The Book of Odsox

"Prey On The Faint Of Heart!"

2012-02-09T22:49:00.000-08:00

I can't sleep, so rather than read a book or pursue a less polite method of inducing sleep (hope I don't have to spell that out for you), I have decided to inflict bloggery upon you, my faithful, ever-watchful minions.

Let us speak of dreams. Rather, let me speak of dreams while you read attentively and loyally.

My dreams have of late revolved around two or three recurring themes. The first of these, or at least the first which springs to mind, is that of hope.

Don't worry, I'm not going to get too mushy.

If you've been keeping up with my recent return to the Book of Odsox (and if you haven't, don't worry, I forgive you - I am constantly aware of how tedious these rambling diatribes can be) then you should be aware that I have, against all odds, been chosen as the consort of a beautiful woman. This has resulted in my more, shall we say gentle?, emotions blearily opening their eyes and then suffering a stuttering form of cardiac arrest as they suddenly realise that not only was that old story about something called "hope" in fact true, it left out some vital information; it changes your entire existence at a fundamental level.

Anyway, this newfound hope has been encroaching on my slumbering mind in ways which are alternately shallow and heartwarming.

Over the past three months or so I have found money in my dreams. Never the overly dramatic "big score" kind, mark you, but amounts which cause a tremor in my dreamscape as the groggy logical side of my brain gets a jolt that pushes me closer to wakefulness. Things like finding a £20 note on the floor, or going to a cash machine (gosh, my dreams sound exciting, don't they?) and discovering that someone has left their money in the slot, almost £150, and there is no-one around to see me take it with a massive guilt-free grin. I'm not sure what this is a metaphor for - if it is a metaphor at all, of course. That is to say, I am already well aware that I need money. It's annoying how it keeps cropping up in my dreams though.

The other form this dream of hope tends to take is that of a specific woman - I'm not trying to be mushy here, I'm being honest. In the occasional bad dream there are these flashes of her, sort of like looking at the dream through a zoetrope, that instantly change what should be a saddening or horrible experience ino just another manageable fantasy tinged with foggy pink bliss. I catch sight of her in my peripheral vision, just the briefest glimpse, and it sends a pleasant sort of thrumming through whicever dreamscape I'm in at the time. Usually this also leads to my overcoming (however temporarily) any obstacles I might be facing.

Now, the second recurring theme is one I am happy to mention, simply because it strikes me as absurd and everyone should be able to find humour in absurdity.

In my flying dreams, which occured only rarely for a while but are now making a comeback, like Yu-Gi-Oh! cards or sushi, I do not simply soar aloft of my own volition of with wings of any kind; I have a jetpack. Not a swish Iron Man jetpack either, no, an old-school James Bond number with joystick controls and temperamental thrusters that need extremely cautious gunning lest my portly body be smashed into the ground and rendered into nothing more than a sort of chunky red paste full of gritty white bits and glimmering shards of my once-marvellous flying machine.

The jetpack is a wonderful toy and I constantly find my dream self hurtling through cityscapes and towering forests of lurching trees that shake their branches in frustration as I roar through their midst without a care beyond finding somewhere relatively clear for me to try some daring aerobatics - which, incidentally, I have never found the courage to attempt. The cityscapes are a far more forgiving environment, save for the occasional Thing that I suddenly realise has snuck up from nowhere and is now tearing a path through the urban jungles as it pursues my stuttering, jinking flight path in a series of disturbingly predatory leaps and dives. Just to reassure you, I have yet to be caught by one of the Things, though once I did gun the wrong thruster and end up flying straight back at one of the horrible shadowy bastards. I am genuinely ashamed to say that I have never actually seen one of the Things up close, always squeezing my eyes tight shut and miraculously avoiding doom somehow.

The jetpack is an incredibly good bit of fun on the occasions when I get to really muck about with it, sending me rocketing skyward for an unparallelled view of my dream cities and panoramic forests, and the lurch in my stomach when the speedy descent begins is something I've learned to savour.

Enough of that though.

The final theme which has been in my dreams for years uncounted is one that truly plagues my sleeping mind: Pure, merciless, physical pain.

Not so unusual, I think, even for someone in my position, whose track record for serious injury really isn't that remarkable. Sure I've suffered plenty of head injuries, broken a couple of bones, still have a piece of graphite in my foot and earned my share of cycling-related scars, but there are people out there missing limbs, for fuck's sake. My dreams should not involve these levels of bodily harm, surely? Unless it's the old Catholic guilt ramping up again.

There's this particular one which has happened several times, and it never ceases to send my dream-self into a spiral of pain-induced insanity. You may have heard it before, actually.

All I can see is my left hand. There are leather buckles strapping down my forearm, holding it rigidly in place, and several extremely tight circles of what look like fishing wire wrapped around the top segments of my fingers, which are protruding over the edge of some kind of metal table. I can't move my hand. When I try, all I get is a vague tremble in response. I can feel the dread rising when, out of nowhere, a sledgehammer slams down and snaps all four of my fingers at once, right where they join my palm, and the pain is almost indescribable. It's a lightning bolt of agony that flashes up my arm and into my suddenly shattered mind - I can feel the rest of my body writhing and roaring, I can feel my right fist repeatedly slamming into whatever surface I've been secured to, but nothing distracts from the burning, ruinous pain coming from my fingers.

That's nice, isn't it?

There are other pain-dreams that haunt me. The one where I feel a kind of pushing pain in my teeth, then go into the mirror, is a good one. On closer inspection I can see my teeth moving in my gums, and as I raise my hands to probe gingerly at them, there's a horrible crunching sensation and the two parts of my jaw suddenly snap against each other, tearing away from my skull in a spray of splintered bone and hot blood. I would note that rather than simply blacking out here, I reel away from the mirror clutching pathetically at my ruined face in terror and sheer agony, only to collapse onto a gritty, grey surface that scrapes at the remnants of my face and all over my skin while I give a kind of gurgling howl, unable in any way to stop the pain.

Anyway, I think I've written enough for now.

Thanks for stopping by.

Love, Odsox.

"I'll Take All The Blame, The Front Page And The Fame..."

2012-01-28T06:11:00.000-08:00

Afternoon.

Let's get right down to it, shall we?

Those of you who've suffered my ramblings for this long will be aware of how much I love writing and more - I hesitate to associate myself with the word for fear of arrogance - creative pastimes and occupations. While I don't hate my job exactly (there are times when I genuinely get a chance to do some good, even as a desk monkey), I yearn for something where I can flex my meagre mental muscle beyond tracking down an errant Staff Nurse who expects me to pinpoint a specific person when given nothing more to go on than the name "John Smith".*

Now I'll be the first to admit that I've got precisely fuck-all in the way of qualifications or degrees, but I do have a boundless enthusiasm for words and their arrangement on page, screen or shirt. So I'm trying to come up with a reasonable way of making some extra scratch off of that. I doubt anything I can nail together is going to be as popular as the sort of stuff you'll find over at SplitReason, but by the Ruinous Powers, I aim to try.

So with that in mind, if you have any requests or ideas towards shirts or hoodies or hats that you'd like emblazoned with one of the little doodles from my sketchbook (and I'm sure that the few people who actully read this will at one stage or another have been subjected to a forced viewing), give me a shout over on the Book of Face or at my email address, which you should already have.

Onto less horrible, moneygrubbing subjects.

I've been spending a lot of time online lately, and as a result I've been falling behind with my other projects, you know, the horrifically nerdy ones that involve videogames and modelling little plastic soldiers. This isn't a bad thing; in fact, I've begun to feel slightly less sociable, both online and in person. I do still have the occasional pang of regret that after that first time using something illegal and bad I came out of my shell. I miss my shell. It was small and dark and protected, with only the other voices for company. Anyway, the reason I mention this is because, as a result of some ill-advised (Shall we say fumbling and leave it there? Let's.) fumbling last night, I took a leisurely midnight walk along Creek Road and around the Greenwich Market square. Obviously this was well past the market's opening hours, and as such the only real company available was sporadic collections of drinkers casually hurling bottles at cars and being given a stern talking-to by equally inebriated but opposing groups. I never seem to have any trouble when ambulating in the vicinity of these particular examples of humanity, and tonight was no exception. I rather enjoyed the sense of detachment, truth be told. I suppose my bulk, the large, tattered fake-leather jacket with hood and half-smoked rollie hanging from the lips on my generally sour face may have contributed to the anonymity.

We really are terrible creatures, aren't we? I don't normally harp on about the state of the world (too big, too many people, not enough sacrificial altars to the Google Gods) beyond my standard phrases, ie "Bloody humans!" or "AUGH, mortals.", but it is becoming a bit much now. I don't have a nice big Tower of Doom to lock myself away in while I hurl burning crucifixes onto the Great Unwashed, all the while screaming, "WHERE IS YOUR PRECIOUS SKY-BULLY NOW!? WHERE IS HE!?" so it's probably time I started getting concerned.

...alright, I'm going to be perfectly honest with you, that Tower of Doom image has pretty much derailed my thought process, so I'm going to cut this blog short, roll myself a cigarette and find a nice dark corner in which I can chuckle quietly to myself.

Back soon and thanks for stopping by!

Love,

Odsox

"Aw, You're Like A Beautiful Sandwich..."

2012-01-19T10:46:00.001-08:00

Good evening, my glorious little internet buboes!

You find me contentedly sighing and full of bubbling whimsy (I've always felt that whimsy should bubble, haven't you?), for I have returned from a simply magical weekend in London, previously one of my least favourite places on the planet. Yet now I find myself aching to return to the train station, throw my money at the grimacing little troll behind the filthy plastic windowpane and leap aboard the first train that can take me back there. Preferably without tripping over my own feet like that most graceful of creatures, the Redneckian Essex Moose.

But oh! most magnificently imposing and just master, I hear you cry, what could have happened to change your mind so quickly and thoroughly?

Well settle down, beloved minions, and I will tell you.

I took my leave of the workplace on Friday the 13th at approximately 15:30 by slamming my completed workload into the storage cupboard and with a cheerful bellow of "See ya next week!", stepped out of the office with a very real spring in my step. You see, my faithful toadies, I had been planning this trip for some time, with a very specific aim in mind. But more on that later.

I strolled to the bus stop and within a very reasonable amount of time found myself back in my lair, where I began plotting in earnest. There was a considerable amount of packing to do. Into my reliable bugout bag went the ablution gear, the shirts and jeans, the unmentionables and the various wires and chargers and anbaric gadgetry without which I would struggle to make it through a week. In went two bottles of adequately tasty booze. In went my miniature identikit, my passport, cashcard and train tickets. Soon enough, I was ready. A head-clearing shower and a thorough primping later, I shouldered my bags and set off to North Station. The evening was just settling down, a clear sky with the first twinkling of stars and a gentle breeze that helped to keep my constantly rambling brain relatively clear. The walk was an excellent start to the weekend - I was not accosted, every crossing turned green before I even had a chance to begin my usual inward grumbling at being forced to wait, and there were few people heading in the opposite direction, which made one of my least favourite games, Dodge-The-Elbows, a lot easier.

Once at North Station it was a simple matter of going to the fourth platform and waiting. Fifteen minutes flew by and my train arrived. I shall not bore you with the details of my train journey, suffice to say it felt surprisingly short and was otherwise wholly unremarkable.

However, when the faithful steel horse arrived at my destination, I begin to feel a twinge of trepidation. Fear, my minions, is a very real thing. Yes, even for I, your most beneficient and righteous master. As I disembarked at Stratford, amid gleaming glass and metal platforms, surrounded by the hurrying, scurrying packs of humans, I felt the chill hand of fear on my shoulder. What if I had arrived here for nothing but denial and heartbreak? Cease your bickering, minions. I am far from finished. I continued through the terminal, staring tactlessly at the myriad signs and notices arrayed on the walls, clearly lost. As though fate were taking a momentary interest in my movements, my phone began to vibrate in my pocket. It was Amanda.

Minions! Stop your childish cheering or there will be no ice-cream! Now settle!

I spoke with her for mere moments, in which the fear began to dissipate, and was directed to the correct exit. A great, cold doorway flanked by security guards in dark blue uniforms, ushering the public through with cursory nods and hastily mumbled directions, stood between me and fate. I made my way through and took up what I hoped was a pose which would strike trepidation into the hearts of my enemies but show that I was not a villain waiting for some unsuspecting immigrant to badger for change. This was nothing more than a kind of utterly knackered slump moderated by shivering brought on by the chill wind of Stratford's open air. And suddenly the fear rushed back. The shivering worsened as my jumpstarted brain began drawing horrible conclusions for the coming encounter - but you need not worry yourselves with that.

And as it turned out, neither should I.

She arrived and strode towards me, eyes alight, garbed in a warm, black coat which was no doubt better protection than my tattered faux-leather jacket. We greeted each other with what I like to think was a tender kiss and a tight embrace, and all my ridiculous anxieties melted away like ice under the blazing sunlight. I felt a tugging at my heart, and suddenly the prospect of spending any amount of time with a creature as incredible as she spun from being a thing of terror to one of comfort, edged with that pleasant tingle of emotion which I had dared not anticipate.

Now, rather than completely saturate your tiny minds with epic prose detailing your master's unfathomable capacity for romance and dashing swashbuckle...y...ness... I will simply tell you of the fascinating and new experiences I was introduced to.

My Friday was spent in a pleasant haze of warmth and comfort, with hearty, filling food and talking well into the night. Truth be told this was a fantastic start to my weekend, with only each other for company and a wonderful (if shoddily captured) view of the financial district.

~{@}~

Saturday creeped in and found me curled up in another of what was to become many close and comforting hugs, and drawing back the curtains revealed a clear, sunny sky over London, which was certainly a reassuring start to the day. A lazy start was planned, with plenty of fun to follow. Breakfast was one of my personal favourites; a cigarette and a cup of tea followed by slices of marmite on toast. Simple, but yeasty and delicious.

A quick trip to a vintage record store called The Beehive preceded our little jaunt to Greenwich Market, and I had a thorough browse while Amanda went about hunting for something through the vintage clothing section, and while I didn't purchase anything myself she was delighted with her acquisition of a suitably starry jumper. I wore the first of many genuine smiles while she expounded on the virtues of such an excellent choice.

Greenwich Market followed swiftly, and I have to say it certainly didn't disappoint.

A flurry of scents and sounds was the first thing that struck me, and the mass of humanity for once didn't annoy me. I have to say that the presence of a tall, graceful woman on my arm was undoubtedly the source of my contentment. We strolled around for a short time, and I couldn't help myself but purchase some fancy cheeses. Not too fancy, mind, just nice enough to make for a tasty table. I purchase a hundred grams of Formaggio Umbriaco, commonly known as "Drunk Cheese", and a nice bit of Goat's Brie!

With a bag of delicious cheese and a starry jumper for our trouble, we took a swift detour back home to get ready for an even grander adventure once Amanda saw how much I'd enjoyed myself in the market. So after a brief consultation we set off for Borough Market!

We headed down the road to Deptford Station to catch the train, nattering away at each other and enjoying the combination of sunlight and cold winter air, when we were halted by a tiny, obviously sozzled woman. "Excuse me love," she said to my companion in the sort of Irish accent I tend to associate with smoky rooms and stories about close family members who've buggered off for better places,"I couldn't help but notice you, 'cause you are very tall. But I don't suppose you could spare some change for..." She went on a bit and the pair of us gave the lady enough change to put towards a small drink. On my part this was an almost unseen gesture of generosity which I can only chalk up to the all-encompassing feeling that I can only describe as, "You know what? I'm having a great day, you should have one too!" But today, I didn't mind. Heck, I think if I was a wealthy man I would have given her a note. She asked me where I was from, bless her. My simple response of, "Essex!" didn't get the sneer I might've expected from London inhabitants, but rather a cheery smile which to be honest, looked good on her!

