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.

At Home with The Dentons - Episode Eleven:

Love Casualty

Paul: See you later JC.
JC: Where are you going?
Paul: Got to pick Alex up from the clinic.
JC: Clinic?
Paul: Yeh, he's had treatment for the infection he caught from Ava.
JC: Ava? But she's, I mean, she's an AI construct. She has no physical form.
Paul: I know. Anyway, I wouldn't use the holograph generator for a while.
JC: Ew!

Tightening Up

I know, I've been slacker than a cheap whore's money maker of late. I'd like to say it's because I've been so focused on my exercise regime that when not pumping my body full of lactic acid and natural endorphins I've been stood in front of a mirror admiring my finely tuned physique.

Obviously I can't say that as it would be an obscenely large mountain of bullshit and only slightly more difficult to swallow than a BBC press release stating that they are actively seeking a woman over the age of 50 to present a popular Saturday night entertainment program.

Anyway, I've no doubt my absence from the densely populated blogosphere has gone largely unnoticed so my preoccupation with other, more interesting, things was under no pressure to cease being indulged.

“What is this wondrous new thing that has kept you from projecting your innermost thoughts out into the void where they are free to roam and meet other thoughts, do some networking, get a job and then turn up on your doorstep one July morning laughing at you, dressed in a fine suit from Slaters in Liverpool, a good one, not one of the cheap ones off the rack but a proper tailored one, like you'd only get for a really special occasion like your wedding, but is now before you being worn as a regular day suit?”

Well no-one in particular, It's none of your damn business and I'll thank you to refrain from such intrusions in future.