Overload, much?

So, on Tuesday I got a ticket to go to an advance press screening of Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull, so I could review it for Den of Geek.

The film's a bit special, but you'll have to go and read my review to find out.

In the meantime, I seem to have totally overloaded myself with games that I'm just aching to play.

As well as rushing around London on release day to get hold of a copy of Grand Theft Auto 4, which I've already written about and is brilliant, I ended up buying several old PS2 classics that week as well, just because I saw them in shops - both in London and Leicester - and didn't know when I'd see them again, as they're quite rare.

After playing the brilliant God of War: Chains of Olympus on PSP - which acts as a prequel to the series - I found out God of War 1 and 2, both on PS2. I've only managed to play God of War for a little bit, but first impressions are good: huge amounts of OTT action with Kratos and his Blades of Chaos.

Another game I've always fancied is Ico. It got great reviews when it was released a few years back - it's a quirky, odd adventure/platform game - and then proceeded to sell about fourteen copies. Simply because it's a little arty and high-brow compared to your average Spiderman game. So I'm excited about playing that.

Okami is another arty game that got absolutely blistering reviews, and Dave at work assures me that it's brilliant. As is the follow-up to Okami, Shadow of the Collosus. Just Cause is another odd one: not a brilliant set of review scores when it was released, but I followed its development with interest - it's free-roaming in jungles, like Crysis but not as good or advanced - and couldn't find it anywhere when it was released.

Add that in to the fact that a new version of TrackMania Nations has been released, entitled Forever, and you can see that I'm a little preoccupied. And the group test for Computer Buyer, and three w games that are on the way from GamersInfo.net.

Hmm. The quest for a work-less day goes on!

Little Squares of History

I've been reading a book by Jane's Addiction and ex-RHCP guitarist, Dave Navarro and, well, it's a little odd.

Titled 'Don't Try This At Home: A Year in the Life of Dave Navarro', the book follows him, month by month, as he allows unmetered access to his life at a time when he was conducting a unique, artistic experiment. In some down-time between bands, he'd bought an antique phone-booth and made everyone - yes, everyone, including various prostitutes, drug dealers and west-coast layabouts - who entered his house to submit a strip of photos.

The pictures are interspersed in pages of the book, woven around odd little stories and everyday explaination of Navarro's chaotic life: he yo-yo's between rampant and dangerous drug use - at one point, while high, he shoots a hole in the floor with his shotgun - and concerted attempts to get clean without using the traditional routes of rehab or a talented PR person.

Some of this takes place in straight narrative, with the action being fed to us by Neil, the book's co-author. Some more is presented in scripts, written by Navarro, detailing conversations he's had. Others are abstract little pages, snippets from his life.

Even though it gets incredibly far-fetched - on a normal day, Chad Smith comes over and bums around the house in a drugged-up stupor for an entire night before leaving at daybreak - you never doubt that this happened. As well as using the photo booth to document little squares of history, Navarro taped recorders to the undersides of tables and chairs, and secreted cameras in fake clocks and ornaments. None of the visual material that emerged from those recordings is present in the book - he often alludes to an accompanying website which is always being updated. I can only assume that it's now offline. Some of the aural material would have formed the basis of the conversations in the book, certainly. Some of the stuff that isn't in the tome must be dynamite.

I'm nearing the end now, and it's been an odd journey: on one hand, Navarro is constantly unsure of himself and his future: one minute he's optomistic about getting clean and settling down with on/off girlfriend Adria, and the next he's sure that a drugged-up death is but around the corner. Then again, I couldn't help but notice that I had a fair few pages to go, and Navarro seemed to have attacked the documentation project with such a tenacity that you don't believe that something as insignificant as an overdose will stop him completing his annual of oddities.

And he's still alive today, which is something of a clue.

But, rather than giving away the (somewhat inevitable) ending, it fascinates and throws up more questions in equal measure: how on earth did someone survive this and, more importantly, how did Navarro get through it, with the state of mind he had at the time? Or, perhaps, his neurotic behaviour helped. Answers to these questions are, like the man himself for much of the book, something of a mystery.

But it's good to know that it's been unravelled slightly, at least. Maybe I'll stick a webcam on my desk and record everything as a modest tribute. But I daresay that talking about printer reviews, benchmark tests and football gossip won't be nearly as exciting as a constant parade of musicians, movie stars, freaks and dealers.

Niko Bellic: Legend.

Never have I found making conversation, in certain circumstances, so easy as I have the last week. On Tuesday, the ice-breakers were the same all day: 'do you have any PS3 copies?' or 'Do you know where has any PS3 copies?' were frequently used. Zavvi did, thankfully - 4 left when I paid my money.

Come the end of the week, though, and the statements and questions have changed. This morning, as well as hearing people talking about Grand Theft Auto 4 in the street, in a cinema foyer and on the tube, I ended up striking random conversations as I hunted for a few PS2 games. Discussions broke out about the nature of SIXAXIS control in the tutorial. Conclusion: bikes and boats are easy, but helicopters are near-on impossible.

I also talked with another happy gamer about the other residents of Liberty City, as we swapped stories of car-jacking. I told him that someone had tried to steal their car back and ended up being dragged along by the handle, ending up underneath my wheels. His brilliantly entertaining tale involved an NPC literally getting a cab to chase - and successfully reclaim - his sports car. Now that's AI.

A couple of people on the Digital Spy Forums also caught my attention, claiming that they were glad to not be Rockstar's 'sheep' and that they wouldn't just buy any old game because it had the company's famous logo on it. I guess they're just missing out on one of the most important cultural events of the year - and one of the games of the decade. Once the hype has calmed down then some more reasoned evaluations will no doubt appear but, at the moment, it seems that GTA4 is a landmark title in several areas.

Graphically, there's been a mere handful of better looking next-gen games but none have done so when they're recreating the entirety of New York City. The storytelling is, again, astounding. Couple this with the brilliant cut-scene direction and it's one of the most cinematic games there is - right up there with the epic Final Fantasy titles and recent PS3 exclusive Uncharted: Drake's Fortune in terms of plot and stylish execution. Pun intended.

The characters are also fantastic. Niko is a complicated individual who has a hidden past, and his cousin Roman is a relentlessly enthusiastic - and neurotic - comic foil, and they're both voice acted to perfection. The supporting cast is just as absorbing and intriguing.

Gameplay is, as you'd expect, spot on: the Eurogamer review mentioned that each of the disciplines - the driving, missions, gunplay, minigames, and more - are so good that they could hold their own in individual games. And they're right. The driving would be a stand-out game on any platform, and the action is as good as the aforementioned Uncharted, and stands up against Call of Duty 4. Fantastic.

