Factor Fiction

I don't like X-Factor. I think it's a pimply wart on the shittiest arse TV has to offer. Only marginally better than the anal rape that is Big Brother.

My reasons for loathing this travesty is the pretence that it has ever been a singing or talent competition. This has been highlighted recently by what I'm told is called, Jedward. Jedward. The cunning blend of the names John and Edward. Except it isn't at all really is it? They've simply put a J on Edward. Jodward could have worked and would have been more credible as a blending of the two names than Jedward. Jedward. What lazy simpleton farted that out?

Anyway, I love Jedward. I obviously don't love them enough to pick up a phone and vote for them, or any other contestant for that matter. I'm not a complete cabbage. I love that tone deaf foetuses get to writhe around a stage every week, and as a nation we collectively applaud. Some in the belief that their continued presence is in some way anarchic. Others because they genuinely enjoy their performance. I don't know which group I pity more.

From its Pop Idol beginnings the show was about giving society's deluded the opportunity to be told how awful they really are and how Mummy and Daddy had filled their heads with impossible dreams. It also meant monkeys could watch their telly and laugh, immersed in their superiority as they pointed a mocking finger at the pathetic fools who dared to try and realise their ambition rather than staying at home shrouded in ignorance.

Once voting is opened up to the public any semblance of true competition is lost. Sure, some of viewers are drug addled miscreants, filled with self pity and a staunch belief that the world owes them a living, but that alone doesn't make them A&R people or qualified to judge artistic and commercial potential.

With tribal voting we see people supporting someone they feel they should by virtue of geography, irrespective of whether they believe in their ability. Armies of pubescent girls will blow their weekly mobile top up by endlessly punching in the pretty boy's number, while their boyfriends simply want to punch in the pretty boy. Middle aged women dampen their couches salivating over the mid twenties gay one.

Of course it's all kicked off this week because Simon Cowell didn't eliminate Jedward. What amazes me is that people are surprised. To see morons on the street happily telling GMTV and it's ilk that Cowell is a coward and that it's supposed to be a singing competition is almost as annoying as the show itself. Wake up people, it was never a singing competition. It's Saturday night karaoke entertainment for the masses. The stay at home and vegetate in front of mediocrity at its most banal masses.

Tomphonery

I think it's fair to say that all of us on occasion are bothered by telesales calls at inappropriate times. When you have an ex-directory number it becomes alarming as it suggests someone you deal with is selling on your details. Every now and then though there is the opportunity for a tiny piece of payback .

Yesterday evening I was sitting at the computer reading through forums posts and Twitter updates when the phone rings. On answering a very cheery fellow told me he was from Space Kitchens and asked me how I was.

I used to get quite irate at these calls and constantly asking, and being ignored, to be removed from their call list, but now I mostly remain silent. It's interesting (to me anyway) how their resolve and dedication to getting that sale varies. Some give it a couple more hellos and then give up. Some give it a couple of hellos, pause, give it a couple of questioning hellos, then give up. Or like the chap from Space Kitchens keep going for quite some time, presumably confused by the silence and possibly assuming there's a problem with the phone that will magically rectify itself and the most eager kitchen purchaser they are ever likely to speak to is moments away. They do hang up in the end though.

Once the line is dead I give it a quick 1471 to check the number and search online to verify who the call was from. The reason for this is that some company's will use a third party call centre for a fixed period campaign, so it just verifies who is calling.

In this case it was indeed Space Kitchens, who according to a number of testimonials are quite rude and offensive to people who refuse their offer of a free quotation or ask not to be bothered again. I noticed that they had a freephone number on their website. A plot hatches.

While freephone numbers are, by definition, free for the caller, they obviously cost the company. Most seem to have a monthly rental price which has a number of inclusive minutes over which any additional minutes are charged at a rate similar to local calls.