We carried on through to Deptford High Street, and as my lady friend pointed out, the change was dramatic. Now I don't know London, and I don't know Greenwich as well as I mean to, but the almost snap-change from clean (ish) pavements and new buildings of glass and steel to cramped and filthy old shops was remarkable. There was a definite atmosphere of, not poverty specifically, but definitely hard times. During the little dance around the Oyster card machines (which I believe are actually powered by tiny malevolent imps who delight in denying my newly-acquired card just to see the look of perplexed anger on my face) we were forced to carefully pass by two fellows arguing, well, one shouting at the other with palatable anger and the other protesting innocence, which was actually less tense than it should have been, considering there was about three inches between our faces and the angry gentleman's flailing elbows. But we made it to the platform and boarded the overground to London Bridge and Borough Market!

I thought Greenwich Market was fun - but bloody hell, the Borough Market was something else entirely. If I'd thought the smells and sounds earlier were intoxicating, the sheer cascade of scent and noise here was like a battering ram, albeit a distinctly pleasant one. We were surrounded on all sides by stalls and tables stuffed to bursting with people, all trying to get at the cornucopia of items on sale. I cannot begin to describe the variety of food, preservatives, drinks (though the delicious smell of hot cider remains with me even now - and I hate the stuff!) and sweets.

We managed to work our way through the throng of people with little difficulty, though once or twice the general ignorance of the creatures known as Mob, Rabble and Crowd did become a frustration. Nonetheless we procured a number of tasty items that would go into our table of picking food later in the evening, namely sundried tomatoes with garlic and herbs, pain de campagne bread and prosciutto toscana ham. ...NOM NOM NOM NOM.

I also managed to pick up a particularly excellent little bit of meat which I spotted and decided within the second to purchase. When was I going to get a chance to buy some fresh, skinned and gutted squirrel again?

YOU HEARD ME! Squirrel! The grey-furred meat! NUT RAT! What kind of incredible place was this that my lady had brought me, where I could purchase delicious tree-dwelling mammals to devour at my leisure? I'd been having an amazing weekend already, and now a kind of dead animal I've never sampled is made available to me, all because a pretty woman indulged my urge to go to a market! Brilliant!

My whim fulfilled, we decided to grab something to actually eat, and the giant sizzling pan of duck meat being pushed around by a talkative if incomprehensible woman of possible Eastern-European descent was Amanda's immediate choice. And an excellent choice at that! Succulent duck meat in a ciabatta roll with fresh roquette was probably the last thing I would expect to find myself eating as a midday meal outside a pub, but there I was, happily munching away and, quite frankly, really bloody enjoying myself.

A return home was on the cards at this point, but not before stopping at a cake stall on our way back and buying a slice of chocolate cake and german cheesecake! While I didn't think to take a picture of these delicious sweets, I can assure you that they were very, very good, though on reflection the chocolate was the better of the two - something about the cheesecake didn't quite sit right with my tastebuds.

Dinner was an excellent plate of all the nibbly bits we'd picked up in the markets, served with a bottle of red wine recommended by Marks and Sparks. It was actually top noshing:

A short while afterward, though, we came across a conundrum - each of us is quite fond of a drink, but there was no rum to be had! So, a quick look at the clock suddenly showed that it was too late to hit a supermarket but we might JUST make it to an off-licence or Costcutter's. We grabbed our coats and headed swiftly out into the chill London night, heading to the nearest booze seller - the Costcutter's. Somehow, they had managed to sell all the decent rum. This was not to be suffered, however, and at Amanda's urging we broke into a power-walk, which slowed when we linked arms once again. But then, out of nowhere, she decided that it would be far quicker and much more fun to swing each other along. We took it in turns, each swinging the other forward for a metre or two of increased speed, then swinging again and again, and, you know, I've never, ever been so amused by the simple act of going to get a drink. And if you're wondering, yes, I did have a song in my head as we went, laughing and twirling each other around.

And it was this:

We procured a bottle of rum from an off-licence at the edge of Deptford and headed back home for drinks and swapping music, and I am being utterly honest when I say that that little adventure made me feel like I was eighteen again. It was fucking glorious.

After a few hours more we settled in for a night of watching television and snuggling down together, and again, I have to say that this was one of my favourite things of the weekend. It had been so very very long since I'd spent any time with a girl, let alone a girl as passionate and honest as Amanda, and every second of contact felt so undeniably, intrinsically good that it seemed to turn the entire weekend into one long, fuzzy blur of sweetness and soft kisses. Even my innate paranoia spends most of its time quashed by her presence.

~{@}~

When we woke on Sunday morning, the curtains were gingerly drawn back to reveal another gloriously sunny day. We had a wonderfully slow morning with the pair of us barely leaving the bed - MINDS OUT OF THE GUTTER, MINIONS - which felt justified after the lively, busy, undeniably Saturdayish Saturday, and after a fortifying breakfast of smoked salmon sandwiches (I know, right? Smoked salmon sandwiches! I've never had one before! It was DELISHUS) Amanda booked us a table at a place called Tayyabs for our evening meal. A restaurant specialising in Pakistani Punjabi cuisine, which I for one have never even thought about, let alone tried, the website made it seem friendly and interesting, and more importantly, not massively expensive. Yes, I'm something of a skinflint, I've never denied this, but this place looked to have the right balance of price:pleasure for me and my ever-fearful wallet.

We had a couple of hours to pass before our meal, so I decided on requesting a trip to the nearest bookstore, which turned out to be well worth the wait - I'd been eyeing the place up since my arrival on Friday night, and was confidently reassured by Amanda's opinion of the place, which claimed to be open from 13:00 to 17:30 each day - although in the tradition of all truly excellent bookshops, this was entirely based upon the owner's decision. So after a bit of preparation and smartening up in advance of our evening meal, we headed over to the bookshop, a place simply called the Greenwich Book Place and Gallery, which, it turns out, has a very interesting history.

It was brilliant. Absolutely rammed with books old and new, though my favourite species of book, the ancient, cracked, leatherbound tome, was in abundance. Teetering piles of old novels and treatises on just about every subject one cares to think about were strewn about the place in a wonderfully haphazard fashion, with the spaces broken up by collections of real rarities, including, much to my delight and dismay (for the glass cases were each clearly marked NOT FOR SALE - oh woe!) a little chap called The Use and Misuse of Books by Frederic Harrison. Don't get me wrong, I'm by no means a true connoisseur of the written word, but I would have given someone else's right arm for a look at that one. The second back room was a treasure trove of Sociology books, and after consulting the signs outside, this seemed to be a speciality.

Amanda came through to find me guiltily brushing my fingers over the spines of terrible science fiction novels from the sixties and seventies (every last one of which I would have bought had I the money to spare), and gleefully showed me her purchase: a wrapped issue of an old magazine called Jackie she'd picked up for £2.50. Specifically THIS issue. Their hair looks... exciting.

She was incredibly pleased with the acquisition, which of course brought an empathic grin to my face. I finally decided on a book (also £2.50) which had the intriguing title of The Electric Crocodile (Although this was apparently an alternate title , the original being The Steel Crocodile) by David G. Compton. I had thought the back cover laughable, becau- oh hell, just read it:

In 1933, the physicist Kapitza ordered, for the facade of his new laboratory, a crocodile's head, in steel.

The crocodile of science.

The crocodile cannot turn its head. Like Science, it must always go forward with all-devouring jaws. The inevitable logic of discovery marches to inescapable conclusions.

But after reading the first page, I was desperate to know what would happen. I bought it and stroked the cover lovingly whenever I thought no-one was watching, and it currently sits patiently by my bedside, waiting for me to finish George Orwell's Shooting An Elephant (and other essays).

Brimming with the familiar joy that a new book purchase brings, I announced that I was done, and that I was ready for dinner. I offered my arm to Amanda, she took it with another adorable smile and we set off to Whitechapel, eagerly speculating over the evening ahead.

We managed to get to Tayyabs almost forty-five minutes earlier than arranged, but luckily there was a spare table. The smell of spices and meat wafted through the restaurant, and while I'm not one for salivating, I could definitely feel a tingling in my tongue at the prospect of new cuisine to try. The place was really busy, and we found ourselves sat at the window end of one long table, setting ourselves up and almost immediately cracking on with the little plate of poppadoms, salad and sauces provided to us. We chatted happily for a while, going through the menus, which had apparently gone up in price a bit but nevertheless looked reasonable to me. We ordered a couple of glasses of coke and, at Amanda's insistence, which I am very pleased to say was completely justified, we ordered four lamb chops, a garlic naan and a roti to start. The food arrived at surprising speed, and it smelled amazing. We'd only managed a chop each when the mains turned up, a dish of rice for us to share, a plate of Karahi Ghosht for the lady and an Allo Meat (consisting of lamb) for me!

We engaged in a playful bit of food-trading, which is one of my favourite things to do at a new restaurant, and decided that everything was lovely. We munched our way through the dinner, with Amanda looking momentarily concerned at her ability to finish the dish but coming back at it like a trooper (I do love a woman who appreciates food) and me wolfing down everything I could reach, which is my wont. I almost nabbed a nearby diner's elbow instead of the bowl at one point, so eager was I to finish the spicy meal.

Something I feel I must mention at this point is that, while I could definitely hear our dining neighbours and knew they were there, our little spot at the end of the table felt nicely secluded. Which sounds preposterous when you consider each of us was no more than a foot away from someone else noisily enjoying their own selections, but it's true. It really felt like a dinner for two. I could feel the now familiar pink fog of emotion that had begun to envelop my mind when spending time with Amanda settle over me during the evening, and I can say now that I think it made everything feel this way; like it was just for us.

Eventually we finished our meals and, after judiciously rolling a couple of cigarettes for afters, paid the bill and began the journey home. I would like to point out that over the course of this weekend I travelled more than I ever have when in London before. Obviously having a beautiful woman on my arm (I never grow tired of saying that!) enhanced the experience, and the sense that she was enjoying herself just as much as I was added to the constant feeling of something which I was beginning to think was more than simple happiness.

We took a detour on the way home, and Amanda brought me along to see where she was studying. When she speaks about things that she enjoys, or even things she doesn't, she speaks with an intensity which I have never experienced outside of my own rambling rants about petty revenge; but the things she speaks about are interesting. With her hand clutched in mine and folded into my pocket to protect her fingers against the chill London evening, she spoke about her studies and local sights with an utterly endearing passion. We stopped for a drink before heading back home properly, and spent some time huddled together on a couch in the smoking area of the pub Amanda confidently informed me was a regular student hangout. At her suggestion I decided to try one of the independent and unusual lagers available on tap, which, it turned out, where all off. I settled for a Heineken - I didn't need fancy beer to enjoy her company!

We talked for some time - we always seem to talk for longer than I think, in a surprisingly pleasant way - about so many things. Past relationships (my own experience here was, not humiliatingly sparse, but definitely lacking - but you, dear minions, are already aware of this), music, our childhoods... These were some of the several recurring themes we discussed throughout the weekend and have discussed several times prior, but for some reason being curled up next to her on that couch in a quaint little smoking area sticks confidently in my mind alongside the late-night/early-morning talks, a smug little grin on its impish face.

Soon enough we decided to head home, and made it back to the student accommodation without incident - I barely avoided having my heel smashed by the ridiculously narrow turnstile contraption for a third time - where we spent more time simply enjoying each others company. She introduced me to several new things over that weekend, and as a perfect example, I should speak of music for a moment.

Now minions, you will remember that I have made my personal tastes in music abundantly clear over the years, and tend to cling to bands and artists for years (decades in some cases - Offspring, Less Than Jake, I'm looking at you) like a favourite teddy bear, rather than attempt to embrace new things. But this girl managed to not only get me to listen to new music, she managed to get me to enjoy it. I'll give you a few examples...

I've listened to a lot of Whitey since being introduced to him, and only just now found out he's bringing out a new album. I am unashamedly pleased.

I've been enjoying New Young Pony Club - they've got a sound that mostly reminds me of Metric and the Ting Tings, but, especially in this track, influences from older groups, particularly The Smiths.

Finally, I was given a lesson in spoken word. I have never listened to spoken word in anything other than an audiobook capacity, so this young lady was something of a surprise, especially when shown this clip from a Shakespeare-inspired exhibition of lyrical talent:

And then again, in a performance I was mesmerised by:

Kate Tempest is obviously passionate about what she does. I have to say, while I enjoyed listening to her work, I loved watching it even more. She's expressive, thoughtful and fearless; this is no more evident than the few times she looks straight at the camera. I found myself being drawn into Renegade than any of her other works, which includes the admittedly fucking excellent songs she's recorded with Sound of Rum.

~{@}~

Determined not to let the fact that this was my last day with Amanda go wasted, we spent the majority of the morning exchanging murmured sentiments and soft, lingering kisses. Eventually we decided to get up; a walk around Greenwich Park would put us both in a better mood before our inevitable parting. Amanda rose first, responding to my request for Marmite on toast with a will. The last of the pain de campagne loaf would go into making some excellent toast. I lounged on the bed, savouring her with my eyes and revelling in the simple joys of things like a warm bed and the prospect of Marmite on toast. I watched her run the breadknife through the rapidly thinning loaf, frowning in thought. "Mind your lovely fingers," I said, fully aware of how wet I sounded, (believe me, there were far more disgustingly mushy moments over the weekend - AND WE REVELLED IN THEM) and embarrassingly aware of my own multiple kitchen disasters. She responded with a laugh and an impish grin, before promptly slicing into her finger with the knife. Her yelp of pain jolted me off the bed, and without even thinking I began pulling on my shoes and grabbed my jacket, intent on getting plasters and antiseptic. She glared at her hands, gripping her finger tightly as she insisted that she was going to need more than plasters. After a quick look, I grabbed her keys and went down to the nearby store, where I had seen first aid kits on the shelf during our first night. Retrieving one, I returned to find Amanda dressed and clutching a bloody tissue to her hand. We swiftly made our way to an NHS Walk-In centre nearby, where Amanda attempted to get even the most tiny iota of useful information from a woman who, in what felt like an unbelievingly frustrating and cruel twist, can only be described thoroughly by directing you to this. For my part, I Loomed. It has been remarked upon that I am a distinctly good Loomer, and for once, I agree, though unfortunately the Desk Twat was utterly unfased by even my best glare. After nearly ten minutes of watching this monosyllabic cretin click at her computer, we were informed that there was a Medical Centre around fifteen minutes away.

Luckily the pair of us are particularly good at covering any distance on foot, and I clung to Amanda's side like a curiously ambulatory giant bearded limpet, alternately ensuring that she was okay and gritting my teeth at my own idiocy for suggesting toast for breakfast. We reached the Medical Centre with no real trouble, and headed up to the waiting room. Amanda gave her name to a far more friendly and helpful receptionist and we took a seat.

We spent almost half an hour in that waiting room, but I don't regret a second of it. We spent that thirty minutes leaning on one another and whispering, smiling and swapping secretive observations on the other waiting patients. This is what waiting rooms are for after all, once the papers have been read, the clock watched and the children's toys judged sadly too small to play with without breaking them. When the giant red LEDs finally pinged and showed Amanda's name, I took my leave to go for a cigarette, knowing that I would have simply been a third wheel in any consultation with a healthcare professional. Ten minutes later, Amanda joined me outside and I took a ridiculous amount of pleasure in simply helping her put her jacket on. A brief session of conciliatory hugging later and we decided to return home.

It was getting on for mid-afternoon by the time we arrived back at Amanda's room, and we quickly settled in for the Marmite on toast that had been denied us. It is here, my beloved minions, that I fear time began to flow at a terrible, quickened rate. We chose to approach Greenwich Park before sunset, and this turned out to be an excellent decision.

We huddled together on a bench, watching the seemingly endless array of over-excited dogs bounding about and eliciting delighted noises from Amanda and mirthful chuckles from me. We spoke again, almost effortlessly now, telling each other our highlights of the weekend and already planning for my next visit. I held onto her hands, taking care with her wounded finger, and reflected over how badly I wanted to stay. I'd had a truly incredible weekend and, sat there, stroking her fingers, I knew what the pink fog I'd been experiencing was.

