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Tuesday 6th November
My body is not my biggest fan. Or if it is a true representation of my audience then maybe I ought to tell the doorman to be more selective. My teeth, though straight, are not in the best in the world, not after the many years of abuse I've given them through sweets and fizzy drinks. My hairline keeps moving back so that the only way of pretending I've still got a full head of hair is to wear a hat. My eyesight is shagged to the point where I need glasses, although I'm reliably informed that that has nothing to do with masturbation, which is nice.
I've got a cyst on my leg that I've had surgery on twice already and I need a third operation since it keeps swelling up and bursting or bleeding. I've got ulcers in my belly that mean it's impossible for me to eat a full meal all in one go, which is fun facing my mother-in-law across the dinner table after she's spent hours cooking…. And then fancying a bag of crisps or something barely half an hour later.
And let's not forget the Crohn's disease. Which for the uninitiated involves gastric ulceration and scarring. Which isn't pleasant, and involves many hours of much wailing and gnashing of teeth. Or it would do if you let me tell you. No? Well I'll save it for the next time we go out for dinner together.
I'm an outstandingly huge egomaniacal narcissist, with crippling insecurities and the stamina of a small asthmatic rodent who's been for a long jog. I find it difficult to communicate with people and a fear of almost anything you care to name.
Oh, and I really do hate everybody. Truly. I can't help getting irrationally violently annoyed by everything from nervous tics to bad accents to bodily noises. I hate people that don't recycle, do recycle and are messianic about it, smokers, non-smokers, foreigners, the English, the fit, the unfit, dull people, madcap people, drunks, louts, idiots, the old, the young, posh people, common people, shoppers, shop assistants, people on the phone, drivers, cyclists, motorcyclists, van-men, van-women, window cleaners, diarists, bloggers, children and myself. So you're pretty much fucked whatever happens.
My mouth gets me into more trouble than it gets me out of and I cannot go a week without annoying or offending somebody for no reason. Then I'll dwell on what I did and how I can make it right to such an extent that I end up hiding in the dark in a cupboard in the back room in the upstairs of my house. Which can go on for days until somebody tempts me out with an offer of cheese, possibly with a cracker.
I have 7 hobbies at last count that take up more time than I physically have to give and more energy than my body could dream of having. All of which have people who want or need more than I can give relying on me to do, give or present something that needs more time than I'll ever see. Meaning that almost everything I do is done on the fly and nowhere near as well finished as I would like.
I go through about 15 nervous breakdowns a year and I'm hoping to work my way up to my own padded cell, possibly with a wet bar.
So the next time I tell you that I'm fine, it's probably best just to go with it.
Thursday 8th November
I am all of a sudden inspired to write. To share my thoughts and feelings with you. To ramble at length about the mysteries of the universe. To explain why I shouldn't be prosecuted for what I did last night. I shan't go into details, but it was definitely for the public good, and so that's all right.
You see, busy as I am, I generally can't find the time or the inclination to put words down into an intelligable format. I'm usually too busy investigating the comfort rating of my own sofa cushions on various parts of my anatomy, like behind the head or feet, clutched into the belly, or possibly covering the breathing passageways of domestic intruders. I've also spent much time on a scientific study of the merits of video gaming (it's very good, and I'm working on a PhD). Other than the times when I'm out and about seeing people and just being randomly great.
I've lost the point of what I was saying.
Oh yes, being inspired to write, so I thought I should tell you what I've been upto and what's been roaming round in my head recently and where I've been on my travels. Easy enough to do I suppose, and there's so much to catch up on, now settle back and have a nice cup of tea while I tell you all about it ….
…. Hmm, I've just spent a couple of hours writing and I realise that there's slightly too much to foist upon you all at once. Come back tomorrow.
Friday 9th November
I finished Final Fantasy XII. This might not sound like a big deal to you, but think of it this way, out of those 12, I own nos I, II, VII, VIII, IX, X, X-2, XII and Crystal Chronicles. All of them take many many many many hours to complete, and the closest I have got was with VII and VIII.
In VII I played about 70 hours worth of it, before ending up on the deck of the airship, flying over the ocean, facing an unkillable giant robot figure of doom, who killed me by scratching it's arse. That's how unmatched the fight was. And by that point it was too late to go back and train a little more. So I was stuffed.