So while I'm enjoying my online time, I ring their freephone number and when answered remain silent. The chap on the other end was obviously confused, I mean, what kind of idiot rings a number and then doesn't speak? When he eventually hung up I put the phone on the desk and hit redial. The phone is loud enough that I can make out if someone is talking without putting it on speaker phone, so I can carry on with my internet diversion, just stabbing the redial button when I hear the line go dead. After a few calls a Scottish woman answered who actually had a conversation with me. She asked me how I was, gave me a few Uh-huhs and yeses, apologised that they couldn't do that (do what I have no clue, though I'd like to think she imagined I asked her to smother me in marmalade while holding aloft a picture of Gordon Brown and singing Aqua's 1997 UK number one hit Barbie Girl.) and suggested I ring head office before giving me a cheery goodbye (obviously head office is where all the marmalade fetishists are). I don't understand why she felt the need to have that conversation with a silent person, but I really liked her for it. The next few calls received a couple of hellos before hang ups, but then they seemed to start getting annoyed. At one point the person asked if I had nothing better to do. I love it when people ask that, as if I'm suddenly going to turn around and say, “Yes actually, I have to fly off to Fiji and get those silly military types to have elections. I'm so glad you asked as I'd have forgotten otherwise. Have an apricot.”

A few more calls and I was told in a very stern voice that she didn't mind me wasting my time as she gets paid to answer the phone. A few more calls and I was back with my Scottish friend who started doing the kind of train impression you'd do for children, with plenty of choo-choos and chuff, chuff, chuff, chuffs.

Presumably they had caller display as it seemed that they stopped biting after about twenty minutes and either just left the phone connected for a short while, or gave some form of raspberry noise as soon as they picked up and hung up immediately afterwards. Curiously though, at no point did anyone ask me to stop calling.

I kept stabbing the redial for just over an hour until I had finished my reading and did actually have something better to do. In terms of cost to the company it would have been insignificant, and at best tying up one of the lines may have caused a modicum of disruption to their business in preventing a genuine customer calling. It did however put a big smile on my face, and maybe, just maybe, they'll think twice before calling here again.

Oh, and if you fancy hearing a truly great choo-choo impression, just call 0800 2888 888.

More On Richard Kershtinkle - Private Eye

The name's Richard Kershtinkle, I'm a private dick. My friends call me Dick, the dick. That's private dick. Being a private dick I get to see a lot of weird shit. There was one the other day by my front gate that looked like the previous evening's Bhuna, even down to the half naan and dill pickle.

The fridge had stared at me blankly when I'd enquired about milk. It's door wide, it's shelves bare. I was going to have to go out. I was going to have to get dressed. I was going to have to wear pants. I dragged my weary legs into the bedroom, kicking the future laundry in the general direction of the corner of the room where clothes that need washed and can no longer be Febreezed into acceptability go to fester. I found a reasonably flexible pair of green boxer shorts and a pair of now cream coloured sports socks. I sat on the end of the bed. Our bed. The bed she'd lay in. The bed I'd lay in. The bed we'd lay in. I was distracted, I needed to focus. I grabbed my jeans and my Han Solo “Don't Get Cocky!” Lego Star Wars T-shirt. I was going shopping in style. I picked up my keys and wallet from the dresser, her dresser, and headed for the door.

I sat in the mk3. With its red paint faded to the point where it looked like an albino with sun stroke, I was thankful for the spotlights retaining an air of cool about it. I turned the ignition key and she purred, coughed, fell over a cracked paving stone and spat out a small chicken bone to life. We headed off to the sweet soul sound of Smokey's Tears'.

I cruised to Motown and pulled into the supermarket carpark with an air of superstition delivered by Stevie. I resolved to kick anything blue I saw for the rest of the day. I parked in the carpark. It seemed the logical thing to do.

The automatic doors spread like the legs of a cheap hooker as I approached. An old man stood just inside, smiling at every face that wondered what the sweet Mother Mary he had to be so damn happy about as they passed. As I got level with him he told me it was a good morning. I stopped and turned to face him. I questioned his assertion. I demanded to know what was go good about it. Sure the sun was shining, but there were dark clouds approaching and the forecast was for showers. Life was a cruel mistress who promised love and romance and delivered sorrow and pain. Given his current position smiling at strangers in a supermarket doorway, what did he have to be so damn cheerful about that he could dictate to me whether this was any particular type of day? He told me peaches were just twenty pence per punnet. That was good. I went and picked one up.

