Fat Man Uses The Force

April has been a funny month. Not hilarious, or oddly peculiar. In fact, now I think about it there's nothing particularly funny about April at all. Forget I mentioned it.

The schools being closed for a fortnight over Easter gave me some precious time with the fruit of my loin, which in addition to her bicycle escapades also saw her attempt golf for the first time, complete with a solid five foot put. Already aspects of her game are superior to mine. She'll be five next month so will naturally be turning pro.

Days in the park, basketball and football were fun, though did highlight my ever expanding waist and my need to step up my weight loss and fitness regime. Time to fish a dusty Wii Fit board out from under the TV unit. Firing it up I discovered that it had been over three hundred days since my last workout, giving my beloved and ever supportive wife yet another opportunity to assert her correctness. Looking at the figures from last year I was genuinely surprised to see that I had been losing weight at a nice steady pace, so I started to wonder why I'd stopped using it. Some uncomfortable memories of my former employer followed. Extra work, additional hours, integrating new people following another acquisition, re-routing the fleet, and the regional manager suggesting that I should tell the disruptive elements of the workforce that I masturbate regularly, as a way to endear myself to them. I'm still not sure how that was supposed to work. Perhaps the thought was that once informed they'd invite me to their masturbation parties.

As I no longer have those excuses, I mean reasons, I'm back on the fitness trail. This is where it gets difficult though. I know why I'm fat. I eat too much and exercise too little. I eat because I'm hungry, because I'm unhappy, because I'm happy, and because I like food. I don't exercise enough because I'd rather be eating. Particularly crisps. In fact, just thinking about it makes me want to eat.

As I'm being healthy I had a large bowl of Bran Flakes, with a Cheerios chaser.

Getting back to exercise, the idea is to burn off more calories than you take in, only, the exercise makes me hungry. So I eat. I learned that lesson early, which is why I stopped using the treadmill after breakfast while watching The Wright Stuff and switched to watching Stargate SG1 before lunch. Whether this fresh impetus will work is solely down to me, and I think that's the main problem with weight loss and exercise. The only people who can effect change are the people whose lack of discipline got themselves into that state in the first place.

On the game front I finished Far Cry 2 (PC) and found the whole experience somewhat lacking. For all it's free form pretensions I found it to be little more than a series of fetch quests through familiar terrain and endlessly spawning enemies with Steve Austin-O-Vision. That's not to say it wasn't fun. It was. The weapons and vehicles were well realised. The environment was suitably varied, if a little ecodome-esque, and graphically it was stunning. Game breakers for me were the likes of destroying a checkpoint, including blowing up the gas cylinders and fuel storage and killing everybody on site, only to return a short while later and find the thing rebuilt and fully manned. It's all well and good having great fire effects and showing them off as the fire rages and spreads across the grass, but when that grass grows back into a lush carpet within the day, the suspension of disbelief puts on it's coat, gets into it's jet powered rocket copter, and trundles off back to Jelly Tot Land.

On a happier note I corrected a grievous error on my part and finally played Knights of the Old Republic (PC). When it was released back in 2003 I had a quick go on a friend's X-Box, and I didn't take to it. Since then I couldn't help but notice the reverence with which it and its sequel have been held by the PC community at large. There is a fear with such things that nostalgia does have a habit of painting things much more vibrantly than they may appear to the naked eye, so when I installed it and it proceeded to crash to desktop on a regular basis I was in danger of letting my frustration cloud my judgement and dismiss the game. Obviously the issue is down to the game being so old and Windows, despite what Microsoft may say and what we PC gamers may extol about our wealth of a back catalogue, doesn't play well with it's older siblings. Thankfully the issues brought about by Vista and in particular 64bit Vista are not uncommon and I found a number of fixes, none of which work fully but that between them made the game playable. As long as I saved my progress frequently I was able to make it through to a thoroughly satisfying conclusion. At some point I will return to it and play through again, allowing the dark side to rule. For now I remain a child of the light. A fat man-child of the light casting a grotesque shadow, but a child of the light all the same.

Who Watches The Watchmen?

Quality time with the family. Playing in the park. Trips to Granny & Grandad's and Nan's. Learning how to fall off her stabiliser free bike. School holidays are an endless treasure trove of tiny delights. In this oasis of joy I find myself popping my head over the parapet to see the bullets of hate and lies whizzing past.

World leaders gathered in the sleepy village of London to try and find a way to dig us out of the shit pile their friends Fred, Brad, Topper and Gretchen have landed us in. Those who would oppose global economics used their time off from their studies to gather and make themselves heard, before returning to complete their dissertations and embark on their chosen career, complete with pension and stock options. Somewhere in the middle would be the usual pack of anarchic Neanderthals for whom any mass gathering is an excuse to show their disgust by destruction of property. Nothing says you are a true anarchist quite like forcing up insurance premiums.