In VIII, I learned my lesson and so I spent 15 years stealing magic from fish, monsters, plants, trees, people, ping-pong balls and gods. I even spent a couple of years playing the silly card game wrapped into the game. I spent so long fighting little monsters and stealing magic from them, that by the time I reached my first mid-level boss, she couldn't even give me a bruise as I rifled her pockets for an hour. I had 99 spells of absolutely everything I'd come across so far. My pockets were loaded to the brim. So I killed her. INSERT DISC 2. At the start of disc 2, you open a cupboard to find a new spell. A NEW SPELL??? That means I now have to toss away one of the spells I have spent a year or two gathering. Aw kack.
I've played pieces of the rest, but nothing worth talking about, so when XII came along, I decided to make another real effort. I would do it. I would try hard and train. I would follow the plot occasionally. I would learn the weapons systems and the magics. I would gather my forces and my wits and actually pay attention to what people say. I wouldn't even load another game until I had finished it.
I WOULD FINALLY FINISH A FINAL FANTASY GAME!
That was my vow. And to be fair, 120 hours in, I did. I completed the thing. I beat a FF game and by god, did I feel proud. So I turned to my audience…. Well, the cat. The cat did seem very impressed though. I myowled in an awed fashion. It could have been because it was hungry but I like to think it was proud of my achievement.
So now, being an expert at FFXII, I thought I could take people for tours around its many and scenic lands. I could tell tales of how I was thrown out of the village of the six-foot lingerie wearing bunny women for lewd conduct and fraud, probably because I wasn't a gorgeous six-foot lingerie clad bunny woman. Or maybe it was because I had lost my pants somewhere along the way.
Or I could tell you how I once poked a 20' dinosaur in the foot with a stick and the dinosaur died instantaneously of shock. I could tell you how I ended up in a cave looking for treasure and found a worm with ten MILLION points worth of health. TEN MILLION. I could tell you how I discovered the secret of the magic flying seaweed while 20 miles inland and enjoying a drink in a lichen-strewn mountain pass.
I could show you where a giant glowing flying beach ball chased me around a sandstorm in the desert for an hour knowing that it would be certain death if it touched me. I remember kicking the arse of the grim reaper AND his girlfriend after they popped out of a cupboard with an alarm clock.
I could show you where I met a small chicken before a large asteroid fell onto it from space. And I could show you the most slappable child on the face of the planet. Well, maybe that would be a close run thing, but by god, this one doesn't half whine; to you, to his parents, even to the lizard bloke with the very large curvy sword behind him.
I'd love to show you the home of the lizard that carries a chainsaw, or the dragon that has no treasure. I'd like to show you the rabbit that instils such a sense of guilt that killing it is an offence against everything you hold as holy. I'd love to introduce you to the bad that can destroy the universe with it's tiniest squeak, and maybe someday somebody will tell me what is that thing that floats above a moogle's head.
But best of all, the last stop on the tour, the grand finale, would be the spot where there once was a treasure chest that you're not supposed to open. Look, it stood right there. How could you not open it? Only a telepath or a psychopath wouldn't open that without being told. Sheesh.
Tuesday 13th November
I was in the countryside. I know, it sounds a shock, but I did go out there and to be honest, I didn't manage to find boredom once. I wasn't actively seeking it, but still, it never came looking for me either. You see, there's always something to do in the countryside, even if it's just sitting on your arse and reading a book, not that I had time for that. You see, I had many things going on while there.
We went to the local town. And by local I mean over ten miles away, while driving at a close approximation of the speed of sound. And that sound is AAAAAAARGH.
Anyway. In town we took great pleasure in visiting the shops. I personally spent a long time in the lingerie shop making lewd suggestions through the dressing room curtains to strangers. I didn't even get arrested this time, which is a bonus. Probably because it happens so often.
I spent one day in a chilly church hall weaving baskets from strips of drowned Willow, sorry, I meant willow, in the company of four lovely ladies who meet up once a month to wiffle, natter and learn basket making. And for the entire day I couldn't shift the Kate Rusby version of "The Village Green Preservation Society" from my head. You know, the one that they use as the theme tune to 'Jam and Jerusalem'. I really really want a copy of that song now.
Don't let it be said that the country people are in any way backward when it comes to technology either. I was given a huge mound of planking and scrap wood to chop up and a chopsaw to do it with. The chopsaw was even plugged in. I then spent no less than four hours trying to figure out how to make the chopsaw work. Not the whizzy bit, that's not a problem, but the arm that it was on wouldn't move. Not for love, money, bribery or hitting it with a hammer would make that arm move. Screaming at it didn't do anything nor did poking, prodding and yanking every single moving and unmoving part of it. Nope, after four hours, I had worked up a fine heavy sweat, dented nearly everything in the back yard and chopped precisely no wood. I had to admit defeat and ask the guy who owned it. For future reference, there's a pin in the back that you pull out. Gets a little stuck sometimes, but give it a tug and out it comes, just like that. Ten minutes later I had a huge pile of nicely chopped wood and one suspicious mound of overturned earth in the garden. Nicely done.