We took a walk back home, slowing down to watch yet more over-enthusiastic canines haring around the park, and I began to ready my things. With a sense of detachment, I packed my bag. Amanda and I sat together on her bed, quietly talking and once again taking pleasure from each other's company. I could feel a tremble in my jaw while we discussed which train I should get, and I knew I was right. I wasn't sure if I could tell her, but I could feel the emotion simmering inside me, railing against its rusted, dusty cage. Was it too soon? Would you she feel the same? What would I do if she didn't? The mere thought of the terrible guilt I'd be weighed down with if I said the words and she responded with a hollow reply was maddening, terrifying - it sent a thrill of fear up my spine, something I hadn't felt since my arrival on Friday. I bottled the anxiety, cramming the fear down, down, hidden beneath the memories of the days past.

The time came. We set out, me with my bags and she wrapped once more in a warm coat and taking my arm in what felt like an utterly natural and comfortable way. The walk to the station was far too short, but gave me more than enough time to stew in my own neuroses while we continued planning my next visit. We passed the bridge, then the bookshop, then the local Wetherspoon's, and there was the station entrance. Amanda suddenly darted ahead, looking around with a worried expression, and smiled at me. I felt the tugging at my heart again.

"I want lift kisses," she said, grabbing at my arm as the lift doors opened.

The thirty seconds spent in that metal pod on my way down to the end of my weekend was, for lack of a better word, intense. The simmering had become a raging, furious storm of need that no longer railed but crashed pell-mell into the walls of its prison, roaring to be let out and have the whole thing resolved. The lift stopped, and the emotion broke free as I held onto the most amazing woman I have ever met as though to let go would suck all the colour and life from my world.

I kissed her and I said the words.

She replied.

We shared one last, sad, yearning smile and I backed out, turning on my heel as the rush of commuters hid Amanda from my sight. The unleashed emotion tore through me, suddenly joined by a monsoon of sadness, longing and a thrill of guilt - not for saying the words, but for having to leave now. Understand, minions, that this is something I could not control. I spent the entirety of the journey home nearly oblivious to my surroundings - in fact, the first train I boarded had been the wrong one. Tearing myself from my self-absorption, I regained my path and began the true return journey. It only occurred to me on my arrival back at Colchester that I hadn't even listened to any music on the way home. I spoke with Amanda again once I returned home. I won't tell you what the structure of that conversation was like, but suffice it to say that for all my neuroses, mercurial moods, bouts of spontaneous guilt and tendency to lean towards run-on sentences with no apparent ending, I am now one extremely happy man.

Now settle down, minions! There is much to plan and much to do! We have journeys to schedule and logistics to run - Frakt, fire up the squirrel converter and don't forget to juice the idea blender! Glub, roll me a cigarette and put the kettle on, damn your adorably beady eyes! And stop taunting Blechh, it's not his fault he gets all teary during soppy stories. ...really though, Blechh, do pull yourself together, you're making an awful mess.

And you! YES! You out there!

Thanks for stopping by. :)

Love,

Richard

"Swing Life Away..."

2012-01-10T13:10:00.000-08:00

I'm back! With a vengeance! And a sandwich!

So how're things on your side of the internet?

Uhuh?

Yeah?

Really?

Shut the fuck up for a minute, will you?

I've got a whole new bag of shit to complain about, as well as old favourite hates, but I'm trying to turn over a new leaf. See, since the whole social networking thing came around I've turned into a bit of a fiend. No, wait. Friend. That's the one. Well. I say friend. I mean acquaintance.

I'm still in the same old shitbox job and I still live in Colchester, but thanks to a whole bunch of people I've worked out that life isn't as gods-damned terrible as I may have thought in the past. There are actually humans out there that don't despise me on sight. I know, right? I mean, I still hate me on sight about 90% of the time, but I know me way better than they do, so I've got an excuse.

These friends of mine have buoyed me up time and again, even when they're taking the piss. And everyone takes the piss. It's a natural thing - you see someone who you know is in some way better than you are, you make yourself feel better by dissing them in any way imaginable. These friends of mine have been responsible for some incredible times and by the Ruinous Powers it's time I started to appreciate them more.

So mountainous thanks to these friends of mine and a cement-mixer full of gratitude for their tolerance, which is admittedly pushed to its limits a lot.

Now, I expect you're wondering what's prompted me to actually write something that isn't filler, aren't you? Well, keep wondering, that's for me to know and for you to find out, you cheeky interweb spongmonkeys, you.

But I have so much to write about! So very, very much! Let's start out with a bit of linksharing, shall we? Most of you will have already seen or heard this, but bear with the rookies and let them have a shot, yeah?

A favourite of mine, this fellow tears the hearts out of so many videogames it should be illegal, but if there's anyone who can spit bile, venom and raw bitterness like it's going out of fashion, it's Yahtzee:

The Escapist : Zero Punctuation : Amnesia: The Dark Descent

If I could have a job reviewing games, I would not be able to do it in half as amusing a fashion as that guy.

Now, on to the subject of fitness.

I have never been and, even were my best intentions carried out, probably never will be fit and/or in shape. It is a fact brought on by many years of stewing in the conviction that I will never do many of the things that most of you might consider inconsequential. This includes going for long walks, not wasting five hours of my day playing videogames and critiquing pornography in my own sweaty, rancid fashion, having a girlfriend, having a career, cooking anything more complicated than a roast dinner, or turning down that third Jagerbomb despite the fact that I despise the wretched concoction.

Despite this, something about the gym and things like excercise does appeal to me. I like to think it has something to do with my very, very early years, which were invariably spent running around, bumping into things, falling off things and scraping my shins, knees, elbows, forearms, back, shoulders and more often than not, my face, on a very short brick wall or other slightly gravelly surface. So yes, the thought of spending an hour or two mucking about with machinery that somehow, and I still haven't quite worked this out yet, makes me better both physically and apparently as a person is very attractive .

But at the other end of the scale there is the constant paranoia and overwhelming fear of judgement that has haunted me since my youth and the hazily-remembered lessons about good old dependable Catholic guilt. I blame the other gym attendees. You know them. The keep-fit cunts. They're already in great shape but THAT'S NOT ENOUGH FOR THEM, oh no! All eating up the treadmill miles with their gleaming, toned bodies and form-fitting outfits that, if they could, would speak to me. They would say, in a disdainful, superior tone, "What are you, you strange, blubbery thing, to be tainting our presence with your odour of fear and your malformed excuse for a body?"

To which I would reply, in my meekest voice, while clutching forlornly at my ratty towel and not once looking up from the sparkling laminated wood flooring, "Nobody."

"Precisely!" they would roar in triumphant chorus, before dissolving into fits of hysterical laughter as I quiety take my leave.

What we need is a gym for fat people. Don't look at me all dead-eyed like that, I'm serious. When you join up, you have yourself weighed, BMI done, blood pressure, all the stuff that makes you feel bad when the little numbers finally roll to a halt, and get told the bad news. Then, a specially trained Chunky Chomper (no "wellness advisors" or "life trainers" in this gym, no sir!) will advise you of your ideal weight based on Science. This is what you aim for. You reach your ideal weight through a series of simple excercises, like Chase the Kit-Kat, or Where Did Those Knife-Wielding Chavs Come From?, and then, your membership is terminated, any remaining credit from your monthly payments will be refunded, and you get a great big cake, made almost entirely from bran and chocolate. Bran's healthy, isn't it?

No keep-fit cunts will be allowed at this gym. Only fellow fatties and those whose training is nearly complete. Thus, when training, you will have no disgustingly taut bums or soul-crushingly perky breasts to contend with, no, only one simple motivator: You don't want to be as fat as that guy whose gargantuan arse is devouring the seat from that Megavelobikeatron, do you? THEN GET RUNNING!

I suppose the only serious thing that would get me pursuing a more trim figure, which would still ultimately be barrel-chested with man-boobs and a Judge Dredd jawline, would be the attention of a lady*.

Alright, alright, stop laughing, entertain my fantasy for a moment here: One of the constant, constant, stereotyped abilities, nay, prerogatives, of a partner is changing things until they get what they want - DON'T TRY AND PLAY THE OFFENDED GENDER CARD HERE you'll notice I said "partner" not "woman" and besides there aren't any card inserts or expansions for the Book of Odsox - and they're good at it. I've discussed this with several friends, both male and female, and it's a fact. If a woman you like, or man you like, or animated canine-morph or WHATEVER, wants you to change, you fucking do it, or everything turns to shit in a far shorter time than it might have before.

So maybe that's the trick: buy an evil-minded Russian bride/groom/dog-in-a-suit and set him or her the unenviable task of sending you to the gym.

Either way, it's about time I shuffled off. I have another blog to plan and a half-arsed novel draft to dig out.

Thanks for stopping by!

Love,

Odsox

*Apparently gym buddies are good as well. Safety in numbers, that actually makes sense.

The Great Blog Filler 2011

2011-01-24T05:07:00.000-08:00

HALLOOOOOOOOOOOO interwebz!

Thought I'd actually waste some of my lunch hour updating the old blog as I now sit with my back to the entire bloody office.

Well, life has switched up a fair bit since my last post in 2009, yet remains as normal as ever. I'm now living in a quieter, less murder-and-theft-fuelled part of Colchester, which is great, with an old friend of mine who's been tolerant enough to put up with me despite my constant bitching and my hideous appearance.

While I won't be writing a complete entry here (so much to update!), expect a return to the Book of Odsox very soon!

Love, Odsox.

Just a Short Update - Sorry

2009-09-25T05:33:00.000-07:00

I no longer have the ability to write at work during my lunchbreak, which is a full hour that I used to be able to dedicate to writing a blog or whatever else took my fancy.

But my desk backs onto the line manager's now so he can see everything I write/draw/type/whatever, and quite frankly it makes a man paranoid.

So, for the forseeable future, the Book of Odsox is shut down.

TTFN,

Od.

Meanwhile...

2009-07-06T08:20:00.000-07:00

I am moving! It's official!

I'm all confirmed with the letting agent and my council (although I have to pass the Pre-Termination Council Inspection first - breeeeze), and I can move into the new place as soon as Mr. Weanie's moved his stuff out! Exciting!

I'm going to start shifting bags of stuff across this week with the aid of trusty Fi, Justin's missus. Bless her, she's already helped me ditch a whooooole bunch of stuff at the British Heart Foundation charity shoppe and she's helping me shuttle stuff now. Must make it up to her somehow.

AND this Saturday my dad's heading on over from Loughton to pile the big furniture into his Chrysler something-or-other people carrier and transport it!

I look forward to lugging my stuff (Bookcase, sofa, etc.) up three flights of stairs. O_o;

Speaking of moving stuff up three flights of stairs, it was only just over a year ago when I helped old Weanie move his stuff in.

I NEARLY DIED. Lost my grip on the TV and nearly got squished.

Bloody shame Weanie's got to move, really. We're gonna miss him kickin' about in Colchester all the time, but I reckon he won't be able to stay away for too long. =D Need to go drinkin' with Weanie again. Guy's a legend.

Right, I'd better get busy - people to call, boxes to pack, moving to be done!

WOOOOOOOOOO

BE RIGHT BACK!

2009-05-20T08:17:00.000-07:00

I'm closing the blog down for a short period while I get a new design, aesthetic and everything together. Heck, I might even open up a new website entirely.

Either way, thanks for reading and rest assured I'll be back to rant about stuff soon!

Od.

BEHOLD!!

2009-05-18T05:27:00.000-07:00

A PLACEHOLDER!!

Expect a new blog and possible overhaul this evening (18/05/09).

Nooch.

"Let No Man Look Up At The Sky With Hope!"

2009-05-14T11:31:00.001-07:00

Just thought I'd let you all know that I have a new theme tune.

If you don't already have it, I suggest you obtain a copy of the Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Man's Chest soundtrack. In fact, buy all three. Although maybe not At World's End because that one was well ropy compared to the first two.

Listen to the track "The Kraken".

That's what I listen to now. Over and over.. it's such an amazing piece of music. Huge orchestral pipe organs and heavy bass with a thumping, urgent drumbeat that just drives you to do epic things. Every time it gets to a crescendo I get a shudder and desperately find myself looking for an axe, or guns, or somewhere high to stand and scream orders over a battlefield.

Needless to say, it makes for truly inspiring music in WAR.

Download WAR too. Give me someone to fight, or someone else to fight alongside.

"Time For Beddy-Bye, Mr. Bubbles!"

2009-04-20T05:25:00.000-07:00

It's been another while between proper blogs, hasn't it?

My apologies.

Truth be told, not a lot has been going on in my life.

I'm still working in the same job, (mentally) scraping by while my bankroll fluctuates alarmingly each month. It's all I can do not to jack it in.

My writing continues, and I've decided to stick a sword in Driven By Hate after I get the final part of Earned In Blood uploaded. Mainly because the inspiration for most of the events there (House Sathar) has gone on indefinite hiatus while other players try different games, etcetera.
That and something that one of the Sathar players mentioned about it being fun to write fan fiction but even better to write your own universe, ie one that the author has created.

I agree thoroughly; the only problem being that I get bogged down with detail whenever I start something universal-size.

Other than that, I finally went and got a copy of Bioshock. Well, it was only a tenner and it's been
niggilng at me for a year or so, so it seemed like a worthwhile purchase.

Turns out it was a REALLY worthwhile purchase.

This game is awesome. Totally immersive (if you keep your volume settings loud enough so that the tribe of chavs who have moved into the flat downstairs are drowned out), fun, well-designed,
gory and intriguing, this has to be the best single-player FPS I've played since F.E.A.R.

Speaking of which, F.E.A.R. 2: Project Origins is out, and it's pretty bloody scary.

Oh, I also added to my Dresden Files collection with my long-sought-after paperback copy of Small Favour, ONLY TO FIND OUT THE HARDBACK VERSION OF TURN COAT IS OUT.

Damn it all to hell, when will they learn to release both at the same time!? I won't buy hardcovers unless they're Pratchett these days (or really really cheap and good), so I love paperback editions. Smaller, handier, cheaper.. Plus I have the paperback set of the Dresden Files, thus a hulking great hardback would ruin the whole thing.

Hey! Listen!

You remember me banging on about Warhammer Online, yeah? You must have. Because I hardly ever stop.

FREE TRIAL, BIZZITCHIZZES!

Download it and play it, give me a shout on Burlok or Karak Azgal or, heck, e-mail me if you join the WAR and let me know who to help/kill!

Gem was supposed to sign up ages ago, but due to myriad reasons she hasn't. (probably doesn't really want to play a mad, gibbering goblin shaman that thinks it's a girl - and who would?) I was hoping to glean a few more troops from my readers, and then I remembered that MMOs aren't to everyone's taste.

Shame.

Right, I'd best get back to the grindstone before the boss gets back.

Odsox OOOOOOOOOOOUUUUUUUUTTTTTTTTTT.....

"Go On and Pull That Trigger!"

2009-04-20T03:30:00.000-07:00

Just a little brain-zephyr's worth of writing for you while I think of a better update:

The bloody mess was spread over a space of at least ten feet, broken bones and flesh scattered like patches of macabre plant life amongst the dry scrub of the plain. What hadn’t been taken by scavengers was playing host to a massive swarm of damned flies, their tiny black bodies part of a hungering army which scurried eagerly amid the gore.

A cloud of them filled the air around what was left of the corpse. Their strange, shrill buzzing was intensely loud despite the open terrain. To anyone listening closely enough, the noise could be heard as hundreds of high, thin screams that could drive a man insane if he listened for too long.The hunter swept his gaze across the thickest patch of the stuff, where rib bones stuck out of caked blood and rotting meat. He’d seen three more killings like this one recently, but this, absurdly, was the tidiest of the bunch. He checked the grip of his pistols and looked at the surroundings.

