The Monday Morning Show on Discover Radio. I’m on that.

Hello everyone (that opening phrase should probably read “Hello no one” as it would be a far more accurate description of how many people read this blog, but I usually like to open more positively than that.) It’s been an extremely long time since I last updated this humble blog, but I am in the business of promoting a radio show today. Every Monday from 10am-12pm my co-host Seonaid and I shall be hosting a show that we have appropriately dubbed ‘The Monday Morning Show’. It is on student station Discover Radio which can be accessed here: http://www.discoverradio.org/

Every week is filled with inane chatter and some damn fine music. So join us as we regale you with anecdotes of our past lives and share a plethora of our favourite tunes. Also, here’s our Facebook page. Like us if you like. We’d like that: http://www.facebook.com/?ref=logo#!/pages/The-Monday-Morning-Show-on-Discover-Radio/137429642971640

And finally, a poster to whet your appetite:

An Affair

Author’s note: Another piece of creative writing from a wee while back. However, I’m posting this one as a punishment to myself for writing such pretentious quasi-intellectual trash. Once again written after a bottle-and-a-half of red wine, this was my attempt at being clever in some way. Merging capitalism with existentialism with a philandering bell-end, this is definitely a good bit of mental masturbation gone awry. At least it’s not particularly long because I fell asleep in a drunken reverie almost straight after I had written it. Anyway, like the decapitated head of an enemy thrust on a pike in the middle of a medieval village, I shall post this on my blog as a lesson to myself: If I have red wine, don’t start writing ‘clever’ drivel.

AN AFFAIR

I can’t do this any more. These hidden messages. These hidden conversations. Rendezvous in the night for fear of being caught. This life becomes death far too quickly for me to waste it on a charade as pointless as this. She has to know. And her. They both have to know. I love one and not the other. The other and not one. The world is turning so quickly. The expiration date draws nearer and this is how I’m spending my time. Both must know.

I feel her. I feel her heart beating so close to mine as I pull her towards me. Her skirt rides up because my hand is moving it so. She is writhing and moaning and screaming and scratching the skin on my back as I push her up against her bedroom wall, so desperate to be inside. The pain. The lust. The brutal intensity is palpable as I have her. The world has disappeared for a while. It’s been locked away by a torrent of joy. Before I cum it is gone. Being as one is not how I feel with the other.

With the other we lie down. I am on top. Always on top. I breathe heavily on her neck because I know that’s how she likes it. Always she likes it like that. I try not to make eye contact with her in case she figures me out, figures out that I’m not trying not to think of her. A few minutes pass then – as surely as a clock strikes twelve – she cums before me. Then I cum a little later. Such places in time are everywhere. In this world cumming is commonplace. You can do it on your own. Pay for it, but as a commodity it isn’t special. It is that special feeling whilst you cum with that remains special, almost transcendental. That absolute centre is a rarity. It is what happens when you are in love. Time doesn’t stop but it feels like it does. The earth still turns but none of it matters. The expiry date is still on the packet but you stop thinking about it. All that matters is that other-worldliness that fills her eyes, eyeballs rolling into the back of her head. Her breasts moving rhythmically and my eyes are drawn towards them and I grab one and she moans with so much pleasure that I’m in a dream and I’m gone. The world is gone. She is gone. I am centred. I am matter. I matter.

In this place there is nothing and everything, life and death, existence is screaming at me with a visceral roar. This place lasts four seconds at the most. Then it disappears. A microcosm self-implodes, a feeling written in sand. This is why I love her, Pleasure is why I love her. And is pleasure not our only goal? If it isn’t, then by god it should be. Pleasure, upon its own terms, is pleasurable. We are persuaded to buy so many things to make us feel good but we are left hollow. With every purchase we become more like husks, wallowing in emptiness, never understanding that we are still the same. We are told that we’ll feel happier. But we don’t. Not really. Instead, we paint on a veneer of happiness that is chipped at and chipped at until the cracks begin to show. The bottom falls out and the truth becomes apparent. Yet with good sex, the thing we’re told by so many that we shouldn’t be having, pleasure is paramount. There is no hiding. Everything is exposed. Unadulterated Pleasure. That is all I want.

So I walk up to her, the other at the the bar. She smiles at me and kisses me on the cheek. I smile back and feel my face suddenly emblazoned a bright red. The barman comes over and I ask for a cider with my tone a stuttering mass of a mess of a murky secret. My hands shake as I pass him the money. The other asks what’s up. She asks with that sympathetic smile that I used to find so irresistible at one time or another. Now it makes me ashamed. My drink arrives with the bartender in tow. The other one, that one I know so much more, asks me what’s wrong. The bartender is standing too close to us. I start to down my pint, each gulp not helping. Intoxication was never a help to anyone. Alcohol is an amplifier not a depressant. If you feel all loved up then alcohol will dominate those senses. If you feel guilt in equal measures then just you wait until you’ve had a couple of pints down you. Guilt will seep from every pore. But I can’t drink forever. Once I’ve stopped my pint glass is half-empty and I can’t think of a word to say. I can hear the people in the bar around me. Every inane piece of chatter is heightened to such clarity that I become completely convinced of everyone hearing my well-practised break-up speech. I need to drink more but am acutely aware of her glare. Words must be said. Eye-contact must be made. This has to be done. I love Her. Not the other. This isn’t fair. She has to know.

*****

In this world honesty is sacrosanct but people make the world what it is. We give it a meaning. People give everything a meaning. A piece of paper can become money because people make it so. We attach meaning to everything because this life is meaningless and we can’t take it. An entrance into a delusion. When I make love to her there is no meaning. There is only feeling. Feeling and her intertwined in an incomprehensible flow, the tide coming in and washing away what I know. I didn’t break up with the other one. I didn’t tell her. Honesty means nothing to me. I stay in the exact same situation. Emotions will shift otherwise.

Once I have left the pub I walk to her house. I knock on her door three times, clawing it upon my fourth to maintain my paralytic balance. She opens her door. That Her makes me feel anything and those eyes that are truly mine surely. She asks me what’s up. I cry. My weeping is uncontrolled. It pulses through any emotional barriers. I have façades that are uncovered. Mask’s unveiled. A host of masks one by one. She kisses me. She doesn’t know why. I’ll fuck her later. Later, I’ll let myself be washed away.