What keeps hitting me, though, are the numerous little details scattered throughout that really bring flesh to the bones of Liberty City. Your mobile phone ringing in the car makes your radio beep with interference. Dust-carts have a couple of workers hanging on the back of them, like they do in the movies. People will fight for their cars. You can arrange social activities with plenty of the characters, and playing pool and darts is brilliant fun. Car handling drastically changes with the weather conditions. The water is gorgeous, real. Zoom right to the bumper of your car and you can read the stickers. There's the 'Tw@' chain of Internet cafes. And a whole Internet, with hundreds of pages. Your virtual inbox gets virtual spam for virtual penis pills. Digs at the war on terror. REM, The Smashing Pumpkins and Queen on the radio, with Iggy Pop as the DJ. Juliette Lewis hosting another station. America's Next Top Hooker being advertised. Water shooting up out of a destroyed hydrant like a Yellowstone geyser.

Having a particularly nasty crash and watching, in awe, as Niko is flung through the windscreen, before landing in a pile of shattered glass and a pool of his own blood.

Then he gets back in his car, and drives on. And I'm sitting on the sofa, laughing at the lunacy - and amazing, stunning, generation-defining quality of it all.

GTA4 is a bit special. I went out and bought Just Cause and the first two God of War games, all on PS2, today - saw them in a shop and have wanted them for ages - as well as still having plenty of exploring left to do in Oblivion. I don't think they'll get much of a look-in, though. Not while there's windscreens to smash, hookers to run over and caps to pop in asses, anyway.

Oops - Part 2

Another week, another blog post. This resolution to post more often really isn't going well.

In my defence, though, it's been busy: work has seen me staying late the last two nights of the week, I was at football on Tuesday. The rest of my evenings have been taken up by rampaging all over Cyrodil or talking on the phone with the lovely Beth.

I've also had a little dip into Pro Evolution Soccer 2008 on PS3, which I also got for my birthday.

Oddly, though, there's a few areas where the PS3 version isn't as good as the PSP title which, if I'm not mistaken, is based on the engine used for the PS2 version of the game. For a start, the replies are horrid: they've tried to replicate the shaky, can't-keep-up-with-the-ball camerawork of football on TV but gone way overboard. It makes actually watching the ball impossible - I've tried to watch a goal going in but, in the entire reply, haven't been granted even the slightest glimpse of the ball. Crucial tackles that have resulted in bookings are given replays, too, but the camera is too far zoomed in to let me see the actual incident. All this is done with a horrendous frame-rate that makes it look wobbly and distinctly last-gen.

Still, the core mechanics are superb - it's Pro Evo, after all, and it plays a fantastic game of football; it always has. The benefit of the PS3, with its USB ports and hard drives, is instantly obvious. There's no more Berkshire Blues playing West London Whites - Reading v Fulham for those poor people who play FIFA - when I can go online, download an option file and suddenly have every name, kit, badge, stadium and tournament named correctly, every recent transfer added and every face tweaked to make players look even more real.

I read a recent interview with Seabass, the creator, who said that the next version of Pro Evo will be the real next-gen game, which makes sense - there's always a period of transition from one game to the next, so I'm expecting world-defining, life-eating things from Pro Evo 2009.

Talking of world-defining, life-eating games, Grand Theft Auto IV is released to a baying public, worldwide, on Tuesday. I've heard that GAME aren't guaranteeing that you'd get a copy if you pre-ordered after April 7h and, in a report inThe Sunday Times, that ALL initial stock has already been sold.

Then again, this is the same newspaper that today called Nintendo's casual console the 'Sony Wii'.

Nevertheless, I'll still be going out at lunchtime on Tuesday to hunt a copy. If I get my hands on one, I'll try to post before the week is out. Can't promise anything, though, with Liberty City and Cyrodil to occupy me.

Who needs the real world, eh?

Oh Bugger.

So, the resolution to post more - once every two days, at least - hasn't exactly gone well. But, for once, I do have an excuse: I went to Aberystwyth for the weekend for my birthday celebrations and I'm still recovering.

Got there on Friday night not long after midnight thanks to Chris and his gorgeous Alfa, and chilled out, chatted and went to bed - without going to the pub as we'd planned. We were all a bit tired.

On Saturday, Chris, Frances, Sue and I went to the Snooker Hall for lunch, where I had a gorgeous pizza (chicken, ham and pepperoni - the usual), and Dave turned up. Our first flat get-together since we all left! Plenty of laughs, not least when Dave called me a cradle snatcher. Oops.

We tooled around town after that, going in and out of various shops - including a session in Nice and Naughty laughing at the title of porno films - and I bought a cool book by a local author called Niall Griffiths. I saw him at a reading last year at Uni and I'm pleased that he's bought a book out called Real Aberystwyth - like a Lonely Planet guide to the town.

Rachel arrived on the bus at 2pm, so we went and met her and wandered back to Sue's. Me and Chris left the womenfolk alone to chat and catch up and get changed and we went for a couple of frames of snooker; I have to mention that I won, and then came from behind (wahey!) for another victory in a best-of-5 game of pool. Miracles can happen, apparently.

We went to Wetherspoons at around 5 and met up with Dave, a couple of his friends, and Rich and Dan for some food and to start the drinking - much merriment ensued with the help of Kopparberg Pear Cider. Fit. Several of us then drove out to Goginan as there was a band playing with two of our old lecturers in it: cue plenty of dodgy looks from the locals as we hadn't been in before, although a few pints of cider soon put me at ease. A drunken escapade into a nearby field of sheep to fly Rich's model aeroplane, though, was halted by a shouty famer and the angry revving of his Land Rover.

On the return to Aber, we hit the pubs in force: Cambrian for plenty of cocktails, including a great one with a sparkler in, and a random shot. Don't know what that was. Went to The Mill where Jade bought me a couple of colourful, potent looking shots. Don't know what they were either. A Long Island Iced Tea in The Castle was followed by a pretty disappointing finish in The Bay, but up until then we'd had a brilliant night. Thank you for coming, everyone!

Went back to Sue's and crawled into my sleeping bag. I think.

The hangover was sickeningly, horrifically epic. I could barely move without feeling ill, and the best option seemed to be to lie on the floor, perfectly still, grunting at people as they passed. Except I had to get home on the 11:30 train - work to do when I returned. I crawled out of bed and hauled myself to the shower, which made me feel a little better, but the dry-heaving and throwing up of stomach acid wasn't encouraging.

Eventually - it really did take a while, as everything was taking four times as long - I packed my stuff away, said some hazy goodbyes and wandered to the station, via Spar: Jaffa Cakes and a huge bottle of water were to be my companions on the journey back. Except, despite National Rail telling me the train left at 11:30, it actually went an hour later. Cue a walk back to Sue's, where I saw Jade and her fiancé looking bright, airy and very awake. Jade's impression of me made my walking look like that of a severly wounded zombie - and she wasn't far off.

