A multi-billion dollar industry, where's the recognition?

The videogame industry, an invention of the latter half of the 20th Century, has roots that echo the more modern forms of recorded entertainment that are recognised with lavish award ceremonys that are televised around the world. Like the early steps that the Lumière brothers took with the cinema, early videogames initially served to experiment with the medium of moving pixels around to imitate already established forms of physical games such as sports and pen and paper games like tic-tac-toe.

Censorship is an issue within videogames that with the ability of the 3D hardware made available during the mid-90s, realism can start being depicted to the point where they are giving Hollywood cinema SFX a run for its money. When it comes to classification, the days of X-rated films that were deemed too violent and disgusting for the fragile minds of society were gone as far as I'm aware. Yet, when the game 'Left 4 Dead 2' went to classification in Australia, they deemed its post-apocalyptic zombie aesthetic, banning it due to its "realistic, frenetic, and unrelenting violence". Although this could descend into the debate about censorship as a whole, bear in mind the amount of graphic zombie films that have recently glistend the silver screen. Dawn of the Dead anyone? It's countless and sometimes awful sequels? If the poor excuse for torture porn that was Hostel was allowed a general release down under, what does this say about the credibility of the ratings board?

As such, films seem to be allowed special treatment under the ever watchful eyes who monitor social standards, but it appears to be an never ending cycle. Literature faced censorship first, with book burnings taking place for tomes that went against a powerful figure, then the MPAA attempted to censor films out of existence that went against its Christian middle American values.

In the heavyweight realms of entertainment, the mediums of film and literature (and with the advent of the graphic novel even comic books) are being recognised internationally for their artistic merits and willingness to push the boundaries of the medium. Whenever the media picks up on a videogame story, they tend to send a clueless general tech correspondent to cover a market whos annual revenue is almost five times that of the film industry. My favourite news service, the goold old BBC, is as much a perpetrator as any other news agency in this manner. When the medium shakes of the shackles of its humble initial incarnations as a ball and two paddles, which doesn't look likely seeing as the release of both the Nintendo DS and Wii have pretty much guarenteed that gimics prevail over true ingenuity.

Caped Crusaders in Colchester

As much as tight spandex has a certain ‘sex’ appeal, it by rights should stay in the realms of 80s aerobic classes. However when it comes to hiding ones identity and flaunting your superhero prowess, hoods and long coats are the uniform of a newly formed vigilante group patrolling the streets of Colchester.

The Nightwatchers, four twenty-something budding crime fighters hailing from the Colchester area have taken it upon themselves to ensure that those fortunate enough to have the money to spend on a decent night out get home safely. Going by the atypical aliases of Dr Insomnia, The Nightman, The Shover and The Green & White Knight, subtle references to a recent comic book adaptation are readily apparent. Vigilante groups have been a staple of literature since the times of Robin hood, and more recently in the age of the comic book superhero, yet it is in the land of the free that Americans unhappy with the way justice is served have setup groups to tackle these social ills. The Nightwatchers, and no doubt the copycats who will spring up to get in on the publicity, run the risk of derision even though their intentions may be well founded. The Guardian Angel organisation based in New York however faced opposition from the offset, with chapters being publicly

In response to the surfacing of the team, the police were quick to promote the superheroes that have been busting crime and drunk and disorderly behaviour on Friday and Saturday nights, their very own elite force of Special Constables. The local boys in blue however have criticized the wannabe Justice League’s efforts, stating that a lack of “training, backup or support” will hamper the League’s efforts in helping patrol the streets effectively.

I personally know many souls who live by the mantra that alcohol is the cause of, and solution to, all of lives problems, and it appears to be the glue that holds our social beings together. In saying this, bearing witness to the amount of fights in kebab shops and outside cab offices, all a result of happy juice induced anger it surely is a burden on the already stretched resources of the police.

Even with Colchester’s crime rates below the national average, many people are still upset at the current state of affairs in local politics. community activism also saw the rise of a national star in the guise of a walking pile of moss, the ‘Human Shrub’. Not just another comic convention reject, the Shrub in garnering the attention of the national press has really highlighted the plight of the shrubbery in the town, and is able to command a squad of eco-warriors in fighting against the infectious weeds that have plagued our peaceful lands.

Moving in but not moving on…

Today is the day that I head off to ol’ Colly and put dibs on the best room in the house, and lay down the law with Mr. Fantastic landlord, putting on my “giving a stern telling off” boots today!