Fuck it. It’s still all good for me.

The Lonely Boy Who Cried Wolf

Author’s Note: This was written to aid my girlfriend with an art project she had to do for uni a few months ago (Because she takes art, obviously. They haven’t made history more abstract or anything). It’s a wee pleasant children’s rhyme that is a damn sight more cheerful than things I usually come up with. Some of the rhymes and rhythms are possibly a bit tenuous but it was written after a bottle of wine, so it ain’t too bad considering. It’s also the first thing I’ve ever written with a very specific remit which was an interesting challenge. Oh, and if you’d like to see my girlfriend’s blog for whatever reason, here’s the link:  http://www.tanyahendrieillustration.blogspot.com/

Anyhow, that’s that.  Enjoy. Or don’t. Whatever you fancy.

The Lonely Boy Who Cried Wolf

Little boy once stood on a hilltop,
The vast ocean of sky permeated by clouds,
A shepherd with a shift that might never stop,
And the bleating of sheep such an irritating sound.

Oh little boy he was lonely,
He wanted human company,
So bored stiff of his shift,
He called the villagers “QUICK!,
THERE’S A WOLF LOOSE!,
BETTER HURRY!”

The villagers ran uphill towards him,
He was filled with mirthful glee!,
And when the villagers reached him,
He said with a great grin,
“It’s only the sheep and me!,
But since you’re here,
Don’t disappear!,
Don’t go downhill on that hike!
You can stay for a while!
Please stay… if you like.”

But the villagers were angry,
The said don’t lie like that again,
They didn’t stay,
They didn’t like,
They all went downhill on that hike,
And poor little boy was left with no friends.

So little boy still stood on the hilltop,
Grey clouds now circling his head,
A shepherd who was always watching the clock,
And lonely feelings filling him with dread.
Oh little boy he was desperate,
He just wanted to speak to someone,
So still bored stiff of his shift,
He called the villagers “QUICK!
THERE’S A WOLF LOOSE!
BETTER RUN!”

The villagers ran uphill towards him,
He hugged his sheep he was so pleased,
And when the villagers reached him,
He said with a great grin,
“It’s only the sheep and me!
But since you’re here,
Don’t disappear!,
Don’t go downhill on that hike!,
You can stay for a while!,
Please stay… if you like.”

This time the villagers were livid!,
They shouted, “You’re wasting our time!,
We didn’t all come up here,
To listen to silly lying!”
They didn’t stay,
They didn’t like,
They all went downhill on that hike,
And once again poor little boy was left with no friends.

Clouds grew black,
And rain poured down,
And this little shepherd couldn’t contain his frown,
Sheep they were bleating,
Oh he couldn’t take it!,
Till the end of his shift,
He didn’t think he would make it!

Then a shadowy figure approached him,
Cutting its way through the rain-soaked grass,
A being he couldn’t quite make out,
“A W-W-W-WOLF!, he shouted at last.

No villagers came uphill towards him,
He was overridden with fear,
He apologised for all his lies,
As the mystery figure drew near.

His sheep and him stuck to the spot,
“A WOLF! A WOLF!”,
He took one last shot.

The figure came close enough to see clearly,
A beautiful woman swathed in black,
A beautiful woman who he loved dearly,
She said, “I heard you were up here all alone,
So I thought I’d keep you company”,
And the little boy replied in a far lighter tone,
“Well I think that’d be lovely.”

So they sat and they laughed,
The clouds stopped being black,
Little boy wished his shift would never end,
Because a sheep in wolf’s clothing turned out to be a friend.

————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————-

And here’s a humorous sketch about ‘The Boy Who Cried Wolf’ from Stewart Lee and Richard Herring’s 90s show ‘Fist of Fun’, found whilst youtube-ing ‘The boy cried wolf’, as you do. Go On. Have a gander. Fill your boots:

The Anatomy Of A Gun – Chapter Seven

CHAPTER SEVEN

‘HEAD’

“No. Nope. No…”

“But…”

“Ah’m tellin’ ya, you’re talkin’ bullshit here. Ya sit here on my yacht drinkin’ my beer and ya bullshit. This is too serious to bullshit.”

“All ah’m sayin’ is…”

“Ah don’ care what you’re sayin’! There’s no way that Casablanca’s better than The Third Man.”

“Well…”

“No no no. If ya say that then ya might as well be saying Humphrey Bogart’s better than Orson Welles, which is bullshit. Are ya really gonna say that? The man who wrote and directed and starred in Citizen Kane is worse than the man who acted in that heap of crap The Maltese Falcon? There’s no way ya could say that!”

“I liked the The Maltese Falcon…”

“Well you’re wrong about that as well. Listen, Casablanca was a thinly veiled propaganda flick with a few good lines that everyone can quote. Even if ya haven’t seen it ya can quote it. Play it again Sam? Fuck off Sam more like! Ya mention Casablanca to anyone and they’ll just repeat the same tired lines at ya! They probably haven’t even seen the flick! And the love story’s trash. Garbage! Tedious! Ya couldn’t say that ’bout The Third Man. It’s the complexity of the story that’s the beauty…”

“Wait…”

“No no, let me finish. Ah’m on a roll here…”

“Wait wait wait. Look in the water. What the hell is that floating in there?”

“Oh shit. That’s not… is that a head?”

“I think it’s a head.”

“Christ… Oh god…Get the net. If we fish it out it… it might not be a head.”

“What?”

“I dunno, just get the net! I’ll get the port authority… god almighty… Hello? Yea… this the New York Port Authority?… Well, we’ve, um, found a head… Yea, a human head…”

“Oh god, ah’m gonna be sick.”

“Bob!Bob! Is it definitely a head?”

“What? Yea! And ah think it’s got a bullet hole in it!”