When I got back to the house, Chris asked me if I remembered what I was doing in the middle of the night - and I had no idea. Rachel, though, had seen me sleepwalking: apparently I crept out of my sleeping bag, walked over to her - almost stamping on her head - and spent some time fiddling with the curtains, before returning. Oops.

Got on the train after another round of goodbyes, and ended up talking to a guy on the way back who was also visiting Aber, to see his sister. He'd been out for a heavy one, too, but wasn't in the state I was. He's in the RAF, stationed at Swindow, but is originally from Birmingham, and we chatted about plenty - football, games, music, politics. He certainly made the journey much more bearable.

At Birmingham New Street I found out that I couldn't actually get a direct train to Reading - my best bet was to go to Oxford, which is a station I'd never visited before. After a baguette - I didn't trust myself with food other than Jaffa Cakes earlier in the day - I felt considerably more human. It's odd: for a city that prides itself on historial buildings and, as the cliché goes, dreaming spires, Oxford Station seems to be in the middle of an 80's housing estate. A bus took me to Didcot, and the twenty minutes passed very quickly because of the lovely phone conversation with the wonderful Beth. Train to Reading, then, and home.

Very hungover. Mostly sat down all night and vegetated.

Still, a brilliant weekend!

Oops.

Another week since my last post. Every time I write in here I think that I'll force myself to write more often, and yet I don't. It's a shame because once I start, I find myself enjoying it.

I've downloaded a brilliant little game off Steam called Audiosurf - it's been garnering a huge amount of press, both in print and online, and a score of 85% in PC Gamer is always impressive, not least for a game that cost me just over £5 ($10 and VAT) over PayPal.

Like so many other critically acclaimed titles recently - like mega-stars of gaming Rock Band and Guitar Hero - Audiosurf revolves around music. Controlling a small space-ship, the mouse or keyboard moves the little craft down a track split into several lanes. The basic aim of the game, like casual title Bejewelled, is to group together coloured blocks into trios or more, scoring points for larger groups of combos. Choosing different crafts unlock different criteria for point-scoring.

It all sounds pretty conventional until you come to the point where you pick an mp3 before beginning a level - and then the game analyses the file and uses it to create the track. The shape, camber and direction of the circuit is determined by the music, as is the placement of blocks on the track, and the surrounding world. 'Sin City' was fast, twisting, black and neon - very reminiscent of Las Vegas. Happier songs are given white backgrounds and less undulating circuits.

It's brilliant, giving you a way to connect with the music - picking up little patterns in the audio that you just didn't before because of the arrangement of blocks. I'm only just scratching the surface, I'm sure - and the only thing I wish the game had was a random track-select option, as at the moment I resort to selecting a song before I begin. Adding in an element of surprise would only improve things, I'm sure.

In other news, I keep thinking a little about those Scientologists. It seems strange that they're normal people, possibly with wives and children who they go home to in the evening. They have favourite TV shows and bands, sinful comfort foods they prefer and football teams they watch. But they're outside that building most days, handing out leaflets imploring people to join what is, essentially, a cult. And they believe in that more than they believe in their footballs teams or TV shows - and they don't even know the situation they're in, such is the strength of their indoctrinated feelings and beliefs.

Emotions are weird.

Anonymous v Scientology

So, went into work today to finish off my group test that I'm doing on the side for Computer Buyer magazine. I've been at the office til 8:30 the last three nights of the week as well as today but it's good money, so I can't complain.

It also meant that I got to go to an anti-Scientology protest.

I'd known that they were going on, vaguely, around the world - the 'anonymous' masked folk turning up. But I had no idea it was today until I stumbled upon a video on YouTube talking about it. I looked up the protest page and discovered that the London event was starting at the Church of Scientology and then moving down to the Dianetics Centre near Goodge Street Station - about three minutes from the office - at 2.

So down I went. Get there, and there's barriers on the other side of the road, across from the centre - with about 1,000 people behind them, plenty wearing the 'anonymous' masks. Police are all over the place, but it was a peaceful protest - the most they were doing was telling people to keep walking who were stopping on the pavement to take pictures of the slightly bizarre scenes.

I crossed the road to where the main body of protesters were - they were holding up plenty of signs and banners, and chanting things like 'It's a trap!' when members of the public went inside the Scientology Centre. They were also handing out plenty of cake - it was a friendly protest, after all.

I crossed back to the other side of the road again and joined the reams of people taking pictures of the odd scenes, and nervously hovering around the Scientology Centre and wondering if I should tell them how much of a cult they were. There were three people handing out pro-Scientology leaflets - one, an older man, I felt quite sorry for. He looked quite sheepish and put-upon, and more than a bit reluctant. Another, a woman, seemed a bit more tenacious - she was hovering around distributing leaflets and taking pictures of the protestors. I did read that they'd sent people out to take pictures of them and of the people buying masks for security purposes. It's all very shady.

The third man handing out leaflets is one I've seen out there before. His eyes were permanently narrowed in suspicion, and he thrust leaflets towards anyone who came near. He looked incredibly driven and, dare I say it, a wee bit brainwashed. But, then again, I suppose they all are.

And that's the sad thing - the 'anonymous' group put it very well when they say that they don't oppose individual Scientologists, but the organisation itself. They were all - and probably still are, if you weren't aware of their quasi-'religious' views - normal people. But the organisation itself isn't a religion. It's an voracious money-making machine that tricks and fools gullible people into parting with their hard-earned cash for so-called spiritual enlightment, via some aliens and a man who professed, when he was alive, that the easiest way to make a million dollars was to found a religion.

I guess he was right. Real religions don't charge you for membership and persecute people by fear and intimidation like the 'Church' of Scientology does. It's just worrying that their legal team is strong enough to seemingly halt any challenge to their undoubtedly dubious, and probably illegal, methods.

The Colour of Magic

I've begun to do some work on the side for a wonderful site called Den of Geek that specialises in TV, movie, game and cult news and reviews. I've done a couple of games but then an email went around last week that offered a seat at a press showing of the new Sky One adaptation of Terry Pratchett's Discworld novels The Colour of Magic and The Light Fantastic. I jumped at the chance - I love the books - and, instructions in hand, set off to Mayfair and the cinema.

I get there, and it's very busy. The path each side of the entrance is blocked off with barriers covered in film posters, and the other side of the road is similarly adorned. Fans line each barrier - one the Cinema side of the road, they're several deep. Around 50 cameramen are lurking around the red carpet.

An actual red carpet!

I walk up to the very large and beefy-looking security guards on the carpet and introduced myself as a member of the press who was there to review the film. Once they'd checked out who I was, they said I was ok. And I got to hang around on the red carpet! So I did until it got a bit busier and I headed inside.

