Float Like a Butterfly, Dance Like a Tit

Finding the fiercest floor moves to fight my foes.



“I dance under those lights.” Muhammad Ali.

Brutality apart, fighting and dancing share commonality; a high-level of dexterity, a keen level of fitness and the fact that most of Britain ends up doing either or both after a few too many every weekend. Seeking to test this theory, I took a copy of underwhelming brawl simulator “The Fight”, gaming’s third favourite motion control system PS Move, and pop’s biggest dance crazes of the past three decades.

My nemesis: a green-hooded hooligan from planet ASBO. My plan: a pasting-by-prancing. What follows is a blow-by-glowstick real time account. Seconds out…

The Cheeky Girls – The Cheeky Song (Touch My Bum)

As Transylvania’s inane pop insult strikes up my challenger starts to encroach on my space. I launch into a 360˚ pirouette, thrusting my arms into the air as per the eponymous pair.

#We are the Cheeky Girls#

BANG! I’m pummelled by a right hook. Undeterred, I dance on, stretching both arms out one at a time.

#You are the Cheeky Boys#

Amazingly, I connect with his face. Given the lack of velocity however, I’m barely tickling his chin and he lands several blows in return. Changing tack, I opt for the bridge section instead. Big mistake.



Touch their bum. Go on, see where it gets you.



#Touch my bum#

Unsurprisingly, having to retreat your fists from battle to grab your own buttocks isn’t a tactic often observed in boxing, if ever. He takes this opportunity to pummel me senseless, and the crowd boo my sheer ineptitude. The fight is over, and I have quite literally been handed my own arse.

Los del Rio – The Macarena

Round one down, and onto the automated shuffle of joyless obedience that is the Macarena, a routine everyone in the world knows, except me. It’s often touted as “the dance for people who can’t dance” which I find a curiously self-defeating promotion; would McDonalds advertise themselves as “the restaurant chain for people who don’t like eating”? Regardless, three minutes of YouTube tutorial later and I’m ready.



Should a dance really need air flight safety-style instructions?



I sternly bring both arms out catching my enemy in the chops. A congratulatory award flashes up telling me how shit-kickingly hard I am. Result! Flipping my hands round stuns him further and I’m about to open several vending machines of carbonated Whup-Ass on his ugly mug when I realise my next move is, yet again, a surrender of arms and bum-grabbing.

He rounds on me as I continue with my insipid combat-free steps. Limply, I begin the process again, but despite a couple more light jabs, I’m defeated like a divorcee weeping into his ex-wife’s empty knicker drawer.

Village People – Y.M.C.A

If ever a song could batter a brawler then surely it’s this one? I mean, that menacing moustachioed guy in the leather – you wouldn’t want to meet him up a dark alley threatening you with a piece of piping, would you?

The Village People. Real men.

#Young man!#

I thrust my arm forwards, taking my opponent by surprise. He deflects the blow and returns several mid-rib punches of his own. I suddenly realise I only know the chorus so stand motionless, allowing my beleaguered avatar to accept the defenceless punishment being meted out to him.

I start to feel desperately sorry for the polygons that created him, as if they’re somehow screaming at me, “We could have been contenders! We could have been Kane, dammit! Or, at a push, Lynch.”

Damn. My stupid plan has made poor, powerless polygons wish they were sub-standard video games characters instead of the shirtless schmuck on screen. They need this like I need an Anne Widdecombe sextape – it’s time to fight back.

#YMCA!#

I dance with a renewed vigour, dignity not an option (dignity and I were never the best of friends, but tonight we’ve seemingly parted company for good). Impressively, the ‘M’ smacks my adversary hard on his cranium and I think he’s close to falling backwards, but sadly dodges the remaining letters and quickly dispatches my disco-jigging pugilist with ease.

Black Lace – Superman

If anyone can get me out of this dance floor disaster it’s the Man of Steel, yeah?

“Look at me, I’m Superman!” I exclaim enthusiastically to my wife. She quietly sighs and carries on wistfully browsing old boyfriends’ profiles on Facebook.

Handily, this novelty song is a list of basic instructions so getting my moves wrong isn’t an option. Turning them into a bona fide bare-knuckle beating might take a little more skill, however. We begin.

Black Lace. You guys have got my back, yeah? Guys?

#Sleep!#

Alright, not the best start.

