Tuesday 13 November 2012

Nevermind, They're Just Bollocks

What phrase is even more hateful than “man-up”? Correct, it’s “grow a pair”. Seriously, “grow a pair”? Equating bravery and strength with the flimsiest, most vulnerable of all the organs? Glands so laughably delicate that so much as a faint tap with a drinking straw sends the owner into a spasmodic recoil of abject pain and the urge to vomit? Oh, fuck off, men.

Some testicles, yesterday.


If you want to suggest power and courage, why not, “flap up”? A vagina has the muscle power to project a nine pound human into a delivery room, yet still retain its taught elasticity to accommodate a pathetically grateful penis merely weeks later (providing the owner doesn’t want to instinctively lop the cock off’ve every man she meets following said agonising birth).
"Say, once he's popped out, how about a quickie?"

Balls are useless, and I come here not to bury them, but at least tuck away the hairy sods when I sit down. Previously, I’d only ever been dimly aware of their existence if I’d accidentally slid off the frame of my BMX. Now I’ve tumbled into my mid-thirties, I’ve never been more aware of their groin-bothering antics, constantly banging about my crotch like some twin pendulum carved from kebab meat.

I admit that their functionality is a simple, yet vital, part of human reproduction. But it’s hard to marvel at their sheer worthiness when the base design seems so fundamentally flawed. As sperm needs to be kept at a temperature lower than that of the body, their exterior positioning is crucial. Unfortunately, this means that an awful lot of intercourse is unwittingly soundtracked to the familiar symphony of nutsack smacking arse, which has been scientifically proven to be massively off-putting. Chiefly because it’s the exact same sound you’d hear if you tried playing ping-pong with a wet pickled onion.


In porn, women go mad for the tang of sweaty scrotum, which is just like in real life, yeah?


And thanks to their exposed geography, they act as a natural beacon for assault – man’s own Death Star weak spot, only a hundred times less impressive and a thousand times more painful. Great if you’re fending off an attacker, not so good if a toddler wearing a crown runs through your legs. I’ve also never understood porn’s mission to make them visually appealing; shave them, coat them in oil, or pop them in a pair of Ray-Bans if you must – they still look like Postman Pat’s knuckles clutching a roller-coaster safety bar as far as I’m concerned. Pity the performer asked to lick a pair lustily for the camera. Nutritionally-speaking, they’d be better off tonguing a scotch egg that had rolled under a sofa. Fewer hairs too.
"Has anyone seen a pair of plums?"

Hell, I’m not sure what role, if any, a eunuch performed in Ye Olde Days, but I imagine that once they’d got past the horrific act of ballbag butchery, they were probably better off than the rest of us nad-janglers. Of course, it’s easy for me to opine; I was voluntarily neutered over a year ago, following two children and a feeling that I’d done enough for the world’s population problems. Little tip for anyone considering it: you will have to pop your genitals through a giant paper letterbox, making you the world’s most obscene front door.
"Hi there, I'm here to shift a penis."

Crushingly, the kindly-faced medical assistant needed only a wet-ended cotton bud to gingerly brush aside my flaccid penis from the proceedings. She could have at least used a toy JCB to protect my fragile modesty. Even one of those miniature wooden shovels given away with cinema ice cream would have done. My knob shame was the least of my problems some ten minutes later or so, as the surgeon knitted my deferens together in equal parts skill and sadism. Another tip: it’s really not that bad. Just a few kicks to the knackers. Deal with it.

I tried not to look at my nads for the next few days – they resembled a pair of Ribena Berries who’d had the shit kicked out them by a posse of burly bananas. I’d not felt less like wanking since Su Pollard’s pop career.

A eunuch, off've some TV show that you definitely haven't downloaded illegally

And now, their functionality no more, they hang about like a remnant of a past most people would sooner forget, a bit like those Golly Dolls your Grandparents insist on clinging on to for old times sake; every bit as ugly and offensive, only much less likely to sit on an elderly racist’s mantelpiece.

 
Grow a pair? Oh, grow up, men.

Wednesday 27 June 2012

Meetings...

Meetings: the time for a gathering of thought, a diplomatic exchange of ideas, and pragmatic decision-making.