Indoors, there were a few big models - a couple of Rincewind and Twoflower, and one of the Octavo - and an area prepared for interviews. Limosuines drew up, out stepped Astin and Jason. Pandemonium: fans scream for autographs, photographers yell for pictures and poses, and a thousand flashbulbs go off at once, illuminating the road in front of the cinema. It was like a real film premiere, oddly enough.

Then they came inside and said hello to all the people from Sky they knew. I almost introduced myself but bottled up and headed indoors.

For my thoughts on the show itself you'll have to head over to my review at Den of Geek, which you can get to by clicking here. Suffice to say, it was pretty damn good.

After the showing, everyone stuck around: there was a promised Q&A session with Sir David Jason and Sean Astin. Also attending, to our delight, was legendary author Terry Pratchett - and it was hosted by the director, Vadim Jean. My thoughts on this and a full transcript will be going up over at Den of Geek in a couple of days - but it was funny, hugely entertaining and very illuminating, as couple of interested facts that hadn't been previously known were revealed.

I've never been to a film premiere before. But I'll tell you this - I really, really want to go again.

Landslides on Railway Tracks: Only in Wales.

I'd planned to go back to Aberystwyth for the weekend - Friday night and Saturday, specifically - because it's Sue's birthday and we decided that the best way to celebrate it was to go out and have a damned good time.

Left work at four - thankfully I was allowed to leave a little early as we'd had the trip planned for a while - to take a train to Birmingham New Street, from Euston, and then I'd travel on from there to Aberystwyth.

Got to Euston and couldn't see 'Aberystwyth' on any of the departure boards. I queued up at the Information Desk - that was heaving with people - and asked one of the attendants. 'It's only going to Shrewsbury', she said. I asked her if she knew why it was only going to Shrewsbury. A grunted 'I don't know' was the answer. I then asked what could people do if they had to get to Aberystwyth. I was given a cursory glance and the same answer again. So much for helpful customer service.

I began to panic and phoned Chris, telling him that I'd been screwed over by the railways. He was still travelling through Wales and said he could come back to Shrewsbury to pick me up - but that would have taken too long, and I wasn't going to potentially ruin someone's night. He advised me to ring Kayleigh, he was still in Shrewsbury and - in typical womanly fashion - having her hair done before setting off for Aber. The Shrewsbury train was scheduled to take 50 minutes and arrive at Shrewsbury at 7:40 - so she'd be happy to wait for me and take me back to the ol' place with her.

The train was, according to the monitors on the platform, going to stop at three other places before reaching Shrewsbury. Got on the train - it was late - and left at 7, with the signs on the train telling me it was stopping at every conceivable place on the route, taking 10 stops to get to Shrewsbury instead of three. I phoned up Kayleigh and, in a show of heroism not seen since Captain Scott told his mean he was just 'going outside for a moment', urged her to go on without me as it wasn't fair to make her wait around. We were assured that a coach would be waiting at Shrewsbury to take us the rest of the way.

Eventually got there - was talking to a mother and two daughters - the youngest daughter was 43 (!) - who were amused by me phoning up many people and ranting about the trains. The coach took twenty minutes to arrive, so I phoned up some more people and ranted a bit more. Got on the coach which was, thankfully, comfortable - leather seats, hell yeah - and was talking to a guy who graduated in Interpol the same time as me, and who'd come from Ramsgate. The delayed train at Birmingham had meant he was 2 hours ahead of his schedule and, annoyingly, was in time-profit. The coach driver had to stop at every train route on the way, which meant quite a convoluted route - and brilliantly, he was using sat-nav. It's not hugely reassuring when a coach driver has been entrusted with the journeys of 50 people and all you can hear is 'take the next exit left' in a disembodied voice every thirty seconds.

After a couple of instances of getting lost in Caersws, we arrived at Machynlleth, where the train service would resume - we found out that it'd be seen stopped due to flooding and landslides on the line. Rolling in at 10:25, the twenty-or-so people left wearily and dejectedly stepped off the coach in the knowledge that they should have been in Aberystwyth at 8:38. The station master announced that the train to Aberystwyth would be leaving at 11:05. Riot ensued. We could see the train, idling beside the platform, through the waiting room windows.

Twenty people instantaneously asked the man why we just couldn't leave now. He replied that it'd been the same for all the trains during the day, that had been delayed because of the same reasons - they'd all had to wait 40 minutes. I lost my cool a little and asked the man that why, if they've all been delayed like this, that it occur ed to no-one to prepare the train to leave 40 minutes earlier to save the unnecessary wait. He said that, allegedly, his hands were tied - but I can't see how, as the only other train on that line would be nearing Birmingham had it been running. Which it wasn't. At this point, a legendary, god-like figure of a train driver strode through the crowd and agreed to take us regardless. Brilliant. In Aber by 11pm.

Met Chris and Dan at the station and was told by the wonderful Sue that since my journey had been so shocking, I was to have use of the bed in her room - she was staying with Pete. Got to the house, plenty of hugs, Sue liked her present - Star Wars Lego (who says us ex-students aren't classy!) - and we hurried out the door to The Castle, our local.

Used to be our local, anyway.

Met the legend that is Feathers in there and had a couple of drinks and a nice chat. Everyone v. impressed with my new job and the magazine - lovely ego boost!

Headed to The Pier for the night - me, Chris, Dan, Kayleigh and Sue - and went inside. Commence much drinking, shot-taking, woman-ogling, laughter, chat and happy, manic, drunken dancing to fantastic, cheesy music. Can't remember precisely how much I drunk, but there was plenty of mixing going on. Had brilliant catch-up conversations with everyone, and me and Sue had a long hug where we told each other how proud we were of each other. We were both drunk, but it had a really profound effect on me. She's an absolute star.

Saw Aberystwyth legends - hip-hop man, Rugby, and some old friends too. Went to Spar afterwards - we had to - and munched down a drunkenly-purchased cheese and onion baguette before heading back, all wobbly and stumbling. Stayed up chatting and drunkenly laughing til about 6, before falling asleep.

Next thing I know, Dan's saying sleepily that it's already 7 o' clock. I've got just enough time to think 'that was the quickest and best night's sleep I've had for absolutely ages' before I realise that we went to bed an hour ago, and my head hurts. I quickly rifled off texts to about sixteen people telling them that I was hung over - an update to my text of three hours ago that assured people that I was, and I quote, 'drunc'. None of us could really get back to sleep, so we bummed around and chatted til about 11.

In retrospect, I think I wasn't sober until about midday.

