The irritability of the long distance runner

I now better appreciate the loneliness of the long distance runner. Going for a lengthy jog with just your internal monologue for company is one of the few precious moments of peace and quiet one is likely to get from the hectic chaos of modern life. Head down, switch off, think about how to start that Turrican review. Bliss!

The reason for this appreciation of the lonesome jogger follows my participation in the British 10k run last Sunday. Here, as one small human amoeba amongst many, the internal monologue suffers from way too much interference to enjoy said run, particular when it turns into a never-ending game of dodgems. The pre-race pack highlighted keep to the right if you were likely to pootle around the course like a well-fed buffalo, but obviously some people lack the ability to read. Or are just morons! Stopping to walk in the middle of the course forcing other runners into immediate action to avoid a collision is a little like that bit in Jedi when Lando recognises the Death Star shields are still up. Fucking annoying! Get out of the way you great galoot!

So, instead of a nice enjoyable run taking in the sites of central London, this 10k was more an exasperating affair of having to take constant action to avoid slower runners and walkers. Worst of all most of these drongos were wearing headphones (I still don’t understand why people do this – does it not play hell with your natural running movements and breathing?) minimising the chance they’ll be able to hear the herd of elephants behind them and skip politely out of the way. My elbows are bruised from all the near-misses. On two occasions my ankles were almost wrapped around the metal fences keeping the watching punters out. And between the 6k mark and 8k mark it absolutely chucked it down. I presume this is what hell is probably like.

Still, despite the frequent side-stepping and speeding up to get through tiny gaps before they were swallowed up by a mass of large sweaty bodies, I got round in 50 minutes 36 seconds and have raised just under £200 so far for Independent Age. Not bad for only two and half weeks training (that’s six runs starting with a three miler) after the missus signed me up for it. And the main perk is the little beer gut has receded slightly and I’m looking more buff than I have done since 2003. So I’m off out for a run tonight – come October this year there’s the possibility of a half marathon and running the gauntlet through another bunch of inconsiderate berks messing with my karma. The loneliness of the longest distance runner is certainly the calm before the storm…

Spot the goof!

I’m still looking for donations following the British 10k (my target was £350), so if you want to give a little to a worthy charity fighting the good fight for older people against a ruthless government of millionaire public school twonks that don’t give a shit, do it at the following link:

http://www.justgiving.com/Alan-Passingham-10k

Ta!

The horror of mobile phones!

Mobile phones can be such a ball-ache. More so when you have a 17 month-old running loose around the household where everything is fair game. Current toy du jour is my wireless mouse; the little one finds the red light underneath endlessly fascinating as it jingles a merry dance in the palm of his hands. Luckily ‘mouse’ has survived the few impacts with the wooden floor it’s suffered of late, which means my Diablo 3 gaming has not suffered. The same cannot be said for my mobile phone though. A recent trip to Tuscany was its final undoing. Alas, carpet and wooden floors do not actually exist in Italy; stone flooring is what the Romans did for us! Inevitably the clumsy little one and his sausage-fingered chop-tubes got easily distracted by some other shit and said mobile was let go to do battle against gravity. It took an agonising eternity for the Nokia 6300 to swan-dive to its death. My mobile phone is now completely wonky.

Since losing in its fight with the stone slab, the mobile screen has been shrouded by a dark mist through which I can occasionally make out who is calling me. Texts are virtually unreadable. It just about works, but it’s like I’ve returned to the dark ages of technology in the 1990s. Having to answer a call without knowing who is on the other end of the line is a thoroughly uncomfortable near alien concept. Back in the day this was standard practice. When answering your parent’s home phone no one was blessed with a shiny LED screen informing you of the caller waiting at the other end of the line. How we previously survived without this vital information, I’m unable to fathom; especially when dodging choppers you didn’t really want to go out and play with.

 Anyone know what the hell this is?

It took my old Uni housemate to get me my first pay-as-you-go mobile (mostly because he couldn’t contact our landline in 2001 as the dial-up modem was constantly on for Diablo 2 multiplayer) and since then I’ve gradually warmed to the ‘anyone can contact you anywhere and at anytime’ concept that initially encroached on my own personal little bubble of disorganisation. But they are damn handy for when you’re car breaks down or when you get distracted by the pub and need to let the missus know you’re running late home. Jack Bauer would have been at a loss for tearing terrorists a new one without one. In fact for the short time that mobile phones have existed, the only thing they seem to have really ruined is the plausibility of horror movies. So, long story short, I need a new sodding phone; however, maybe now is the time to upgrade into the smart phone era.