Parched, gritty plains extended in every direction, dotted here and there with spindly, skeletal trees and unremarkable rocks of all shapes and sizes. The scrub was a no-man's land constantly baked by the glaring, oppressive suns, with little cover for a predator, let alone a man-eater, and the few creatures that called it home could provide no real sustenance. Aside from the damned flies, whose screaming would become maddeningly loud whenever they were attacked, a few small lizards and scorpions could be found scurrying about the baked ground. These might have kept a lone eagle or reaperwing from starving, but a man-eater would die after a day in this environment.

‘Miles from anywhere, no sign of tracks, nowhere near in range of any man-eaters and besides, they wouldn’t have left anything, let alone this much mess.’

‘What a bloody shambles.’

‘What do you reckon?’ asked the taller man, switching his gaze to his partner.

The hunters were nearly identical in their clothing; broad, shady hats protected their eyes from the yellow and orange suns glaring down on the plain. They wore battered brown dusters over their clothes (unremarkable denim jeans and plain, simple shirts) and their hands covered by finely worked black leather gloves. The only real difference lay in their choice of armaments.

The shorter, slimmer man, with cold blue eyes and a scraggly black beard, wore a modified rifle which had a long body and a thick, oppressive muzzle. There were also two very serious-looking knives at his belt, which he toyed with idly.

Ka, the taller of the pair, was a heavyset man with two massive pistols holstered at his waist and a red bandanna tied around the bicep of his coat. A scratched, well-used axe peeked from the harness on his back. His brown eyes flicked nervously from the corpse to his partner.

‘Oll? I said, what do you reckon?’

His companion squatted down by the remains, sweeping his broad-brimmed hat from side to side in an effort to clear the damned flies from his sight. He reached out with a gloved hand and dipped a finger into the mess, stirring it around before gingerly pulling a broken rib from the muck. He inspected it thoughtfully, then tossed it over his shoulder, a handful of damned flies screaming helplessly after their meal.

‘Oll? You goin’ deaf, mate?’

The shorter man stood up, replacing his hat and placing his hands on his hips.

‘I reckon…’

‘Yeah?’

‘I reckon we need a fuckin’ drink.’

“So Here We Are.”

2009-02-16T03:46:00.000-08:00

The problem, you see, is that when I wake up at 06:10 every morning and stare at the ceiling, I come up with long, depressing diatribes in my head that would make for distracting if not laughable blog entries, but then I somehow manage to forget them on the way to work.

Today’s, for example, was going to be a horrible, mushy, self-deprecating (FUCK I was trying really hard to remember that phrase the other day!) miserable rant about girls and how lovely they are etc. etc. ad nauseum, basically due to the fact that I haven’t been able to touch one in more than a friendly fashion for about two years.

Of course it wasn’t ALL going to be about touching them, even though that’s one of the best parts.

It’s when you wake up for the umpteenth morning, on the right-hand side of a double bed with that great big empty space next to you.

Now don’t get me wrong – I’m well aware of the fact that the last girl to share that bed with me was, quote unquote, ‘rubbish for me’, - but that doesn’t half make you pine for some companionship. Well. It does me, anyway.

Some of you might be happy with your singleness, but I for one am becoming pretty bloody fed up with it. I’ve got a comfy double bed that isn’t being used to its full capacity, an amateur set of cooking skills that are entirely wasted on a single 24y/o male living alone, a DVD collection that puts your average dude’s clutch of shite Vin Diesel DVDs to shame (Variety. I has it.), and a whole HOST of rants that don’t get a chance to fall on seemingly patient but actually uninterested ears!

The worst thing about it all is probably the pity, though.

You know what I’m talking about.

Although.. saying that.. the pity is about the closest thing I get to attention these days, and when you grew up an only child with an awesome mum who paid attention to you 24/7 WHETHER YOU WANTED HER TO OR NOT, living on your own and not having anyone around to interact with is, quite frankly, absolute pears.

Yeah, anyway look, I get paid on the 23rd, so I’ll be booking an appointment wiv da toof-fixa after paying the main bills, and I fully expect you all (all three of you!) to take the time out of your busy schedules and LOOK AT ME, PAY ATTENTION TO ME!

On a final, slightly related note, I did manage to pluck up the courage to speak to the hot bargirl in The Swan opposite the Corn Exchange when we went to see Dylan Moran last Wednesday. Just general shit and trying to big up Josh’s sample CD, but I spoke to her! Go me!

Now if only I could get that sort of courage up all the time.

Back to the grind…

Od.

DA MIRAKUL BLOG FILLAH

2009-02-04T02:39:00.000-08:00

Good evening.

Work is hectic, my nights are all taken up by fighting and writing.

Read this while you wait for a proper blog, courtesy of the '25 Random* Things About Me' Note meme that's going around on the Book of Face.

25. When I am occupying a locked toilet, everyone in my local vicinity loses the
ability to check the Vacancy/Occupied indicator strip on all toilet doors, thus
resulting in them going to open the door blindly and looking stupid as
it refuses to budge while inside I've half leapt off my seat due to the
resounding THUMP as they walk into the door.

USE YOUR EYES, ASSHAT!

24. I do not believe, even slightly, in ghosts. Aliens and monsters, however, remain a strong possibility.

23. I can't remember if this number was where it was written, but I'd like to add myself to the list of those who don't trust people who don't like cheese. That's un-English, that is. If you don't like cheese, you're either foreign or a mental.

22. I have no defined musical taste aside from my obvious fondness for ska. My Music folder contains an eclectic set of songs (Think of a musical genre. I has it.), and I refuse to accept any mockery on the subject, because music is an art and art is not only form and content; art is also
subjective. So fuck off.

21. I don't like cricket.

20. When I pick what I'm wearing every morning, I don't even bother to check if my socks
match anymore.

19. Working for the government, while mind-numbingly over-complicated and tedious, does have its perks.

18. A solid hour of my normal day consists of looking at pornography online.

17. If I were an animal, I would be a fat, lazy tabby housecat who likes nothing more than
sleeping on his owner's desk in the pool of sunshine from the window and, on quiet days, chasing potbellied mice through the garden.

16. I am physically and mentally incapable of recognising or returning flirtation, even subconciously. I'm an evolutionary cul-de-sac.

15. My nights are currently divided between playing Warhammer Online, getting wasted so as to forget the monotony of life (/drama), watching Jericho, legitimately acquiring movies, reading, listening to music and writing fiction. No teim fer wuvs, doktah Jonez.

14. I retain a genuine sense of surprise when people admit to not hating me.

13. You know those awesome sort of digitigrade hopping-leg thingies that you sometimes see people wearing so they can bounce along the road like a VERY TALL sprinting kangaroo? I love those.

12. There is a difference between movies, films and cinema.

11. While there are people in the world who insist on buying into Blizzard's behemoth MMO, I will be there to shout 'YOU'RE DOING IT WRONG!!'.

10. I am incredibly insecure. So much so that it took me half an hour to decide to leave this one in.

09. Every Friday should be fish and chips night, as far as I'm concerned.

08. Bam-bam-buh-bam, ba-lam-bam-buh-bam, I wanna be cremated.

07. (Slice of Bread x 2) + (Cheese + Pickle) / 2 = Best Sandwich Evar.

06. My least favourite dream is the one where I'm about four years old, dressed in a mini parka jacket and baggy dungarees, and I'm standing just outside of a car with its passenger door open. My mum, who's sitting in the driver's seat crying, says something to me, hauls the door closed and drives off, leaving me alone in the middle of a massive car park.

05. I have a primal fear of sharks. So much so that I point-blank refuse to swim in the ocean and I have even been known to express a paranoid suspicion of man-made bodies of water.

04. My favourite book is 'Good Omens' by Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett.

03. I crave attention and the approval of my peers. It's something I picked up years ago after my apathetic phase, and I dearly wish I could outgrow it.

02. I should probably put out a want-ad for a girlfriend. It's the only way I'll get back into the dating game at this rate.

'Tubby mid-twenties nerd dude seeks patient, understanding brunette dudette with similar tastes. Sense of humour and low expectations a must. '

01. DIS IS DA BEST WAR EVAH!

Cheers, and see you on the battlefie- oh wait, none of you play WAR..

Od.

*It's not random if someone has actually put some thought into it, you ignorant fuck.

Driven By Hate - A Druchii Blog

2009-01-26T14:49:00.000-08:00

Ladies and gentlemen, druchii and goblins, ravens and orcs, you are cordially invited to peruse..

A collection of tales chronicling the exploits of Raucir Lustingclaw and the ill-favoured House Sathar.

So basically, I've been writing a lot lately, and what with the spotlight the other week and the positive and constructive feedback I've received for my posted Druchii Tales on The Grey Kabal's forum, I've decided to open up a seperate blog for the whole thing.

Obviously Raucir's tales are the focus of the collection (every aspiring writer should be considered an egomaniac), though I'll be posting the occasional Bonus Story when I have the spark to actually write something interesting. I'm also intending to Write On Demand at some later stage, once I'm more confident.

Thanks to all of House Sathar for their warm welcome, their ongoing perseverance in Warhammer Online and their help and advice on my writing.

As a final note, I'd like to point out that right now Driven By Hate is a work in progress which needs a lot of tweaking, and that I'm beginning by posting one (maybe two) excerpts a week so as to help my run up at giving this writing shit a serious shot.

Read on! \m/

Od.

"Heads Down, Non-Geeks!"

2009-01-13T05:40:00.000-08:00

Just thought I'd show off a wee bit to my gaming/geek buddies by saying

I'M IN UR SPOTLITE, SHOWIN OFF

For those of you who aren't into that sort of thing, I will summarise.

I play a game called Warhammer Online: Age of Reckoning. I play it because I've loved the Warhammer setting (both Fantasy and 40K (read: gothic science fiction)) for years, although I can't be arsed with the hassle of the miniatures game with the rules and the numbers and the MONEY involved in buying the damned things.

As a result, I've read countless Warhammer novels, novellas, compilations of short stories, battle reports, etc. etc. ad nauseum, and even tried to write my own stuff every now and then.

A short while ago I won 2nd prize in a Writing Blurb competition down at our local Games Workshop, which was a nice ego boost that cheered me up at the time, and now, while there's no corporeal reward as such, one of my pieces written on a whim for Warhammer Online has been chosen for a Spotlight article on my regular forum.

This, as you can imagine, has rekindled my dream of writing again, and as such I'd like to thank any of my friends who've been kind/interested/bored/tolerant enough to read anything I've written over the years.

Od.

P.S. FEAR MA L33T WRITIN' SKILLZ

"Fucking Pasties Everywhere..."

2009-01-09T01:31:00.000-08:00

Today's Cycling Soundtrack:
The Bravery The Bravery - An Honest Mistake
Koala Kid Shaun of the Dead OST - The Gonk (Remix)
Method Man & Redman The Blackout - Alrightcha
Leftfield Leftism Track 3
Lazlo Bane Scrubs OST Superman
Dynamite Hack Take A Bite Outta Rhyme - Boyz in Tha Hood

WELCOME to my new readers, and:

I am BACK from St. Ives!

And it was cracking! Bloody cold, but we were stumbling around in fancy dress with CamelBaks full of Jack Daniels and Coke (or vodka and coke for some of the others), fired up on booze and toasty warm! There were several awesome shots taken, although I believe most of them were taken by DJ Bean, who at some point in the night lost his camera. Booooo.

Still, Bean managed to get a good shot of the group using Nick’s camera (From left to right - Mr. Bump, the Big Bad Wolf, Bugs Bunny Humping Chair, Litte Red Riding Hood, The Terminator (circa 1984, get in), Scooby Doo, A Soldier, A Dinosaur, Homer Simpson, Little Miss Naughty and in front, Another Dinosaur - out of shot: A Panda and the Cowardly Lion):

No-one had the heart to ask the Tardasaurus to move out of the frame. She was having such a good time.

And in case you can’t see my ugly mug in the dark up the back there, here’s a nice close-up (currently serving as my Book of Face profile photo):

“For the last time, I’m not supposed to be Robocop.”

We saw some amazing costumes as we trawled through the town. I’d upload some of the more awesome ones, but as I said, young Bean lost his camera, and I haven’t been in touch with any of the others to see if they got any good ones. Still, we had a cracking time, and I really liked the hostel we stayed in. A couple of the others thought it was a bit iffy, but I felt like I was staying in someone’s house! A really big house, mind you, but a house nonetheless! I’ve never felt so bloody comfortable in a place I’ve paid to stay in. There were comfy armchairs and sofas, little tables with chairs, a pool table, two fruit machines, a TV corner (including MASSIVE selection of mostly awesome videos and even a couple of DVDs, all free to watch as and when), and even a PS2! I only discovered this last on the day we left, however, which is a bloody shame because I would have done some all-night gaming otherwise.

The stay cost each of us £60 (Free showers, bunk beds with 6 people to a room), and we had a nice, warm-ish little courtyard to go and smoke in.

Yes, I said smoke. CIGARETTES. Roll-ups, for preference. I’ve dropped the habit now that I’m home again, but as I explained to people there (“Rich, I didn’t know you smoked.” – “I don’t. Well, apart from now.”), it’s a social thing, quite literally. I don’t get cravings for cigarettes, but if I spot people rolling up I suddenly realise that in a minute or two, BAM, there go half my conversational partners. I consider it a necessary sacrifice in order to increase my meagre powers of socialising.

On the subject of sacrifice, a little note for anyone who’s met my friend Justin, by the way:

NEVER LET HIM EAT CORNISH PASTIES.

His farts smell like the aftermath of Chernobyl probably smelled. Death, nuclear radiation and doom. On the journey home (8 hours on three trains with Justin and Nick), he was suspiciously unsmelly, while still being quite (silently) farty. As we got off our final train and stepped onto the platform, dog-tired and ready for bed, we took a deep breath of Colchestrian air.

I nearly retched. That little bastard had been fermenting one final superfart the whole way, and unleashed it just as we got back. So there he was, laughing like a git while Nick and I legged it down the platform to get away from the stench.

Oh, and while I was in St. Ives, I bought an extra copy of Bill Bryson’s Notes From A Big Country. Why? So I could swap it with the copy of Nick Hornby’s High Fidelity that I found on the hostel bookshelf.

I haven’t even finished it yet, but High Fidelity, and I really hate to say this, has made me have a serious think about where I am and what I want to do with my life. The lead character, Rob Fleming, is a thirty-four(?) year old who runs a record shop, and, I hate to say it because it sounds so clichéd, but for some reason I identify with him and a lot of his musings. I also fucking LOVE the way he has a Top 5 for just about EVERYTHING. I was one of those kids who always asked people what their favourite things were (part of a film, character in a book, kind of sweet, breed of dog, etc.), so much so that I remember Mum asking me, in a somewhat irritated fashion, to stop doing it. I’m pretty sure I still do that a lot.

Anyway, I’ve been reading it avidly. And I looked at my list of ideal jobs (nearly all of which are pretty much unachievable owing to the location/effort/qualifications/capital/time involved in successfully applying for them), conveniently written in Top 5 fashion:

1. Creature Designer for Jim Henson’s Creature Shop.
2. Creative Design Assistant for BioWare.
3. Author. (Science-Fiction, Modern Fiction and Fantasy)
4. Professional Movie Reviewer (including pen-light like Penny Hardwick!).
5. Film Director.

A job where I get to wear what I like, do what I love and get paid for it, essentially. Confucius is noted to have said something along the lines of, ‘Find a job you love and you will never work a day in your life’.

I just deleted three further paragraphs of me ranting about how much I hate my job. You don’t need to suffer that shit again. Instead, why not look at this? Sorry if that link doesn't work, I was blocked at work, but hopefully it's the awesome clip from Doomsday involving a bunny and an automated machine gun.

