John Walker's Electronic House

You can’t walk down a virtual street these days without some young hooligan’s skateboarding game tearing around in front of you, probably mugging old ladies and eating their drugs I shouldn’t wonder. And it’s only going to get worse, with EA’s Skate imminent, and now news that Mr Tony Hawk has once more been hard at work in his attic, coding another in his long-running series.

Tony Hawk’s Proving Ground. That’s what part nine is called. Nine! That’s not bad going, especially when you consider at one point the series was a horrid, soulless, Jackass cash-in. But all that was forgiven with a God-like grace after the prodigal son came home, and was dressed in the robes of the sublime Project 8. The fattened calf never saw it coming.

An unapologetically positive preview of the new Tony Hawk game. Because it looks awesome.

Here I bring you a tale of great woe and suffering unlike mankind has ever known, and then a story of such delight and happiness to make you weep until dry. It all began with a cab journey…

On Sunday night I was returning from Guildford after a weekend of hanging out with my nephew and becoming his godfather, and arrived in Bath to find that there are no buses home at such an obscure hour as 8.45pm. So instead I hopped into one of the taxis outside the station, rather than walk up the hill with my heavy bag and tired legs. The taxi driver was a nice enough chap, reasonably chatty, but not so that I couldn’t enjoy playing Phoenix Wright 3 on my DS as we travelled. As I arrived home, I put the DS in my trouser pocket, got my wallet, saw that my DS had fallen out so put it back into my pocket, and left the cab. I got in, emptied my stuff onto my bed, and no DS. Running out the door I saw the brake lights of the taxi go around the corner, so I sprinted down the road (really remarkably quickly), but to no avail. He was gone.

Of course, I had no idea whose taxi I’d just been in. But there’s one big firm in Bath, so I called them, desperately hoping it was one of theirs. Still out of breath from running down the road, I gasped to them where I’d been picked up and when. The lady replied, “We don’t do pick-ups from the station. Those are independent drivers. You’ll have to call the council on… Tuesday morning.” I sank inside. Not only was it a driver with no depot or base to hand lost property to, but it was going to be two days before I’d be able to talk to anyone about it. Doomed.

Let me explain the problem. My DS is more than an expensive toy – it’s a source of lots of my income. Worse, in the GBA slot was my memory expansion cart for the web browser, which is another £30 on top of the £90 or so the DS was worth. But it gets even worse – I’m midway through reviewing Phoenix Wright, and the thought of having to start over again without my save positions was not fun. In total, it was about £160 worth of stuff, but also hours and hours of work I don’t have time to repeat. Also, it’s my DS! But there was nothing I could do, other than be furious at myself for being so deeply idiotic as to put the DS back in a pocket that clearly wasn’t going to contain it, when I had a bag in my other hand that would have transported it fine.

As I’m sure you’ll agree, this is the worst thing that has ever happened to anyone ever, and puts a lot of the plights of so-called suffering around the world into perspective.

Tuesday morning arrived, and as I walked to the bus I phoned the council’s taxi division at the moment it turned 9am. It seemed fairly hopeless – the chances of the next fare not pocketing it seemed slim, let alone the taxi driver not accepting the kind gift of a Nintendo DS, along with the Special Cards in both slots. It got worse. The council lady told me that anything left in a taxi by their registered drivers is to be handed in to the police. The chances of ever seeing it again seemed far more remote. She gave me a number for the local police station.

It was a number that did nothing other than illicit a strange bleeping noise on my phone before cutting me off. I called 118 type people, and they gave me a more general 0845 number of the police, and it seemed even more unlikely. There a friendly voice took the details of what I was looking for, and with a hopeless tone told me she’d take a look. After a while on hold she said to me,

“Did you say it was a Nintendo handheld games system?”

Yes, I said.

“Black?”

Yes.

And then with remarkable surprise in her voice,

“We’ve had one handed in! 26th August, from a taxi.”

She sounded as though this was the first time a piece of desired lost property had ever existed. I couldn’t believe my ears. She said, “It could be a different one, of course.” And despite the unlikely nature of this, I decided she could be right.

However, heading to the police station that lunchtime I was presented with my Precious, all carts in their slots, looking up at me with grateful, relieved eyes to be back with its daddy.