#Wave your hands!#

I’m flaccidly waving “Coo-ee!” at my nemesis. He’s responding with punching. Lots and lots and lots of punching.

#Hitch a ride!#

I jam a thumb in his eye. Better, but each subsequent gesture is met with ever more violent responses. I’m wavering.

#Superman!#

A final surge of superhuman strength sends me sky-high. For a brief moment, I’m convinced it’s all going to be alright. A dancing dust-up wasn’t such a stupid idea; it’s going to end in a victory for boogie-based boxing and everyone will turn not to confrontation and clashes, but co-ordination and coattails. Violence won’t be…oh crap, I’ve missed.

If I’m Superman, then Kryptonite’s just kicked me in the nuts.

Bet Christopher Reeve never had to put up with this shit.

The Gap Band – Oops Upside Your Head

As I sit down I realise my Move controls are no longer in visible range. I’ve broken the game just as my opponent breaks my nose. Ouch.

Dejected and done for the day, I throw in the towel, relinquish the controllers and contemplate the findings of my somewhat foolhardy journey.

They are:

#1 The Cheeky Girls are every bit as rubbish as fighting as they are singing.

#2 The Macarena is tougher than it looks, in more ways than one.

#3 Pausing mid-fight to fondle your own bum cheeks is a really, really bad move.

Game Over

The Beautiful (Video) Game

Why I love football games, but not football itself.



Don't Love



Love

In the 1980’s everyone supported either Manchester United or Liverpool. In the English Westcountry, this was geographical and cultural nonsense, but I joined in and arbitrarily chose Liverpool, I think (whoever ran about the pitch with "Crown Paints" on their chests. Them). In truth though, I cared no more for football than I did my own E number-fuelled bum-gas. Still don’t, in fact.

LFC in the 1980's. Or is it Manchester United?

So, how come I annually, without fail, excitedly pre-order the latest iteration of a video game series based on said sport?

The blame, and thanks, must go to magazines. In the early noughties I was such a voracious consumer of gaming periodicals that I even started to devour the articles and reviews covering acclaimed football series Pro Evolution Soccer. Then on its third release, the saturating positive press made me curious enough to pick up a cheap copy of the first game as a taster.

Magazines. Their fault, the papery swines.

And what a taste it was...

I fell instantly in love. A tsunami of simplicity washed away all my prejudices about the game. I could appreciate the purity of soccer beyond tabloid punditry and meaningless tactical jargon. Eleven men vs eleven men. Put ball in net. Awesome.

Setting the game to easy and limiting myself to just a few choice manoeuvres, I ploughed through opposition teams with surprising regularity. My main tactic (hold the ball in midfield for a bit, lure in the opposition, do a couple of fake tricks, lob the ball forwards and cross from the box (yeah, "the box", I know!)  was a game-winning strategy for the most part. I advanced a little and started piddling about with formations and suchlike, but keeping it simple was the true master plan.

The original Pro Evo. Liquid football, or something.

I soon found myself hooked: I started and finished tournaments; created my own narratives; made numerous cup and league save files; tasted the sweet flavour of win and yes, spat the sour tang of defeat. I started to believe that I finally shared a smidgen of kinship with regular football fans.

Except, of course, I absolutely did not. There was, and still remains, one fundamental difference.

When I witness team support become appropriation, my brain short-circuits as my heart dies a little. I can’t understand the hubristic mentality of the fan whose club victory becomes a claim of personal success, when in reality their input has nothing to do with the outcome. They will endlessly boast about their team’s triumph. Conversely, should they lose, they will turn against the players, manager and chairman with an accusatory bitterness normally reserved for a rival team.

In the sterile world of one-man soccer, however, I know that any crushing defeat is the sole responsibility of me, my thumbs and I. When I play on the pixel pitch, controller in hand and eyeballs on screen, I am solely in charge; the theatre of football mine to direct. If my team lose a game, I don’t sulk about the board of directors, blame the referee and sink six pints or so to forget. I simply re-load the game and play again.

Don't cry! You can just re-load your game and...oh.

I’m a control freak - I don’t need the chaos and emotional uncertainty that supporting a club entails. Playing football games as manager, coach and player hands me sporting supremacy over the pitch that a hapless fan of the real thing couldn’t possibly possess.

So take your terraces, your turnstiles and your bloody transfer windows. I don’t need them. I’m a Dualshock-weilding dictator of soccer and the final whistle doesn’t blow until I say it does.

Now hit the showers.