Or, if you're me, a chance to doodle tits and cocks.

Upon discovery of my meeting notebook at work the other day, I found myself examining my own desperately juvenile subconscious, a slightly troubling experience if I’m honest. Peering into the sketches of a wandering mind is like having your most private and baffling dreams projected at a public screening. Sigmund Freud narrates his theories to the audience, outlining exactly why you’re a complete and total dick. In that respect, publishing these pictures may not seem the best course of action.


But hey, since when have I been the one for “the best course of action”? Plus, I’m a complete and total dick, yeah? The following is just a 1/3 sample of what I discovered. Enjoy!


Bat signal, "Hamer" logos, and a fat Chinese man. All pretty standard so far.




Helpfully labelled "tits" and "arse", a cock and a thumbs-up, which appears to be approving this madness.

So - Hitler, an offensively stereotypical "Chinese" peasant, and some tits. Erm, ok...


Freddy Kruger, Batman and Jason Voorhees. I am 33 years old.


Oh fucking hell - a giant guitar, the name of my band, and what I'm going to eat for lunch. Plus more Hamer logos...


I'm fired, aren't I?

Friday 13 April 2012

Let Console Flamewars Rage!

Arguing that arguments are worth arguing about...

By their very nature, gamers are competitive. We may just lie back in our underwear with thumbs aloft, mouths open and eyes glazed, yet it’s sheer passion that keeps us playing. But often our biggest gaming battles take place away from our HUDs and health bars, and we wage an altogether different war on the pixelated turf of the internet.


FIIIIIGHT! Go on then, you plastic pricks.

Of course, we kid ourselves that we’re all mature these days, what with our games about child abduction, 15th century Renaissance Italy and, you know, firing fistfuls of bees, but ultimately, we’re all itching to indulge in a bit of digital dick swinging.  Childish? Yes. And there’s absolutely nothing wrong with that. On the contrary, it’s an intrinsic and crucial part of the culture – that burning desire to champion your console to the detriment of the other ‘side’.

We should embrace these absurd clashes and enjoy them for what they are; a tongue-in-cheek bit of leg-pulling between friends. Plus the discussion, the nitpicking, can actually drive development. Take the recent storm over Skyrim’s woeful disintegration on PlayStation. Early complaints – ignored by Bethesda – were suddenly taken very seriously when the 360 camp’s enormous bellow of schadenfreude alerted the developers to the PS3’s ‘epic fail’.
Skyrim's PS3 programming blunder left fans bewildered and furious. And beardy, probably.

Incessant in-fighting amongst the community is key to the industry’s survival. Nobody wants to back a loser, so each company is forced to compete for our affection, our aggression, and our downright intolerance. “Xbox is getting a web browser and the BBC iPlayer!” wrote a friend of mine on Facebook,  “Two less reasons to own a PS3!” To which someone else instinctively retorted, “When is it getting a blu-ray player and free online community then?”

Needless kneejerking to some, progressive pedantry to others.


Nathan Drake's impossible quest: to find a copy of Uncharted on 360

The point is nevertheless clear: keep fans on side, or die by reputation. There’s a reason Sony and Microsoft bid obscene amounts for console-specific DLC or single-platform releases – bragging rights. If we can boast about our rival’s lack of envy-inducing exclusives, such as LittleBigPlanet or Uncharted, it’s a genuine boost to the PlayStation brand. If better regard means more sales, then that means more money – which in turn means more and better games.



Microsoft's alien zapper Halo is a crucial part of Xbox's marketing strategy


Of course, to many such behaviour seems downright peculiar. A console is, after all, an electrical appliance. If our parents started bitter, poorly-spelt rants aimed at those who had purchased a rival to their preferred trouser press, we would – quite rightly – think them a red light short of a meltdown. But that’s to confuse a console with gaming: gaming is so much more than ironing leg wear – it’s something that defines us as much as our music, clothes or our favourite video on YouPorn.

"Maple? Are you mental?! Satin Chrome is where it's at, motherfucker."


The occasional overheat of internet flame wars shouldn't detract from the majority of players indulging in a spot of light-hearted banter. We should be able to express ourselves without fear of the zealous, keyboard-mashing idiots that would otherwise have the run of the playground.

