Agoraphobia

And so once again that time of year has come. Fairy lights lining the streets, nights closing in ever earlier, and bugger me if it isn't freezing cold outside. Dark in the morning and dark when I leave work, daytime sunshine outside is a tease, taunting me with its warm glow as I sit at my desk hammering away at an icy keyboard as my fingers slowly seize up from the cold.

In the evening, why would I want to go outside? Keep inside and warm, and a whole world of entertainment is at my fingertips. And so it's a marathon of art films, new albums (via Amazon and iTunes, natch) and, for the first time in a while, video games.

I'd forgotten this simple pleasure. The worries of the world dissolve when you can hold, in your sweaty palms, the ability to take a small yellow rat, summon the power of lightning and use it to explode a Giant Evil Robot. Cackle in glee as you mercilessly plug poorly-realised archetypal villains in the face with an excessively loud blast of hot lead. Squirm around in fear as you bat the fat zombie woman off your neck long enough to take a swing with that fire axe you found lying around in the preposterously outdated water well round the corner. Smile as you see her head pop off and rather more than eight pints of blood come flying out of her neck.

Video games invariably get a lot of hate thrown at them. As with cinema and rock 'n' roll before it, the fantasy provided by these simple games proves an easy scapegoat for explaining away societies' problems. Rising unemployment, a domineering drinking culture and an increasingly disenfranchised populous are, of course, minor factors in catalysing the spread of violent crime when compared to a teenager unloading his stress by shooting a few badly pixellated zombies in the face in front of his television. Or a child imagining he can race around a cartoon world on his little kart, flinging bananas and storm clouds as heralds of simple and impermanent death.

Violent video games are the new video nasty, and in many cases the publishers of these games couldn't be more pleased. As the exile to VHS allowed the development of a truly independent film industry spawning classics such as the Texas Chainsaw Massacre, Cannibal Holocaust, The Evil Dead etc., as well as establishing a proving ground for future mainstream directors such as Peter Jackson and Guillermo del Toro, who started with schlock zombie horror and ended up directing Lord of The Rings and Pan's Labyrinth respectively, so too have studios such as Rockstar games, makers of the Grand Theft Auto series, flourished under their initial classification as outsiders.

The truth of the matter is these games are no more dangerous in precipitating violent culture than the many generations of equivalent controversies that went before them. In no way is this more in evidence than a consideration of the one of the most passive and frankly boring computer games ever created.

Microsoft's Flight Simulator was a flagship application for many years, and remains probably the least offensive computer game ever created. Yet it is also the most closely linked game to the single most violent and despicable act of terrorism of the 21st Century. In the same way that it would be preposterous to accuse Microsoft of training al Qaeda, so too would it be completely inappropriate to fling accusations of encouraging youth violence at what is, at it's core, a fledgling creative industry.

Ultimately video games should be treated as what they are - games. They do not encourage political doctrine, they do not promote violent lifestyles. They are the homeground of the geek and the techie, and they open their arms to those with a desire for a winning combination of fun and sloth. If we really want to deal with the rising problem of violence in society, we need to look to the root cause of the problem, not what is at worst an unfortunate offspring.

Anyway I must be off. The bloodlust is rising and there are banks to rob, police to kill and zombies to mutilate...

Space Dementia

I just can't help myself, the mad impulse in me is screaming skip to the end, and only through some incredible force of will can I hold myself back. It arrived four days ago, sheathed in bubblewrap, squeaking a little when I pulled it gently out of the packaging. I want to rip it open and force it into my DVD player, scream like a giddy schoolgirl and sit there and watch all ten hours at once, my eyes hollowing slowly, the feeling draining from first my fingers, then my toes and my feet, as I slowly slip, smiling, into an ecstatic and vegetative state of satisfied hardcore geekiness.

As you may (or may not) have guessed, I'm talking about Battlestar Galactica season four! Through some woeful timing I've gone back to start watching the entire first three seasons with my flatmate (a BG virgin) and now I can't bear the fact that it's going to be weeks (weeks! weeks!) before I can quench the giddy thirst for more, more, MORE with which I was left, panting, after the end of season three.

For those of you who have never watched this magnificent television programme, think The Wire in space. With robots and explosions and demented scientists and all the same intelligence and brutal allegory. As with all genre-based television, Battlestar Galactica is a hard sell to people who wouldn't watch it anyway, so I won't bother trying to convince you. I will say however that it sits neatly in my top three teevee (sic) ever - along with the aforementioned The Wire and Kieslowski's Dekalog.

The real question here is - should I stick to my arbitrarily-defined principles and save season four until I've re-digested seasons one (excellent), two (better) and three (spectacular) first? Or should I whore myself to the god of hedonism and shove it merrily into my gaping eyeholes, cackling with delight at the naughty pleasure of a televisual binge, and finally admitting to myself I'm a demented child of the now-now-now YouTube generation?

Clowns

Proof, if it were needed, that the old adage is true. If you don't have anything worth saying, then don't bother writing an article on it in a national newspaper.

I am, literally, speechless.