“Yea we just fished it out there… We’re just outside of the Chelsea Piers… What? I don’ know about coordinates or anything! We’re a red boat just outside the Chelsea Piers, what more d’ya want? My friend just said he thinks it’s got a bullet hole in it too…. Yea a bullet sized hole. You gonna get the police or somethin’? …. Right, well we’ll be here. Shit. You go on a sailin’ trip and get a severed head in your yacht. Expensive yacht too… NYPD’ll be all over it… Ah’ll have to sell it now… Bob! Bob! You sure that head’s got a bullet hole in it?”

“Yup! Right in the middle of the forehead. Will ah jus’ keep it in the net?”

“Probably best… Wanna beer or somethin’?”

First Contact

Author’s Note: Another piece that was written quite a few years ago for an English class I was in. The bit about Jade Goody seems a little heartless now, but this was written before her sad and untimely bout of illness and eventual death. Anyway, hopefully that doesn’t degrade the message that is so obvious that it may as well be transcribed in giant flashing neon. Celebrity culture’s bad, yea? What a man of subtlety I am. Read on.

FIRST CONTACT

For millions of years humans have been watched. They were watched as they took their first tentative steps on the Earth’s soil. They were watched as they fought through famine, droughts and each other. They were even watched as they devised endless reality television formats in the early 21st century. The watchers almost gave up watching during this period to leave and do something more worthwhile, but they didn’t. They stayed. They stayed and watched because they had hope that some day the human race would sort itself out and ascend onto a higher plane of understanding, just as the watchers themselves had done millions of years ago.

And one day they did. In the year 2020 AD, the largest peace treaty ever was signed by every country in the world. Complete world peace had finally been achieved. Four days after this monumental moment, radio contact with an alien species was made. The watching creatures had known it would all be worthwhile. Four days after that, the creatures came down to Earth to make true contact and experience the third planet from the sun in all its glory.

The alien spaceship flew down to the arranged position with all the grandeur of a fifties B-movie. The ship they had flown down in had been deliberately designed by the meticulous creatures like a flying saucer from old movies to help comfort the humans. When they landed, King Glar Glar Glaxonian of the Tentulus race peered out of his cabin window with a sense of dread. The tanned tentacles that grew from his forehead obscuring all four of his eyes were tense and weren’t moving to and fro in their usual playful way. He was to be the first to meet these alien creatures known as humans and he wasn’t looking forward to it. He had attempted to prepare for the first meeting by reading the research materials given to him, but he simply couldn’t fathom the culture. He couldn’t understand why Heat! Magazine was a normal temperature or why OK! Magazine was so popular with humans. It was only OK. He would have preferred it to be good. And why these magazines insisted on pointing out the shortcomings of their ‘celebrities’ puzzled him to frustration. He couldn’t see why it was important that a model from twenty years ago had fat ankles now. Then again, the planet of Tentulus didn’t have ‘celebrity status’. They treated every member of their species equally and admired them for the positive aspects of their personality.

The king walked over to the other side of his dark blue cabin and, with a heavy sigh, looked into a large mirror that covered the entirety of one wall. Appearance was important on this planet and he had to look sharp for his meeting with the planet leaders. The blank white robes that he usually adorned would not suffice here. He was to meet the three superpowers of Earth: President Jack Nicholson, Brittish Prime Minister Jordan (only the second female Prime Minister to run Great Britain) and veteran footballer David Beckham. Another subject the king couldn’t get to grips with was why Prime Minister Jordan only had one name. Most other people on Earth had second names but not her. It was a bizarre world indeed.

As he looked in to the mirror, King Glar Glar Glaxonian took off his white robes to reveal the brown scaly flesh that covered his body. He walked into the corner of his cabin were the materials for his trip to planet Earth had been placed on a floating table. On the the table were the reading materials, a ‘television’ and an all black suit. The creature took the suit off the table and reluctantly put the superficial human clothing on. He began to rapidly pace up and down his room, looking at the silver cabin door that lead to the outside world with worry. His fear of leaving his cabin had not yet subsided. The world may have been at peace but had it really ascended to a higher plane of understanding and become a better place? After the pacing began to make him feel slightly dizzy, he turned to the materials again. The primitive form of entertainment known as the ‘television’ sat on the table and he eyed it apprehensively. He had tried to use it half an hour before but as soon as he turned it on he saw a programme that seemed to be solely about cutting humans open to give them a better appearance. Glar Glar could maybe accept holding looks in high esteem but slicing and dicing them in pursuit of it was just sickening! Since that disturbing first experience, he refused to use it again out of intimidation. The king grabbed the reading materials roughly off the desk and began rifling through them, desperately searching for hope in humanity. He threw each copy of Chat!, Reveal! And OK! To the floor until he found an article on a single sheet of paper that intrigued him. The headline of the article read “State of a Planet”. He read on:

“Since 2010, the world appears to have become vacuous in terms of independent thought. We have become slaves to advertising executives who have brainwashed us with slogan after slogan. The corporate machine has always tried to make us believe what it wants but now we just blindly do so without question. We live our lives based on what the latest celebrity is promoting and we would do anything for our very own fifteen minutes of fame. We have become mindless, materialistic automatons who all want the same thing just because the marketing man told us we should…”

King Glar Glar Glaxonian stopped reading out of sheer despair. Maybe he had been completely wrong about this planet. Maybe it wasn’t ready. He desperately flicked on the television, willing some morsel of intelligence to appear on the screen.

A portly woman with blonde hair appeared on the television as soon as he switched it on. She spoke in a loud and squawking voice.

“Hi guys!” squawked the woman, “Jade Goody, Home Secretary here! You probably remember me from the hit show of the early 21st century ‘Big Brother’! A show that was unfortunately cancelled after two tragic deaths in the house. Sadly, this spelt the end for all reality television in 2012. Or at least it did until now! The Brittish government has decided to commission a brand new series of Big Brother that will begin early next year! That’s right! Reality television is back!”

The king smashed through the door of his cabin, and sprinted as fast as he could to the ship’s cockpit, panic overwhelming him. He burst through the cockpit door and screamed:

“Lets get the hell out of here! This planet is doomed!”

The Anatomy Of A Gun – Chapter Six

CHAPTER SIX

‘POPESCU’

Derek Simmons sits at a sleek white table holding a black coffee, the steam gently rising from it like a transpicuous spirit escaping into the world then returning to the void where nothing can be seen. Every table around him is empty and identical, just plain white. Outside, the street is still. Orange leaves lie heavily underneath dying trees on the side-walk whilst steam from grates rises wistfully into the night sky. Outside, a green neon sign flashes on and off, on and off. The sign reads Popescu.