--==RANT BEGINS==--

When I like something, or someone, as with everything else that I encounter that interests me I have to know everything there is to know about said item/individual, as otherwise I feel left out of the loop and when it comes to people, not really needed. I remember all the stuff that isn’t too important, and I listen an awful lot to people in the hope that they will eventually want to know how my day has been or what's getting me down. People call me the ‘nice guy’, the one that gets on with almost everybody and would help you out even at the detriment of my own wellbeing, and to be honest, I really wish I wasn’t.

I’ve always people-watched, did it last week whilst tucking into pie & mash with me mother, and got a scolding for it, but I can’t help being judgemental, I think its the reason people do honestly seek out my advice, as I can’t stand people who think they are better then everybody, or people who are proud to be scummy, tower block living, crack smoking Dagenhamites when they can lift not only themselves out, but more importantly their at risk children, with something as simple as an education.

I feel really alone at times, and it comes from being a listener and not a talker, or at least an assertive one when it comes to certain people, but then I think that we all experience the same emotions, the same thoughts and feelings of loneliness and rejection, so why do we suffer in silence? People are more willing to talk then listen, as most like the sound of their own voice, but what happens when a listener comes up against someone who talks about their day to the finest detail, but forgets to elaborate on their feelings about what actually happens as I have done? My inquisitive nature makes me probe, makes me pester, and I could not do anything less productive in understanding the individual.

When that person is somebody you loved more then life itself makes it harder when you finally understand why the mention specific occurrences, and why they fail to mention others. When you know that person more then anybody else, even sometimes them self, and you understand what they are going through without the bluntness of spur of the moment conversations their true feelings about you and that other person, it both hurts to see them upset as you would kill those who hurt them, but then it hurts as their feelings for others seem to exceed that which they used to profess about you. Maybe something is still there, waiting for the right moment, waiting for the air to clean up, but time shouldn’t be spent on a fruitless expedition, and knowing when to stop is a skill that I have not yet learnt, I really hope I learn soon else they be lost forever.

I will always be waiting, always be caring, wanting to know how great or how horrible your day was, who you had fights with (other then me), reassuring you that you kick arse as a friend, that I value your opinion above many others, even the stuff you say about me that hurts, as your blunt to me as I wish I could be with you.

--==END OF RANT ==--

Thanks for playing those bloody Script songs certain best friend, I told you they’d creep into my head, no matter how corny they are, I hate to admit, they are relevant….bugger….

I am officially an Oneironout, where to next?

Dreaming throughout my life, be it short bursts of REM during the strangest and possibly most uncomfortable place to fall, the London Underground, or my 15 hour sleepathons that come and go. For someone who has never had a regular pattern, every dream that sifted through my mind in the brief moments where I have no access to facebook, no phone, and no worries, I have desperately tried to hold on to, and feverishly analyse in the hours when most people come home from work.

Thing is, when I feel like the way I do at times, when it's always me making the effort to call those who I consider close to me, to visit my family, to make sure everybody is alright, including the clueless schmuck buying a pair of socks for his friends new baby (they always spend far too much time, or not enough), I get fed up with being a second thought, and I dream every night about the same things. Whether its being cast aside by a familiar face in a surreal clothes/knick-knacks shop in an imagined alleyway on the other side of the world, or traipsing around a 1970s holiday camp enjoying the sheer crappyness of it all with that same individual at a time that isn't any the clock can show.

All of this serves as an attempt to forget about home for me now no longer serves as the comfort zone that it once was, the one thing I could rely on to always be there for me. I wish I could just walk around the streets without being judged, without feeling bogged down with the stresses of how people view me, and stop worrying about how they never felt about me.

Phillip K. Dick, drug addicted sci-fi genius wrote of a mood organ in 'Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep', and how I now wish to dial into a state of embrace with the endless opportunities ahead, a state of perfect balance in my mental make-up, where the road seems to stretch far beyond the horizon and disregard anything 'home' throws my way.

When that bloody car of mine is up and running and no longer reliant on my feet to propel it along, I want to take a full tank of petrol, and an individual who knows that silences between two people who fully understand each other need not be awkward, and go to places that are not listed in guides, not signposted, and don't have a corny gift shop.

Or I would pay for petrol, either way, as my mini at least is as reliable as I am at waking up at the correct time.

How do you like your eggs Mr. Griffin?

