John Walker's Electronic House

A new radio programme by Triforce Hero Ste Curran and friends started this week in That London.

Called One Life Left, it is the meandering conversations of Ste, Robert Howells and Ann “The Hound” Scantlebury, discussing videogames and associated culture, with various guests, features and bits.

Once such ‘bit’ features me, doing a silly voice, in the guise of Dr. Watch. On alternate weeks, Jim and I will be presenting entries from Professor Game and Dr. Watch’s Lexicon of Gameography.

The programme is to be ‘podcast‘ (or as old relics like me call it, ‘stuck up as an mp3 on the internet’ – be sure this will constitute a future entry in the Lexicon) shortly after each week, and available for your listenage here.

(From the start, it’s probably best to establish that this is a single-player review of World Poker Tour, despite its online capabilities. There are two good reasons for this. First, I played it on PS2 and I’m not a witch. Second, if you want to play online poker, there are ridiculous numbers of far easier ways to do it, with infinitely more appropriate interfaces, making the online options of WPT entirely defunct from the off.)

We do seem to be rather lacking a decent poker game. The continuing international phenomenon of Texas Hold ‘Em (such that you can’t turn on Rich Man’s Telly without at least one channel showing a game, any time of day) means that everyone’s trying to find ways to make a buck (so long as it doesn’t involve actually playing Texas Hold ‘Em) before the fad fades away.

I’m going to prove that you’re a really sick puppy: You want serial killers to kill again.

But it’s only you that thinks that way, and the rest of us are sickened by you.

Keeping Sundays special.

I am a crybaby. And I don’t care what you think. Well, that’s simply not true, is it? If I didn’t care what you think, I wouldn’t be setting out to write a piece, on a widely read website, explaining why the crybaby gets the best deal. I deeply care what you think. In fact, if you don’t like me, I may… sniffle… come on, let’s get on with it.

This week’s titular question is obviously a silly one. Answer: Yes. Next issue please! I think anyone who might take the stance that games cannot make you cry is either a sociopath, has never played Angel of Darkness and tried to walk in a straight line, or simply a big, lying coward. Begone, cowards! Today is the day of the ludicrously emotional – we shall triumph and probably get all weepy as we accept our victory.

New piece up on The Escapist. It starts to make sense eventually. And hidden within is a splendid interview with (Uncle) Charles Cecil – the nicest man in the whole games industry.

New Brian at the weekend, folks.

While musicing, I want to mention the splendid new project by Bishop Allen.

In case anyone is wise enough to sit up and take notice at the name, the band features Christian Rudder. He was the co-creator of The Spark, many years ago before it became an advertising hoarding for Barnes & Noble, and the writer of the extraordinarily funny Science experiments. It was he that orchestrated the Fat Project, seeing if people could gain 30lb in 30 days, and the Stinkyfeet Project, in which he attempted to contract the most unpleasant illness possible by scooching around in the shower of the Boston Y, then sealing his feet in plastic bags for a month. He got trenchfoot.

The Spark was also famous for its hugely funny Tests, some of which remain in horribly sanitised forms, most gone completely. Rudder left as the ship sank into corporate evil, set up the never-used Crudder.com (which usually just links to current projects, but now appears to be a confessional about his swimming ability), and then, completely by surprise, revealed Bishop Allen.

Their first album, Charm School, is utter joy, and rarely sees a month go by without a listen, two years later. And this year they are launching a monthly project, releasing a four track EP diary entry, and posting it right to your house. February finally arrived this morning, after a broken disc came a couple of weeks back, and once more it’s four completely splendid tracks of intelligent, witty and sympathetic simplicity. I’m about to order March. (The discs aren’t named after the month they arrive in, but are biographically about the month itself).

There are mp3s on their site, and naturally they have a MySpace site for those who can’t cope with the regular internet any more.

Rudder also went on to co-launch the very splendid OK Cupid dating site-come-test site, which has the best Personality Test on the internet, and plays host to my horrible test from the end of last year.

He’s my favourite internet person. I celebrate him, while listening to his band’s fantastic music.

So now we know why The Beta Band lost their magic after the 3 EPs: They needed to break up.

The Aliens’ single, ‘Robot Man’, created by a couple of the former members, is the best song ever in the whole history of all time this week, and if the Universe is even vaguely correctly balanced, will bring back The Robot dance craze in a manner that will be both horrendous and joyful. To be lazy, it’s Daft Punk meets Primal Scream, with harmonies. And that’s all you need.

What I have learned is: Mario Kart is really, incredibly good. And further, I don’t know why. Mario Kart has unfair deaths, where despite your superb racing technique, and complete trouncing of the AI drivers, a giant blue turtle can still knock you off the track one inch from the finish line, robbing you of your hard-earned victory. You throw your arms up in disgust, swear the paint from the walls, and most likely call Princess Peach a bitch. Then you play again.

It’s been a while – new review up on EG.

So, as all that remains is the tireless, tiresome drudgery of a ceaseless cough, I appear otherwise to have survived the virus attack upon my person.

Things are getting back to normal, and I’m almost done catching up on missed work. This disease has cost me at least £1000, which is galling to say the very least. Please don’t think a week is normally worth £1000 in my life. This was as case of horribly bad timing. And dad, don’t panic, it’s £1000 on top of what I’d usually earn, and I’m not going to starve to death.

Brian will be back and regular from Wednesday – sorry he was gone so long.

I’ll be in that militantly defensive position over flu for a while now, not allowing anyone to call their snivel or cold anything close, until they too haven’t been able to put their own socks on. It’s a stupid and petty illness that just renders you useless for a really long time, with no serious implications or factors that merit any decent sympathy. Boo to flu, I say.

I want to say a HUGE thank you to some people who went far out of their way to look after me last week. Housemate Hicks, Jo Dolby and Stu Campbell were each incredibly kind, and completely super-lovely, going to the shops for me and buying supplies and remedies, and to Amanda Ricard who amazingly, with her afternoon off, came across town to drive me the 200 yards (up the steepest hill in the world) to the doctors. You people are stars – thank you.

Today’s the first day since Sunday that I’ve been able to sit up for more than twenty minutes.

It’s weird to be this ill, without it being in the least bit serious. I feel as though my head is filled with wet socks, and my arms weigh about twice as much as they should, and it still hurts like crazy when coughing (lots of the time then), but today I’m able to be awake more than asleep.

I’ve found this before with being ill – there’s a moment right after waking up in the morning the cruelly tricks you into feeling lots better than you actually are. With the exception of Tuesday, when I woke up feeling like I was being punched in the head, every day this week has offered a cruel lie of hope. Even this morning had a false start – I got up at 9am, felt surprisingly human, sat down on my chair and then ten minutes later was back in bed and asleep for another two hours.

Now I’m wobbling in my chair, but at least sat up, and have been for a couple of hours. I think I’ll be in bed before long, but it’s progress! And how ridiculous – to be pleased with sitting up for a bit, when all that’s wrong with me is a passing virus. There’s no glory in flu.