I reckon I might be in with a shot at No. 3, so I’m off to do some more writing now. Probably be on Warhammer again later.

Od.

"GETAHTOFIT!"

2009-01-06T06:04:00.000-08:00

Just clearing the page!

I had a cracking New Year and a highly enjoyable Hogswatch, and while currently busy at work (and sure to be busy with writing and playing this evening), I just thought I should let you all know that I still aten't ded and I'm looking forward to seeing you in the New Yarr!

Od.

"Happy Hogswatch!"

2008-12-22T01:35:00.000-08:00

'Ello there!

Don't be fooled by my seemingly-chipper introduction - I currently feel like an elephant took a shit in my brain and I want to die.

This is not a result of Saturday's Mash-Up, but rather the result of a cold evening walking around London, followed by sitting in a theatre bunched up with loads of humans who had coughs and/or colds, cycling in the cold without a scarf and smoking cigarettes when I should have been drinking Lemsip.

But fuck it, it's nearly Hogswatch and I get to leave Colch-Hell-ster behind for a few days while I go up to Loughton to see my dad and the family.

The Mash Up on Saturday, while not Epic, was definitely Awesome. Thanks to young Weanie, who sadly couldn't make it thanks to his asshat employers (who made him drive around London all Saturday with the meagre promise of back-pay - the bastards), we had the use of a projector and my chuffing brilliant surround sound system. Some reshuffling of furniture left us with a cheap home theatre and PLENTY of boozes. I'd like to express my thanks to those who managed to show, namely Adam, Fi, Gem, Justin and Sooz, because let's face it, it would have been a diabolical evening without you.

The evening went well, we got drunk, exchanged presents (which were all-around AWESOME - I shall list them momentarily) and watched Wall-E on the big screen while taking turns to look through the front door peephole at the Nutter across the hallway and his chavtastic acquaintances, who broke down his door, spat on him repeatedly and probably beat him up. I love living on Greenstead.

As for presents, I got an amazing selection, BEHOLD!

From Adam and Sooz - A Led Zeppelin T-Shirt, a MASSIVE tea mug with a heat-ativated stripping lady on, a naked lady lighter and a rather classy naked lady roach book!

From Gemma - A copy of MB Games' Operation! It's just a shame we didn't play it (Justin got Hungry Hippos - OM NOM NOM NOM HUNGRY HIPPOS!)

From Justin and Fi - A desk calendar entitled something like '365 Days and Ways to Get Your Revenge!' which is AWESOME, and, and this was very, VERY thoughtful on Fi's part, a copy of Elephant Cat, by Nicola Bayley! (I now have the complete set of Copycat books!) And before you get all 'Hur, looks a bit poofy to me', I'd like to point out that when I was a small child my mother used to read these books to me, and they have pride of place alongside a picture of me ol' mum in my bookcase, so fuck you. *smiles*

HEY, I forgot to mention why I was in London! For those of you who I haven't raved about this to already, settle down.

I was at work on Friday, and at about ten o'clock I get an email from a lady who works downstairs in reception. She tells me that she has two FREE tickets to see Eddie Izzard that night at the Lyric Theatre in London, and that if I want them, I should go ahead and say so. A couple of phone calls later, and I've agreed to meet Auntie Gill at London Liverpool Street station, and to go from there on to the theatre! I thought it made a nice early Christmas present.

Mr. Izzard was on fine form, especially considering he had a cough (the same as everyone else in the theatre, from the sound of things), and he did several really good skits. They recorded the whole show ("in a bootleg style!") for an audio CD as well. Auntie Gilll and I were impressed with his ability to essentially just talk to a room full of people for nearly three hours. That's a job I'd love. And while not a massive fan of Eddie Izzard originally, he did a bit about Noah's Ark and the lack of sharks onboard that completely won me over.

Right, I should go back to work before my head falls off because it's full of words and snot.

Od.

Oddy's Pre-Christmas Mash-Up!

2008-12-16T05:53:00.000-08:00

IT’S YOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOMMMMMMM KIPPOOOOOOOOOORRRRR!!!!

Well, maybe not. But it’d be good fun if it was, eh?

I don’t know if any of you buggers have noticed, but there seems to be some sort of mass-commercialism going on at the moment. Every shop has decorated its window with some old fat guy in a red jumpsuit who looks like he stole every fucking pie in the factory.

I’m told this is part of a human festival called Christmas, which I’ve found myself referring to as The Great Winter Price-Hike, when the shops gain a fondness for red, green, silver, gold and white, start getting this fat guy to lumber through their shops either as a hobo who gives children presents and ‘sits the kiddies on his knee’ – riiiiiiight - or as a tinny, new-fangled clockwork automaton, and PLAY NOTHING BUT CHRISTMAS SONGS ALL DAY.

Fuck that noise.

A few of you might remember, many years ago, that some of us decided that spending Christmas with the family is all well and good, but seeing as you never get to see your mates over that little holiday, it might be an idea to arrange some sort of pre-Christmas do for just you and your bestests.

Well, after chatting to Mr. Weanie about the whole thing, I’m going to attempt to reinstate this, and everyone who reads this blog (and can make the journey, obviously) is invited. So, pack a few cheapo pressies in your bags, grab the booze, the smoke, DVDs and CDs, make your excuses and come on over!

It would be awesome to get the old crowd together, and of course those of you who are lucky enough to have gotten a bf/gf since the last bash can consider your new beau/heau welcome as well - the more the merrier!

DETAILS:

The Pre-Christmas Booze Bash will take place on Saturday the 20th of December at approximately 18:00, and the venue will be 80 Avon Way, Colchester.

The aim of the Pre-Christmas Booze Bash is simple - to gather all your friends, mates, pals, chums, put them in a small(ish) space, get them tanked up and hand over their Christmas presents!

Adam, Weanie, Justin, Gemma, Fi, Sooz, and.. er.. actually that's all the friends I have. Nearby at least.

Anyway, do as the Invite says! And for the love of cheese, get in touch if you can't make it! There's nothing worse than organising something like this and hacing it fall through at the last moment.

As a parting note, here's a cheerful, happy-go-lucky scamp to remind us that dressing up one's pets is neither big, nor clever.

In fact, it should be a hanging offence.

Od.

Work In Progress.

2008-12-15T03:27:00.001-08:00

I can’t write until I have music. Clicking here should give you an idea of today’s blog matter, however.

Don’t get hit by a car until I’ve posted.

Od.

"Hooray! It's your Year-Closer-to-Death Day!"

2008-12-03T06:08:00.000-08:00

Welcome along!

I'd like to thank Gem, Adam, Justin, Weanie and Fi for turning up for birthday drinks on Saturday. The rest of you are rubbish EVEN IF YOU DON'T LIVE NEAR COLCHESTER!

Auntie Gill and Uncle Martin also popped by on Sunday with a birthday picnic, which was nomtastic. It's always good to see my favourite Auntie and Uncle. And me Dad popped down with Lou and two of the Brood (read: my little brother and sister) to drop off my pressies and wish me a happy birthday last weekend, which was actually fun.

So all in all I had a great birthday and most importantly of all I was lavished with appropriate tribute,thusly:

From my Father and his Brood, most notably, a tea mug featuring a piece of Paul Kidby artwork, a t-shirt decorated with the Josh Kirby (R.I.P., legend) cover of Terry Pratchett's Pyramids, a new jigsaw puzzle depicting Josh Kirby's artwork for Terry Pratchett's Soul Music, and a string of plastic skulls with flashing, multi-coloured lights!

From Auntie Gill and Uncle Martin, a lavish birthday picnic, a generous monetary tribute and the pleasure of their company on Recovery Sunday.

From Gem, most notably, a copy of Disney's The Sword in The Stone on DVD, six glow-in-the-dark fingerbobs (one of which is the most enthusiastic-looking toy I've EVER seen) and a bag of birthday Twiglets OM NOM NOM NOM.

From Justin, a genuine Guitar Hero action figure blister featuring the legendary Lars Umlaut, probably my favourite and definitely the most metal of Guitar Hero's (human) characters!

From Fi, one of the most thoughtful presents I've gotten in a while, an origami P-Chan, complete with origami bandana! It sits upon my bookcase with an aura of stubborn pride and it is byootifull.

The regards and birthday wishes of all those not mentioned here were also a great gift, and I'm honestly feeling better in myself for the reminder that people know I'm alive. I'd like to give a specific shout to man Weanie for turning up to offer a quick Happy Birthday to me even though he was absolutely shattered from his gig. Try as I might I couldn't get a link to his band while at work, but they're awesome, a SERIOUS metal band named Sower.

Right then, what else is going on? Well, (switch off, non-nerds) the Warhammer Online update I've been waiting for since release is finally here, so tonight I finally get to play one of the bad guys and enjoy the hate-filled psychopath that is the Black Guard of Naggarond. I'm really looking forward to hacking people up with a spiky halberd. In other news, meddling with the components of my gaming rig has been an unusually fun experience, so much so that I've taken it into my head to come up with an ambitious project.

Now, it won't come as a surprise to some of you that I've always had a soft spot for laptops. My first real gaming rig (more fool me) was a laptop, and I've had a hankering for a new one since mine was stolen. Obviously I've learned my lesson and don't want one for gaming anymore, nor do I want to spend more than £150 on the thing. No, I want what I will refer to as a shitbox laptop. Basically, all I'm going to use it for is writing, the occasional piece of artwork, listening to music and internet browsing. It needs at least two USB ports for a memory stick and printer coupling, and at the very most 80GB of space. I've been scouting NetBooks (these things are cool) and while I appreciate the fact that they are rather nifty, they're also a bit dinky for my sausage-like fingers and manhands. I might punch straight through the keyboard with these fat digits. The ultimate draw of a NetBook (for me at least) is the fact that they're so small. I've wanted a laptop as a replacement for pens and paper, pretty much because I find it nearly impossible to write with pens anymore. I never follow up what I write in my notebooks, they're more of a scrap/draft/scribble/idea pad than a real notebook.
The only thing is, I'm going to want to mess it up. I'm gonna paint it, engrave on it, stick things to it and generally make it ugly, unstealable and undeniably mine. So I don't want anything too fancy, you see.

I know, it's a dilemma.

Anyway, thanks for putting up with me and have a good day!

Od.

"ALL GLORY TO THE HYPNOTOAD!!"

2008-11-28T05:48:00.001-08:00

"Too Young To Feel This Damn Old" - redux

2008-11-27T06:26:00.000-08:00

So, as some of you may be aware, it's my year-closer-to-death day on Saturday the 29th (that's this Saturday)of November. This will be my twenty-fourth full year on this horrible little dirtball of a planet, and I intend to celebrate in as raucous and jovial a fashion as possible.

A basic rundown for you.

Friday 28/11/08 - 18:30 onwards:

GAMES! MUSIC! BOOZE! MOVIES! SMOKE! HAHAHAHAH!

Saturday 29/11/08 (DA OFFISHUL BERFDAY) - From whenever I wake up onwards:

More of the same, but culminating in a stumbling rush to colchester Town centreat about seven to start drinking at the Purple Dog, on to Greenlands for iced teas and ending up at the Castle where I can try to ply ugly girls with drinks and convince them that they should give me their numbers ''cause it's ma birthday, innit?'. If I don't even manage to get a kiss on the cheek from an ugly girl's ugly friend who feels sorry for me, then I shall be upset.

Sunday 30/11/08 - 09:30 onwards:

Wondering what the hell happened the night before, becoming heart-breakingly depressed because I've just realised that I'm nearly thirty, followed by a massive panic-induced cleanup as I realise AUNTIE GILL'S COMING OVER TODAY!! And nudging the casualties of the celebration awake while making them decide whether they want to stick around and meet the legendary Auntie Gill and Uncle Martin, or move on to somewhere where there are fewer family members.

Sunday night I expect I'll become incredibly maudlin and get all bitter and drunk before I have to return to my shitbox job on Monday morning.

If any of you buggers has a suggestion or request for the weekend, for God's sake let me know as soon as possible, because otherwise it'll all go to hell and I'll end up spending my birthday alone again, which fuckin' sucks.

Od.

"Vault Secure!"

2008-11-17T05:51:00.000-08:00

So Fallout 3 then.

I've been playing this every now and then. I ain't impressed. It isn't nearly as much fun as a good game of WAR - there's no-one around to fight!

It's a fucking wasteland! There's nothing out there but ruined buildings, tumbleweeds, radiation and the occasional rabid dog or robot! Where's my damned horse?! WHY CAN'T I SPRINT!?

WHY IS STEALTH IMPOSSIBLE!?

Only joking. I got my copy for free, so I'm not really angry about anything.

But I would like a horse..

It's a pretty game, isn't it? But as usual, my first reaction to the well-detailed environments and rolling tumbleweeds, perfectly-drawn hairs on the character's face and expressive feautres, was, 'Shiny. Like a high-tech Oblivion.', and let's be honest, that's what it is. It FEELS like Oblivion. When you move, when you fight, when you talk to characters, when you ride your horse OH WAIT YOU CAN'T DO THAT I FORGOT.

Not that I'm bitter about it or anything.

The problem with such massive, immersive games like Fallout 3 (or as I've taken to calling it, the F3 Virus), is that there's so. Much. TALKING. And so many f-ers to talk to! Oh sure, 'not if you avoid the main quests', you might say. But that's why I'm here! I play games because they have STORIES behind them. I wanna know who's gonna blow up the world, who's gonna kill everything, who's gonna save them and above all, how many guns am I allowed? I don't WANT to spend twenty hours just wandering around and occasionally killing things because there's nothing else to do. I want interaction, drama, fast-paced action and a flowing storyline! Not Travel-Dungeon-Kill-Loot-Sell-Repeat! If I wanted THAT shit I could just go and play Warcraft.

Being an incredibly indecisive person given to sudden, irrational mood swings, I don't get on with it because I never fall into any of the accepted types. Fallout comes with a nice array of playstyles, just like Oblivion, but like every game I've ever played, what it comes down to is that if you don't have the opportunity to pick a dedicated class (ie rogue, fighter, wizard etc, blah blah blah yakkety shmakkety), it can be extremely difficult to try and stick with one.

For example, by nature I prefer to keep in the shadows, wait for my moment and stab people repeatedly in the neck. If I work out that I can't do this, like in Fallout 3 where EVERY LITTLE NOISE attracts the attention of every fucker from Thunderdome and beyond, or the fact that every single enemy has TELESCOPIC SUPER VISION like Superman and shit, thus rendering sniper rifles pointless, then my other playstyle is to play tactically. Adjust my approach to suit the situation.

But because one is forced to semi-specialise, this isn't a viable option. In an ideal world I would either take the stealthy approach, which consists of, as mentioned, repeated stabbing, and silenced pistols, sniper rifles and the occasional grenade ("Fraggle out!"), or the pyromaniac approach, which consists of burning everything to a cinder until there's nothing left but a pile of ashes and me with a happy smile and singed eyebrows. Fallout relies on your persistence, patience and ability to pick up useless crap everywhere you go.

That's right. Useless crap. The problem here is, what's useful and what isn't? I saw packs of cigarettes lying around and my first thought was 'Prisoners trade for cigarettes, why shouldn't post-nuke nutjobs?' so I grabbed a few packs. I grabbed cans of food, big knives, anything that could be used as a weapon, scavenged every single piece of armour I could find, and passed over the pressure cooker ("Wtf? What is this shit, 'Cooking Mama'? Where are the GUNS!") and railspikes, completely unaware that these very components can lead to some of the nicer weapons later on.

I SHOULD love this game. It's beautiful, graphics-wise. It's smooth, the gameplay can be immersive and gripping (except when you're zerged by six raiders because OOPS you trod on a tin can!), the voices are (mostly) well-done, the scripting is just fine and the dialogue is spot-on as far as I'm concerned. The VATS system is epic win.