A man in a trench coat and a trilby hat approaches the door to Popescu and walks inside with footsteps slow and deliberate. Simmons stands up and, with a smile, says, “Ah, it’s good to see that you’ve taken me up on my… job offer. Please… sit with me.” The man walks up to the table and sits opposite Simmons. Simmons continues, “Now first things first. You killed one of my financial consultants.”

The man takes off his trilby hat and reveals his scarred face, lets it loose from the shadows, and replies, “What financial consultant would that be Mr. Simmons?”

“Don’t play games with me son. The one you shot in the arm. He was called Matthew. Matthew Stipe.”

The man takes a cigarette and lighter from his coat pocket. The room stays silent. There is only the click-click-clicking of a silver lighter. Click-click- cigarette lit. He takes a long satisfied inhalation and breathes out as heavily as he can, blowing reams of smoke across the table, into the reddening face of his potential employer. Then he speaks again, “Is that what his name was? I had forgotten. Either that or I just didn’t care enough to find out. Definitely one of those two. And from what I heard, good old Matty killed himself. Bullet right through the head, brains all over his bedroom wall. A sad loss to the pestilent world of bankers. Anyway… I wasn’t there. I do know a man called Reynolds paid him a visit though. He didn’t kill him either. Matty killed himself. You just remember that.”

“You emaciate a man’s sense of self to the point of suicide and you say you didn’t kill him?” Simmons’ splutters, “He was an innocent for god’s sake! More importantly he was my innocent. I will not have you running around destroying the connections that I have made…”

“Background checks Mr. Simmo…”

“I do not care about your background checks! I am a legitimate businessman! I will not have you burning the bridges I have built! If I am somehow connected to this…”

The man in the trench coat swiftly stands up, knocking his chair over, making it fly backwards, clattering on the ground, “Then you’ll do what? Get some low-life thug of yours to kill me?You’re anything but legitimate Simmons. I can’t find out what you’re hiding but I know you’re not what you claim. Is it legitimate for a business to hire a contract killer? For three contracts? Because I haven’t done a hit for fucking Starbucks yet. No. Legitimate businesses don’t hire me. You know who does? Gangs. And I think you’ve made enough money and have enough power to be in charge of one. You’re a man who operates just outside of the fold like all good leaders. I bet there isn’t anything on you in any computer database. But that doesn’t mean it wasn’t there before. I know. I’ve had to erase my past before too.” The man walks over to his chair, crouches down and picks it up, holding its light metal frame like a weapon. He takes a deep breath and walks back over to the table, replacing the chair and sitting down, his cigarette hanging slovenly from his mouth. “Fuckin’ games… I needed to know that you could be trusted before I murdered for you. And you can be. You can hide the truth from anyone, everyone. If you are somehow connected to this, you can get a lawyer to wash your hands of it for you. You can get a lawyer to wash my hands of it, get me out of the firing line. I can trust you.”

Simmons’ raging red face bursts into a smile, then laughter, an uproarious scream of laughter. His skin cracks and his wrinkles grow more defined as he bangs his fist on the table through mirthful exuberance, making his black coffee shake in its cup, the steam not rising any more. The man in the trench coat sits silently, expressionless and waiting. Calming down, Simmons says, “Very good, very good. Of course I couldn’t possibly comment on your surmise but I’m impressed by it. You are clearly not a man who minces his words. I trust your reasons for what you did. And you are, of course, correct. I am a businessman and one with a lot of reach and power. My lawyers could get me out of such a situation. And you, if need be. Skilled lawyers that they are, they could even make you disappear again. All I ask is that you be a little more subtle when undertaking my contracts. Like with that… Reynolds fellow. A bit of seclusion. A bit of style. Nobody could have found that poor bastard with the way you handled him. Not a limb nor a ligament. Subtlety. That is all I ask. Can you guarantee me that?”

The man opposite Simmons nods and takes another drag from his cigarette. They both sit saying nothing, waiting for each other to speak. Simmons breaks the silence, saying, “Well… good. Let’s get down to business then.” Simmons leans under the table, retrieving a brown covered dossier that had been waiting patiently on the ground. He hands the man the dossier with quivering hands. “This… is your first contract. A priest. It’s all there in the document. Burn that once you’re done with it. And… I’ll need his hand from you.”

“His hand?”

“Yes. I need you to cut off his hand and give it to me when we next meet. Think of it as proof that the deed is done.”

The man drops his cigarette on the floor, stubbing it out with his foot on the white tiles. He says, “I don’t give people hands Simmons. I’m not a fucking butcher. I dispose of bodies my way and my way only.”

“I am paying you. You can dispose of the rest of the body however you wish. I just want the hand. And… five thousand extra will be given to you if you heed my wish. Just the hand.”

The man picks up his hat and places it firmly on his head. A shadow resumes its business. “Fine. It’s a deal.”

The man stands up and rushes out of the sterile doors. Outside, rotting leaves are lying under barren dead trees. Steam rises from grates like refuse from the bowels of the city. Cracks in the pavement. Skyscrapers can be seen in the distance. They are behemoths of the skyline, grey and towering and unforgiving. A New-Yorker who lived near and worked in the financial district killed himself one week ago. His body was found – his head a messy mass as he lay on blood-soaked sheets – by police after following up reports of a disturbance. A handgun was found next to him, spattered with red dots. A bullet was found embedded in the wall. It had went straight through him, nothing within his body stopping it. Outside, a green neon sign flashes on and off, on and off. The sign reads Popescu. This city is dead.

Diatribe of the Dead

Author’s note: I wrote this quite a few years ago for my English class in secondary school and still quite like it. Not the greatest piece of writing that you’ll ever encounter but I thought I’d post it on here for both documentation purposes and to keep this blog regularly updated whilst I study for an upcoming uni exam. It’s also slightly less morbid than a lot of my more recent creative writing. I must also credit the ‘Zombie Survival Guide’ by Max Brooks for the authentic sounding fact about the walking speed of a zombie. Hope anyone who reads it enjoys themselves.