 Scriptwriters big box of clichés #101 - No signal? No shit!

Previously, all I’ve needed is something pretty basic like the standard Nokia brick-like piece of crap that simply allows me to make and receive calls. Texting is an anathema to me owing to the size of the tiny fucking buttons made for children, slender handed women and fairies called Tinkerbell. And up until recently I’ve refused to join the I-Twat generation on basic principle of not wanting to turn into one of the pod people; a gurning, smug-looking, hipster twat. However, fatherhood changes your perspective on things slightly, especially when you realise the only time you really have to yourself throughout the week is the 25 minute commute to and from London. This is the perfect time to respond to ‘play by e-mail’, check the housing market, catch up with peeps on myFacetitter, moderate a popular film forum, book tickets for next season’s St Pauli adventure and do all those other things you no longer have time to do in life. A smart phone would make the hectic turmoil of reality a little less of a bollock-aching endurance test.

The problem is having only previously owned the basic Nokia brick-like piece of crap (and been pretty much happy with it’s awful hideousness), I’ve no idea what smart phones exist out there, which are the best of the bunch and whether they’re likely to come as part of a good mobile package (free minutes, texts, Internet, etc). My current contract has just finished, so I can get a free upgrade, but without knowing my HTC Galaxy from my Samsung DeLorean I could really do with some help on which smart phone to make my first smart phone. Can anyone help an otherwise clueless Phonephobe?

Pseudo-intellectual, artistic, 20-20 vision, latte-sipping, mac-using chopper...

Please note: An I-phone is not an option. I may be lowering my standards a little but I’m not joining that legion of twonks…

Fahrenheit 451 review (in memory of Ray Bradbury)

 

Ray Bradbury. Legend!

Today is officially a sad day following this morning’s news that Ray Bradbury had died aged 91. It’s strange to think that as the writer of a vast array of short stories and novels across a range of genres I’ve only ever got round to reading Fahrenheit 451, perhaps Bradbury’s most well known and regarded book. It remains one of the best novels I’ve ever read; such a compelling and riveting story that also cleverly refrains from ramming any specifically endorsed ideology down your throat and is way more complex than the simple image of book-burning fire-fighters suggests is to be admired. Fahrenheit 451 is quite simply a classic piece of science fiction. Of course, I now have a back-log of catch up reading to undertake as penance (starting with ‘Something Wicked This Way Comes’), but there remain many people out there that are still untouched by even Fahrenheit 451. So, in memory of Ray Bradbury, here’s my review of this sci-fi masterwork. Hopefully this will encourage many more of you to find out why this really is a sad day indeed. And hopefully I can take on Ray’s work ethic to finally crack on with my own novel and stop procrastinating on Diablo 3 – “If you want to be a writer, you have to write. Every day. Whether you feel like it or not. You can't write one book and stop. It's work, but the best kind of work”.

The Review

Fahrenheit 451 is often referred to in the same breath as Orwell's 1984 and Huxley's Brave New World but not always with quite the same vicarious authority. It's generally seen as a lesser book to the insightful political theory of Orwell's mind and the fantastical satirical world of Huxley. But whereas both of these authors used futurism to create dystopia's that were conditioned more by the issues of the world around them at the time (communism, totalitarianism, war fatigue, etc.) Bradbury crafted a story with an astounding prescience that makes it as compelling a read today as it was when first published in 1953.

A quick, concise tale at only 192 pages it dives straight into its main concept - a futuristic world that seems to have gone completely insane. Firemen no longer put out fires, they start them. Yet Bradbury does away with any communist/fascist motifs littered within his contemporaries novels and instead creates a world much more terrifying and relevant to a western audience. Book burning certainly conjures up images of goose-stepping Nazis, but rather than occupy Fahrenheit 451 with themes of brutal oppression and censorship Bradbury settles for something much more at home - apathy.

Indeed, Montag's ignorance, along with that of the society he inhibits, is down to the masses allowing it to happen. They wanted the fun fairs, parlour walls and fast cars and simply allowed for the written word to be extricated away from them. By placing their own happiness first, the people of Montag's world are content with losing the ability to think for themselves. Lately in the modern world, the Internet, reality television (which the parlour walls superbly portray) and media manipulation represent the symptomatic dumbing down processes Bradbury is alluding to. These are mediums which western democracies use to keep their subjects unconsciously subordinate. By keeping the populace interested in things that really do not matter (like Jade Goody’s Martyrdom), they take their eye off the precious little things that are of real concern. The nuclear war that is hinted in the background of Montag's world is a wonderful parallel in this instance. Bradbury's tale also supposes that without the institution (or occupation) of reading, people are also more readily accepting of what is reported to them via the media. The lack of questioning and corroboration of information leads individuals to blindly take a range of irrelevant and unconnected factoids to be an inherent truth. Bradbury's chief concerns on the importance and value of books, therefore, still rings true today.