I wandered past the organic vegetables, with their knobbly brown bits that cost twice as much as their shiny pesticide protected cousins, and as I did I could hear the sound of a three legged cat having it's lower jaw shaved with chicken wire. As I continued forward, towards the Entertainment area, the noise got louder. I realised that they were pushing the music of Whiny Alehouse. Their marketing ploy would have no effect on me, I was immune to such obvious and blatant sales tactics. Her depressing brand of audible self harm and chemical dependency was neither uplifting nor referential enough to influence my musical purchasing preferences. I headed for the alcohol aisle.

As I passed the biscuits that I could buy and receive an equal amount in addition for no extra charge, I turned to see a gallery of shimmering glass. I aimed for the Shiraz and paused, my arm reaching out like a baboon sending an elevator to the third floor when he meant to press for the fifth. Wine was the comfortable middle ground. A bottle of plonk to send me the way of the weary. Perhaps this was a time to fall back on my old friend beer.

Beer and I had parted company some years ago. It wasn't that we had fallen out or had any significant disagreement, she just never felt he was sophisticated enough, and certainly not the type of friend to bring out at dinner parties. We'd kept in touch, mostly meeting up at Harry's, but even now I felt I couldn't take him home. I couldn't go back.

Perhaps it was time to step up to the big leagues. Grab a single malt and get down to some serious brain rotting. I looked around, curious to see what the great and the good were buying. I saw a pair of Spider-Man pants picking up a large bottle of an exotic fruit based drink. As he brought it down from the shelf he nodded excitedly. The hyenas at his side systematically increasing the number of bottles they could consume and trying to define exactly how drunk they had been previously.

I tried to recall if I'd ever had Spider-Man pants. Then I tried to recall if I'd ever felt the need to wear my trousers low enough for people to see my pants. Then I remembered that incident after too many tequilas on the night bus with four drunken men, seven loud and obnoxious girls on a hen night, a packet of pickled onion Monster Munch, and two members of the local constabulary. Those cell cots are hard.

Once the pack had moved on, I followed the Spider-Man pants' wisdom and examined a bottle of the exotic fruit concoction. It was one of those drinks that combines any number of liquefied fruit, adds a dash of vodka, and suggests that by drinking it you'll be instantly more attractive and women will think you're sensitive. It's all bullshit, but it was a litre bottle of bullshit and cheap. I took three and headed for the tills.

Back in the car park the grey clouds were now overhead. As I climbed into the mk3 they started to weep for me. I threw an angry look up at them. It hit the windscreen and fell into the footwell by the clutch pedal. I stroked the ignition key, then grabbed hold and twisted it like it was Edward Ruttlinger's right nipple. Edward had sat by me in Maths classes back in school. He was a smart kid. A proper brain box. I displayed my superiority over him by inflicting pain regularly. The last time I bumped into him he said he was working in a bank and blathered on about bonuses. Loser.

The mk3 carried me home while Otis chilled out watching boats. As I pulled up outside the house the sky was now spitting its contempt at me, so I ran inside. Shaking off the rain I headed to the fridge to deposit my wares, and as I pulled open the door the hinges creaked and whispered 'milk'.

I bit a peach, unscrewed a bottle, and set a course for fruit based oblivion.

Busy Doing Nothing

It seams of late I'm finding a myriad of things to not do rather than doing the things I supposedly like to do.

Part of the reason has been decorating. My little munchkin is getting big and she deserves a larger room, so what was effectively an upstairs laundrette has been cleared, stripped, dismantled, extra power points added, inbuilt cupboards ripped out and walls re-plastered. I'm learning new skills, which I guess should be uplifting, but is just another inconvenience.

I've learned plastering isn't as difficult as I thought it would be. Though my efforts are certainly not up to professional standards, they are mighty fine. Similarly, Artexing the ceiling and freeze, while destroying my right shoulder, has resulted in a stippled ceiling that Michaelangelo himself would look at and say,
“S'allright that Peach!”
Only he'd say it in Italian. And cough up a lung. And snog me.