DIATRIBE OF THE DEAD

Arrrrggghhhhh. Arrrrrggghhh. Mnnnnggghhhhh. That’s the way every human thinks we zombies act like. They all think that we’re just a pack of stumbling, shambling messes who make incoherent noises at the first sign of something meat-like. Well, speaking as a member of the living impaired, I for one am sick of it. Since when is it my fault that I’m one of the everlasting slaves to the prince of darkness that we call the Devil? It doesn’t mean I’m not a nice guy.

It’s not my imagination either. I know that a lot of people tend to get paranoid when walking down the street, completely convinced that absolutely everyone is staring at them, but for me it’s different. People literally look at me and run away as fast as they can, screaming maniacally as they go. It might be the fact that one of my ears hangs off my decomposing and dirt-ridden flesh but it’s still rude. It really hurts my feelings. How is a ghoul supposed to make any friends if everyone he sees is fleeing in the opposite direction?

To try and fit in with the human race I decided to go and rent a film that ordinary people watch but it turns out that my local film store already caters for the zombie audience. Row after row of movies involving my kind were strewn around the shop. “Dawn of the Dead”, “Day of the Dead”, “Night of the Living Dead”, Land of the Dead”: the list was very nearly endless. I finally felt accepted by the very people who I was convinced would reject me forever. I rented every living impaired movie I could. Unfortunately, my elation was short-lived. I shuffled to the counter with the movies in hand and – like everyone else – the shop assistant curled into a ball and began bellowing for help. I spent ten minutes trying to explain to him that I was just wanting to rent some movies but he just wouldn’t listen. Eventually, I had to figure out how to use the till myself. When you consider that my hands are quite arthritic from digging out of my own grave, this was a fairly demanding challenge. After a while, I managed to pay the hysterical shopkeeper and make my way home.

Getting home from places has always been quite a challenge for me since zombification. Due to the stiffness of the necrotic muscle tissue, I tend to have more of an unsteady stride than an actual walk. This leaves the average zombie taking just one step per 1.5 seconds. It takes quite a while to walk anywhere but buses just end up crashing in a blind panic if I board them, so I don’t really bother any more.

As I made my awkward limp home, the usual cacophony of screams washed over me in a wave of ignorance. I didn’t care though: I was going to watch some quality undead cinema. I imagined what they would be like. I envisaged stories of two ghouls meeting on a sun kissed beach and falling deeply in love. They would walk off happily into the sunset and a single tear would drip from my slightly loose eye. I pictured a wild buddy movie about a crazy zombie and his miserable human friend going on a whacky road-trip through America. They would help local folk with a group of bandits and save the day. They would go on a journey of discovery and realise that they aren’t that different after all. I wanted movies that would show genuine insight into the necrotic mindset.

It only took nine hours to get home on that day. I was making good time. Home was a mausoleum inside an old and decrepit graveyard at the end of town. Not many people ever entered the graveyard. I had heard rumours that some horrible monster lived in the graveyard but I hadn’t met it yet, so I carried on staying there. The fear of everyone else made it a beautifully quiet place. I was away from the insane noise of hysteria. I was away from the rejection of the human race. I made my way through the misty darkness of the burial ground and stepped into my humble abode. The mausoleum wasn’t huge but it was my own little piece of the world and I liked that. I could be myself there. Cobwebs littered the ceiling corners and moss was growing everywhere. A single candle sat in the middle of the old place, illuminating it with an orange glow. I like to think it made it homely. I popped the first DVD excitedly into the television/DVD combo I had sitting on a crypt in the corner. I sat down with a smile like a Cheshire cat and watched the films. My jaw dropped with shock and outrage as I regarded my purchases. My noble race was being portrayed as the enemy! How could they lie like this? And no zombie can string together a syllable, let alone a sentence in this film! This wasn’t fun! This wasn’t entertainment! This was propaganda!

I threw the DVD case at the television in a fit of anger. I pulled my ear off with deaf rage. This was an outrage! I couldn’t take much more of this victimisation. My head was beginning to feel light with the discontent that pulsed through my lifeless veins. I stood up and paced as quickly as I could up and down the mausoleum screaming incoherently. The strong aggravation that I felt was beginning to shut down my brain. I was turning into an anger machine.

I stumbled out of the graveyard violently. The sun had come up a long time ago and many humans were packed on the street. I viciously smacked into an old-aged pedestrian and knocked her to the ground with a ferocious thud. Another, more portly, elderly lady ran over to help the now seemingly unconscious woman. She scrutinised my appearance over her spectacles for a while as the thought registered into her brain:

“Oh my god, it’s a zombie! Help! Somebody help!”

She let out a blood curdling scream as if I was about to kill her. Strangely enough, her scream was an accurate estimation of what happened next. I grabbed the old lady and bit into her neck quickly, like a predator who had found its prey and relished the kill. Blood drenched the entire bottom half of my rotting face. Adrenaline would have pumped through my veins if congealed blood wasn’t obstructing it.

“Arrrrrrggggghhhhhh. Arrrrrrgggggghhhhh. Mnnnnnnnnngggggggghhhhhhh.” I roared rampantly.

I had been pushed over the edge. I had become a stumbling, shambling mess who makes incoherent noises at the first sign of something meat-like. I was the cliché. And it was all the humans fault.

Games Review: Hitman Contracts

The Hitman series has always been a curious beast in the land of video games. Mixing elements of stealth, point-and-click puzzling as well as all-out shooting action, the franchise has managed to carve out a niche for itself that makes it unlike anything else out there. This mixture of styles has remained largely unchanged in the third title of the series, Hitman: Contracts. In fact, very little at all has been changed from the previous titles, including the graphics engine and atrocious AI ,which is fairly dated. Even a few levels are simple rehashes from the past two titles. Despite this, Hitman: Contracts remains a largely enjoyable experience that is only marred by a sense of over-familiarity.