The cab driver, who is the Greatest Human Alive, chose not to leave his details, putting, “Prefer to remain anonymous” on all forms, leaving me no way to contact him to thank him for his remarkable act of generosity. Not only did he not keep something that an idiot had left in his car, but he also went out of his way to take it to the police station, which I don’t think anyone’s done since 1954. Which means there’s only one possible explanation – he was an angel. A bearded, overweight angel. Thank you taxi driving angel. Thank you.

This post has been a long time coming. In many ways it’s part 2 of the Cotswolds story from November last year. It’s to do with my trip to Weston-“Super”-Mare a couple of months back, despite no specifics. And it’s to do with my trip to Lulworth Cove a couple of weekends ago. It’s about decaf coffee.

(If this seems familiar, a lot of this is repeated from this post. I just felt like telling the story again. All new material from, “But it does mean I’ve switched to decaf” onward).

Since last November, I’ve not drunk coffee*. To people who know me well enough, this isn’t a light-hearted statement. There are people I think who have never seen me without a mug of coffee in my hands. These people might be frightened by the news. Be strong. It used to be easy to buy me a present – buy something coffee related, be it coffee itself, or any of the wonderful paraphernalia that accompanies this noblest of drinks. And no one bought me better coffee-related gifts than me. Good old me. Most especially my beautiful £200 espresso machine (originally £300, but when you’re a Coffee Person, other Coffee People will give you special treatment. It’s a lot like the Freemasons, but with fewer exposed nipples). I didn’t drink insane amounts. Only three to five mugs a day. But it was strong coffee. Good, strong coffee.

Aside – I don’t know if I ever blogged the story of how I knew I was Harold Bishop. One evening, a few years back, I was watching Neighbours – something I hadn’t done for a long time then, and don’t think I have since. Harold (the coffee shop owner) and Lou (the pub owner) appeared to be involved in some sort of coffee war, where Lou had clearly copied Harold and bought the same shiny new espresso machine in order to compete. But Lou didn’t know how it worked, and was hanging around the coffee shop, trying to spy on Harold, in order to figure it out. As he did this, he struck up conversation with Harold, talking about how pleased he was with his “new expresso machine”. “It’s ESPresso machine!” I shouted at the television. Lou went on, saying how great it was to be able to sell “expresso” to his customers. “ESSSSPRESSO!” I bellowed at the unlistening glass divide. “I think expresso is the way forward…” “IT’S ESSSSSSSPRSSOO!” I near screamed in fury at the stupidity of the programme.

I am Harold Bishop.

So I went to the doctor in November, as my anxiety disorder had reached a new peak. To describe this, you know that feeling you get when you’re really worried, and a shiver goes through you, and all the way to the ends of your fingertips? I was in that state, permanently, to the point where my fingers were constantly stinging. Not fun. The GP suggested that I might want to give up coffee, as this makes things worse, and certainly affects sleep. And it was my immediate reaction to his statement that raised the suggestion for me that I might have a problem. I honestly replied,

“But I can’t. I have an expensive espresso machine.”

Detoxing wasn’t much fun. Which only further underlined quite how surprisingly serious the matter was. I spent two weeks with non-stop headaches, bordering on migraines. And I felt just hideous. Worst of all, I knew just a single mug would make it all better. In the past when I’ve lacked coffee for a morning, just supping those first couple of mouthfuls would ease the pain. I felt angry and frustrated, and very sore. The following couple of weeks were less painful, but not much more fun. But after a month, I was beginning to stop desperately wanting a mug. After two months and I realised I wouldn’t even think about it for a couple of days at a time. And now, ten months on, I’m clean, man.

But it does mean I’ve switched to decaf. Because I really, really like coffee. Finding a decent decaf was a challenge, but eventually delicious D:CAF available in Waitrose did the trick. And they do a Fairtraide bean, as well as their excellent transitionary strength 4 Italian. But findind a decaf outside my house is a hell of a lot harder than I thought it would be.