Went to the snooker hall with Chris and Dan to get some food - almost sick thanks to Dan driving actually quite conservatively - but couldn't face eating anything, even though I should have forced myself to. They played snooker, I sipped at water and read the papers, looking and feeling like some sort of stodgy vegetable. I eventually ate some potato wedges and played some pool, and felt better.

Train out of Aber at 3:27, got home as scheduled a little before 9. I dozed most of the way to Birmingham, with the train seeming to take twice as long as usual and unable to concentrate on PSP or music. Had some food at Birmingham, and something occur ed to me - New Street station is broken. There's a giant corridor full of food shops, and yet no benches or bins. Most people end up sitting on the floor, against the walls, to eat - I just wandered around aimlessly and had to wait to get on the train before I could dispose of my wrapper. Doesn't make any sense.

Got home and went to bed quite soon after. Super tired. Amazing weekend though. Parents and grandparents have asked me if it really was worth it, all that travelling for a night and a morning, and I've told them that it absolutely was. I saw some of my best friends in the world and went out for a brilliant night with them and now, even though I miss them and Aberystwyth more than ever, I'm so, so glad I went.

Love that town.

Quality!

Here I am again, my second column in the Reading Evening Post, from Wednesday:


Yes, I know it's sideways. Sorry. They also edited this column an awful lot less than my first one, which is an encouraging sign. I just got a phone call from Hilary, my boss at the paper, asking me to do this week too.

Get in :D

Happyhappyhappy.

Well, would you look at this:



I've written the main article and the column on the left. I know that I'm doing next week's too, and I sorely hope I get to go beyond then. Get in!!

Rest In Peace?

Watching Sky Sports News this morning, the reporter started talking.

'WWE Wrestler Chris Benoit has been found..'

This isn't good, I thought. Sky Sports News never reports on wrestlers unless it's something serious. So what could it be?

In Breach of contract? In possession of drugs?

'...dead in his Atlanta home with the bodies of his wife and seven year old son, Daniel'.

Damn.

I've watched him perform for years, and I've never seen him deliver a bad match. From those who know him, he was the consummate professional, always giving his all in the ring and around the arenas he graced, worldwide. This entry was going to be about how I'm not sure I can see him in the same light now that it's come out that he, allegedly, killed his wife on saturday, his son sunday and himself yesterday after taking several days off to deal with a 'family emergency'. Now, however, I read that they can't rule out murder and haven't confirmed anything yet.

So, I don't want to pass judgement on someone whose risked his body and life entertaining me for so many years.

R.I.P. Chris Benoit, 1967 - 2007.

-------------------------------

I wrote the preceding text yesterday, after I'd just heard the news about the Benoit deaths on TV and the events hadn't been confirmed and, as I wrote, didn't want to conclude and judge what'd happened before the fuller story began to emerge.

So, the man is a murderer. A lot of my own, and millions of other people's memories of the man's professional life, as a performer and entertainer, have been tarnished almost certainly beyond repair. It's almost a shame.

I wish I could say the following about Chris Benoit, too, but I can't bring myself to do it.

R.I.P. Nancy and Daniel Benoit.

R.I.P Jim Cronin 1952 - 2007

I don't know how many of you will know him, or his work, but he was a primate specialist and conversationalist. He ran, with his wife Alison and many dedicated and skillful staff, a centre called 'Monkey World' in Dorset, UK, and I've visited many times; I also have an adopted chimpanzee - who is adorable - called Seamus. The centre worked internationally to rescue and rehome all types of primates from neglect and woeful conditions - being used as photographer's props in Spain, or orang-u-tans being kept as pets in the Orient. They were brought back to the centre and, as they weren't able to return to the wild, given beautiful, spacious enclosures and close, caring groups of primates to live in.

I've had the pleasure, while at the centre, to meet Jim and his wife Alison, several times, and they are truly wonderful people. I woke this morning, however, to a phone call from my mother, saying that Jim has died from liver cancer. He was a wonderful man, caring and compassionate, and did countless amounts of tireless good work for a worthy cause. He was 55, and he'll be missed.

R.I.P Jim.

Note to Self: Don't do that again.

'We're having a movie night!' said Dave, a couple of evenings ago. He was having some friends round and they were watching Gay Films - one called Camp, and another called Another Gay Movie. Me and Frances were invited, he said, and there would be plenty of alcohol and snacks. So I decided to join them.

Well, Camp, from what I can remember, is a great film. Very funny! And everyone laughed. I just can't remember much of it, because by then i'd finished off half a bottle of Bacardi I had lying around, had a glass of rosé - my first ever - and Rich had come round and suggested we go to the pub. So, we went to The Castle, our local. It was a Friday night, and so pretty busy. I've discovered that I, with the addition of either Bacardi or wine, or both, become the leeriest man in Aberystwyth. I was too shy to actually talk to anybody female, but I deemed everyone in the pub and everyone who walked through the door a potential candidate for evaluation. Me and Rich also talked about a lot of shit, and we had a deep conversation about hair styling products and which is the best out of gum, paste, and wax. Somebody save me.

I had four Jack Daniel's. Or that could be five, I don't entirely remember. When I got back, the second film was half - way through, but nobody was paying it that much attention, because of the amount of Pringles and sweets being passed around the room and the oodles of gossip and insults being slung. 'Want some vodka, Mike?' Dave asked as I stumbled back into the room.

'Yes! Yes I do!'

And so he offered me a can of coke to go with it. I hasten to add, at this point, that if i'm going to technically classify my next drink, it should be called Coke with Vodka, rather than the more traditional, and usual, classification. I drunk that, ate some more pringles. We then had some shots of Nordic Berry vodka, that's blue and very nice, then I had a glass of squash with more vodka in. We decided that drawing would be a good idea, and I think I drew a penis. And some boobies. I'm sure the Tate Modern would be interested.

The night drew to a close then: Dave's friend got upset, and they all went home, and everyone (even the upset friend) agreed it was a great night. Dave also let me have his big mug that was very full of more Coke and Vodka, which I drunk as I went on the computer. Sometime around here I decided that to stay up all night playing Burnout and chatting on MSN would be a good plan, and so that's exactly what I did.

Burnout is fantastic. It's a racing game that's stupidly, eye-bleedingly quick, and rewards you for skillfull driving that pushes you to the very startling edge of your abilities, but will punish you the second you overstep the boundary and disintegrate your multi-million pound supercar between a bus and a 18-wheel lorry. Sometimes it even rewards driving into cars and creating havoc. I found that i'm much better at the game when i'm very, very drunk, unusually.

By 6am, an hour that I hadn't seen for literally months, it was getting light. It was amazing how quickly it did get light. By half six, it was daylight, but Aberystwyth still slept. By 10am, when I went for a shower, it was obvious that I was still hammered. I barely noticed when I collided with a doorframe on the way, but I did notice the bruise later. By eleven, my hangover had kicked in, together with the crippling tiredness after not sleeping. I was reading magazines and not registering a word, and having to squint through one eye to see what people were typing on the computer. I napped, for about half an hour.