The game begins with the titular Hitman – known only as 47 – stumbling into a hotel room in France, blood seeping from his stomach. We learn that he has been shot after a botched contract. As the vulnerable contract killer slips in and out of consciousness he begins to have flashbacks of his past. And with a man whose sole purpose in life is to take out his targets, these flashbacks are, unsurprisingly, past contracts. These contracts constitute the various levels that 47 shoots, sneaks and frequently changes costume in like a violent clothes fetishist having a massacre/wank-day in H&M. If you need a reference point for the storyline, think Tomb Raider: Chronicles and you’ve got it in a nutshell. The unfortunate comparison is obviously that Tomb Raider was a flagging series at that point in time with rushed releases and a cash cow that was being milked until its udders began seizing up and started pissing blood instead of money. And if I’m completely honest, the cynical part of my brain says that this game is simply a moneymaker like Chronicles. An enjoyable moneymaker, but a moneymaker nonetheless. A grab bag of levels that was rushed out of the door with a vague story tacked on to add a false sense of cohesion.

However the storyline takes a back seat in this game, and that’s not necessarily a bad thing. As I stated in the first paragraph, the gameplay in the Hitman series is fairly unique and therefore manages to hold interest easily. Contracts aren’t necessarily violent shoot-outs but don’t have to be stealth epics either. There is a multitudinous amount of choices for every hit that leaves you wondering how you could have tackled a mission differently. Should I have poisoned the enemies soup instead of sniping him from the balcony? Should I have lurked in the toilets, waited for the guy to have a slash, then kill him in there? Should I have changed costume, posed as a bodyguard and suffocated him whilst he sleeps in his bed? As much as these questions make me sound like a psychopath, it’s true. The game gets under your skin when you begin wondering how every facet, every step and every bullet wasted could have been executed differently, silently, perfectly. And that is the beauty of the gameplay in Hitman. Its open-ended style gives it a replay-value that is lacking in most single-player games and you’ll find yourself coming back to your favourite levels only to find something that you hadn’t noticed before.

Whilst the gameplay is genuinely joyous at times, it does have its flaws. For one, it can be excruciatingly frustrating when your cover is blown for no reason other than the will of the game. And this will happen. A lot. The way that you are found out can seem occasionally arbitrary or just plain ridiculous at times. For example, in a later level I accidentally went into the ladies toilets of a restaurant where my target was hiding. As soon as I entered the empty facilities my cover was blown, presumably on the grounds that a bald pervert entering the women’s lavatories must obviously be there to kill someone. This isn’t helped by the dreadful AI that other characters possess. There will be times when you’ll see NPCs running around in a blind panic for seemingly no reason whatsoever. The only reason I could think of was that they have an irrational fear of bald people – or peladophobia for all you fact fans – but it seems more likely that they’re all just a bit thick. Other irritating glitches are more minor – like 47 not being able to climb up and down ladders without some sort of character model freakout that looks like a cross between break-dancing and an epileptic fit – but somehow none of them are outright game-breakers; the intricacy of the level design and the breadth of assassination ideas more than makes up for its flaws.

But at the end of the day, apart from a money-making exercise, why does this game actually exist? It is very similar to its predecessor, even with similar levels and outright copies of others, and makes no attempts at improvement as though it were king of fucking perfectville, which it isn’t. Whilst it is a fun addition to the series it is also ultimately pointless. The game gets fairly bored of its story-arc and gives you a glut of similar missions in China as it nears its unsatisfactory denouement. It leaves you feeling that although you had fun on the way, you haven’t really gone anywhere. So as a game, it’s quite enjoyable and certain levels will enrapture you for a while. But as an addition to the Hitman series? I’d just miss this one out and play Hitman: Blood Money if I were you.

Games: Bejewelled Blitz – A Satisfying Addiction

It can be difficult having nothing to do, but with the end of the university year that was exactly the situation I was in. Without such a structure in place I found myself lying languidly in bed until afternoon came, attempting to fathom why anyone might voluntarily want to watch Loose Women without plotting the death of each and every one of those irritating squawking vacuums of existence, and drinking coffee till my insides were practically shrieking with nervous unused energy. I was lost and bored. But now all of that has changed after discovering the compulsive joys of Bejewelled Blitz. Now I wake up, make myself a black coffee and some fried eggs on croissants, sit down at my computer and begin playing Bejewelled Blitz. Before I know it, the long and bright days of Spring have transformed into fluorescent street lit nights. Where did the day go? How did time slip away from me so quickly when a game of Bejewelled Blitz only lasts a single minute? How have I forgotten to go to the toilet and accidentally pissed myself because I was so enthralled by a game? How did a simple Facebook game that was probably only designed to advertise its larger and not free counterpart, Bejewelled 2, take over my life? I’ll tell you how; because Bejewelled Blitz is a work of genius.

Now, at this juncture in my rambling review type-thing I would like to point out that I am what one might refer to as a seasoned games player (or ‘hardcore gamer’ if one was an elitist and depressing individual.) I tend not to get sucked into the more casual fare. The Wii was fun for a while and there are a few decent games on it, but the glut of casual shit is tiresome. At best, casual games offer a passing novelty for a few minutes. At worst, they irritate the hell out of me. I like your proper games. Games with a complex and varied gameplay structure or interesting narrative. But Bejewelled Blitz offers none of that. It needs only one button – a simple click of the left mouse button – for play, a system used by various other ‘Popcap’ games including the equally addictive Peggle Deluxe. As such, it is a system that ‘Popcap’ has managed to hone for their various casual games, making them accessible enough for the casual player and addictive enough for absolutely anyone to get hooked.

The game itself is equally as simple as its method of control. The player moves a series of coloured blocks around a square grid in an attempt to match at least three blocks of the same colour. When they do this, the blocks disappear and other blocks fall down the screen to replace them. If the player manages to match more than three blocks they are rewarded with extra points and special blocks that will not only give extra points to the player if they are matched up, but treat the player to fantastic light shows of blocks exploding and screeds of electricity moving in straight lines along the grid, taking out any blocks caught in its firing line. With points naturally comes scoreboards and a competition between you and anyone else on your Facebook friends list. Even if none of your friends are playing it, that determination to better your own high score never ceases. Every time you do achieve that personal victory, the game will give you a little pat on the back and ask if you want to share the high score with your friends. My advice, click on the ‘No thanks’ button; your friends don’t need to know that this is how you are spending your free time.