Football’s trouble-makers carry knives and use violence. All ours carry are a cloak of anonymity, some disappointing hyperbole and an armful of exclamation marks. Yet we’re the ones who shy away from a bit of cheeky bickering? Soccer hooliganism doesn’t dictate the terms of their level of fandom – City fans still openly mock United and vice versa. If they’re able to chant at the opposition during matches, then surely we should be free to do the same?
"That's for thinking that Gran Turismo's better than Forza. And you're next, you Sega fuck."

To flirt with the rage is to show that we’re actually mature enough to disengage the caps lock and engage with the debate. Like football teams, we’re rivals, not enemies.

With the average age of a gamer pegged in the mid-to-late thirties, the pastime becomes ever more determined to take itself seriously. As it strives for legitimacy as a serious form, its supporters strive to be seen as grown up too – hence the disdain for the excesses of the flame wars. But conflict needn’t compromise that; conversely, it can serve to support and shape the future of gaming. Wars drive technology forward, and they always have.

So get online, get disputing and help shape the future. Just be aware that calling a rival electrical appliance ‘gay’ won’t help anything.


Mass Effect 3. Gay and good. I'm sure I had a point to make with this photo, but I've since forgotten it.

Sunday 5 February 2012

Films I Done Seen

Three films seen recently for the first time, so thought I'd transcribe my worthless opinions to the desperately transient medium of the internet for all to ignore. Enjoy.

Pieces (1982)

Dir: Juan Piquer Simón

A gloriously silly slasher written by the quill of crud, Joe D’Amato. Played dead straight by the bewildered cast, its excruciating dialogue (including the infamous trio of "BASTARD!"s) and irrational plot pathways make for an immensely enjoyable watch.

Shot with vigour and admirable enthusiasm, it’s consistently entertaining and, provided you can put up with the casual misogyny and splatter, a strong contender for a film that's genuinely "so bad it’s good”. Christopher George’s cigar-chewing Detective is an oddly-reassuring presence amongst all the absurdity. Recommended to anyone with a sense of humour and a strong stomach.




Christopher George: chompy
Axe: choppy









Mad Max (1979)
Dir: George Miller

Max is surprisingly sane throughout. Swiz.

An utterly disposable but oddly compulsive movie that revels in its own simplistic adolescence. Miller’s visual flair for both location and astonishingly brutal high-speed action scenes are to be admired, far more so than the sparse script and cartoonish performances. Making the audience really work to care about the characters is a failure of the film rather than an artistic endeavour. The cynical introduction and subsequent smashing down of narrative ciphers to provide the protagonist’s motivation is pure comic book revenge fantasy. It would be more hateful if it weren’t so well executed (pun probably intended) although less appealing is the faint whiff of wish-fulfilment fascism the film emanates.

Mel Gibson’s blank-eyed husk of a performance staples some much-needed sanity to the madness of the first two thirds, comparing favourably to the zany dross offered by the rest of the cast. The soundtrack is sub-soap opera schmaltz, as ill-fitting as Max’s leather slacks. Bitching aside, you could paint your eyeballs with far worse colours than the palette on offer here, but be aware that its gloss shines dimly. A weak recommend.
 

Fatal Games (1984)

Dir: Michael Elliot

A remarkably juvenile stalk n’ slash made for less than the price of a gift in a Dollar Store and with none of the quality and craftsmanship such an item would entail. Based in some kind of Athlete's Academy, Fatal Games involves nubile Olympic hopefuls being speared to grisly demise. It's a plot that, rather fittingly for a “javelin slasher”, you don’t have to suspend your disbelief so much as hurl it into the clouds. With many scenes conducted entirely in one long shot, getting through this film is an arduous task akin to a marathon (except undertaking said event would at least carry the benefit of making you feel good about yourself afterwards).

Even at eighty eight minutes long, it’s badly-paced and loosely edited; the low budget equalled only by the aspirations of its production team. Resultantly, this is a tedious load of old tut. The cheese-coated power rock theme song espousing the virtues of athletic achievement is the best thing in it, and even that’s complete shit.

There's a rubbish pun to be made here about a spear-based horror film being pointless but hell, Fatal Games doesn't even deserve that.