Definition of irony: the millions of people now buying the e-book version of Fahrenheit 451.

There is, of course, much more to Fahrenheit 451 than just its prescient context. Montag's meeting with Clarisse is no different to Neo waking up in The Matrix, and it's his new found powers (of thinking for himself in this case) that propel the story forward. Yet this journey is not a simple one. The love of his wife, Mildred, is at odds with this new notion of acquiring knowledge, especially as she is unprepared (and unwilling) to accept his new nature. Additionally, it's his fire chief, Captain Beatty, who holds the real key to Montag's eternal soul. Allowed to read a book, will the power of a few emotive words be enough to move Montag to ditch everything that he previously valued in life, or will he resort to his mentor's apathy and the knowledge he is destined to remain unhappy?

It's the cut and thrust of the 'will he, won't he' torment that makes for a tense and suspenseful thriller, which sits comfortably alongside Bradbury's more considered symposium of thought. Luckily this build-up gets the release it deserves as the book shifts gear in the last third, developing into a rip-roaring action-adventure. Compared to the likes of Orwell, it's a welcome relief that Fahrenheit 451 does not get too bogged down in any extensive political ideology. Instead, Bradbury's writing is vivacious throughout, covering relevant and interesting concepts in short shrift, but always with enough depth that few questions are left unanswered. Furthermore, the content runs its course in a swathe of memorable imagery, enjoyable prose and, even with only seven central roles, some wonderful characterisation - none more so than the description of the marvellous mechanical hound (okay, shit name, but it is a beast of exquisite description and verve).

That Fahrenheit 451 moves swiftly between genres without jarring the pleasure of the read is one of its uppermost qualities. That it is also thought-provoking, introspective and relevant today, as all good science-fiction should seek to be, makes it a highly recommended read. Forget about 1984 and Brave New World in this instant, as I'm pretty sure each and every one of us has suffered from a Guy Montag moment previously. Perhaps when we next feel disillusioned and disenfranchised with our place in the world, we'll happen upon a chance encounter with a copy of Fahrenheit 451 (our own Clarisse McClellan if you will). We can then beam with delight that we haven't squandered the pleasure of reading and have maintained our own cognition in the face of ever increasing apathy. Perhaps it will even give us the courage to rise up and do something with our own wretched lives. Fahrenheit 451 is Bradbury's masterwork and a splendid book in every sense. It’s also much better than 1984 and a Brave New World.

There, I said it...

FC St Pauli till I die...

There’s much to be said about German football, especially when tickets cost 11 Euros (nine quid) and you can take your beer out on to the terraces. Not to forget that even in lower professional leagues German players typically remain technically gifted exponents of the game. Even in a Bundesliga 2 clash, unless you’re the hapless half-wits of Hansa Rostock, spectators are expecting to get a decent game of football to watch whilst swigging away on their Astra. And if you happen to be at the Millerntor-Stadion in Hamburg, surrounded by the nicest bunch of friendly, charming anarchists in existence, the electric atmosphere generated (along with the occasional, necessary guitar riff from the tannoy) rivals that of nearly every Championship club and the tumbleweeds rolling around their ghost-town stadiums.

I guess what I’m trying to say is FC St Pauli was the place to be on Sunday. Not Anfield, where my brother was, watching Liverpool hit the woodwork again before being undone by the defensive calamity that is Glen Johnson. Firstly, in Marius Ebbers St Pauli have a player who hits the back of the net regularly (although saying that he did also miss two sitters). Deniz Naki had a turn of pace, ability on the ball and a penchant laziness that made him an instant hero, but it was Fin Bartels who lit up the match with some mazy solo dribbles down both wings that scared the Rostock fullbacks shitless and almost produced the greatest goal I’ve witnessed at a live match. Near enough gave my eyeballs a hard-on!

Naki. Hero.