But it’s the time limit that is the real clincher in terms of that true heroin-esque addiction factor. Just like that shot into the bloodstream after you’ve buckled a belt around your forearm, the frantic one minute long puzzle you are given is satisfying but leaves you desperate for more as soon as possible. Unlike a heroin addiction of course, Bejewelled Blitz is free and you can simply click on the ‘Play Again’ button instead of falling into petty crime and selling your arse on the street for a pound a pop. The fact that you are given only one minute leaves you panicked when you can’t find a block to move, swearing at your PC monitor like a crazed drunkard whose ran out of money for another pint, and it leaves you considering the moves you could have made if only you had more time. When you start again, you resolve to correct the mistakes you made last time – this play will be your perfect run.

And that’s the beauty of a score board coupled with a tight time limit; there is never truly a way to complete a game. It all comes down to bettering your performance. You are always able to go one step above what you have previously, if only your reaction time could get a boost. The aforementioned Bejewelled 2 doesn’t have the proper time limit option. Sure, it’s got timed modes, but none leave you with that same panicked imperative that Blitz does. Sadly, the magic isn’t there. If you can be bothered, ‘Popcap’ are kindly enough to give you an hour long demo of Bejewelled 2 for your sampling pleasure. Out of that hour of playing time, I used up ten minutes. Then I went on Facebook, loaded up Bejewelled Blitz for free and was once again sucked into that minute long game that can entertain for hours. Of course, then I found out that Bejewelled Blitz can be bought for about a tenner from their website and will be gladly parting with my cash in the near future for a high resolution fix of this little game.

A link to Bejewelled Blitz on Facebook:

http://apps.facebook.com/bejeweledblitz/?lpt=bookmark&ref=ts

A link to ‘Popcap’s’ homepage:

http://www.popcap.com/

A Body Between Them

A Body Between Them

Eric: “We draw a line in the sand. From here on in no one mentions this to anyone else. You all got that? From now on, this never happened. We get rid of it and it never happened.”

After scraping a line in the wet sand with his white trainers crusted with dirt, he stood on his own, the wind blowing through his scraggly hair, the grey clouds formed over a Midlands shore. A group of five people stood awkwardly on the other side of the line, the sound of the rhythmic waves puncturing any hope for true silence, where thoughts manifest themselves unhindered by the outside world. In front of them was the body.

Eric: “Well?” His weather-beaten face was screwed up, pulling a desperate expression. The grey evening gave these people no real light, their faces pale and gaunt and lifeless expressions plastered all over them. The face of the body before them still had his final emotion clinging to it – Rigour-mortis had kept his mouth forced open, statued in fear.

One of the five, a woman with her head down and tears dripping down her face in reverential silence, muttered, “We should phone the police Eric…”

Eric: “No! No one call the pigs! That is the last thing we want to do! This was not our fault! This was not my fault! But do you think they’ll believe that? Well?” He stood at his side of the line. Alone.

The grey filter in which we see theses people does not fade. There is no defining epiphany to make things clear, no divine answer. Instead six people stand uneasy with a body between them, until one of them, balding, his eyes stricken with fear said, “I’ve got a shovel in the back of my car.”

Then debate from the five.

“We can’t bury a body in the sand. It’s not deep enough…”

“There’s a forest a couple miles from here…”

“We can’t do this… this is insane…”

“We have to. Eric’s right… they’ll never believ…”

“We have to decide soon okay. We’re out in the open here…”

“We can’t know what the police’ll think…”

“What if somebody finds us out. Then we’re fucked…”

“No one needs to know. Not if we bury it deep enough..”

“The police…”

“How are they going to even know it was us. There’s no way they’ll…”

“I’ve seen CSI and shit like that. They’ll find prints and DNA and…”

“Not if it’s buried for long enough. Fingerprints fade. So does DNA…”

Eric: “This. Is the only way.”

They stood in silence once again. Eric moved towards the body, over his line, and raised it by the armpits. Eric: “Is somebody going to help me here. I can’t do this on my own.”

The two men of the group stepped forward and grabbed a leg each, raising the body off the ground completely. Eric: “Right Patrick, we’re using your car since you’ve got the shovel. You’ll have to get rid of it later.” He nodded towards the three girls. “One of you get Marie’s phone off ‘er. We’re not getting the pigs into this mess. Alright?”

One of the women moved towards Marie and began searching the pockets of her anorak until her mobile phone was found. Marie looked into the eyes of the complicit woman that stood in front of her and said, “Becky…. we can’t do this.”

Becky looked right back and weakly replied, “We have to.”

The men struggled up the beach, a body between them, the women following close behind. They reached the sand banks that led to the car park and the three men dropped the body, panting vociferously. Through struggled breaths, adjusting his glasses, the balding man said, “I didn’t think this would happen on a day-trip to Grimsby.”

Eric: “No one did.”

“I mean, it’s meant to be Britain’s second best beach. Who could have thought that he would just come at us and then… well then Marie would flip…”

Marie paced up to the balding man, her hands balled into fists, “How the bloody hell would you know what happened? That man attacked us! He attacked us for Christ’s sake…”

“So you claim…”

“So I claim? You don’t know what you’re talking about! Fuck you!” Marie pushed the man before her, knocking him off balance – knocking him onto the body. As his shirt connected with the blood-strewn green t-shirt of a dead man, he screamed. He ambled off the body, his glasses falling off his face and into the sand, his body shivering, his eyes watering, hands shaking, body shaking, heart pulsing, alive. He ran at Marie, “you fucking sick bitch!”, and grabbed her by the lapels of her shirt. Eric ran at him, pulling him forcefully off her and pushing him away. The sand sat silently underneath them, feeling the stances of six people and the dead weight of a body.

Eric: “Patrick, shut the fuck up and calm down. We’ve got work to do and we need to it as soon as possible. After this, you two don’t even have to talk. For now, let’s be civil. Go to your car and start the engine. Marie, you’ll take the weight Patrick was carrying. Now let’s hurry up.”

