Retro City Rampage vs GTA V

GTA V is just around the corner. Big whoop! Sure the trailer and early screen-shots look flash, but it also remains abundantly sterile and soulless, a quagmire the franchise has found itself shoulder deep in since GTA 3. Cutting out all of the stupid fun and silliness of the original (including the mowing down of a line of Hare-Krishna for simple chuckles) the now serious high-minded nature of professional criminality and all of the mucky business that goes with it is just tedious bobbins. A bit like the endless fecking cut-scenes! Where’s fast, frantic and notoriously daft fun when you need it?

Skate or Die. 720 was better.

Well, luckily for us some Canadian dude called Brian Provinciano has been crafting an open-world action parody in the form of an 8-bit styled gaming extravaganza. Retro City Rampage, on the face of it, appears to be the GTA V we really want; pure hokum where blowing the shit out of anything is everything. APB, Paperboy and Cannon Fodder all seem to be thrown into the mix for good measure, providing a return to what made Grand Theft Auto really marvellous in the first place. Fast, smooth scrolling graphics (see the gameplay videos available) making for a break-neck pace as civilians are blown to smithereens, cars are jacked, high-scores are totted up and achievements earned – a nice modern touch to complement the retro gaudiness of the visuals.

Sure it looks somewhat garish, but this really could be the essence of the Commodore 64 showcased on modern systems, not just simple emulation. And obviously it’s retro enough to make me feel ever so slightly giddy. Brian has even slaved over the game for the last seven years to get it right, mimicking the individual programmers that frequented yesteryear before big gaming studios were the done thing. If Retro City Rampage does the business we could, therefore, be mentioning Brian in the same breath as Tony Crowther, Jeff Minter, Manfred Trenz, Sensible Software, Archer McLean and Geoff Crammond. Groovy company indeed!

 This could be based on any number of 8-bit titles. Inspired by Ikari Warriors? 

Anyway, a release date isn’t far off and at just under ten quid on the PC it at least reflects former prices for 8-bit gaming. You could even pre-order from the games' website now!

http://www.retrocityrampage.com/index.php

Seriously can’t wait. A review of Retro City Rampage (the real GTA V) will be available after release and once I’ve given it considerable playtime. Is anyone else creaming in their jeans with the anticipation of it all?

 Paperboy was actually a pretty rubbish game.

Blood of the Zombies – Fighting Fantasy returns

The joys of being a man-child are boundless, or so a recent foray into my Dad’s loft would indicate. All my cool stuff from when I was a child lies hidden away up there like a treasure trove just waiting for someone to dive in (think Scroodge McDuck and his money pit in the Duck Tales opening credits). Whilst my Action Force figures have been snapped in half by some unknown hand (except Snake Eyes of course, proving once and for all you don’t fuck with a ninja), the whole adventure of sneaking a peak through the gaps of a variety of cello-taped boxes made for some giddy excitement. There was my Amiga 600 and a horde of games just waiting to see the light of day again; an old Scaletrix track about the length of the A127; a worn Blood Bowl board which has reminded me that spending £50 for a brand new one is well worth it; some old Dark Horse ‘Aliens’ comics; and, most importantly, castle freaking LEGO!

I was also fortunate enough to find my old collection of Fighting Fantasy Books. Remember those? Adventures typically set in the far flung lands of Allansia where you were the hero, which meant frequent dice rolling and choosing your own path to complement the dizzying descriptions of despicable beasts and terrifying terrors. Of course, by frequent dice rolling I mean automatically setting your stamina to 24 and skill level to 12; and by choosing your own path I mean keeping hold of the previous page from which you’ve turned so you can quickly continue on the right path just in case moving that curious brick at the bottom of that wall results in instant death from sharp spiky things.

Spooky...

Still, despite their often linear method of progression, Ian Livingstone and Steve Jackson were rightly held aloft by young teens who did not know any better as geniuses for the fantasy universe they had created. Jackson in particular produced some of the more unique entries in the series. House of Hell was the first book that moved away from Allansia and instead took centre stage in the modern world. It was more survival horror than fantasy and remains the inspiration for my own book which owes a fair few nods in the direction of House of Hell. Still, it was no Creature of Havoc, probably the high-point in the whole fighting fantasy series. Playing a creature who cannot speak (you grunt throughout), the journey to finding your true nature is marvellous and the finale features a great unexpected reveal that will keep you smiling for days.