I'm also tootling about on a little motorbike. As I'm currently in v3.0 of my mid-life crisis (v1.0 was cutting all my hair off, v1.1 was dying the resulting mop red, v1.2 was changing from red to purple and v2.0 was the common or garden variety depression) the two wheeled wonder was just a natural progression.

This hasn't left much time for proper gaming. I say proper because I have still been playing, but mostly at friends houses so somewhat superficial. It has allowed me to get to grips with a few new titles, but more on that another time. At home I'm either labouring through some form of DIY or watching The Wire (at time of writing we're about to start season five).

I've also not been reading nor writing, though I can't fathom what I've been doing or not in their place. It's the arse end of September and I've nothing to show for a months worth of existence. That is a somewhat terrifying realisation.

What little gaming I've done at home has mostly been GTA IV (PC), which given some of the nightmare scenarios I'd read about online getting the game to run, is rather splendid looking and smooth. There's no doubt it's a questionable port and certainly seams little thought has been given to optimising for the PC, but the core gameplay is solid and as fun as it ever was.

I've also dipped a tentative toe back into the murky waters of football management. It's been a good few years since I played Championship Manager (PC). Back in the days when Sports Interactive and Eidos were still cuddly bed fellows and spooning, before SI's arm got pins and needles and Eidos kept leaving the light on and toilet seat up.

Since SI went and hopped into Sega's Emperor sized pillow topped, duck downed, snuggle fest', and Eidos inflated there own love dumpling while shouting through their tears how they didn't need SI anymore and they'd make their own CM, I've left them to it. Reviews have suggested that SI have maintained the quality and depth of their CM games in the guise of Football Manager (thankfully sans a bearded knob on the cover artwork) and Eidos's Beautiful Game Studios have struggled and consistently suffered by comparison.

For the 2010 iteration, Eidos decided to offer pre-orders through their website for as little as £2.51. Being the generous sort I am, I gave them £3.00. My place in heaven assured, I waited patiently for the release date whereby I would download the game, spend a couple of hours fumbling about, then walk away from it forever. A solid plan, until the other night I was lambasting my defence for failing to close down the opposition's attacking midfielder when I realised it was beyond three in the morning and I'd been sat at the computer for six hours. Thus far I've navigated far too many menus, noticed a few players performing vastly different to their real life counterparts, and the only Premier League badge is Aston Villa's, with the rest of the league sharing a generic club-coloured shield, which is surprisingly annoying. Surely it would have made more sense to forego the badges altogether? I haven't decided if it's a good game or not, and not having played FM I can't compare the games. It's certainly compelling, for now.

Also on the home front, last night we discovered a mouse in our living room. Having distracted us by making a scratching noise in the hall we went to investigate, only to find nothing until the wife turned around to find it flipping her the finger from the rug in the living room. By the time I entered, all manly like in my shorts with a big stick, the little blighter had disappeared behind the couch. Today has therefore been mainly spent setting traps and laying poison. Oh, and before anyone gets all 'humane' on me, if you'd shit on my carpet I'd poison you too.

And as if that wasn't enough, I lost a tooth today.

Roll on October.

At Home with The Dentons - Episode Twelve:

Deny Me Three Times

Paul: Hi JC.
JC: Hey Paul.
Paul: News on the third game in our award winning franchise has gone a bit quiet.
JC: Third game?
Paul: Yes, y'know, Deus Ex 3?
JC: How can they make a third when there wasn't a sequel?
Paul: Yes there was, Invisi...
JC: HOW CAN THEY MAKE A THIRD WHEN THERE WASN'T A SEQUEL?
Paul: Shh, Alex is asleep in the back
JC: Alex?
Paul: Riiight.

Summer Shun

The supposed summer holidays are upon me, which of course means my beloved offspring is home all day and looking for exciting things to do. As such, I don't get as much game time as I would previously because, and here's a crazy notion, I don't play games rated for adults when there's a child walking about the place. Bless her little cotton socks, she does like to play the occasional game though, so when it's raining outside (odd phrase that, when has it ever rained inside?) and she's not having one of her creative sprees, she will hijack her mother's DS or play on the Wii with me. Huzzah and hurray then for Wii Sports Resort (Wii).