But I just can't get into it. I've decided to give up on it for now. I much prefer the epic battles of WAR and the camaraderie of my allies. Plus, I'm MORE than happy to be labelled a squishy ranged DPS and not be able to stealth or anything else, because I have meatshie- allies to do that for me. I get to focus on mass destruction and saying cool stuff. AND I HAVE A FUCKING HORSE.

WAR CALLS!

Od.

"Shore up that left flank and keep firing!"

2008-11-05T04:41:00.000-08:00

Wow, I've got a lot going on in November. I only realised how much stuff last night!

It was Halloween on Friday, I KNOW IT WAS OCTOBER LET ME FINISH, and a nice night of getting buzzy-drunk (which is the most fun stage) led me into the month of my birth. On Saturday November 1st I finally met Dan Abnett, legendary author, storyteller extraordinaire and all-round cool dude. If you haven't heard of the mighty Abnett, I highly suggest you check his stuff out. The man's worked on 2000AD (Do you have any idea how awesome Sinister Dexter is? No, I don't think you do. Go look.), shedloads of Warhammer 40,000 books including his own phenomenally successful Gaunt's Ghosts series, and a whole bunch of stuff I'm still too excited to think of. I should have bought a copy of the Malus Darkblade Chronicles for him to sign.. boo..

Tonight (the 5th) is fireworks night, which I'm not doing anything for, but I can watch the Essex Uni's fireworks quite easily from my front room window. I'll probably pull up a comfy chair by the window and read by a light while the explodey bits happen outside.

I should, God-Emperor willing, have my PC up and running on a fresh hard drive by next week (been meaning to buy a bigger one for ages), and on the 12th, as you already know, I'm off to see Less Than Jake at the Astoria.

FUCKING ROCK.

I was pleasantly surprised to receive an email reminder from Chris' mum that we're going to the Mercury Theatre on the 17th to catch a play called Alex, which is about a cartoon about the City of London, written by some nice chaps. And I haven't been to the theatre for YEARS.

And on the 29th it's my birthday! I believe this band 'Sower' are playing a show down at the Twist on that day, though I doubt I'll be attending myself. I like metal, but I like metal I can hear and join in with, not xtreem noyz mettul. Big man Weanie will be on bass, so that should prove impressive for those who go. Apparently Work is throwing a Pirate Party as well, which I've managed to get out of through the simple fact that IT'S MY BIRTHDAY DAMNIT and I hate spending time with Work people outside of Working hours. I go there to get paid and be miserable, not make middle-aged/young hipster/taken hot girls friends.

So what am I doing for my birthday? Well, luckily it falls on a Saturday, so it doesn't matter how mashed up I get because I'll have Sunday off, innit. I reckon I'll start my day with some purchasing in town, maybe catch a myoo-vay or two, then head out to the Purple Dog in town to start drinking. I'll do my favourite route, which is Purple Dog, Greenlands (iced tea with LOTSOFBOOZE!), VBar if I feel adventurous, then the Castle, which I like to think of as the Winding-Down Pub. Everyone ends up there at the end of a night out, because they close at 2AM.

If anyone has any suggestions or ideas for something more interesting, for god's sake let me know. I don't want to spend my birthday alone. That's always crap.

Odsox.

"Beg the Omnissiah for forgiveness, sinner!"

2008-10-29T03:04:00.000-07:00

Afternoon.

So my PC's borked.

Like, proper borked. It won't even turn on properly now. I've been in contact with my PC manufacturer to describe the problem, and they supplied me with a link to a webpage I can't access because it's for registered members only and because my dad registered and paid out for my PC only he can access it. So I've sent him an email asking for the password so I can access the link (which pertains to chipsets and will probably be useless anyway) and because I don't have any credit on my mobile I can't give him a bell and tell him to check his email.

I'm sure I've told you guys the problem in one way or another. Basically, the PC fires up, the lights go, the fans spin, and that's about as far as it gets. It just sits there, whirring away.

Oh, well, OCCASIONALLY it'll turn on, and then I have to race to hit DEL so I can change the Boot settings to Boot From Disk, THEN I have to reset the PC and hope it reboots (which can take up to twenty minutes to do successfully). It brings up the repair setup after a short amount of button pressing and disc scanning, and so far that's been running fine, all the way up to the stage where it tells me that "Setup must now restart. Press ENTER to restart your computer now." At this stage there's also a big red bar slowly filling up which reads "Your PC will reboot in.. (countdown)"

Now, I don't know, but is there difference between rebooting and restarting? Because I've been letting the bar fill up to reboot, which ends up with the PC going back to whirry-whirry-nothin'-doin' mode.

I don't know. Why isn't there a fucking PC shop around here? Somewhere I can walk in, collapse in tears and shove the PC at them, sobbing into my beer belly and telling them that 'It just doesn't work, I don't know what's wrong, please just fix it for me!'

I'm missing installation discs from my original supply, (something my manufacturer failed to address in their response email - I should get on that) WAR Online is having a special event over the weekend which I'm not going to be able to take part in *rages against the heavens*, so cheap SOOOOOCHEAP I really wanted that Bloodletter mask..

And to top off the shitness, work is ridiculous! We're snowed under with a four-day backlog at the moment. One of our workers was shunted over to another team with literally ZERO notice to us, which means we're working at half-strength AND because of the utter failure to launch the 'new system', we've got twice as much fucking work coming in. I can't even try and get a day off because it just wouldn't be cricket to leave all this work for the other clerk. Here's a brief summary for those without any real knowledge of office clerking for governmental services: On an average day, our collective inbox tops out at about.. 8 emails? We get a lot more than that, obviously, but we're usually so on top of things that that's as bad as it gets. This morning we had 50.

Fuck's sake..

Anyway, LESS THAN JAKE ON THE 12TH!!

Oh hells yes. I might be seriously pissed off with my lack of PC awesomeness right now, but I'm going to see the best live band in the world AGAIN! And we're gonna see 'em at the Astoria, London's grimiest rock club. xD You might not know the history of the Astoria (heck, I don't, I've only been there like twice), but basically it's an old-school rock joint and it's due for destruction soon.

Less Than Jake are so bloody good.. x)

Anyway, back to the grind.

Odsox.

"Go on then.."

2008-10-17T07:48:00.000-07:00

Afternoon all!

Just a quick one to bigup a webcomic I've started reading! The following has happened to me, two, maybe three times in total, so it's nice to see I'm not the only one who suffers from it!

Also, if anyone fancies the movies or something interesting this weekend, give us a shout, you've got my number. =D

Odsox.

"Isn't She Lovely?"

2008-10-14T05:47:00.000-07:00

Right, that's that gloomy, miserable post off the front page.

Now, where were we?

Ah yes. GIRLS.

They're brilliant, aren't they? I don't know if I've mentioned this before, but we have a fair few hot girls in my workplace. Obviously due to the nature of the work itself (mmmmm, bureaucracy) our ranks mostly consist of middle-aged and upwards women, with one or two old dudes thrown in for their sins. But we do have a younger set within the group, consisting of a few young dudes and quite a few nice girls.

IS NICE!

Now I'll give you a couple of warnings before I continue:

One: As a dude, it's VERY VERY VERY difficult to do anything involving girls without one's brain resetting to type after about four seconds.

Two: It's also very difficult to say ANYTHING honest without sounding like a.. what's that word.. chauvinist? Possibly. Sounds a bit German to me though.

Three: While reading this, you should take my TGL factor into mind before reacting.

What's a TGL factor? Time/Gettin'Laid.

Basically, the more time a dude spends between intimate moments, the more difficult it is for said dude to concentrate on anything other than sex. This, my reasoning dictates, is why dudes who get laid on the regular are so rational, often listening to their girlfriends or wives or what have you. A dude with a TGL factor of, say, eight hours, will be more rational, competent and sensible than a dude with a TGL factor of 2 years, and as a consequence will more often than not turn down that last beer, shot or kebab in favour of getting a warm cab back home with the missus or, heck, tidying the house and feeding the cat.

And who can blame him? When you hold the positive attention of a woman, you feel like the most important person in the whole world. You can do anything, beat anyone, run a thousand miles or rescue a puppy from the jaws of a monstrous sea creature.

All right, maybe not that last one. Not in my case, anyway.

You'd jump off a slightly tall bridge, say 'Oh yeah?' to a mouthy git before backing down, buy baby wipes to put by the toilet, attempt (and likely fail) to cook a 'nice dinner', all this and more: Just to keep that gorgeous smile pointed at your face and those silky fingers on your skin; to hear that breathy voice in the night, to feel that shuddering, impassioned heat; to catch that sweet scent as she walks by and to feel the soft tickling of her hair on your face.

To know that whenever you need to rage or cry or scream, you can comfort yourself with the knowledge that she's terrified of spiders and therefore not nearly as macho as you.

But you get my point.

In contrast to the dude with a low TGL, the dude on the other end of the scale can become more of a danger to himself as he goes on. His language and behaviour become more crude, more impulsive and ill-thought; his sense of hygiene goes through fits and starts, sometimes going three days without a proper shower. High-TGL dude gives into the urge to go out and get drunk more often; he stays 'til the last pint and wakes up in a cold bed feeling like someone shit in a bag and left it on his head all night. Sometimes that might actually happen, especially if our High-TGL dude has been partying with others of his kind.

While results are inconclusive regarding the longevity and life expectancy of High-TGL dudes (they usually fade away into the obscurity of a desk job or the incessant beeping idiocy of retail work), it is obvious to the scientific mind that this downward spiral can be halted with a generous application of T 'n' A.

So girls, keep all this in mind next time you see a braying, crude bastard at the bar leering at your cleavage or following you round the pub with his bloodshot eyes.

Maybe all he needs is a kick start shag to save his life.

Odsox.

P.S. NO, it hasn't been two years for me. That was an example.

P.P.S. It's been a year and two months. BUT THAT HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH IT.

"Much Too Young to Feel This Damn Old"

2008-10-02T05:59:00.000-07:00

I'm sorry to say that that time of the year has rolled around again, and if you can put up with my rambling for one more year, not only will I be impressed as all hell, I'll be sincerely grateful with it.

I'm going to begin by thanking my friends.

Certain of you were there for me four years ago, when it was so difficult I was on the verge of cracking up every single day, and for that I thank you. Others were kind enough to listen when I needed to talk, to offer what advice they could, and to help however they could. I thank you for that.

All of you have been good and patient and have managed to put up with a solid four years of my vigil and I have to say I never thought any of you would last that long. So for that, and for all the lesser, myriad annoyances and irritating features I've made you endure, I thank you.

Okay.

Now all of you know that if there's one thing I do way too much, it's talk. But I think you'll agree that, because of obvious, awkward reasons and personal ones, this is the one subject I just don't like to talk about it.

But if there was ever a day when I thought I could man up and actually discuss the subject, it's today.

Today would have been my Mum's 51st Birthday, and I'm sure somewhere she's cackling about the fact that she isn't going to get all wrinkly and slow after this point, bless her. Normally on Mum's birthday I try to drown my sorrows in alcohol or otherwise, and believe me, I'll definitely be intoxicating myself into a stupor after I finish writing, but this year I've decided that I should actually tell you what happened after Mum passed away.

..I really hope I just suck it up and set this blog to private at some point.

Anyway..

I haven't felt the same since Mum passed away. About anything.

After she was taken, I confess I let everything go slowly to hell. The cats, rest their souls, got older and more difficult, I fed them and cleaned them and changed their tray but, to me, they weren't.. they weren't really there anymore, d'you see? So eventually they all went to sleep, some in sadder ways than others, and I went on.

Alex, my then-girlfriend, was still there, but I just couldn't deal with her anymore. She could be lovely when she tried, but there was something in me that just snapped every time she spoke. At every look, every touch (extremely rare as they were), every breath, I felt something wrenching at me. We smoldered, faded and died as a couple. She moved on, but I had nowhere to move to.

That's how I've felt since it happened. I've got nothing to move on to.

Mum was my best friend, and fuck you if you're even thinking the word 'cliche', and she was, above all else, my Mum. She took care of me from day one, devoted in that way that only mothers can be.

The rest of my family just seemed to vanish from my viewpoint. They were around, of course. I really, really couldn't have gotten anywhere without my Auntie Gill, Dad, Lou, Uncle Jimmy, and Big Rich. But they.. I just forgot about them half the time. Still do, as a matter of fact. When Mum was here they were very much real and very much there, at the end of a phone or in person every other week or so. I used to love visiting them, even if my sour demeanour indicated otherwise.

I forgot birthdays, which in itself isn't much of a thing (those who have seen my Big Birthday List on my kitchen cupboard door will understand), but now they were just gone. Blips on the radar, barely. Everything was dead, the world had ended, what was beloved by me was just fucking TAKEN like what she wanted didn't even matter, precious fucking God didn't step in at any point to set things right. Even shouting at people wasn't working. Nothing worked, Mum wasn't here for me to complain to about it.. All I really feel is left for me is waiting to fall in front of a bus. Or getting mauled to death by a low-flying mortgage. Maybe both at once. I just feel so fucking old.

And who else is going to put up with me? I mean, I know people usually tolerate my presence, but since Mum passed away I feel like the only person who ever really liked me, not just tolerated me or put up with me, is gone. Anytime I speak to anyone now, ANYONE, I just get the impression that the only reason they haven't told me to fuck off is because they feel sorry for me or they feel some obligation, or they've got no-one else to talk to, you know?

Mum actually WANTED to speak to me, whether it be to find out what I was thinking, what I wanted for dinner, whether she should wear the good earrings or not, what was on telly, where did I put the bloody remote, or could I make her a cup of tea..

..shit..

Okay, look, I'm gonna get the fuck out of here while I can still see and start hitting the vodka and drugs. Don't worry, I'm well aware of my limits.

The point of this self-deprecating rant was actually something positive, though you might not be able to tell that by my sudden spiral into uselessness, which is:

You really, really, REALLY don't know what you've got 'til it's gone, and fuck those jaded bastards who take this sort of thing in their stride or wuss out because they think it's cliched.

Do me one small favour and I promise I'll leave you guys alone for ages. If you can, just give your Mum a bell and see how she's doing, yeah? If not, give your old man a shout. No need to say hi for me, say hi for yourself instead. Just make sure they're okay.

Odsox.

"WAAAAAGGHH!!"

2008-09-23T03:14:00.000-07:00

WARNING! WARNING!

Shameless advertising and pandering ahead! Turn back now or be bombarded with bias!

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

WAR IS HERE!

Yes I did! Yes I bloody well did!

I finally gave into the urge and bought Warhammer Online: Age of Reckoning.

And let me tell you, it's really fun!

Without going into the mechanics of the game, you begin by choosing a side: Order or Destruction.

Having been a fan of the Warhammer orcs for years (and owing to the fact that I can't play as my favourite race yet), I chose to play for the Forces of Destruction, more specifically the Greenskin army on the Karaz-a-Karak Core server.

My first character?

Snotface the Squig Herder!

(Pictured: Snotface admiring da spinny deff blades on da lumba mill.)

I've always had a soft spot for the gobbos and the idea of running around with a hopping ball of gnashing death that only follows orders if you feed it bits of people or stab it in JUST the right way was a real draw for me. It works out that you can unlock different kinds of squig pet as you play, although you can only have one active per time. But this is okay once you work out that if you get a high enough rank (er... 9 I think) you can learn a skill that makes your squig blow up in a poisonous cloud of splash damage, wreaking havoc among that horde of monsters that just tried to eat 'im! And I will admit that my first reaction on finding this out and testing it was, 'Some a' dese squigs explode! Dat's good, innit!?'.

And of course, finding out that you can summon a battle squig (which promptly eats you, as shown in the early stage of this video) that you can ride around in and get into melee with was a real treat. You can still have a squig pet as back-up!

(Pictured: Snotface in Squig Armour with Fartbag the Gas Squig.)

I haven't stuck with him too much because at the moment Squig Herders are a tad bit underpowered, but I'm sure that'll be fixed nice and soon.