Whilst St Pauli passed the ball around with tika-taka neatness and the odd occasional hoof their opponents, Hansa Rostock (second from bottom and looking very much relegated), were utterly woeful. They had the occasional chance yet their finishing was fucking terrible, systematic of a lack of self-belief and self-confidence. And in their right back (zwei und zwanzig) I doubt I’ve seen a more tragic performance by a professional footballer. His poor movement, positional sense or ability to read Naki’s raking diagonal balls made even Glen Johnson look like a competent defender. I’m sure he was pissed. One awful touch off the bottom of his studs that went straight out for a throw-in was followed by hoots of well deserved derision.

Who knows, perhaps he would have played better if the Rostock fans were allowed into or anywhere near the stadium (doubtful though) to cheer on such hopeless twonks. There’s a bit of history here, but the more left-wing liberal elements of St Pauli don’t quite get along with the right-wing neo-Nazi elements of Rostock. Not that the St Pauli fans would ban them; many of them were out on the Reeperbahn protesting against such oppression, even though they don’t like what some core aspects of the Rostock fans stand for. Censorship is pretty much against their principles. At least that’s what I think most of the banners going round the stadium were saying (damn my piss-poor German). It’s that kind of liberal ethos that you can’t help but admire about this football club. That and the skull and crossbones emblem of course!

Join us!

St Pauli ended up deserved 3-0 winners. The battle of opposing ideologies had been won by the liberal stand-point. The fans broke into a chorus of “You’ll never walk alone” which amusingly irked the three United supporters I was with (sadly though it’s due to the clubs connection with Celtic, not Liverpool). Zwei und zwanzig was given a bit more stick. Naki ran down to our end waving the club flag, before sprinting back to his teammates; more energy than he had probably showed all game. Hero! Here’s hoping that with two games of the season left they can obtain promotion. Back next season for FC St Pauli against Hamburg SV? You bet your freaking arse…  

A quick guide for getting tickets and surviving an FC St Pauli match: 

• Order tickets from the clubs ticket office at the following e-mail address kartencenter@fcstpau​li.com. The staff are very helpful in explaining the process for the allocation of tickets and write in much better English than most of us are likely to compose with our bad German.   

• Try to pick a match that is not against Hansa Rostock! Luckily once in Hamburg and frequenting the bars near the stadium, the locals informed us of the protest and/or riot that could occur with right-wing hooligans around the Reeperbahn area so that we could plan to take an alternative route to the ground on match day. Local intelligence rules.

• Let locals in said cafes and bars know you are going to the match. They will buy you shots of Jager for coming all the way from wherever to support their team. This is just one other reason to love St Pauli. 

• Join in once at the ground. Shouting at the referee that he needs to get his eyes tested for every decision given against St Pauli or bellowing ‘Zwei und Zwanzig ist schisse’ will get you a few chuckles and handshakes from the regular supporters. 

• Most of all, enjoy and drink beer!

Diablo 3: Return of the workshy slacker...

Forget about Mass Effect 3 and the wanky ending everyone has been banging on about for the last couple of weeks; there are other third parts to a trilogy on the cusp of release that will show Bioware how not to fuck up a once loved franchise. I mean, some time in the future Valve will release Half-Life 3 and it will surely redefine the gaming experience as we know it. Actually, wouldn’t it be great if Half-Life 3 was released a week next Tuesday with no fanfare or advertising at all. You wake up one morning and it’s just there on Steam, waiting for you to eagerly download and continue Gordon Freeman’s escalation from theoretical physicist of some clout to the alien arse-kicking motherhumper we’ve come to love. Five years since Episode 2 is way too long a wait to experience anything as amazing as the strider/sticky bomb sequence that concludes the franchise thus far.

Wishful thinking...

So, whilst we wait until the end of eternity to hear any news about Gordon’s further adventures (anything Valve – just a note to confirm that it is being worked on will do), something else is required to make up for the bitter taste of disappointment that Mass Effect 3 has brought to the masses. Luckily enough, as Bioware floundered, Blizzard finally announced the release date for Diablo 3. Yay! May 15 is the day battle.net will be flooded with eager beavers waiting to tear the hordes of Diablo’s minions a new one with uniquely dropped weapons, carefully chosen skill trees and multiplayer mayhem.

Diablo 2 was the perfect tonic in yonder days of dial-up Internet and student idleness. It provided endless hours of monster-bashing and character building through a variety of levels that differed on each occasion you booted up the game; time much better spent than that studying malarkey. Before you knew it the best part of a week had passed to reach the heady heights of a level 77 Necro and your evening was about to be spent searching for a specialist bone wand with skill bonuses on a cow-run whilst chowing down on your tenth pot noodle of the week and slurping intently from yet another can of piss awful warm lager. Good times. It probably explains why I looked so gaunt and pasty white in my graduation photo, but that was the life of champions.