By now, the realisation had come to me: I was, apparently, both drunk and hungover at the same time. My body was utterly depleted from energy due to lack of sleep, and the fact that I hadn't eaten a hot meal since being at home the previous weekend. My hands were shaking, I felt cold, and my eyes were coated with stinging, hot resistance to my attempts to keep them open. I knew there was football on, and I phoned Chris, who was upstairs, to see if he wanted to go watch, so I could gulp down coke and eat food and try and recoup as much energy as possible. When he came into the room to collect me, he just burst out laughing at my slumped-over self.

The food revived me. Sugar seeped into every vein, and I felt marginally better. I still, however, was pretty out of it. I have pretty standard, pretty hazy memories for the drunk portion of the.. I can't really say night because it went on longer than that.. the episode . I remember wobbling my way out of the flat and struggling down the snooker hall like a paraplegic who had a wheelchair with one wheel removed. I slumped to eat my food, barely aware of the football, reading the weekend papers but not taking anything in. I thought, in my drunken stupidity, that by harnessing the powers of alcohol and the semi-conscious state of sleep deprivity, I would zoom myself in a zone of unbridled and unrestricted creativity where prize-winning literature would flow from my fingers like wine from Jesus' water jug.

I was a vegetable.

So, I don't think I'll be doing that again. By ten last night, I was getting into bed, and I settled down for a totally uninterrupted eleven hours, which was absolute bliss. I woke up, a new day, totally and utterly refreshed, and it was sunday. On TV that morning, they made Chocolate Brownie with Marshmallow sauce. Me and Chris are going to make that next, because it looked like the peak of human confectionary: sweet food's concorde moment. We watched the Carling Cup final and played pool, I actually beat him! And we just went to the pub to watch Top Gear, which was fantastic - one of the better episode i've seen, which is quite a feat as they're normally so good.

And here I am. This entry was going to lead into a review of 2 new cd's i've recently bought - Fall Out Boy's Infinity On High and Mika's Life in Cartoon Motion, but that blatantly hasn't happened, so I'll just say that Mika's record is consistently great, all the way through: happy optomisto-pop. Fall Out Boy's is longer but patchier: moments of greatness mixed (in this case by Neil Avron and Babyface) with spots of mediocre, anonymous emo. Fourth song I'm a Lawyer With the Way... has boyband backing vocals that N*Sync, in their heyday, wouldn't have turned down. It is longer than Mika, most definately listenable. Both albums are, most definately, great. I'll let you all get on now!

The Theatre of Dreams

That's what they call Old Trafford. The Theatre of Dreams. Previously, I thought it a slightly corny, cheesy, hopeful title.

Until 9:07 on Saturday night.

That's when Brynjar Gunnarsson, Icelandic Midfielder, rose above the massed Manchester United team and powered a header against the bar from 15 yards, watching it richochet off the woodwork into the net. 5,000 Readings fans exploded in euphoric relief: an equaliser.

Dad got given a ticket to the game, arguably one of the biggest in Reading Football Club's history, by a season ticket holder who couldn't go. A week later, another season ticket holder offered my grandad two tickets. He gave them to my dad, who decided that me and my brother were ideal recipients. So, as you can imagine, we were all over the moon. Delighted. Astounded. Every good adjective.

The last time Reading and Manchester United played in the FA Cup was in 1996, January, at Reading's old ground, Elm Park. Dad had taken me to that - my brother had been too young - and I had been in the front row of the old, loud, thundering South Bank to watch the superstars of United - Cantona, Keane, Giggs - beat Reading three nil. I was so cold that I cried all the way home. The result didn't matter: we'd played Man United.

I got the train up to Manchester and met my Dad, waving at me on the platform. Excitement was building as we neared Manchester: at every station, new groups of fans, for both sides, climbed aboard, laughing and joking. There was no hostile atmosphere that you'd have associated with British football 5 or 10 years ago. A lesson that could be learned by Lille after last night's events in the Champions League.

We got in the car to go find somewhere to park, and we still had almost two hours before kickoff. Mum had packed us huge amounts of food, typical of her maternal streak: bags of crisps, sandwiches, tubes of biscuits, bottles of drink. The glove compartment was lined with sweets - pear drops, toffees. We were all stupidly excited, and we found a parking spot at a College nearby that opens it's gates to football traffic. There was people everywhere. Every chippy was flooding out people, happy, every pub had queues outside, every road was covered with Man United and the occasional Reading shirt. You turn a corner, and there it is: The East Stand, the famous roof, the famous windows, the famous 'Manchester United' in red letters across the top.

We bought programmes: one for home, one for me, one for each of my cousins who support Reading. Then we walked, with the flood of people, towards the Megastore. It's huge. There are 6 queues outside, full of people. They opened the gates and let us all stream in, and inside you can hardly move. They have sixteen tills, yet the queue snakes down the megastore and back up again. They sell everything you could possibly want in a Manchester United branding - dog bowls, sweets, socks. We decided to come back after the match for our souvenirs. Instead, we took a walk around the stadium, taking in the fantastic atmosphere.

Like on the train, there was no intimidation. It was a unique, special mood that surrounded Old Trafford. Everyone was there to enjoy an occasion. Eventually, we went inside. Our level was quite high up and we had to go up several flights of stares, before emerging onto a concourse, full of TV screens showing MUTV, snack bars and program sellers. And there, tantalising between the legs of Reading fans, red seats across the field of dreams. Dad left us to go to his section, the next one along, and me and my brother went to find our seats.

It's the great leveller among football stadiums: pacing up the stairs that let you into the main arena; the first glimpse.

Old Trafford's is spectacular. Red seats surround the pitch, verdant and green (with a few muddy patches). The buzz of an oncoming match. We sat in awe. Eventually, the Reading Goalkeepers came out to warm up, followed by the Man United team, and the rest of the Reading players, as the stadium slowly filled up. Eventually, it was time to kick off. 70,000 people were in their seats, and we rose to greet the teams as the strode out on to the turf. Truly a historic site: the Royal blue hoops of Reading walking out alongside the historic red of Manchester United.

The first half was a pretty level affair. We couldn't hear much of the United fans' chanting: Reading's resilience and competitiveness had silenced their resolve, and the team couldn't find a way through the Reading defence. We didn't make too many chances, but they couldn't break us down. The team, whilst not as technically gifted as Man United's players, work fantastically together as a team. The wingers, however, weren't breaking through at all. Ulises de la Cruz, playing at right back, was playing fantastically, as was Andre Bikey, at centre back. Much had been made before the game of manager Steve Coppell's team selection: some fringe players, who don't play as much in the league, were starting. Many people will tell you that modern football is a Squad game, and I agree: it's just a shame that the manager got so much abuse when he decided to use his full squad. Any critics would have been answered by Reading's performance.