In my happy little pacifist ignorance I watched the headlines and was saddened to see that in the midst of the chaos a protester died of a heart attack, and that as police tried to provide assistance and get him medical treatment they were beaten back by bricks and bottles from other protesters. Except, over these past few days footage has come to light proving that whatever the actual truth of what happened is, those initial reports given by police and reported as fact were nothing but abject lies. Ian Tomlinson wasn't a protester, and the circumstances leading to his death seem far removed from what we were lead to believe.

I'm reminded of a sketch David Baddiel did on The Mary Whitehouse Experience in which he explains the feeling of helplessness should a member of the constabulary decide to take their frustrations out on you, as it's something I can relate to. When you've been jumped or are being beaten up, one of things you may think to yourself as another brick hits your lower back, is that maybe someone in a house overlooking the scene will have heard the noise. Maybe they'll look out of the window and see a gang amassed around a solitary figure huddled in the foetal position, and they'll pick up a phone. You hope beyond hope that in the absence of any superhero like figure willing to take on such a collective that perhaps the sound of a siren or the sight of blue lights would be enough to at least disperse them while you still have some feeling in your legs to make it home. Aside from wishing that it will end while you're still breathing, there is always that hope.

When those who are tasked with our protection are the ones dispensing arbitrary justice, there is no hope. There is just confusion and fear.

Anyone with a keen interest in photography will no doubt be aware that police now have the power to confiscate your camera on sight if they believe that you have captured images of them, or official buildings, or manhole covers, or anything at all in a public place, under the crochet blanket of the Counter Terrorism Act. Indeed it's a wonder MI6 haven't been breaking down the doors of Google's London offices or undertaking controlled detonations of Street View vehicles.

The cynical or sceptical may say that the purpose of such a power isn't so much to protect us, but to conceal things from us. I also wonder why else police would wear balaclavas and hide their identities if their intentions were not nefarious.

At Home with The Dentons - Episode Seven:

Glimmer Men

Paul: Hi JC.
JC: Is he gone?
Paul: Oh, Hi Paul, how are you? What you been up to? You're looking well.
JC: Is he gone?
Paul: What kind of question is that? Don't you trust me?
JC: Is he gone?
Paul: No.
JC: Why?
Paul: He bought me Maltesers and said we could watch Steven Seagal movies all night.

Son of a Pun

On occasion I like to embark on an evening of culture and sophistication. Other times, like last night, I like nothing more than blasphemy and knob gags.

I've been looking forward to this for some time. Since embarking on my Twitter obsession and discovering Richard Herring hadn't died in a unfortunate éclair incident and was touring in fact. So Thursday 19^th March 2009 at Liverpool's Unity Theatre myself and my ever tolerant wife, having Shanghaied my mother into caring for our daughter while we went out to enjoy ourselves, met a couple of friends and laughed our socks off and wiped tears of joy from our cheeks.

Herring bounded onto the floor like an enthusiastic kitten. Actually, given his current girth and hairiness maybe Ewok would be more appropriate. Not one of the cute ones like Wicket or the baby in the basket who shields his eyes when C3PO does his 'Vader impression, maybe more a Chief Chirpa. Whenever I've seen him on television he's always appeared sprightly, even when being melancholic, though as this is around the midpoint of the tour with material he first performed at the Edinburgh Fringe in August 2008, I was expecting him to be more subdued. His Empire destroying skills had clearly not waned through touring however.

Hitting the floor running with the single greatest piece of blasphemy I've ever been condemned to Hell for enjoying, we were taken on a journey through Herring's adolescence as he examined his inability to commit, his childish behaviour, and his obsession with masturbation and the need to catalogue it. He read passages from the young Richard's diary, much of which will be familiar to anyone who has been aged between 13 and 17 and written bad poetry, and talked of his upbringing and the effect being the son of the Headmaster during this adolescence has had on his psyche.

We learned amongst other things of his early obsession with comedy and breasts. His fleeting moment of coolness when Dexy's Midnight Runners released Geno. His first love, and meeting her again after twenty years. His uncontested genius at Maths and History. His freakishly small hands and their potential uses.

Sometimes pushing the envelope and referencing current news events, Herring managed to draw a few sharp intakes of breath before the guilt edged chuckles forced their way out. Mostly though the show was a considered retrospective of his formative years rather than a barrage of jokes or satires, and as such it felt like sitting down with an old friend recounting the stupid things you did in your youth. Only this friend was smarter and funnier than you and had you known each other as youths he would never have associated with the likes of you. Obviously.

Closing with a prolonged conversation between himself now at forty-one and at sixteen, he juxtaposed his ambitions then with his position now and ends with a touch of reverence for his father, before one last punchline to send us out happy.

On exiting the venue there was the opportunity for a brief meet and greet while Herring sold merchandise and collected donations for Scope (at this point I should say a big thank you to Mal and Tiff who in offering us a lift home allowed the bus fare to go to a worthier cause). Maybe I won't go to Hell. Maybe just a few millennia in Purgatory.

Richard Herring's The Headmaster's Son is touring until the end of April. Details can be found at http://www.richardherring.com/

Express Your Disgust

Not living in Scotland and not being an Express reader I wasn't party to the ground breaking scoop of 8^th March 2009 when Paula Murray unleashed both her barrels on the Dunblane survivors.

