{LOAD} Time for Games

For those of you that do not know me, I like video games. It is, in my opinion, the ultimate form of escapism. Movies are great, or can be, but you are always just the observer - with games you can become someone else, you can experience life in alien worlds, or bleak futures, or just the life you can't have. It is immersing, engrossing and most of the time, thoroughly enjoyable.

5.25", enough to satisfy any man circa 1987

I first started playing games on an old PC, back when the floppy disks were 5 1/4" and actually were floppy. I think the PC, which belonged to my Dad, was a 386 with a 40MB hard disk drive, probably about 1MB of RAM and initially no sound card at all. I think I invested in an 8-bit sound card from a computer fair, and I think the RAM was upgraded too. As you can imagine, the games were quite simple. I remember buying PC magazines with the giant floppy disks attached, which held dozens of games - some text based, some platform. Quite an achievement, for a storage media that boasted a whopping 720KB. Even the drive itself had a lever on it to keep the disk from ejecting, relying on the user to be of sound enough mind to operate such heavy machinery properly. These days, if it doesn't do it all automatically it will be labelled as rubbish or unsophisticated.

That was the PC world. There was also the console market, which was making huge advances in technology. Sinclair research had started it all off with the ZX82, or ZX Spectrum (referring to the colour display). This was a single unit 8-bit computer with 16 - 128 KB RAM. In the late 80's, when my Dad bought one, the top of the range model also had a floppy drive attached for faster game loading times. Other models were restricted to loading games with cassettes. If you are old enough to remember the dreadful noise that accompanied the long loading times, then you will probably share with me the anger at waiting until the end to find that the game had not loaded properly, and all you had was an error on your TV. Rewind the tape, and start again - there goes the afternoon.

Top of the range awesomeness, 1987-1990

The games on the Spectrum were great. Harmless family fun. One of my favourites was Renegade, a side-scrolling beat-em-up similar to Double Dragon. I can remember learning to do the jumping kick to knock one of the bosses of a motorbike on one level, but every time you played it, you started at the beginning. In fact, every game you played started at the beginning - there was no save point, no way to continue the following day from where you left off. Once it was switched off, the game had to be loaded again and you went from the beginning.

Black, white, yellow and blue.

Because of this, games were not very long. Levels might take around 5 minutes to complete, and there might be 10 levels (unless you are playing a game that goes on until you can't play anymore, like telly tennis or something else cutting edge). Games were played purely for fun, and there was absolutely no danger of anyone thinking it was realistic. I was around 6-7 years old when I was playing this game, and at no point did I think it would be a good idea to start some gang warfare at the local train station. Simple times.

There were a lot of games for the Spectrum, plus you could even write out the code supplied in books to make your own games - writing in BASIC, which looks something like this:

READY

10 PRINT "HELLO, WORLD!"

20 GOTO 10

RUN
Except there were a few more lines for the games. Sadly, after spending hours writing it all out (using the novice 2 finger approach) and typing RUN, the program would compile and error at line 220, fail, and all the code would be lost. Occasionally it would work, which would be good fun for several minutes, but not as good as the shop-bought games.

<insert deity> bless Sir Alan Sugar

In the early 90's home computers became more popular and consoles continued their inevitable path into the bedrooms of all teenage boys. My Mum bought me an Amstrad 464plus, complete with colour monitor. It was very similar to the Spectrum from my perspective, except it had a slot on the side for cartridges - and came with Burnin' Rubber, a racing game which resembled Out Run in a lot of ways. The great thing about it was the loading time - mere seconds. Unfortunately, it was the only cartridge game I ever owned for that system, the rest of the games I got were on tape, so had slow loading times and that horrid screeching.

One of the stand-out games I did own for the 464plus was Treasure Island Dizzy. I played it and played it and never got bored. It is all about an egg with boxing gloves that runs around an island trying to solve puzzle and get on a boat to go home. It was fantastic. If you died, you went back to the beginning, which sometimes meant losing hours of play - but I would just start again. This was the first game I played that made me think - it wasn't just about jumping over pits or killing tough guys, you had to work out how to use the things you picked up in order to get to the next screen.

Gaming back in my childhood was fun. When I finished playing, I would go out and climb trees, cycle with friends, dig holes or throw sticks. I didn't have long conversations about the games, or spend any time thinking about how to get to the next level or defeat the next boss. I certainly didn't feel the need to check my score against other player's scores. If there was any other game playing, it was at the arcade for 10p a go.

But that is for another time...