Michael Carrick scored, for Man United, with literally the last kick of the first half. It was a well taken goal, and there was nothing that Adam Federici could have done about it - he had a brilliant game otherwise, especially tipping a Henrik Larsson effort around the post towards the end of the second half. We saw it from our end of the ground - we had a great view of the whole game - and it really was a phenomenal save. There was about 3 seconds of stunned silence from the Reading fans when United scored, but immediately afterwards the Reading fans started shouting and chanting support for our team. Traditionally, the Reading fans have been given Squad Number 13 in recognition of their role in a match: we really showed it at Old Trafford, I believe.

I said to my Dad and Brother at half time that if there's one team that wouldn't lie down, and would fight back against a Man United one goal lead, it was Reading. We got a drink at half time, and a pie. We normally don't at football, but it's a tradition, so we did. We were glad, too: nice pies. The second half kicked off and Reading weren't getting into the game as much. Eventually, however, we began to make ground again. They were playing towards us in this half, and every time they even touched the ball, we were shouting. A crescendo was reached with every attack, and beaten by another every time we got a corner. We were standing, chanting, singing, and the team were playing better, slowly forcing United into their area and onto the back foot.

United had all 11 of their players in the box when Gunnarsson rose and headed an equaliser. We sung and dance all the way to the final whistle, and all the way out of the ground. We're taking United back to the Madejski Stadium, in Reading, for a replay a week Tuesday. The atmosphere at Old Trafford was unique, and special. My voice was hoarse afterwords. I can only compare it to two matches i've attended before: the 1994/1995 playoff final against Wolverhampton at the Old Wembley Stadium - before we lost the match, of course - and on September 11th, 2001, when Reading played West Ham at home in the League Cup. We took them all the way through extra time and penalties that night. But I think this topped it.

It's one of those things that happens to you in your life, one that you'll never forget. It felt so odd; the players that I usually watch on a TV Screen in the Snooker Hall were there, in front of me, on the pitch. It still doesn't seem real, and i'll never forget the rumble of anticipation and worry in equal measure when Cristiano Ronaldo - the best player in the world, at the moment - picked up the ball. Some of the things he can do with a football beggar belief.

So, like I said, we sung our way out of the stadium and back to the car. It took us 45 minutes to get out of Manchester, but we didn't mind. We had Radio 5 on, and everyone was phoning in to talk about the game and how well Reading had done, and to show their support for Steve Coppell and the players. We stopped at a service station on the way home, and Match of the Day was on, showing the highlights. There was a coachload of Reading fans there, and we all got a Burger King. We arrived home at around half twelve.

I'm sure there's a few details I've forgotten. I bought a keyring, socks and a 'theatre of dreams' mug. It was, really, an experience. Staggering.

I went home for the rest of the weekend, and had a good time with the family. I came back, via a terrible and disrupted train journey, a couple of nights ago. And the weather's been pretty mediocre today. Cloudy and not at all exciting.

My weekend, however, was unbelievable. An unforgettable experience: that's about as well as I can talk about it. Especially since I used all the adjectives up earlier.

Snow Day!

So, Chris hammered on my door at 8:56 yesterday morning, and I trudged out of bed and drew back the curtains.

The beach was totally covered in snow, at least until where the waves were hitting it. The road was covered in snow, and every car had a blankt over it. I could see the mountain across the bay from the marina, and that was white. I went into the kitchen, to look at the view I get from the back of our house: the rest of Aberystwyth. Every surface that snow could have latched itself onto was glistening white.

Chris got back from his lecture at 10ish, and came into my room. I was already dressed, so we shared mutual excitement about the late arrival of winter, with the girls, who were too scared of getting cold to come outside for a snowball fight. So we put on big coats and gloves and headed out. Snow was still falling pretty hard, and it was wonderful. We phoned Rich and told him to get his ass over, and he arrived soon after. In the intervening period, we were encamped on a side of the road each, preparing snowballs out of site for his arrival: his car was going to pay when he drove past. So, of course, he stopped way before, so we had to run up to the car and pelt him from there. And then it begun: snowball fight.

We switched teams quite regularly, moving up and down the street, scooping the snow off of cars and any surface we could, throwing and abusing each other. We turned off of our street and up Castle Road, and saw a larger group of people up the road having a snowball fight. We slowly moved up the street, fighting, throwing snow at passing trucks and cars. Then, a truck moved: behind it was Feathers, barman in our local, and new number one target. He quickly dived in his car, which recieved a thorough covering. Then we moved on up the street and took on this other group of people, and there were about 6 or 7 of them. It was awesome. We had a side of the street each, and snowballs were raining down, cannoning off walls and lamposts, thudding on windows and doors, occasionally making contact. We were ducking behind cars and making quick runs to new positions in open ground: it was like being in a war, in the middle of a battle. I suppose in some ways we were. This all ended when Chris hit a red Sierra, driven by a pretty camp guy, who instantly slammed on his breaks and reversed back to shout at us in his slightly funny voice. Chris responded to this with another snowball, and we ran away.

Deciding to head up to the Castle and see what was happening up there, we called a cease-fire to allow a mother with 2 young children (4 and 6ish) to pass and go into their house. And then, walking past the back gate of this house on the way to the castle: snowballs. Flying over the fence. A clear declaration of war. So, we had a play snowball-fight with these little kids, which was a laugh; they were obviously having a good time. The eldest, a boy, kept coming out and throwing the snowballs at us, and the girl would throw smaller ones and call us 'smelly'. Then she came out from nowhere with a chuck of snow bigger than her head: we know when we're beaten.

There was a group of chavvy kids up at the castle who started throwing snow at us, so retaliation was the only option. The Castle is possibly the best place for a snowball fight, ever. Who knows if people were doing the same thing in the same places hundreds of years before, on a snowy winter morning? So we ducked and dived among the towers and turrets for a while. After that, we decided to retire to Varsity for lunch. I had a driving lesson then, which was good: I only stalled a couple of times, and didn't have too many problems with icy or slippery roads. Also of note is the fact that when I came back to the house I parked, first time, better than Rich or Chris had done with their three cars combined. I'm going to rub that in at every opportunity.

After the lesson, Rich had the idea of a drive up into the mountains, to Nant-y-Moch resevoir, to see more snow. However, up there, it was minus several degrees and the snow was several feet deep: pretty impassable. So after a slow journey back, Rich and Chris decided to go back in the Landrover. So, of course, we didn't hear from them for hours.