Once And Never Again

Today the Long Blondes announced that they have split, following the stroke suffered by guitarist and songwriter Dorian Cox in June. Quite simply one of the best British bands this century, it is not only a personal tragedy for Cox and his family, as well as the band, but also a great loss to music. In 3 short years the band leave a legacy of a mere two albums, each spectacular in their own way, as well as a clutch of catchy singles, inventive b-sides and infectiously fun demos.

Intelligent, witty and spiked with humour, the Blondes' music has often driven me to (entirely justified) hyperbole, and catching a handful of live performances throughout their career ensured that they remain cemented as one my favourite bands. From their ramshackle early performances in Sheffield before they signed with Domino, through the indie pop perfection of debut Someone to Drive You Home, up to the slick electro of their second album, the Blondes always carried off indie rock with more style, panache and personality than any of their peers.

With a small but devoted following, the Long Blondes will hopefully be reclaimed as one of the most overlooked bands of the decade, and Cox as a great and underrated songwriter. With songs lamenting a weekend without makeup, dissolving in the seduction of fast cars, or simply floating on dreams of running away on motorways to relive your glory days, the Blondes provided something rare in music. Virtually every band in existence offers the listener a choice of style or substance. With the Long Blondes, quite simply, you could have both.

Honey Bee (Let's Fly To Mars)

The Chinese are going to the Moon. Take a moment to digest this information, and then ask youself, why?

When the Apollo 11 Lunar Module touched down on the surface of the Moon, on the 16th of July, 1969, it was no small step for a nation striving to prove that it was the leader of the world, free or otherwise. Logistically, economically and politically the Apollo programme was a nightmare of epic proportions. Let me put this another way; only 12 men have ever walked on the surface of the Moon, and the last one left nearly 36 years ago.

The scientific benefits of going to the Moon were minimal at best. There is little useful you can learn from the low-gravity, zero-atmosphere surface of the Moon that you can't learn from the zero-gravity vacuum of space. Why else would Alan Shepherd be allowed the luxury of playing golf on one of only 6 manned missions that have ever reached the Moon's surface?

The real impact of the Moon landings was political. The twelve men who stepped onto the surface (and the six who merely circled a couple of times round the block) were instant patriots for America. Great war heroes, who had won a war against seemingly insurmountable odds. They gave a nation that craves jingoism a victory, that somehow clouded the rather more real defeat in Vietnam.

China is embroiled in no crippling war. The struggles that China faces today are those of the Western media, and the impact of Western ideals on a culture which must unfurl its protective shell in order to blossom. The 2008 Olympics, marred as they were by protests, arrests and an uncomfortable silence, marked China out as, at least in part, a modern, developed, and spectacularly wealthy country. To put a man on the Moon would show them as the true economic power on the globe today - as there is certainly no other country with the resources, financial backing and political single-mindedness to be able to achieve this feat.

Yet it seems likely that the true benefit for China would be more intangible. Throw aside the political, scientific and nationalistic benefits, and imagine the sheer kudos. Imagine a world where a country can prove its superiority not by tackling it's human rights issues, nor by eradicating internal poverty. Where a country can openly deny free speech, outlaw religious tolerance, spend years occupying and oppressing a peaceful country.

Imagine a world where, despite all of this, one man standing on the surface of the Moon can look back at the Earth, and see that his nation has taken a great leap to become the most powerful and important nation on the planet. And imagine, as he looks back, how small and insignificant the Earth must seem.

It's Only The End Of The World

Hysteria is a strange creature. It spreads, a virus, infecting everything it touches. A virus, yes, but one that feeds on a conscious surrendering to the apparently inevitable. The most rational mind becomes gripped by the desire to give in and follow those around it as they slip into despair. The nauseating and reassuring feeling of falling suddenly. The human impulse for calamity beyond personal control.

Economic turmoil is a factual eventuality not because capitalism is a flawed structure, though it is, but because the collective being of civilisation is a coward and a fool. It fears its own weaknesses and thereby succumbs immediately to them. Its sight is narrow and self-involved, and never looks beyond the present. It never sees further than the near past and does not consider the yet-to-be.

A scapegoat is always to be found. Rich bankers sucking the system dry and lining their pockets with the residue. Irresponsible investors throwing aside acumen for chance. A tactless media whipping up frenzy in a bid to stave off the growing spectre of irrelevance. The truth is that all of these are symptoms of the human virus. Capitalism is the distilled form of the most vulgar and strong of human impulses - the need for success. The need to rise above the rest. The perverse notion that the individual is the driving force behind everything. That one person can stand alone in victory.

If the sudden downturn in global markets shows anything, it is that the individual does not exist as a distinct entity. All of us are affected. As the drunken headiness of success crashes in the gutter to spew out the half-digested notions of charity and economic and social responsibility, the weakened state is infected with a hysteria that impacts every person it touches. Those at the top slip on the edge of a precipice, and those at the bottom shelter from the debris that rains down.

As with violence, greed and jealousy, panic begets panic. A recession is not the apocalypse, but if confidence is the life force of a globalized economy, and hysteria the cancer that eats it away, then brace yourself for a shock. This dead meat is going to start to stink.