True Realm: Episode 5

'Are you going to tell me what we are dragging this stinking carcass for? The stench is making me feel dizzy!' Nelevin said, trying in vain to waft the foul odour of the giant's corpse from his nostrils. He glanced at Rizdok, but he looked preoccupied with his thoughts.
The mountains had faded, and instead there where empty and broken buildings surrounding them. Nelevin had never been this far away from home, had never seen anything outside the forest borders. The buildings were far different from the ones he had seen in Hondale; for starters they were taller and broader, and showed an amazing attention to detail. Each corner, archway and fascia was crafted and sculpted with great skill, adorning the already beautiful and grand buildings. It was unnerving that such magnificence appeared to be deserted, without any sign of struggle or panic. There was definitely an eerie air to the place, as if the town itself was watching them walk through the streets.

'I will show you the path to take. I will lead you from the sins of this world!'
High Priest Guadelin spoke with authority, in the otherwise silent chamber. His congregation sat facing him, spellbound and silent, all conformed to his ways. They were giants which is, at first, very intimidating. Especially for a man of the cloth with no combat experience or training, but his experience in delivering the word of God to the masses had him prepared for the chance encounter with these colossal creatures.
There was a different side to giants. They had a terrible reputation for angry, violent attacks on people, crushing their bones to powder and eating their victims while they screamed in pain. Of course, it was all true; they ate people. But that wasn't the extent of their diet, and they didn't go out in search of a tasty human morsel. They only ate people when they felt provoked, threatened, or there just wasn't anything else to eat. Most giants tended to stay away from eating humans because they thought they were 'too fatty, taste like rubber'.
Now, they were his flock. He felt that they were his family, and it was his responsibility to look after them, to make sure they lived by God's rule. They lived at Allchun in relative peace, after they had persuaded the townfolk to move on. It hadn't taken much - an army of giants marching through the streets was enough to see most of the inhabitants flee, and the stubborn few that did stay and fight made a good meal for the family.
Allchun was far from civilisation now, the nearest neighbours in Hondale had to travel through the treacherous Hell's Valley pass, between the mountains of Alldorn. Not only was the path unsafe, but it was home to many predators and bandits. Nobody came through that way, not these days, and that was fine with Guadelin. He wanted the family to live in peace, but there were others who had other ideas. He had been labelled as a crazy heretic, and had a price on his head as a result. Several groups of mercenaries had tried to stop him, all of them failing to overcome the might of the giants. He wasn't sure who was financing these attacks, but they had stopped with the last visit from the Rufa assassins. The Rufas were not particularly competent as killers, but they were cheap and would not give up at all; they could only be persuaded to stop by their own deaths. This hadn't been a problem at all for the giants, they had overcome the assassins before any weapons were drawn. It was almost a month since, and they had been living happily without intrusion.

'Sshhh! Do you hear that?' Nelevin whispered.
They both stopped. A gentle breeze caught some dead leaves, and they danced around the pair as if connected by string.
'Hear what? Now's not the time Nel, there could be more giants around the corner and I don't fancy getting eaten today.'
'Just listen. I can hear voices, muffled voices.'
They stood in silence again. The faintest sound of murmuring floated across the wind.
'There! Did you hear that?' Nelevin's voice was barely audible as he mouthed the words to Rizdok.
Rizdok nodded and pointed towards the great structure in the middle of the town, only a half-mile ahead of them.
They headed down a side alley, dragging the giant corpse with them. Nelevin wasn't sure what would happen next, and had a feeling that Rizdok felt the same.
'Are you going to let me in on this plan of yours?'
Rizdok stared at him for a moment, then said, 'The giants are protecting Guadelin. He has their trust, which must have been difficult. Giants don't like humans, so he had his work cut out. I'm guessing that he is going to use them for some sort of gain, but I haven't worked that bit out yet. Anyway, the plan is to turn the giants against him - let them do our job for us, and we don't have to get our hands dirty.'
'My hands are already filthy with this bugger's blood and guts! And you haven't really explained the plan - how are we turning them against the one who has befriended them?'
'I haven't worked that bit out yet either.'
Nelevin looked at the cadaver. Where did it fit into this detailed plan?
'Don't worry Nel, he is going to be useful. One thing I know about giants: they hate to see their own kind killed. They will want revenge, and they will stop at nothing until they get it. It will send them into a blood lusting frenzy, and anything that gets in their way will be crushed.'
Nelevin looked up, straight into the eyes of his partner. He saw conviction, unwavering belief in what he had just said.
'Is that supposed to put my mind at ease? A herd of giants rampaging after us?'
Rizdok rolled his eyes and sighed. 'No, not us Nel. We make it look like Guadelin killed him.'

Lazy Sunday

I got up early today. I needed to really, but it isn't something I enjoy. I have always thought that Sunday mornings are for sleeping, for letting the body recover from the torture we submit it to during the week. However, today is different - I have a list of D.I.Y tasks to complete, and there is no time to waste.