As it turns out, they got stuck in a snowdrift, and spent an hour and a half trying to dig themselves out. Which didn't work. So they walked a mile to a farmhouse to use their phone - no mobile signal all the way out there - and called Mountain Rescue. Who, despite rescuing people from mountains being their jobs, referred them to the Police. Who then told Rich that the weather was too hazardous for them to come out, which I find an absolutely appalling attitude to have, but oh well. They called Kayleigh, who came and rescued them. They had to walk 3 miles to the nearest main road, in that cold, in that snow. We were all really worried at home and contemplating calling the Police or Mountain Rescue, but then, by luck, I managed to get a call through to Rich. As if the Police would have done anything anyway.

So, when they got back, we retired to The Castle - our local - which was almost empty, only with regulars who we know, and Feathers, the barman who we'd snowballed earlier, where we proceeded to watch the World Rally Championship highlights with Feathers and have tipsy conversations with his housemate, who was on the double vodkas. And then, bed.

Today, snow was still sticking around a little, and it snowed pretty heavily for most of the day. However, it wasn't sticking around. So that's that for another year.

The Breakfast Club

What an intruiging film.

Me and Chris just watched it. What an amazing film. I saw it before, a couple of years ago, but wasn't paying full attention and so didn't take it all in at the time. Forgive me if this just seems a little babbly, butI don't particulaly know where to start, now i've begun like that. Maybe I should start at the end, because that's the part that's the most vivid in my mind. The ending, as far as I could understand, was in some parts the perfect conclusion to the movie. In other parts, I thought, it wasn't as good. Brian told Claire towards the end: 'You're so conceited', and I felt the same about the conclusion. It was obvious from the beginning that Claire, the prissy, stuck up, popular Cheerleader, was drawn to Bender: the arrogant, rough bully, who just happened to have hidden depths. So when they got together, in a closet, it was kind of.. expected. However, Andrew and Alison? It seemed to me that the whole time the film was exploring our relationships and the benefits that can be gained by not taking everything at face value and getting to know people, inside as well as out. And yet, as the coup de grace, if you will, Claire gives Alison a makeover: from intriguing, elusive goth into pretty, bubbly goddess. Andrew is immediately interested. They kiss, all is right with the world. Brian, the nerd, leaves alone with his disgruntled-looking father. It seemed slightly unusual that the whole movie tries to tell us (and very much succeeds) that looks aren't everything, but the apparent only way for two of the characters to leave the school happy are for one of them to undergo a drastic image change so they suit what's more socially acceptable for the other.

So, I was left with a slight bitter taste in my mouth. That has entirely erased any good feelings I had about it, which is a shame. It's a fantastic movie, and is funny, moving and emotional. I suppose I shouldn't hold the previous paragraph against it because it's not the first time that sort of thing has struck me in a film, and it won't be the last. Perhaps there's something wrong with me when I emerge from almost every film I watch feeling bloated, jaded and jealous when, no matter what has happened previously, a happy resolution is the only concievable outcome, however unrealistic it may appear. Perhaps it's what people want to watch. They want to escape from their own lives, sadly missing the happy ending, and relive someone elses for a while. I'm not sure I can handle that, however, because I want the happy ending, and I'm not sure I can help wanting it.

Personally, I thought Alison was much better looking before her 'transformation'. She was intriguing. She wore dowdy, figure-destroying clothes, but that didn't bother me. Never much has, not sure if it will, once I pack the shallow jokes away that seem to pervade every male. Her impish smile, eyes - hell, her impish face shone through, and there was hidden depths. I wanted to sit down with her, talk through the night, watch the sunset, talk through the next day, let her talk to me: explore each other. However, when Claire got hold of her, all that was lost. She was wearing a flirty white top, she walked like a cheap tease, bit her bottom lip with the best of them. Her hair was distinctly undistinct and the social awkwardness that pervaded her before seemed put-on and unusual. It wasn't attractive anymore: she seemed to be playing an act this time. I couldn't take it seriously. I guess that goes against what I've been writing in that I shouldn't be judging people by their covers, like they were in the film - but if the social awkardness was still present, she sure didn't show it when she got near to Andrew. Any shy flutters of the eyelashes that appeared after her transformation seemed to be for show rather than indicators of anything going on in her brain.

Deep breath.

Not sure if I know what to say now. I prefered Alison before she changed from intriguing and shy to your average brunette bimbo. But that doesn't matter, right? She got the guy, so at least the movie had it's priorities right. I find it odd that the only character who didn't leave attached to someone was Brian, perhaps the catalyst for many of the later changes in the development of the plot and the characters: his revelations about why he was in detention both shocked and loosened people up, made them talk. Made them want to cut loose and start enjoying their confinement. He was the one who shouted at Claire and told her what everyone was thinking; he asked the question about friendship that got everybody talking. In some respects, he was the one who most deserved some sort of resolution from the film. However, nothing came of it. He was too shy to try for anything else; too worried about rejection and failure. Perhaps I just feel strongly about him because I relate. I just think it's another possibly negative image from the film. Bender has obvious appeal as the bad boy. Andrew, the clean-cut, good-looking athlete. Brian: the nerd. Bender asked him in the movie: 'When do you get laid?' And it'd be a good question to answer. But it isn't just about getting laid, having sex, or whatever. I got the impression, especially towards the end, that he just wanted someone to talk to. Not that he was the only one who needed that, of course: the confessions of every other person in there, including the head teacher and the janitor, pay testament to that. But by the end of the film, Brian's the only one who would be willing to talk to the others outside of detention. He's the one who wakes them up to the fact that it's a shitty thing to do, and Alison agrees with him. But pre-transformation, she's too shy. Post, she's too busy with Athlete Andrew. Apart from Brian, everyone is too busy with everyone else to consider anything beyond their seemingly shallow fade back into their old social groups and their old lives.

Brian asked them, specifically, if they'd say hello to him, as a friend, on Monday morning, back at school. He's the only one who would. Andrew's too busy, Claire's too stuck up, Bender's too cool, Alison's too shy. Despite the inkling that they all would like to - maybe - they're too caught up in their own lives and cultivating their own images to care about what's really important post high-school when everyone's drifted away into obscurity. Yes, I felt that the film did try to teach things, preach morals. It was funny, hilariously so at some points, and it did make me think. A lot. but I feel that the conclusion has left a lot to be desired. Sure, some people like the fairytale ending when everyone goes away happy. But not everybody did. Perhaps the most deserving character left with the fewest achievements at the end of their Saturday detention as everyone else filtered back into their lives, too cool to do anything else except pretend that their rendezvous had ever happened. The first hour and a half of The Breakfast Club could be summed up as: don't judge a book by it's cover. The last five minutes, I reckon, could be summarised as the total opposite.

On the plus side, though, it'll snow tonight if the weather's telling the truth.