Well seeing the convicted holocaust denier and newly elected MEP Nick Griffin covered in egg brought a strange dual feeling of pleasure and disgust to my mind. Members of Unite Against Fascism have a worthy cause in fighting against the fascist BNP, and have from seeing their work in spreading awareness done an awful lot of good informative work that attempted to bring about a dialogue with BNP supporters and the general public. Recently in my local area students set up stalls alongside those of the BNP, on a fair and more importantly democratic level, distributing their own materials and actually talking to people in a calm, respectful manner.

Using physical violence and a loud voice however seems to sit well with the Far Left leading groups such as the SWP (whom I assume builds part of the very same ranks as UAF), and manning the streets causing all forms of destruction and tyranny only goes to tarnish the good rapport that genuine opposition to fascism have built within communities and the press. Not allowing those to have a say and a view that differs from you sounds more like early 20th fascist logic to me, allowing a basis for their movement to be criticised unnecessarily and takes away from its good intentions.

The reputation of the UAF is incomparable for the open dishonesty peddled by Nick Griffin when he is given a platform to subversively spread his filth. Speaking on his election to the European Parliament, Griffin's attempt at covering his attitude towards immigration seemed purposely paper-thin. He noted that the problems currently facing the British public "are not just a matter of mass immigration, although that's the most obvious symptom of it", the immigration issue usually being that which the BNP focuses on in the poor, working class areas it targets much like my local town. He endeavours to remind the public of his racist and fake nationalist standpoint when he blames the "liberal elite" support of UAF in both his election speech and his post-egging interview with the BBC, equating the personal choice to back such movements made by elected MPs to "government funding", truly engaging in reactionary and sensationalist propaganda that typifies the elction campaigns of BNP candidates.

People like Nick Griffin need to be given a platform to speak, we need to hear what they have to say and let them do so with no illegal interuption, for fuel is being given to them to fire up their propaganda machine at full speed. As evidenced by the actual reduction of votes for the BNP from 2004, the three main parties, including the Conservatives who had little effort needed to clean up at the polls, for voter apathy has allowed them entry into the world stage. The European elections saw a drop in votes overall, and so efforts for voter registration and actually getting people to the polling stations in order to democratically force the BNP out of the politics of this already shaken country.

Order, Order…

Michael Martin, Glasgow North East MP and the Commons Speaker, has today announced his decision to step down from both these positions, forcing a by-election in his constituency.

Speaking in the House of Commons today, Martin failed to pander to the hungry audience any further then he needed, refusing to comment on the matter and simply stating his intention to stand down on 21 June.

Martin has served as speaker in the House of Commons since 2000, and recently has been dogged with the surfacing of the gross misappropriation of public money for MP’s expenses, one of the biggest public debacles in recent times.

Martin himself caught with his hands in the jar repeatedly in his 9 year tenure, be it challenged on the use of over £20,000 challenging negative press coverage, and only this month his own expenses claims for a chauffeur to take him to his beloved Celtic was brought to the fore by The Daily Telegraph.

His suppression of Minister’s spending this time around echoes his previous attempts to block queries under the Freedom of Information Act, pertaining to MP’s travel expenses worth over £5 Million.

Martin was accused of allowing the police to search the offices of Damian Green without a search warrant, which subsequently resulted in his arrest for leaking details of the employment of illegal immigrants in the House of Commons, and the granting of 5,000 licences for illegal workers.

Norwegian Good!

Well that dainty Norwegian fellow Alexander fared better then anybody in the history of the Eurovision Song Contest, being awarded the highest score since the contest began. He even beat ABBA for goodness sake, ABBA!

Whilst on my way to the realm of the Reading Room, itself a harrowing mess of loud obnoxious students who refrain from doing any work, I came upon a group of Norwegian nationals having a merry old time. They were wearing some awesome dungarees reminiscent of the Mario Bros., and from what I could gather from their drunken gargling, it was to do with their last day of schooling and a national day or something to that effect.

All I had when I left was an old, bog standard white shirt, covered in marker pen with scrawlings such as ‘your a big tit’, and ‘it was nice knowing you’ (kind of macabre when you think about), complete with holes for my nipples. Absolutely charming.

Just like Eurovision, the cool Norwegians had us beaten further with the accompanying hat of promiscuity, which had a piece of braided string attached with knots to signify various drunken accomplishments. I saw one of those ‘accomplishments’, and he was naked jumping into a bush by the lake with one of the fine ladies.

Lucky bastard.

Maybe next year I’ll plan ahead, and not be lugging around a massive rucksack with every book I own inside, making me look like a flabby Ninja Turtle whilst I attempted to use my awkward British charm to woo the citizens of such a fine, albeit weird country.

Saturday night, dressed to impress!