Though it is safe to say they have interesting and unusual creatures in the countryside. And I'm not just referring to the fact that every single creature in the country is absolutely covered in shit. From nose to tail, the things just absolutely love the covered in shit angle. It must be the fashion. Perhaps Paris Fashion week could learn from them. Perhaps they already have.
But I wasn't lying about the dead sheep. There are sheep out there who're either on the cusp of death, excellent actors or just haven't stopped moving since they visited the great beyond. There is a sheep that I saw who's entire existence revolves around being dead. I'm not kidding, flat on back, feet in the air, not eating, not moving for days or even a week or more. This is not a problem, the animal is dead, this happens, it's the great circle of life and it moves us all. However, once you go over to it, you can grab hold of it's fleece, haul it upright and it wombles off on it's merry way with barely a little bleat to thank you. And tomorrow morning when you look out of the window? Yup, it's back to being dead.
There's pheasants. Oh god the pheasants. I'll get back to you on the pheasants.
But most fun of all, why not sleep in a house with a country cat. It's a roller coaster of fun, and by fun I mean the most traumatising scenes from Watership Down. Literally. Pretend it's 2am. Pretend you're comfortably asleep. You don't have to pretend it's dark since there's no bleeding point to you having your eyes or the curtains open or closed… there is absolutely NO ambient light whatsoever. None. Now that you're comfortable and in the dark, try and picture what sounds a rabbit can make while it's fighting for its life. Screaming. And wailing. Next to your head. Yes, the country cat has decided that you are not only it's friend, but it's Emperor. And in celebration of your Imperium it has chosen to stage a gladiatorial combat less than six feet from your sleeping form and of course, the fight is to the death.
The major difference is that when gladiators killed their worthy foe, they didn't generally spend an hour gutting and boning the corpse before noisily eating the floppy bits before snuggling down on the emperor for a snooze.
I dunno, maybe it would make the films more interesting.
Monday 26th November
Now some of you might have heard my feelings towards MySpace in the past. And when I tell you that there's a film currently being made where everything that contributes towards it is down to votes and opinions of MySpace members, you might understand that I'm not exactly going to be that keen on how it turns out. You see, everything from the cast to the script to the director to the toilet roll was chosen by those lovely people who …. You get the idea.
Now what's in production is a wee film called 'Faintheart', which is about a historical battle reinactor who is a member of a Viking society.
You're way ahead of me.
So they called the Vyke. And offered us jobs to play the other Vikings to fill out the battle lines for the battle scenes. Well obviously not the battle lines for the shopping at Woolworths scenes. You get the idea. Now I've got a battle raging inside me. Do I stay at home for artistic integrity? Do I go because of my absolutely enormous need for glory? Do I go because I've got nothing better to do? No, I'll do it for the money. Thank you very much.
Which is why, one sunday Sunday not long ago, I found myself clad for battle with my sword in one hand and my shield in the other stood next to Ewan Bremner in a shieldwall facing down a healthy hoarde of filthy Normans. Led of course by Kevin Eldon. (Spud from Trainspotting and Simon Quinlank respectively. If you don't know who Simon Quinlank is then admit you're an uneducated heathen and go search around on YouTube, I'm sure he'll be there.)
Now from the 4:30am (yes, a.m.) wake up to the 4pm dismissal we were in a moderately damp field, some in armour, all of us needing more sleep, the main cast freezing their feet off with the un-waxed boots. And there I am, dying piece by piece. Not from anything in particular, just in a general way. You know how it is.
You see, because as much as I want to hate it. As much as I want to despise the production, the staff, the cast and the crew, the script, the props, the food, the facilities, the set and the smoke machines… I can't. It's just about one of the more professional crews as I've worked with, and I've worked with a few, both as extra and actor, even though I'm there as a combat specialist this time. Which is a laugh.
But seriously, information is communicated swiftly and efficiently, the cameras take as short a time as possible to set up, nobody in the cast is being a primadonna and nobody wastes time once there is work to be done. In fact with the short daylight available the filming is never put on hold and keeps rolling while different people take their breaks through the day. Best of all is while there is a moment to relax, relax is what people do, it might be cold and in a field and you're choking through smoke, but the sense of humour isn't lost, which is a gratifying thing.
So as I say, as much as I wanted to hate it, I just can't. I'm even looking forward to see if the finished product is any good. It's just possible that it might be enjoyable.
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