Patrick picked up his glasses then walked unsteadily away from the group with his face crimson. Then the body was again picked up for the journey to the car. They struggled, two women walking reluctantly beside them. Dead eyes were staring up at Eric. He was looking forward. Always looking forward. They reached the car and piled it into the boot with no help from Patrick – he was sitting in the drivers seat with his face still deep red, staring out of the front window at nothing in particular.

Eric shut the boot, an action that snapped Patrick out of his hypnotised glare, causing him to wind his window down and say, “I don’t think we’ll fit everyone in my car. It only seats five.”

Eric: “Someone can sit on someone else’s lap.”

Patrick spluttered and said, “But what if the police pull us over? I could get a fine for something like that you know!”

Eric: “Patrick, you have a dead body in your boot. If the pigs pull us over then a fine’s really not what you should be worrying about.”

Eric then turned to the other man, his mousy face silent and scared. Eric: “Are you alright Jez? You haven’t said anything since…”

“I’m fine,” He snapped, “Let’s get in the car.”

Eric: Yea. Sure. Let’s go.”

The group piled into Patrick’s car. Eric sat at the front. Eric: “How long ’til we get to the woods?”

Patrick muttered, “Fifteen minutes.”

The group in the car were silent. The car hummed, the occasional splutter of an unhealthy engine interrupting their brief respite. At regular intervals, Patrick looked into the rear-view mirror at Marie, his anger refusing to wane.

No solutions are set in stone. As a car with a body in its boot speeds towards a thick forest on a grey Grimsby evening, a group of police officers sit in their station watching television and drinking endless cups of tea. A group of MPs are sitting around a restaurant table discussing foreign policy. A gang of youths hang around on a street corner doing nothing in particular. People around the world are asleep, out drinking, working, living their lives. As a car with a body in its boot speeds towards a thick forest on a grey Grimsby evening, nothing is different. What people don’t know can’t hurt them. Still, the stress of the situation slowly turned these people’s collective cognitive functions into ones of paranoia, and when paranoia becomes an overwhelming facet of a human being no solutions are set in stone. No solutions make sense. A respite let this group of people think.

The car reached the edge of the forest and then stopped dead. Eric: “Why’ve you stopped the car? We can’t bury a body here Patrick.”

Patrick looked at Eric with sand stuck to his thick-rimmed glasses and said, “This isn’t right.”

Eric: “This isn’t right? What do you mean this isn’t right? You were the one boasting about your shovel ownership not forty minutes ago!”

Patrick took his hands off the steering wheel, “Well… I’ve had time to think now and I’ve changed my mind.”

Eric: “I don’t care any more. We’ve gone too far to not bury this. How are you going to explain the fact that we piled a body into your boot before contacting the pigs? Were you planning on telling them we were handily trying to deliver the body to save them a bit of effort? We’re gone if we don’t do this, especially now. We have to do this. This is already done. Now drive.”

No one else spoke. Patrick placed his hands back on the steering wheel. The car began to drive into the forest, trees that have lived for hundreds of years looming over it and rendering it a minuscule speck in the spectrum of time. Eventually, it drove off-road, over mud and grass with only its headlights aiding it in the murky darkness of nature. Then it stopped, its headlights still glaring. The group got out in silence, Eric making his way to the boot. He dragged the body out and dropped it onto the ground. Then he grabbed the shovel. Eric: “Let’s start digging.”

Patrick spoke up again, “I-I still don’t think this is right. This isn’t even our mess. We all saw what Marie did! We all saw her…”

Marie looked spitefully at Patrick and said, “It wasn’t just me Patrick and you know it. Still… we have to phone the police.”

Eric: “We don’t call them. We’re not going to.”

Jez suddenly sparked, “Who put you in charge exactly? What makes you such an expert at what’s right for us? We’re gonna get found out, whether we bury the body or not. Nothing stays buried forever Eric. This is Tell-tale Heart shit right here!”

Eric: “Jez, don’t you start as well. I don’t need this from you…”

“Oh piss off Eric.”, fumed Jez, “Just ’cause I don’t say much in the office, doesn’t mean I’m gonna put up with your bossy shit when the body of a man’s at stake. This has gone too far…”

Eric: “We can’t call ‘em. Just can’t. This wasn’t our fault…”

“This was all of our faults Eric,” Jez replied, “You can convince yourself otherwise but deep down you know the truth. We did this, all of us. We’re calling the police.”

Patrick looked at Becky and the other woman and said, “Are you two with us or Eric?”

Becky muttered, “You.” The other woman nodded in agreement, shivering in shock.

“Five against one. That’s it then. Your way’s gone Eric,” said Patrick, with a sneering finality in his tone.

Eric screamed, “No! No! This is not how this is going! Fuck you Patrick!”

“Oh what are you gonna do leader-man?”, exclaimed Patrick, “Shut us up? Kill more people?”

Eric’s eyes were going insane, “I’ll kill all of you if it means I don’t go to prison! I’m not going there again!”

Everyone’s expressions were suddenly glazed with confusion. Marie said, “What do you mean again?”

Jez: “Prison? I’ve known you for years. What haven’t you told me?”

Eric turned towards Jez in a darting frenzy, “That’s not important! You people don’t know ANYTHING! Nothing about me. NoTHING about each other. You’re not even sure who killed THIS FILTH! None of it, none of IT’S important! What’s important is are you still phoning the fucking pigs? WELL?”

Jez: “We’re still phoning them Eric. Put down the shovel. You’re crossing a line here man. Put down the shovel. Now.”

Eric stopped holding the shovel lazily and gripped it tight, a weapon at the ready, “FUCK you Jez! Fuck ALL of you! YOU’RE all dead!

Eric ran towards Patrick with his shovel raised above his head, screaming insanely. Jez sprinted towards Eric, tackling him to the ground. The shovel flew far away from Eric, onto the mud and the grass and the darkness that was faraway from the headlights of the car that was warm and safe and clean apart from the boot which reeked of the stench of death and guilt-ridden consciences that do the right thing eventually. Jez stayed sitting on Eric, no chance of escape, and said to Marie, “Call them now. Let’s get the truth over and done with.”

Marie got her phone from Becky and dialled 999.

Then it began to rain.

We know nothing.