It's Raining Today

As the rain falls lazily from the grey sky, he sits inside feeling the chokehold's absence. Breathing space has afforded a momentary awakening. A loosened grip on the throat of his mind's voice, usually held firm by the hum-drum, cash in hand, out of pocket, day in, day out existence, has lifted the dizzying fog, and gasping for air he reaches for the nearest bowl and thrusts his face into it.

A purge of thought, emotion and control leaves him shaking, a steadying hand reaching for a towel. Hot and damp, it burns his skin, searing the expression of disgust, and cauterizing the gaping wound in his intellect.

He collapses back, breathing deep, feeling the cool air percolate through his nostrils. A reflection catches his eye, an unrecognised figure, haggard, distant and stern. It's lips purse, and then open to speak.

"Get a haircut."

Sexy Boy

Accuse me if you wish of not understanding the feminine mind, but I reckon there must be nothing as attractive as a man with a head cold. Quite besides the stream of soothing ooze that flees your foggy brain through the scenic route of the nasal passage, there are a multitude of often overlooked aesthetic benefits.

When I have a cold, my eyes insist on lubricating themselves to excess, becoming itchy and watery. A fetching red blotchiness ensues, that softens the gaze and comes with an appealing tearfulness. It tells all the girls that you're that caring, sensitive guy they've been dreaming about.

A swelling and scratchiness in the throat can imbue your dulcet tones with a sexy husk, as your singing voice morphs from ugly Welsh lady-boy Aled Jones to manly god of cool Tom Waits. Coughing will work wonders here - the looser the phlegm, the more gargly the voice. And gargly just screams sex appeal.

Cough enough during the day and you'll undoubtedly start at night. An unhealthy lack of sleep will hollow out your eyes, highlighting bone structure and accessorizing those pink, tearful orbs. Blow that nose hard, long and often, and a reddish hue will soon appear. This will make it look like you've been knocking back Irish whiskey. Women love hard-drinking men.

If the coughing, sneezing and choking becomes too much, you may get quite a severe headache. That pained frown will tell all maternal man eaters that you're a tortured soul who needs saving by a good woman.

With all of this at your disposal, you'll be a killer with the ladies. Just remember guys, fresh breath is paramount! As you move in for the kill, know that there's nothing more appealing than the sweet aroma of mentho-lyptus cough sweets.

Song For The Dead

A period of furious creativity followed by an extended and deafening silence. Brilliant, mad and cheekily retro, an experiment in style where everything just went right. Near perfection, but curiously only truly loved abroad. Months without hearing a thing, but now the phenomenon-that-never-quite-was is back, and with a bang. And a whisper. And a trumpet. Yes, ladies and gents, obscurist indie band Yeti have returned with a stonking new single.

Head on over to The Tube and watch it. And may I say how lovely it is to see you all again...

Slow Hands

As Curious Quill reaches its first minor landmark of fifty posts, I thought I'd treat you to a boring and self-indulgent examination of the whys and wherefores of my writing. What blogging means to me. And why I'm determined not to succumb to the three-month itch.

When I started writing this last summer, I didn't know what I wanted it to be (note the dodgy url). I knew that I didn't want some sort of horrible online, confessional diary. Nor did I want a bland, unfiltered stream of information. I knew at least that character was important.

Cramming googlable content in would be as evil as foie gras. I didn't want to shovel meaningless traffic my way by using keywords like SEX or HOT or JUSTIN TIMBERLAKE. In fact I wasn't that bothered about building up a huge readership, as long as I had one. And as long as some proportion of that readership was anonymous to me. What was important was to have a voice, even if that voice didn't yet have anything to say.

Like most first-time bloggers, I was sucked into the usual traps. Pompous and self-important posts about how wonderful the new world of blogging was, especially now that I was here. Horrendous posts about the weather. Any old crap thrown together in an attempt to avoid the "blahgs". Posts that referenced private jokes that even the left half of my own brain wasn't in on. Too many gimmicks.

And yet, looking through all the dross I've spewed onto these virtual pages over the last eight months, I still reckon it was worth it, if just for those moments when I really had something to say, something to rage against, rant about, praise, something to laugh at or with. Something that excited to me. Some spark.

I won't make any resolutions. No promises about getting better, blogging more, breaking new ground, expanding readership, closing my mind or opening it up. No promises but one: I'm here to stay.

Long, Long, Long

I'm sitting on a train heading South. The chair is uncomfortable and creaks when I move around. In the air is a faintly stale aroma that permeates my clothes and belongings. The picture on the window makes me think of Bill Murray and Dan Ackroyd.

When I look out the window, I see the suck of air from the carriages ahead fighting against a strong headwind. The sun is starting to get higher in the sky, and peers squinting through a break in the clouds.

The trees outside are starting to disappear, being gradually replaced by a vast, threatening expanse of square corners and tarmac brutality, the red bricks of the buildings by the track giving way to giant sheets of tinted glass, in which I catch the reflection of tired eyes. On the horizon ahead looms the choking smog of metropolitan isolation.

The train slows and I get off, but this is not my final destination. I'm just waiting for my next connection.