The wife already knows what to expect when I get my hands on Diablo 3 (sorry love), more so seeing as Blizzard have seemingly taken the ‘don’t fix what isn’t broken approach to the game’. Sure, it has different character classes (although the Demon Hunter appears to be a Bowazon/Assassin cross-breed), the skill tree appears to have been adapted and improved and weapon collection remains all important, but from the look of things it plays pretty much as you would expect Diablo to play (which is the key thing), just more snazzy to ensnare the current crop of conscientious students and turn them into a generation of workshy slackers. I really can’t wait.

Although the problem is I will have to wait. Release date 15 May. I fly out to Tuscany for a wedding on 17 May. Fucksticks. I’ll be at least 50 levels behind the group of monkeys I’ll be gaming with by the time I return home. It’s been a good few years waiting for Blizzard to announce Diablo 3s arrival whilst they iron out the bugs and gameplay so it can be released without needing an immediate patch (just like in the old days – release when it’s ready, not to meet some arbitrary release date with a half-broken product), which I’m immensely grateful for, but the actual release date remains an incredibly irritating bunch of arse. Fucking Fucksticks! I’ll come into it looking like a right Noob.

Anyway, the build up has started. This could be one of the best games of 2012. More details at the link below. Please Blizzard, don’t do a Bioware…

http://eu.battle.net/d3/en/

Waterloo and Shitty Line

I’ve lived in and around London Town for almost 10 years now and can count the number of times I’ve travelled on the Waterloo and City Line on a single finger. It’s not for the want of trying though. It just seems every time I go to travel on this particular section of the London Underground there are signal failures. Yes, signal failures, which is kind of odd for what is essentially a shuttle between point A (Waterloo) and point B (Bank) with no other stops in-between. So how in the blue hell does the Waterloo and City line suffer from such frequent signal failures? Is it being run by a bunch of gibbons that hold up the journey regularly for simple chuckles? Well, going by the drivers take on things on Saturday (‘I’m still trying to find out what the problem is’ over-stated the joyless tit) there certainly seems to be a communication breakdown between the goofs on the ground and the clowns running the whole shebang. It’s like Pinky and Perky trying to have a conversation with Bill and Ben.

Speaking of other things that are pointless on London Underground, whoever decided that the inclusion of the Waterloo and City Line map needed to be posted all over the inside of the tube that goes from point A to point B needs a swift kick in the bollocks. Think of the trees you gormless twunts.

You've got to be fucking kidding me...

So after 10 minutes of nut scratching whilst waiting for the Waterloo and City line to kick into gear, Ichabod Bond (a real person who wishes to remain anonymous) and I decided to knock it on the head and get to Bank via the Jubilee Line and Northern Line. After all, we did have the Circle Line pub crawl to begin that morning. It was for my brother’s birthday (the freak was born on 29 February like all the other freaks) and the beer delay was not appreciated. This was my fourth Circle Line pub crawl and here’s what I learned from the experience:

• The Cross Keys is the place where elephants go to die. If you’ve never seen a real alcoholic and would like to experience odour du bum in full blossom, this is the place to go. They do a mean breakfast though, so not all bad.

• The pubs that used to sell Frulli beer no longer sell Frulli beer. I know Jean Claude Van Damme has much to answer for but that does not explain why the Circle Line has gone anti-Belgium.

• Liverpool have been rubbish at taking penalties this season.

• My brother has the organisational skills of a wombat. Is it really that difficult to check that the second pub of the event is open and not being refurbished until 12 March?

• Nearly every pub on the line serves Amstel. Good times. The one pub that had Bishop’s Finger on tap had run out. Bad times.

• Oyster Cards pay-out a maximum of a one-day travel card and then stop rinsing you of cash. Neat. Know that I did not.

• Kopperberg is the only cider in existence that doesn’t taste like stale piss.

• I may still have a student loan but I’m not in debt you bunch of monkeys.

• I’m getting too old for this shit. Sunday’s hangover was a right pain to shift (it didn’t disperse till Monday).

• If the Waterloo and City Line is run by a bunch of gibbons then the Circle and District Line is controlled by an equally eponymous bunch of simian twats. This is the fourth time I’ve been unable to make it the whole way round the Circle Line owing to the line being closed for some reason that probably has something to do with signal failures (I was drunk at Edgware Road at the time so cannot remember the lamentable excuse). London Underground? Bunch of cave dwelling troglodytes more like.