I began play on the Order side of things a couple of nights ago (the Burlok Role Play server, actually, good fun!), creating a Bright Wizard by the name of Odwyn.

(Pictured: Odwyn casting one of his many nifty fire spells and looking a bit Native American.)

The Role Play servers have a couple of rules when it comes to naming one's characters, so there was a nice lack of people with stupid names on this server. I was growing tired of seeing people with names like 'OMG' and 'Quim' and all sorts of irritatingly rubbish names.

I only ran into two other people who seemed to be getting into the RP aspect of it, and got a couple of good bits of dialogue.

The best bit was when I joined a Warband (these are formed when standard Parties get too full, and a Warband can consist of up to 16 people - truly awesome Player vs Player potential, especially if you can get 'em worked up!) to do one of the Public Quests. Public Quests are a fantastic idea - basically, there will be an area indicated on your map by an open chest. Each of these is a rather nifty scripted piece of questing that is open to everyone nearby, which means that they're a fantastic source for experience, loot, murderins and forming groups! I myself have been heavily influenced by the 'You're gonna have to work together or get smashed to bits' ethic of Public Quests, and regularly join groups and warbands after a quick introduction. I KNOW, MR. ANTISOCIAL actually talking to people and helping out.

Anyway. We were on the final stage of a PQ. After having fought off waves and waves of Chaos barbarians, marauders, magi and raiders, we were gathered around waiting for the last part. Suddenly, off to one side, out of sight, we hear,

'Time for smashy! HUR HUR HUR HUR! RAAAAARRRRRGGGHHH!!'

It's a Giant. And these things are HUGE. Example?

(Picture: Destruction/Greenskins Public Quest: Ugrog's Rage.)

Stood next to my character is a Dwarven Engineer girl, wielding a rifle and giant spanner, who comments on the giant's tree-cracking (yep, trees get broken down, houses get blown up, cliffs collapse, boats are set alight - WAR Online's quests are amazing)appearance with a simple,

'Ooooh, bugger me..'

To which I respond by cackling maniacally and shouting 'Ah, he'll make a pretty pyre! BRING HIM DOWN!'

I was met with a volley of agreements and warcries, and we set to work.

The giant did make for a lovely bonfire at the end, and I got some rather nifty loot for my part. PQ Loot is rolled for according to contribution, so damage dealt, damage healed, buffs given, objectives completed, etc. and I snagged a Gold Medal for my contribution and 400 Experience (XP) toward my Renown bar, as well as a Lesser Loot Bag with some shiny new gloves in.

And speaking of Renown, one of the quickest ways to fill up your Renown experience is, funnily enough, one of the most fun methods.

KILL ENEMY PLAYERS!

I haven't had quite as much fun in an MMO as I did that night, accompanying a gang of Order players in a Realm vs. Realm quest against the Forces of Destruction. It could have been far more interesting if there were more players of course, but we worked with what we had. We were running around the coastal township of Ermskrank and Feldenplatz, hunting Destruction players who just didn't have enough numbers to put up a good fight, and none of us were a high enough level to rush the NPCs at their base. Still, I killed 10 or so players and sometimes, that's all that matters.

Anyway, as you can probably tell I've gotten distracted by something WAR Online related, so to summarise, I ain't dead, I'm enjoying my new game, my bills are (mostly) sorted and all I really need now is a hot blind girl with no nerve endings to fall in love with.

Speak to you soon!

Love, Odsox.

"Actually, I don't think I am alright."

2008-09-18T06:45:00.001-07:00

Forgive me if this seems a bit melodramatic, but I'm honestly not sure as to what just happened.

I was sat at work, idly grimacing at the slight pains along my stomach from, I assume, the escercises I've been doing recently along with the cycling and whatnot, when I think, Hmm, this hurts a bit. I wonder what causes a hernia?

As always, whenever I'm faced with a difficult question, I Googled it.

Here's what I started reading. I got about.. oh halfway down the page and began to get worried. I rested a hand on my gut, probing for lumps and thinking ha, how's a fat dude like me supposed to check for lumps through this? and grimaced again at a sudden spike of pain. I was probably pressing too hard.

Or was I?

Suddenly it all seemed a bit too similar to what I was reading, and the pain increased. Then my vision began to.. I don't know what to call it, it wasn't blurry, it was just.. intense. My face started to feel red, incredibly sensitive, and I sped-read the rest of the page. Terrified, I locked my computer and went to the toilet, getting 999 ready on my phone (because certain kinds of hernia can be lethal if not treated quickly enough) and fiddling with my belt buckle.

My vision suddenly went nuts, everything seeming incredibly bright and unfocused, while I genuinely lost control of my legs for a moment.

I'd managed to reach the toilets, and locked the door behind me, looking into the mirror. When had I started to sweat? A sheen of perspiration covered my face and arms, and I wiped it from my head, clutching at my stomach and sitting on the toilet with little ceremony. I sat my phone to one side, the little blue numbers still ready to go on the black screen. I stared at my hands. I felt so hot, so bloody hot! Was this a panic attack? A diabetic thing? Mum was diabetic and I know that one's weight can seriously affect diabetes. But I hadn't eaten loads of sweets or anything today, had I? And the pain in my stomach had died down to a mere twinge if I pressed it hard, rather than the sharp stabbing pain I would have thought indicated something as serious as a hernia. I suddenly had a terrible urge to defecate, and just as I thought about it I stopped. Surely attempting that sort of thing with a hernia would just exacerbate the situation? Now I was really scared. I stared at the door for a while, trying to think about anything other than being found dead in the toilets by my co-workers.

My vision stopped freaking out, and I felt the strange sensitivity around my face ease off as well. I stood up, fully expecting to fall over or stumble.

Nothing. I took another look in the mirror. The front of my shirt showed a few damp patches from where I'd been sweating so heavily, and I could feel as well as see the drips rolling down my forehead. I grabbed a handful of towels and soaked the worst of it up. I took a moment to gather myself before heading back out to work. Bless them, they hadn't even noticed my rush off. I sat back down at my desk, one hand still on my stomach.

The tiniest twinges of pain are still there now, and if this doesn't ease off by the time I get home (I'll be cycling again, probably not wise should this turn out to be as bad as I think it is) I'll have to call the ambulance out.

Anyway. I just felt this incredible urge to write this down. Probably a bit fatalistic on my part, but hey, you'd have known before anyone else, right?

Love, Odsox

"You are talking ABSOLUTE PEARS! ~~!"

2008-09-04T01:20:00.000-07:00

Back again, back from the glorious golden days of the Reading Festival 2008.

Back at work.. back at home.. alone..

Alright, so I couldn't bring myself to write an Epic Festival Blog. Boo hoo, big fail. There are plenty of reasons, mind you.

A) I spent most of the festival in various degrees of intoxication.

B) Taking notes while there would have REALLY REALLY subtracted from the overall fun of the thing.

C) I don't have access to The Quote Book, which has the most amusing quotes from each Reading Festival in.

D) I spent most of the festival in various degrees of intoxication.

E) It's not like more than three people would read it anyway.

F) I SPENT MOST OF READING IN VARIOUS DEGREES OF INTOXICATION.

So instead I've decided to do what I do best: ramble!

Let’s start with some basics, shall we? I’m afraid the only examples of this year’s line-up poster I’ve been able to find have had that bloody ‘BUY NEXT YEAR’S TICKETS FOR THIS YEAR’S PRICES, FAGNUB LOL!!!!11’ thing taped over the front, so I’ve brought my line-up flyer into work. Here you go:

If you didn’t know, the big hype about this year was Friday’s headliners, Rage Against the Machine. They haven’t been seen as a band for something like eight years, so this was one seriously huge selling point for Festival Republic (the sponsors who took over from Carling and fucking BOTCHED it, I’ll rant more later), along with Sunday night’s headliners, the ever-awesome Metallica! Of course, ever the difficult one, I only really wanted to see Less Than Jake (greatest party band EVAR). Everything musical was downhill from there for me.

But we don’t do serious music reviews or news here at the Book of Odsox; just weird stuff and inane observations. And bitter ranting, of course. ;D

Now I hate going anywhere populated by myself. I don't know why, I just prefer to have an extra body there with me (probably to shove in front of oncoming crazed traffic) so how about a roll-call? In alphabetical order, too. These are the magnificent bastards who attended the festival and put up with me for five whole days:

Adam – Dumb, funny, guitarist, technically a G-list celebrity. Recently grew a Stellios-the-Paedophile beard.

Andy – Metal muso, likes to drink. Has ‘Andy Parties’ if you don’t keep an eye on him. This involves his disappearing for up to two hours then returning UNBELIEVABLY drunk.

Becky – A Lady, other half of Steve and acquaintance of James.

Bex – Spent a worrying amount of time in her tent every morning and didn’t get ruined enough! Quotes Black Books like a champion though.

Gem – The Duchess of the Festival, surrounded herself with more narcotics than Tony fucking Montana and sold balloons to kids.

Holly – Supermuso, had a bit of a freak out and threatened to rape one of the weird-looking boy stewards. (also did all the drugs)

Jam – Prince of jibbing, drummer. Drunk a lot of the boozes and wore the biggest pair of sunglasses ever. Also has a nifty MP3CD player.

James – A Gentleman who I have met previously (apparently)

Justin – Little J or Dustbin! My festival wingman and he who doth roll awesome herbal cigarettes. A fellow survivor of The Queue.

Matt – The Gay. Bless him, Matt represents Essex’ finest contribution to the Wrong’un list. (shamelesspromotion) Also opening up a new shop in Ipswich named Maraschino’s.

Mo – Man of the Match. This king of dudes got more messed up than anyone and even managed to terrify the Skins rejects who had camped a bit too close for our liking. Brilliant.

Sam – Another drummer who had a disgusting amount of effort and cheerfulness in him. Proper funny, though, and takes a seriously amusing picture.

Steve – A Gentleman, other half of Becky and acquaintance of James.

Richard - Dat’s me!

Before we go any further, I must express that at any point this blog could simply break down and stop. I’m writing about an entire five-day mash-up here, so it could go horribly wrong.

WEDNESDAY – “Sex Crime Wednesday!”

We began our journey (that’s Little J or Justin or Dustbin, depending on who’s talking to him, and I) at Colchester North Station at about 06:30 Wednesday morning, hopping on the train for the ridiculous sum of £32. Yes, Wednesday. If you get to the festival on Wednesday you can get in early for an extra tenner, plus we wanted to get a good spot.

Little did we know what was waiting for us.

The actual journey to Reading was uneventful and easy; we arrived a little after nine o’clock and started doing The Trudge from Reading station to the festival site on the Rivermead Leisure Area, lugging our bags and tent along with us. We spied the end of the queue fairly quickly as we rounded the corner by The Gorges gastropub and crossed the road by the petrol station. It was the work of a moment to dive on the end, enquire as to whether it was the right queue, then to start waiting.

Now a lot of things happened after we joined that queue. As we reached the end of the long line stretching down the road and headed into the main queueing area, we were treated to a delightful image and the first indication that Festival Republic was intent on fucking it all up for us. I’ll be honest with you, it’s difficult for me to talk about The Queue without descending into extreme profanity, shouting and flailing my arms violently. It was a bit like ‘nam. If you weren’t there, you’ll never really understand.

What was gathered in front of the Entrance sign wasn’t really a queue so much as a mob. Hundreds and hundreds of people gathered in front of this metal gate, being watched by daylgo-jacketed Scottish security guards (unsure as to why Reading’s security is usually made up of angry scots - and that’s not a generalisation; the fellows and ladies who guard Reading are usually angry people who happen to be Scottish!) and herded together like beautiful, tattooed, gum-chewing cattle.

I have reduced the 13-hour (YES 13 HOURS DON'T GET ME STARTED) saga of The Queue to a few highlights and low points, so as to spare my aching soul:

Boston.

Boston was an American fellow who thought he was a stand-up comedian, and while he held his own against the occasional ‘Shut up, yank!’ heckler, he wasn’t very good. And he never gave us any of his beer, the bastard. Yum-Yum got a beer, and he was only offering sexual favours. We had witty commentary and sweary ranting!

Legendary Graham.

About fifteen metres away from the Entrance, we noticed a sudden increase in people chanting, ‘Push him! Push him!’ and rubbernecked around to investigate. On a small hill to one side of the entrance, some poor schmuck had passed out drunk on his bag and was lying at the top of the hill with one very cheeky-looking security guard standing behind him, one foot held above Graham’s back. A quick nudge sent poor Graham tumbling down a few feet before he gained his bearings. The crowd suddenly went mad for entertainment (anything to relieve the soul-crushing boredom of The Queue) and proceeded to chant Graham into doing several very silly things such as stripping, dancing and downing booze, though he seemed quite pleased with all the attention.

‘Let’s Go Murphys!’

Every half an hour or so we heard someone doing the Dropkick Murphys chant. It always got a response, either slack or enthusiastic, but it always got a response.

Angry Mob.

After queuing for approximately ten hours we saw the little box where THREE (count ‘em) people were trying to serve the now THOUSANDS of people queuing. After the crowd began to rally a bit, a chant of ‘LET US IN! LET US IN!’ was taken up, followed by railing at the security guards, flinging fences over, throwing apples at the Box Offices and generally being seriously pissed off. The excitement died down a bit though, what with everyone realising the futility of it all and succumbing to the miasma of despair.

‘Would you guys like some Haribo?’

My personal favourite, this. We’d been in The Queue for approximately twelve hours by this point. We’d been crushed, pushed, sworn at, gotten spattered with beer and water, been driven nearly insane by the rate of movement (one metre every forty-five minutes with sporadic variation) and gotten a glimpse of horror when the crowd squashed itself against the metal fencing to beg for water from the guards, so we weren’t in a spectacularly brilliant mood. There wasn’t enough room to skin up, we’d taken the easy route and decided not to bring any alcohol with us, and even if I’d brought it with me I don’t think I would have risked my Nintendo DS in that crowd.

So when the pretty young lady in the green hoodie turned around with a smile and asked if we’d like some Haribo, the break from the depression of the Queue was like a happy beam of light in a cloud of despair. That was the best damn jelly heart I’ve ever eaten. She introduced herself as Heidi, and from that point things got a bit better.

It was starting to get dark, and after sending Little J out to do a quick reccy, we discovered that there was another, MUCH FASTER line that had opened up just twenty metres behind us. Needless to say, we joined it pretty sharpish. This was an amazing relief from the misery of The Queue. There was room to swing a cat (and more importantly, skin up!) and we soon got down to friendly, chatty, smoky banter with the few people around us, including young Heidi, who exceeded all expectations by revealing a pack of shortbread biscuits OM NOM NOM NOM and being a cheerful smoker herself!

And eventually, we arrived at the Wristband Exchange. I cannot express the joy that flooded through me when the lady behind the stall clamped the metal lock down onto the ‘READING WEEKEND 08’ fabric wristband around my left arm. After that it was a case of finding the campsite, setting up and getting wasted, which we did with abandon.

THURSDAY – “RAPE YOU!”

Beer for breakfast OHYEH, that and a herbal cigarette. And pleading with the others not to do any more classy stuff before noon. Don’t know why I bother, they’re shameless and disgraceful creatures. I hope they never change. :D

About an hour after I’d joined the campsite for the morning, Holly emerged from her tent. Now Holly isn’t exactly what you’d call a morning person, much less a people person (by the standard definition, anyway), so when her arrival coincided with the appearance of two festival Greenies (which is how I shall refer to ‘them buggers that give you bags and tell you to pick up your rubbish so you can get a beer’, it was fairly obvious that she was going to Happen to them.

But not before Mo beat her to it! After explaining the idea to young Mo, the idea being that you fill up a bag with cans, take it to the stewards and get a beer OR fill up a bag with squashed cans and get three beers, Mo had them explain it again.

And again.

And again.