Much has been made of the new Motion Plus and in the main the comments about improved interaction and responsiveness are fair. Some of the praise though, particularly from the Nintendo only press, is a bit, obsequious. It certainly works well in the main, but it's not the earth shattering golden glory hole some corners of the media would have us believe. It's fun and works well in most cases, particularly the sword fighting and bowling, but does frustrate at other times. Canoeing is anger inducing crap and had me wondering whether the play-testers were tanked up for that session as I can't see how me performing exaggerated sweeps to my right can have the avatar scooping at his left.

All this Wii focus did mean I took my eyes off the wider scene for a moment, and when I did catch sight again I was genuinely pleased to see that EA had subtitled the new Need For Speed game in a way that really emphasises the direction they've taken the series. Then I spotted the “F”.

IGN are running another “Death of PC Gaming” piece. Read it with disbelief yourself here .

Finally for this little session a word about Ben There, Dan That (PC): Good. Now a word about Time Gentlemen, Please! (PC): Great. Now some more words on both.

I had a little look at Ben There, Dan That some time ago, but, and this may shock you, I was never a huge pointy clicky adventury kind of person. I tended to sit and watch friends play them. That way I could enjoy the story and get bonus jollies from watching their frustration when unable to solve a puzzle. Nothing ventured nothing failed, so to speak. It wasn't until the recent release of Time Gentlemen, Please! that I remembered about Ben There, Dan That and so popped back to the Zombie Cow site to download it and give it a go. Seeing the ad for Time Gentlemen, Please! there as well, and noticing that it cost just £3.44 including VAT, I had this strange uncomfortable feeling of guilt. Why guilt? I don't know. Maybe because I hadn't played Ben There, Dan That when I originally meant to and thus failed to donate any money for future developments. Whatever the reason, I decided that without further ado I would make amends, and even if they turned out to be the worst games I ever swung a cursor at, I was going to help these bastions of the independent gaming development bods. So in the best traditions of those pointy clicky adventury things, I used credit card on website.

I won't bore with the details, and I wouldn't have a clue how to explain what happens in the games without giving away the story and jokes, suffice to say they were some of the most joyous hours of gaming I have ever had. I laughed more at these games than I have at any comedy DVD of the past few years. Self referencing comedy genius of the highest order.

Given that Ben There, Dan That is free, and Time Gentlemen, Please! is just £3.44, I do find myself wondering what kind of person wouldn't head off to www.zombie-cow.com for a download, and the only people I can think of are Nazis, morally righteous mice, and paedophiles. I'm sure you're none of those.

Street Blighter

Time once again proves to be anything but a friend. This time it has teamed up with my failing memory to play the cruellest of tricks. You see, I remember quite clearly being good at Street Fighter II. Back in the old SNES days I first completed it with Blanka, a feat my friends told me was quite an achievement, themselves first making their way through with either Ken or Ryu. I soon followed suit and completed it with all seven of the original playable cast. You'll notice I said seven there. That's because we don't count Zangief. We just don't.

Some years have passed and despite at least six further versions and sequels, we now have Street Fighter IV (360). I'm sure you will appreciate, given my undoubted skills, I had little to fear from this new incarnation. It is, after all, just a modern version of Street Fighter II with nice new graphics. The gameplay mechanics remain as they were back in 1992.

Starting as Ryu I went into the first round and immediately fired off a couple of fireballs and dragon punched my opponent, following up with the whirlwind kick. This was like riding a bike. I was home. That, however, was where the joy got up, left the room, and buggered off to South America with the window cleaner. Before I knew what was happening, this laddett who I believe is called Crimson Viper, in a poorly fitting suit and awful glasses, was beating seven shades of the proverbial out of me. I put it down to complacency and being over confident and resolved that Round 2 would see me regain my rightful place as the Ultimate World Warrior. No, spanked again.

I'm sure I used to be able to play these games. I'm sure I was at least competent. Have my reactions slowed that much? Was I actually just a bit shit and I've spent these intervening years steeped in ignorance and delusion?

Anyway, fighting games are so last century. I've moved on.