In the days that followed publication, numerous messages started bouncing around the Twitterverse and links were posted to the article. Like many who have read it, I was aghast at the depths to which this journalist was willing to stoop. After reading it, I read it again. I was looking for the public interest. I was looking for, well, the story.

I've since sent a few e-mails and signed a petition but I still feel genuine anger. This anger isn't just about the article, it's also about the Press Complaints Commission's codes of practice, and oddly, it's also because despite the few e-mails and the petition signing, I feel so useless and somehow, vulnerable. I don't know what else to do and so the anger turns to frustration which in turn spins back round to anger. But this post isn't about me. Truth be told it's not about the Dunblane survivors whose only misdemeanour seems to be acting like normal teenagers. It's about a shining (though perhaps in context that should be rusted and faecal splattered) example of the gutter press and her character assassination of the most vile kind. It's about Paula Murray.

I keep wondering why she felt the need to attack these survivors. Was Paula Murray involved in some horrific accident that left her in a coma through her teenage years? Was she so ostracised by her peers she spent her adolescence locked in her bedroom, cardigan buttoned to the neck, nose in an Enid Blyton? However she spent it, she clearly never uttered a foul word, had any form of sexual encounter or made any obscene gestures, as that would just be hypocritical.

Anyway, one much wiser than I has collated the details and explains the situation much better than I ever could, so I would ask those few who stumble across my words to please read his: http://bit.ly/3hukrY

At Home with The Dentons - Episode Six:

O' Brother

Paul: Hi JC.
JC: Hi Paul. Listen we need to talk about Alex
Paul: Why?
JC: Well because I want him out of the house, so you've got to tell him to go.
Paul: Hey, if you want him gone, you tell him. You're not the boss of me.
JC: Yes I am.
Paul: Oh.

Martin

Once upon a time, not too long ago, there was a little watermelon who's name was Martin. Martin was a happy little watermelon who looked forward to growing up and being a nice big watermelon. He would spend his days in his little corner of the greenhouse, practising his dynamic tension and waiting for George to visit. George tended to Martin and was an accomplished gardener. Each day he would stand over Martin and smile down at him. He'd check the soil, give him a dash of water and take hold of him, squeezing a little. Though they were quite rough, Martin felt at ease when George laid his hands on him. He would have liked to make friends with the strawberries too, but he always felt they looked down on him, so he focused all his attention on George and making George proud. Martin liked George. George was his best friend.

One morning, Martin was aware that something was different. He took a moment to compose himself and started his dynamic tension routine, only he couldn't. He had no flexibility. Every part of him was taught. He concentrated and could sense the vitamin C levels within him had peaked. He realised he was now a fully mature watermelon and felt elation and pride. The strawberries could look down on him all they wanted, he knew when George arrived he would be proud of him. He felt himself glow, his green flesh incandescent.

As the sun started to fall on the west side of the greenhouse, it's rays smashed through the glass roof and shone on Martin like a spot light. George would be visiting soon and Martin, eager to please, made every effort to soak up as much of the sun's rays as he could. He really wanted to look his best when George arrived.

Martin felt a chill and looked up to see George stood over him, casting a shadow. As George bent down, Martin could see his smile. Martin had never seen George so happy, and so felt happier than he'd ever felt himself and relaxed as George laid his hands on his ripe body. Martin was soon being carried on a euphoric cloud. George had never held him this long before. His hands were caressing every part of his flesh, his fingers probing every pore. Martin felt alive in a way he could never have imagined. George's fingers reached underneath, into the dirt, and Martin started to drift off as if into a dream. He'd never been touched there before, it was exciting, electrifying. Every fibre of his being trembled, and then the pain. Incredible pain. Mixed with the exquisite pleasure of touch Martin was dumbfounded. The contradiction was terrifying, alluring. The combination unbearable, delightful. Through agony and ecstasy, Martin passed out.

When Martin woke he felt weary. He was exhausted. There was something wrong with his soil, it was hard. The greenhouse glass was fogged, only one pane seemed to be allowing light through. He could just make out George stood by it, though he seemed shorter, half the height he usually was. No, wait. George wasn't shorter, Martin was taller, higher. As his mind cleared a little more Martin realised this wasn't the greenhouse, and he wasn't sat in soil but was on some kind of wooden board. As George approached Martin saw he had something shiny in his hand. A ruler? Was George going to measure him? George took hold of Martin with his granite like left hand. His grip was firm and lacked the care Martin was used to. George raised his right hand and Martin now saw the knife clearly. This was wrong. There's been a mistake. They've been friends for so long. Friends don't hurt each other.

Martin wanted to scream, to plead with George. He wanted to remind George of all the time they'd spent together and how George was like a father and best friend all rolled in to one, but he couldn't. Martin was a watermelon, and watermelons can't speak. He began to weep.

As George's knife tore through Martin's flesh and cut into his body, a few of Martin's tears escaped.