Zharradan Marr - total bastard! 

So the news that a new Fighting Fantasy book has just been released to coincide with the 30^th anniversary of the release ofThe Warlock of Firetop Mountain (the first Fighting Fantasy book in the series for those lacking an inner child) is very much welcome. Disappointingly, Jackson has not been involved so the more direct and less challenging approach of Livingstone is expected; however, Blood of the Zombies at least seems to bring the franchise bang up-to-date with modern geek sensibilities. World War Z showed that zombie literature can be dynamic and thoughtful-provoking (particularly where the zombie is used to exacerbate the ills of man being a bastard to fellow man), and whilst such an expectation is not warranted here the least Blood of the Zombies could provide the adventurer with is a combat system that revels in fighting off hordes of the unliving with baseball bats and golf clubs whilst trying to survive a zombie uprising at Ikea, Croydon. So what have we got? You wake chained up in a cell in a Romanian castle with some deranged mad doctor infecting people with zombie blood for chuckles. A little bit B-movie, a little bit cheesy. Ikea, Croydon would make for a far better scenario.

Still, it remains a new Fighting Fantasy book, and hopefully this is just the beginning of a few new titles appearing in the series. An Evil Dead 2 inspired effort would be marvellous, so get working on it Ian (or better yet, Steve). Until then, I’m going to venture over to Amazon and wallow in some fruitful nostalgia; even if the Blood of the Zombies plot does on the surface appear to be ever so shit…

Blood of the Zombies - Ian Livingstone 

The Pixel Empire

The book is on the back burner again. Damn it. Currently distracted by video games and, more importantly, helping an online chum develop the content for his gaming website. This means I’m playing games more regularly at the moment and spending the commute to London Town writing about them, instead of the next chapter. It remains a winning situation though; two hobbies (gaming and writing) coming together and complementing each other perfectly. Quite the bonus!

The site I’m contributing too is called ‘The Pixel Empire’ and the focus is on reviewing retro-games, although the occasional recent release and everything in-between will also get the odd look in. You can visit The Pixel Empire here...

 

A little bit of 16-bit gaming awesomeness!

 

The site is less about what is on the horizon gaming wise - unless it’s a peculiarity like the recent release of Gun Lord on the Dreamcast (yes, the Dreamcast) - and more about harking back to the glory days spent in your bedroom, where we all waggled our joysticks whilst admiring Lara Croft’s pixels. In other words The Pixel Empire is the perfect excuse to mess around with emulation and re-live the likes of Speedball 2, Cannon Fodder, Turrican, Head Over Heels, Sensible Soccer and Zelda III: A Link to the Past in the body of a man-child. It’s also a purely selfish attempt at getting a more varied gaming diet to wean me off the addictiveness of Diablo 3…

Only idiots would think Head Over Heels is rubbish...

Alongside developing the main review database, occasional articles relating to retro-gaming will also feature – I’m currently working on a couple involving abandonware, gog.com, Manfred Trenz and investigating just why Modern Warfare 2 is comparable to a large pair of donkey bollocks – and we’re looking to make the site a little more interactive with a high-score table and frequent challenges being set for the readership. Lots of ideas and at the moment The Pixel Empire is coming along pretty well.

The whole thing is edited by a Welsh lad called Tom Clare, who is an expert gamer and reviewer, who I’ve randomly bumped into in cyberspace. He’s just as passionate about games and The Pixel Empire is his baby. I’m on board as a workshy lackey and am particularly grateful for the outlet to contribute my usual brand of gaming nonsense. Saying that, though, we are a bit short on X-Box know how. As in we’re both PS3 monkeys! So if anyone out there fancies themselves as a bit of a gamer who can string a couple of sentences together explaining just why Halo is so vastly overrated, then we’d like to hear from you. Simply contact Tom at the following link.

There's only one Zelda - and it's a Link to the Past!

More contributors are welcome to provide second opinions on games already reviewed, new reviews or interesting features. Knowledge of gaming history would be beneficial as well as a good written style. There’s no payment – although if you contribute some quality stuff Tom might give you a pat on the head and a biscuit – us minions just do this for the passion of gaming! So, even if you’re not interested in contributing, take a look at the site, tell us what you think, request reviews and participate in the forthcoming challenges. We look forward to sharing with you.

Visit 'The Pixel Empire'

FIFA. Still does not match the genius of Sensible Soccer.

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...