John Walker's Electronic House

Dexter now hates all of you, after none of the whining arseholes who blather on about wanting more Dex pics, nor anyone from the supposed Dex-loving World Of Stuart forum, could be bothered to leave him a birthday greeting. Apart from Lu-Tze and my 1 year old nephew, who managed.

You are ALL hated.

While they may be slow to admit it, there’s no sociologist in the world who isn’t delighted to find out about a human being having been kept in the most peculiar or traumatic conditions for many years. Not delighted for that person, of course. But here’s an opportunity to study human beings in a way our societal moral codes would prevent. So you’ll hear stories about the girl who was kept in a chicken coop all her childhood and despair at her plight. But we learn an awful lot from her. On a cold, scientific level, if only we could put a thousand children into chicken coops and have them grow up there. But, you know, that would be abhorrent.

Which makes Kid Nation all the more surprising. Whatever you’ve heard about it, it’s not as disturbing as the reality of watching an episode.

Good luck kids!

The concept is this: Forty children from the age of 8 to 15 are bused to an abandoned mining town in Mexico, and left there, on their own, for a month.

Just left as that alone, it’s already bordering on a chicken coop experiment. It’s a shocking sentence to read, let alone to think it’s actually been filmed, and is now airing. And because of that: fantastic. What an incredible opportunity for sociological study!

Of course, the whole concept is immediately broken by being filmed, and thus being a town full of adult cameramen, boom mic operators, directors, etc. Then it’s further broken by being hundreds of hours of events edited down to 13 hour-long episodes. So, well, it’s probably scientifically useless already. But hey, this is television, so this already ludicrous concept isn’t enough. Let’s mess with those kids’ heads.

Click on
(continue reading…)

Sorry it’s been so quiet around here recently. Extraordinarily busy, and building up to Very Exciting Things to happen soon, elsewhere.

Meanwhile, here’s what kept me from writing anything over the weekend – mad, rambling Super Paper Mario review on EG.

The question has to be: Is there finally another must-have game for the Wii? But then of course it could be: Have Nintendo lived up to the reputation of the Paper Mario series? Or perhaps it’s: Is it as funny as the GBA’s Superstar Saga. Worry not, we’ll address them all.

Let’s begin by trying to explain exactly what Super Paper Mario is. Which is no mean feat. It’s not quite an RPG. It’s not quite a platform game. It’s not quite an adventure. Draw the three points on a piece of paper, creating a genre triangle. Then plot a mark for SPM… somewhere on the wall behind you. Glance at it, and you’d think it was a standard platform game. Look at the menus and you’d think it an RPG with as many fiddly options as Paper Mario: Thousand Year Door. Play it for a few moments, and you’ll discover how the 2D levels can be “flipped” into 3D, completely changing all the rules for how to approach a level. Let’s accept it doesn’t really fit into any category, and be rather delighted by that.

New Phoenix Wright review on EG! Woo-hoo!

“A ‘computer virus’? What does one of those do?”

It is, of course, a conversation between the best lawyer in the history of the universe, Phoenix Wright, and the erstwhile Judge presiding over yet another of his cases. He’s back, and he’s back for the last time. And so, once more, I find myself with the opportunity to convince you to buy one of the funniest games you’ll ever play.

Warning: contains satire.

Missing Girl Probably Raped

“It was some Puerto-Rican guy.”

Pretty much the only TV blog I read is TiFaux. The afternoon news headlines by Dan are an excellent way of keeping up to date, then the whole team post regular articles on what they’re watching, and being madly wrong about Studio 60 and thinking Top Chef is better than Hell’s Kitchen. Every now and then I’ve left a comment, which excitingly qualifies me as one of their regulars, whom they’re currently profiling.

So this is all about me, which is obviously a great thing.

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.