The first, and still most injurous time, was my second day in the Cotswolds. We went to an establishment looking just the right side of the cafe/coffee shop divide, to have a drink. I ordered a decaf coffee, which arrived in one of those ridiculous one-person cafetieres. Nick also had coffee, and impressively, his came in a black cafetiere, and mine in a red one – the usual coloured delineation for the two types. So I plunged my coffee (suspicions already arising), and poured it into the mug. I didn’t even need to taste it to know, but a sip of the vile, bitter piss confirmed it. It was instant coffee.

The idea that we still sell this Second World War rationing freeze-dried shit in this country – SELL – is hateful enough. But to have it served in a cafetiere is despicable. I called the waitress back over, and asked her if it was instant. “Yes,” she replied, as if this was quite reasonable. “Then why did you serve it to me in a cafetiere?!” “That’s just how it comes,” the fat-faced baboon replied. “I’m not paying money for instant coffee!” I cried, like a hero of the modern age. And handed it back to her.

While nowhere has matched the truly heinous shop (and while I recognise this isn’t big on the list of world problems, I do think it’s fairly horrific to not only charge money for instant coffee, but to disguise it as something else), the pattern has repeated. Bars with a barrista have regularly tried to quietly dump a spoon of granules into a mug, hiding their actions with their backs. “Excuse me, is that instant coffee?” I bark. They guiltily turn around and admit it is. “Uh, no thanks,” I reply, and if alone, leave.

In Lulworth, the expedition to find somewhere that sold any decaf at all, let alone espresso, was enormous. Which is impressive for a village with about five buildings. It was the very last coffee shop/cafe I tried, attached to the side of the most incredibly tacky gift shop, that finally offered not only a decaffeinated option, but a delicious, freshly made one. I thanked the man behind the counter with a gusto that frightened him.

Naturally, this is not the case in the US. When in some out-of-the-way mall on the outskirts of DC, I went to a coffee booth – not a store, just a counter sticking out of the wall – and when I asked for decaf they asked me which flavour of bean I would like. As I was deciding I realised I didn’t have any cash, and said I’d be back once I’d been to the ATM. “No, don’t worry,” replied the lovely girl behind the counter. “You can have it for free.” I said it was fine, and came back with cash, but still. Still.

*Not completely true. I’ve had two mugs of coffee, in May, which led to a horrible headache, and none since.

Exciting news-o-rama!

A brand new blog launches today, written by some of the finest minded (and finest looking) games journalists in the business. Called Rock, Paper, Shotgun, it’s the collective work of Kieron Gillen, Jim Rossignol, Alec Meer, and me, hello. It’s a PC gaming blog, covering everything to do with PC games, ever.

There’s a good month’s worth of content up there already to peruse, and most excitingly, an exclusive interview with Bioshock’s Ken Levine posted today.

Bookmark it, RSS to it, marry it. It’s a big, new, and exciting thing that will be updated every day with comment and thoughts on PC gaming news, games and esoterica.

How lovely that Mr Shakespeare was scoffing at the nonsense of astrology all those years ago.

This is the excellent foppery of the world, that,
when we are sick in fortune,–often the surfeit
of our own behavior,–we make guilty of our
disasters the sun, the moon, and the stars: as
if we were villains by necessity; fools by
heavenly compulsion; knaves, thieves, and
treachers, by spherical predominance; drunkards,
liars, and adulterers, by an enforced obedience of
planetary influence; and all that we are evil in,
by a divine thrusting on: an admirable evasion
of whoremaster man, to lay his goatish
disposition to the charge of a star! My
father compounded with my mother under the
dragon’s tail; and my nativity was under Ursa
major; so that it follows, I am rough and
lecherous. Tut, I should have been that I am,
had the maidenliest star in the firmament
twinkled on my bastardizing.

The demolishing of Grylls continues, and this time hilariously. Who cares that he’s wearing a life jacket as he goes down a white water river holding only his backpack? He still went down a white water river holding only his backpack, with a life jacket on. But the above clip is most amusing. Stolen from What Would Tyler Durden Do?

The new Phoenix Wright, Ace Attorney: Trials and Tribulations, comes out a week tomorrow – Pre-Order! Pre-Order! Pre-Order!