Immediately upon rising from my slumber, my body reminded me of Rugby Saturday - a win, and my last match of the season. Nice to go out with a victory, but I felt my performance was not as good as it could have been, largely due to my opposite number in the line-outs stealing almost every ball we competed for. Anyway, my body was aching all over, my back tight and even my fingers were sore. Not quite the hyper extended elbow and swollen nose from the previous Rugby Saturday (another win), but both injuries have managed to live on, remaining little niggles. The joys of getting older.

The morning started with some landscape gardening. I have been tasked with creating some vegetable patches where the decking used to be. It is a 4 metre square area, and for the past week I have been viciously ripping and smashing the wood to get it clear of my workspace. Had the screws been in good condition, I would have simply unscrewed and removed them, but that would be far too easy. Smash, break, rip, tear, that's what I have been doing - to various parts of my body. Decking now removed, I started outlining the two patches that will soon become home to carrots, beans, pumpkins and more.

The design is quite simple, just a couple of raised beds made from the decking wood that hasn't been shattered into a million pieces, most of which ended up embedded in my hands. After a couple of hours, the first is built and ready for soil, which is yet to be ordered. Instead of continuing with the second bed, it was time for respite in the form of an outing to B&Q, to buy a new kitchen sink and tap. Fitting this was to be the afternoon's task.

Kitchen sinks are unfriendly buggers, when you are trying to remove them. Especially if you want to keep your skin intact, or have an aversion to kitchen unit edges digging into your spine. Still, I successfully removed the offending item, and put the new one in it's place. Surprise, surprise, it doesn't fit. A few alterations to the worktop had it snug in no time about half an hour. The fiddly bit of screwing in the clamps was easier than I had thought it would be, but that lulled me into thinking the rest of the job would be a breeze. Unfortunately, the waste traps were to be an evil jigsaw puzzle of plastic tubes, bends and nuts. Just to make sure life definitely wasn't going to be easy, the instructions had the tubes running in places that housed existing plumbing that could not be moved, so I had to make a few changes. After attempt number four, the job was done. The water was back on, the plumbing was leak-free and the kitchen was back to normal (almost).

I think back to this morning, when my body was brimming with pain and stiffness. Now, my body is brimming with pain and stiffness, but my girlfriend has a new sink.

Public Speaking (ogre)

Once, I was pretty good at getting up in front of a crowd or audience, and talking/acting. I actually enjoyed it. These days, being out of practice and all, I'm not so hot. I get a bit shaky, and my tongue doesn't behave the way I want it to. Recently, I read out a piece I had written to only a few fellow writing enthusiasts, and I raced through it as if I had forgotten to punctuate it. I realised how daunting public speaking is for those of us without the courage or experience required, and it got me thinking about a time when I was about 11 years old.

I had been asked to read at a Christmas event with the local church group, because at eleven years old I was quite advanced in reading and showed maturity beyond my years. Inaccurate, of course. Regardless of my inner stupidity, my school teacher put her trust in me and gave me a passage about Mary and Joseph to read. The event was during a December evening, and I would be one of a few readers in front of the community's church-goers. Being of a young age, public speaking hadn't nested in my mind as the looming, laughing ogre it is today, ready to intimidate me and send me into a frenzied panic. I was good at pretty much everything I tried, and this was going to be a walk in the park.

I took the passage home to read, and did so in the comfort of my bedroom, amongst the dirty clothes strewn on the floor and the Teenage Mutant Hero Turtles (Hero, not Ninja - didn't want to send the wrong message to kiddywinks) action figures lying awkwardly amongst other childhood debris. The passage was not a childish one, and it hit me that I had been selected because I appeared to be less childish than the other students in my year. In fact, I was often chosen to do readings, singing, acting, sports, pretty much anything. I lapped it up when I was young, too. Anyway, the passage was all about the birth of Jesus, and the emotions that Mary and Joseph felt that night. Everything was fine, until I reached a reasonably bland part of the passage, but one that an 11 year old boy could not cross without an alarm being triggered. In just two lines, I had to say 'bosom' and 'breast'. In front of church folk. Where people would know me.

Pleased to meet you said the public speaking ogre.

Never mind, it would be fine. It wasn't as if I was going to be describing some lurid pornographic scene. I could get through this, and show that I was a real grown up. It was all religious anyway, no problem. Just another passage to read, another crowd to wow. Piece of cake.

The evening came, and I found myself to be more nervous than I had ever known. Why had they given a young boy such an indecent passage to recite?! Some hymns were sung, some candles lit, then I took my place in front of the assembly. There were hundreds, and there was no way I was planning to think about them naked. That advice just doesn't work, especially when the average age is well over 60. I looked down at the paper I was holding and could barely focus on the writing, my hand was shaking so obviously. Relax, I told myself, noting to worry about. I began regurgitating the words, my voice so lacklustre and monotone that even I felt bored by it. As I was speaking, my mind had a meltdown and started an argument with itself, maybe warring sides of my conscience, bickering.

