousels, which moved rather fast, had horses that were bloody difficult to hold onto and made me very nervous trying to ensure nobody fell off. Katie was oblivious, totally fearless and loving every second, shouting “Giddy up Horsey!” and “This is the best ride ever!” as we flew round.
I had been staring at it all day, and I was eventually persuaded to go on the Big One. The thing about roller coasters is the build up. The nervous excitement as you get pulled up the ramp, and the way your stomach flips as you go over the crest just before plunging down the other side. The Oblivion at Alton Towers is particularly cruel, as it pauses for a moment right on the edge of its vertical drop, just to extend that terror. And then, you’re over and the adrenaline rush comes. It’s addictive. The Big One is so high that much of the joy of the anticipation dissolves, leaving you with a terrifying pit in the middle of your stomach. The climb is horrifying. It lasts forever. The signs don’t make it easier, helpfully informing you when you pass 100 feet, then 200 feet and you just keep climbing. The view is astonishingly spectacular, and is something you would usually only get from the window of a plane or a helicopter. Going over the crest is sickening. Mercifully, it doesn’t pause at all. Then comes the 205-foot plunge and it all makes sense. When the anticipation is that much worse, the adrenaline-fuelled pay-off is that much better. It is incredible. My body was buzzing so much from the release of chemicals that my legs had gone warm. After all of that fearful build up, your stomach doesn’t flip over as much as you expect – not even as much as it does on the Oblivion. The rest of the ride is also very good, including a second crest nowhere near as high as the first, but still higher than anything else in the park. It’s also much longer than I’m used to. The rides at Alton Towers are great, but they are over extremely quickly. The Big One gives you an extended ride after the initial drop.
After taking Katie on a few more rides, we headed back to our hotel. We walked back through the Illuminations, which Katie did enjoy, but as she was already an hour past her bed time she was a little too tired to really enthuse about them. Emily, on the other hand, after a cold and wet day suddenly came alive, and was utterly mesmerised by the sea of flashing colourful lights. The Tower looked particularly impressive.
The next day we took Katie to the Sandcastle, which is the largest indoor water park in the country and just over the road from the Pleasure Beach. Katie loves going to swimming pools and playing in the water, but this was the first time she had seen something like a water slide and that look of surpassing happiness became once again fixed on her face. There are few things that please a parent like that kind of face on your child. We started gently, with the smaller slides, and gradually got to the bigger stuff. Each time we went down a slide, she would jump up and down in excitement and shout “Again, again!” Even Emily could have some fun this time.
Afterwards, Katie was utterly knackered, and we made plans to set off, but not before experiencing some of the other side of Blackpool. We had lunch opposite the Central Pier in ‘family friendly’ pub Uncle Peter Websters, with shit-stained toilets and menu with almost nothing available, which didn’t appear very friendly to our family at all. We then had a quick trip onto the beach, as the weather had been sunny and warm all day, the polar opposite of yesterday’s downpour. Well. Maybe it’s because we were so close to the Central Pier, but the scummy brown foam coating the tidal pools and being washed up on the beach was certainly in line with the reputation Blackpool’s beach has got itself. I do wonder about parents just letting their kids play in the scum pools. I do not lie; there were kids playing in the scum pools.
On the whole, the weekend was as expensive as a week in a caravan park, and at times the Blackpool I hear people talk of in disgusted tones definitely made itself known. However, the memory that will mostly remain is again one of joy – some mine, most Katie’s. And I did come home with some rock and a sugar dummy.
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?
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