There’s the horrible chance you don’t know who Phoenix Wright is. Nick, as his teenage assistant, Maya, refers to him, is a young defense attorney, working in a legal system based more on the rules of blind man’s bluff than anything more real-world. In alternating sections, Phoenix must investigate murders (going from area to area, interviewing people involved, and searching locations for evidence), and then enter court where he must cross-interrogate the witnesses provided by the prosecution. This is done by applying the evidence to reveal what the game so vivaciously calls “contradictions” in the witness’s words. In a manner. It’s all done with such a mad sense of purest joy that you want to hug your DS. Check out my Eurogamer review for more details, including how Maya channels the spirit of her dead older sister, also manifesting her larger boobies.

There’s also some confusion over the which game is which in this series, so let’s clear it all up.

There were originally three Gyakuten Saiban (Ace Attorney – I think) games on the GBA, in Japan only. For reasons unknown, but providing unbridled joy, the decision was made to remake these for the DS. The first, Phoenix Wright: Ace Attorney, came with the original four chapters, and then a bonus brand new chapter made especially for the new release, featuring a slightly tweaked cast. It used the touch screen even more than the port of the previous chapters, letting you rotate evidence to find hidden clues, and lots of gimmicky scratching and blowing things.

Then the second game, Phoenix Wright: Ace Attorney: Justice For All, received a similar treatment, except without the bonus levels. Everyone was back, with excellent new cast members like Pearl, another young psychic, and the inclusion of Psyche Locks – a means of applying the evidence manipulation from the court areas into the rest of the game.

Then the confusion arrived when Gyakuten Saiban 4 came out in Japan. There was no sign of part 3, and this time there was no English translation. In fact, it’s a brand new game set after the GBA titles, and featuring a completely new cast, without Phoenix Wright in the lead role. In the meantime, part 3 was in fact being given the same porting and translation, and that’s out in Japan on the 23rd.

Which for me is a reminder to finish the final chapter of part two. I had to stop to review it, and never reached the conclusion, which I’m finally putting right. And the fifth chapter is absolutely splendid. It’s a sort of ‘best of’, picking up story threads from both games, bringing in old favourite characters, and creating a double-team of evil prosecution lawyers with all sorts of melodrama. This is how excited it’s getting me for part 3: I’m not sure whether to play Bioshock or Phoenix Wright first. Yes.

I’ve feeling it’ll have to be PW so I can get the review done in time for EG, which means I’m going to have to play it in some sort of Bioshock-information-proof bunker. I’ll be switching off the internet that Friday, so download everything you need Thursday night.

PS. Does anyone really want to hear the inane music independently of the game?

Damages – FX

Glenn Close did a stunning turn in a previous season of The Shield, and presumably this gave FX cause to beg her to do her own series. And the results are excellent. Taking the traditional FX model of a single story running for a season, Close plays a litigation lawyer who is famous for her ruthless practice, and indeed practise, taking on a seemingly impossible case to prove a businessman unfairly fired hundreds of employees. It’s a big money case, and a lot is at stake. The story is shown from the perspective of a freshly qualified lawyer who finds herself in at the deep end of the case, under Close’s wing. Which turns out to be the worst place to be. Each episode flashes forward to some event in the future where our heroine is in a police interrogation cell, her boyfriend dead, his blood all over her. It seems it can only be Close’s doing, and the journey of how we get from here to then is intriguing. Strongly boosted by Close’s excellent menace, and a decent supporting cast, it shows a lot more promise than other FX shows that have been stuck in the gaps between series of The Shield.

Bionic Woman – NBC

Hooray – the sexy assistant lady from Jekyll has her own show! From the makes of Battlestar Galactica, and indeed apparently the cast of Battlestar Galactica, it’s yet another old show brought back from the past for a more cynical audience. There’s a decent amount of promise in this pilot, getting things dark enough to be interesting, and witty enough to survive the ludicrous story. It very much follows the BSG formula of implying a deep background story as more important than the episodic tale. Most importantly, it features super-fast running in the woods, and jumping from rooftop to rooftop, which is all the show really needs to do. Plus it’s got Starbuck in it, so double hooray!

Many more after the click.

(continue reading…)

In theme with this blog being taken over by a pet, here’s another Dexter post. It seems he’s become the Official Cat of the World of Stuart Forums, which appears to primarily involve Fark-style photoshops. Which is a Good Thing.