'The stars were bright, guiding the pair...'
Don't think about it. Don't think about it. You are going to have to say it anyway, best not to think about it.
But you should think about it, then you can be comfortable when you have to say it. Think about it now - BOSOM - not so bad, huh?
Shut up! What do you think you are doing?
'The road was long, Mary and Joseph had been walking...'
O no, it's coming up soon...
Leave it out! Just don't say it! It'll be fine, nobody will have a clue...
'The stable was warm, they were surrounded by...'

So my internal discussion continued, while my lips managed to mutter the written story. I kept my eyes down, and used all of my will to concentrate on what I was saying, and to control my entire body. I felt so aware of every minute detail, how I was holding my arms, the tingling in my scalp, that I was beginning to sway gently. I felt hot, absolutely roasting in my shirt and hoping that nobody had noticed that I was sweating. I thought I might look like somebody had installed an indoor water feature on my forehead. And still, I was reading.

'Travellers came to see the baby...'
He's going to say it! BOOBIES! Ha! BOOBS! At a church, of all places!
Come on, it's hardly a church. This is a hall, with some red cotton fabric draped over a few tables and some crosses dotted about. There isn't even any sort of decent arrangement, it's all willy-nilly.
Now you've started! Bosoms and willies? What next?!
You fool! You are just making things worse! He's going to pass out!
'Cradling the baby Jesus, Mary...'

My mouth was dry. My tongue was sticking to the roof of my mouth, like I had just been eating a jar of peanut butter. My teeth were suddenly in my way, causing me to spit out words, to stutter. My lips were sticking to my gums, like my mouth was made of felt. I could feel hundreds of eyes on me, everyone politely listening to this young man tell the tale of Mary and Joseph. My voice started to waver, I began to croak some of the words.

'Mary held Jesus to her...'
It's now! Panic stations!
Just relax, you are losing it!

Time slowed. I was aware of everything in the room, I could feel every cell in my body charged with electricity. There was silence. I could see the candles flickering in the gentle breeze that came through the hall. Then I shouted.

'BOSOM'

It felt awful. Not only had I merely whispered the rest of the line, I looked up to see a hundred faces looking back at me. Somebody found it funny; a man in the front row, maybe around 30. Not even a teenager. I still had several paragraphs to get through, but I could feel myself turning a deep red, like the fabric on the tables. Hopefully I could blend in and disappear, once I had finished with the embarrassment of blurting out female anatomy to geriatrics.

'The warmth of Mary's...'
This time will be better, you've got it out of your system now. Just finish off and -
'BREAST'
I give up. 

I managed to finish the recital, and sit down without any more offense. Nobody made any comments that indicated they were shocked, amused, or otherwise. It had gone unnoticed, but throughout the ten minutes I had stood there I had felt terrible. It was my first meeting with the public speaking ogre, and since then we have kept in good contact. He is always there when I talk to more than a few people, when there are strangers listening to me, and he has a habit of sending bolts of electricity through me whenever I am contemplating an event that has me as the center of attention. You can't get rid of him, but you can learn to live with him, to control him - but every now and then he just won't be contained.

Why are Sundays slow?

So, it's Sunday again. It's the end of the weekend, which always comes too soon. Sundays move slowly, like they are full of treacle and you can't race through them like you can the rest of the weekend, and I think I know why.

1. Shops run on a different clock. You can't go early or late, for anything other than alcohol (phew!) or the things you buy from a convenience store if you want to pay over the odds.
2. TV is lazy. The programs and movies seem to be lethargic, restrained. Entertainment in general seems to lack the energy and pizazz that occurs during the week.
3. Next week is only hours away. You have to prepare for another week of work, another Monday and all the joy that it brings. I think that we are getting ourselves ready for work by transitioning from our weekend selves into our business selves, and this has to take place on Sunday.

Just ponder that for a while: are your Sundays the same as any other day in the week? If not, is there a reason other than those that I have offered? I don't think I can consider any Sunday to be the same, whereas most of my weekdays are carbon copies of each other, give or take a few minor details. I always have a different task or event to attend to, and although there are not enough hours in the day to complete whatever it is that requires my attention, it still makes me feel like that day is running in slow motion. That doesn't mean that I get any more done than usual, as it would appear that my body is also running in slow motion, but my mind runs at full speed. Well, almost.

So Sunday draws to a close, and my thought before I retire to bed are all about the coming week. The cycle starts again, Monday is the beginning. Strange that we make that connection with our lives, that we label the start of the time cycle and structure our lives around it. We have to though, it's not something we can change. Changing Sunday is like trying to freeze water with your mind: I wouldn't say it is impossible, but I have yet to see anyone accomplish it, even those that don't work nine to five.

I don't have anything against Sundays, I love them and wouldn't get rid of them. I consider them to be the semicolon of time; a slight pause before continuing on with life. And we all need to pause once in a while.