All the while, the male Greenie, who was a lanky, blonde, effeminate type, was trying weakly to explain the concept to Holly, who is above all else a festival veteran and definitely knew more than he did about the entire shebang. Holly’s responses were growing more and more vitriolic, culminating in a yelled response to an innocent question.

The blonde Greenie (whose companion was STILL attempting to slake Mo’s thirst for knowledge on the intricacies of beer-can collecting) asked, ‘Do you know how you can get more money?’, to which Holly’s response was swift and loud.

‘RAPE YOU!’

Holly assures me that she’d meant to shout ‘mug you’, but what with having only just woken up, she wasn’t fully in gear.

Needless to say the Greenies cleared off shortly after that.

I was also forced on an Epic Journey to Tescos this day, accompanied by a stoic (and classy) Gem and Mo, because I'd brought everything with me except booze, bog roll and t-shirts.

WE WENT ON A BOAT. IT WAS AWESOME.

The double-decker boat the festival organisers had commissioned to shuttle festival-goers between campsites and town was a raggedy old thing which had all of its furniture and accessories shuffled away and replaced by a top-deck DJ, shedloads of speakers and a dancefloor on the lower deck! It was too early to be dancing, however, so we stood at the fore watching the army of swans along the Thames and shouting at people on the riverbank. My companions weren't really in any state to be in civilised company, as I found out when I left them on guard by my shopping trolley while I nipped back and got some extra crap, only to find them wailing 'There you are! Never leave us again! It went wrong without you!' on my return.

We splurged on a taxi back to the festival, which was a fantastic idea, even if I do say so myself.

As I recall, the rest of Thursday consisted of the simple joys that come with Festivals, ie getting completely wasted before noon (oh yes, we were) and messing about at the campsite before all them other buggers turned up. It was great. And there were many.. many.. balloons.

For the unenlightened among you, balloons are what I like to think of as fun drugs. Now don’t take that the wrong way, I’m as against the use of heavy narcotics or excessive use of any narcotic like any sane person.

But balloons are fun, AS LONG AS THEY’RE TAKEN PROPERLY.

Thursday was also the day Adam and Andy arrived to fulfil our Essex quota and set up their pop-up tent, the cheeky sods. Their arrival was somewhat epic, seeing as they got drunk over the course of five hours while searching for the correct campsite.

I think six or so of us were seated around the campsite, just chilling. All of a sudden, from off in the distance, we heard a noise..

“Ooooooooiiiiiiiiiiiiii!!!”

Being Essex-in-the-vein, both myself and Gemma instantly responded.

“OOOOOOOOIIIIIIIII!!!”

We were rewarded with another questing call.

“Oooooooooooooooiiiiiiiiiiii!!!”

This time the whole camp joined in.

“OOOOOOOOOIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII!!!!”

And then Adam strolled around a tent, lugging his packed up tent and an open can of Carlsberg to raucous applause and many sweary greetings. That Essex Introduction was probably one of my favourite festival moments ever (though as I found out recently, it turns out the ORIGINAL OI wasn't actually Adam. ..nevermind, he stole it pretty well!)

As I recall, the rest of that Thursday ended up devolving into another giant mash-up, although many of us got to bed early for bands the next day! EEEEE!

PART THREE: FRIDAY – “Rage who?”

Okay, now what you'll need to understand here is that a LOT of the actual festival day time (Friday, Saturday, Sunday) was devoted to watching and listening to bands, and because I don't trust myself to do music reviews properly (I just LOVE music, I don't LIVE it) the following entries might be a bit garbled or short.

Everyone was up bright and early on Friday, well, either that or they just hadn't slept, and most of the campsite was raring to go. I started my day as I usually do when at festivals, with a beer and a herbal cigarette, and was very pleased to see most of the others doing something similar.

One of the greatest things about Reading is the way everyone gathers together in the camp and just talks for ages. We'd gotten a couple of programmes and timetables between us, as well as downloaded Clash Finders from the online festival forums, so the air was full of profanity, smoke and IWANNASEE sentences. No-one seemed too bothered about Anti-Flag's first showing (they played twice on Friday!) or any bands until The Loved Ones on the Radio 1 Lock-Up Stage. Best stage EVAR by the way, the Lock-Up is the usual haunt of the punk and serious rock bands, with some metal or just weirdness mixed in for variation. TLO played amazingly well and brought a real burst of energy on stage with them, especially the lead singer. We were standing off to the side of the tent with a good view of the stage, and set up a minicamp where Gem held court, even going so far as to begin her odd habit of 'nesting'.

I trundled off to do a food (which I believe I eventually gave up on) and came back for the last part of Dizzee Rascal's set. Man but that dude knows how to work a crowd! Normally one would think that a 'ip-'op artist like Dizzee would be bottled or booed, but he got an awesome response from the main stage and got the crowd jumping. Most of us reconvened at the Main Stage to watch Serj Tankian, and he started out okay, but seeing as my memory gets a bit.. I'll be honest, completely fucking blank at that stage, I'll assume he turned out to be a bit shit and we ended up getting wasted instead.

There was a lot of mucking about in the line-up over the weekend, and I'd been told earlier that Less Than Jake (Friday's Lock-Up Stage headliners) had been dropped to second place so Pennywise were going to be on last. It was a bit of a kick in the nuts, but hey, it meant I got to see LTJ earlier, right?

Anyway, Goldfinger were the next band I saw, and they were great. Trumpets and guitars, if you've never heard any Goldfinger, I highly recommend you downlo- I mean legitimately acquire their back catalogue. They were good fun, and here's a little hint of the sense of community and eclectic taste you'll find at Reading: During their set, Goldfinger played one of their most well-recognised songs, Superman. I was stood near the back with a good view, behind a little skinhead chavvy fellow in a Nike hoodie and tracksuit bottoms (who we will call Terry) and a lanky goth fellow stood next to him looking miserable (and we'll call him Dave). About halfway through Superman, I noticed Terry bobbing his head and singing all the words with a big grin. Dave looked a bit worried, and he caught Terry's eye. Oho, I thought, this should be good. Then, with an even bigger grin, Terry says to Dave (or at least mouthed the words, it was VERY loud in that tent), 'You don't know this one? Oh mate! It's brilliant!'.

You know, that cheered me up immensely. I was already quite cheery, but that little snippet really made my day. Goldfinger closed with the all-German version of Nena's 99 Red Ballooons, which was spectacular even though I was half-mumbling along and embarassing myself.

Next up.. Pennywise!? What the..

Yes, it turned out that the rumour about LTJ dropping a place was just that. I was surprised but also very very pleased, so much so that I enjoyed all of the politico-punk band's set, even shouting out for a few requested tracks before the end (listen to Greed, it's excellent). The band themselves seemed a tad bit lacklustre, a bit too serious, although that may have been just my opinion. Anyway, they played really well and closed efficiently.

ON TO THE JAKE.

People began pouring out of the tent, off to the Main Stage to see Rage Against the Machine. More fool them (incidentally, RATM refused to allow any of their gig to be televised. That’ll show Thatcher, right kids?!). Gem, Adam and I (I can't remember who else stayed because we were all classy at the time - what a good idea!) marched forward into the scrum, ending up about five people away from the barriers. So good SOOOOO GOOD. Adam, who like myself recently purchased LTJ's new album, LTJ GNV FLA, which is an abbreviation of the band's hometown of Gainesville Florida, was as excited as Gem and I, and we were chatting and discussing what songs we thought they'd play from the new set and which old numbers they'd go for. I was desperate to hear Does the Lion City Still Roar?, Handshake Meet Pokerface and Golden Age of My Negativity from the new album, and to be honest anything they played would have been amazing.

A sudden blare of trumpets and the opening to Lion City.. heralded the band’s arrival and they leaped onto the stage, resplendent in the spotlights. Gem handed us glowsticks and we set about skanking as hard as possible.

As per usual, LTJ played a blinding set, interspersing their unbelievably catchy sound with stupid jokes and ridiculous dress-up games. I managed to make eye contact once or twice, which I’ll admit made my inner fanboy happy in the scrotal region. The Jake were on top form, their crowd of rabid fans laughing and happy in the intimacy of the Lock-Up Stage. They stormed through a couple of new numbers, and certainly surprised me by playing old tunes Dopeman and How’s My Driving, Doug Hastings?. Only semi-mainstream hit All My Best Friends Are Metalheads was devoted to Rage Against The Machine, whose crowd had stretched all the way to the back of the Lock-Up Stage! LTJ encourage crowd participation at their gigs, one of the many reasons they’re just so much fun to watch, and hauled a couple of awkward-looking teens on stage to dance.

To be honest, the gig was too good to describe without using wild gesticulation and raised voices, but the band brought their set to a thunderous close with the song that brought them millions of fans in the mid-noughties, rock-club hit Gainesville, Rock City, again named after their hometown.

After the band closed up and filtered off stage, we lingered for a while, still classy and fiddling with glowsticks, chanting along with a small crowd for an encore.

Sadly there was no encore, but that performance was the best I saw all weekend, and (musically at least) it was all downhill for me afterwards.

SATURDAY: “I can’t even take it back ‘cause it’s full of bloody spoons!”

Bloody hell but it was hot Saturday morning. I emerged from my ten at about tennish, to find Adam passed out in one of the campsite chairs wearing about four layers of clothing and a blanket. Evidently he’d gotten even classier after I went to bed Friday night. The majority of Saturday morning, long associated with the phrase, ‘Shit Indie Day’, was spent lazing around the campsite because there are never any decent bands on before about five o’clock. However, several members of the group left to go and see new fish Random Hand open up the Lock-Up Stage, as well as Hi-Fi Hand Grenades who, I’m assured, are rather good.

I for one didn’t give a toss for any of the bands on before Flogging Molly, an awesome Irish punk band who I must have seen going on eight times now. I seem to recall slumping in my chair with a can of beer and a herbal cigarette again, when young Jam emerged with his MP3 player and proceeded to alter my views on bands I’ve never listened to.

Ever heard of Frank Turner? He used to be the frontman for a band called Million Dead (cheery title, isn’t it?) but became a solo artist a little while ago. It turns out that he’s one of the best singer-songwriters EVER. Jam, Mo, Dustbin, Gem (I think), the still comatose Adam and I did some serious chillaxing that morning. Eventually the time for bands rolled around, and after a delightfully short trip to the arena (probably the best recurring thing about the entire festival… although the beer was good, TUBORG FTW) we, that is to say Gem, Dustbin and I, got to the Lock-Up Stage just in time. We set up another of our impressive minicamps and got down to listening to some Oirish Punk Rawk. Thanks to the heat, mind you, I ended up blanking out for most of the afternoon, and honestly can’t remember anything after about halfway through the Flogging Molly gig.

Which implies that it was a brilliant night, surely.

Alright, alright, I vaguely recall heading over to White Campsite at some point, which involved a lot of walking and.. oh yes! That’s what was wrong! I was having a bit of a weird night myself, I remember everyone else being classy or drunk, but there was something strange about that one for me. I wasn’t having enough fun. We picked up some of Gem’s balloons and we WENT ON A BOAT AGAIN! Man did I love going on the boat.

SUNDAY – “METALLICA SUNDAY!”

This was it. Sunday. The final day of the festival. Fuck but the time flies past at Reading. This was New Year’s Eve for a few of us, me included, so tonight was going to have to be messy as anything.

But first - !

Sunday morning started out as being a fairly dour affair, what with everyone realising that it was the final day, but the atmosphere soon picked up as most of us remembered that the selling point of Sunday was the fact that everyone gets beyond ruined after all the bands finish. We got off to a good start after that, getting through several beers and other, more dubious drinks (props to Gem’s dad for gifting us with two bottles of his homemade wine – lovely stuff if you don’t mind stripping all the enamel off of your teeth) along with several balloons. If I recall, most of the camp was pretty classy before noon. We’d decided to head in to the arena early and set up camp at the main stage, in our time-honoured Sunday tradition. We made a rather impressive set this year, with something like ten festival chairs, a couple of blankets doing the rounds, plenty of booze, herbal cigarettes and classy people.

First up on our personal bill was the Plain White T’s, who only needed to play Delilah so that Gem could have a stoner-moment, apparently. I vaguely recall them being somewhat interesting to listen to, albeit a bit boring. Still, the sound wasn’t too good and I was very distracted by my sketchbook.

The Dropkick Murphys were up next and they came out the way they always do, opening their set with Sinead O’Connor and the Chieftains’ version of Foggy Dew, which is one of my favourite songs at the moment. What with the state of affairs being incredibly classy amongst our little circle, all I can really remember about most of the gig was that it was really good and everyone was enjoying themselves.

Around about here we had something of a schism in the group, which had split up earlier. Young Jam, along with Mo, Holly, Matt and several of the others, had gorn orf to the right hand side of the stage and set up their minicamp between the big view screen toward the back of the crowd (provided for people who for various reasons can’t get to the front) and the far side of the crowd. After some debate, which mainly consisted of ‘I don’t wanna move, I’m too wasted’ and then broke down into ‘Okay, okay, but you first’, our little group sidled over to join the others.

This turned out to be a brilliant idea.

As the group gelled together again, the next few hours became a cheerful, overly happy blur. We met up with our festival companion from the past few years, a mysterious fellow only ever known as Hash Fudge Man. And that’s true, by the way. Because we set up our minicamp in virtually the same place every year for the past five years, HFM naturally gravitates toward our position because he knows what good customers we are. We’ve honestly never found out his name. This year he provided us with plentiful bounty and stayed for a quick chat before bidding us another very fond farewell and promising to meet up with us again next year. Hash Fudge Man is one of the constantly brilliant moments of the festival.

We’d formed a great, two-row semicircle by this point and as Feeder took to the stage there were plenty of herbal cigarettes making the rounds.

I don’t know if you’ve ever heard of Feeder, or even seen them live. They’re a firm festival favourite though, seeing as they play just about every festival EVERY BLOODY YEAR.

This shouldn’t be held against them, however, rather it should be praised as one of their virtues.

Thanks to being passed a particularly herbal cigarette during the idle of the set, young Mo left the rest of the festival behind for a while as he had a Moment. Festival Moments are a very special thing, and should be savoured by anyone who manages to have one. Mo looked like he was having a fantastic time, chewing his face and spacing out, singing along.

Now, according to the line up oop thur ^^^ Slipknot were on after Feeder, which would have been pretty bad for me, following up mellowish indie rock with shouty hardcore death metal and a bunch of twats in masks, but instead we were treated to a band who’d originally been billed as first up; Mindless Self Indulgence. Fronted by a fellow who refers to himself as Jimmy Urine, I can only sum up their live performance one way.

It was complete bollocks. They were noisy rather than musical, looked as though they were trying far too hard with their make up and fancy outfits and elaborate hair, and Mr. Urine was a prize prick for the entire set. I’ve never seen such a total wanker fronting a band before and I’ve seen 50 Cent.

So that was an hour or so of getting REALLY classy because the music was too awful to stand.

(as a side note, I would like to point out that MSI’s recorded albums are really quite good; it’s just their live stuff that appears to be shite)

About midway through their set, however, I was treated to a very nice egotistic moment when my sketchbook was borrowed by two completely wasted young ladies, probably jailbait, and stared at. I was doodling in Gem’s notebook at this point (she’d been writing something in mine, see what we did there?), so I listened to the girls making oohs and ahs, interspersing their mumbling with the occasional ‘WHOAH THAT’S NUTS’ or ‘Eeeeuuuurrrgh, what’s THAT?’ and was very, very pleased when they returned the book, telling me what an amazing collection it was. I can’t say I valued their opinion too much, what with them being fucked on goodness knows what at the time, but it’s always nice to receive a compliment, innit?

After the debacle of Mindless Self Indulgence, the entire crowd had suddenly gotten an awful lot bigger, and as the banner was drawn up at the back of the Main Stage, I realised why.

Have you ever heard of Tenacious D?

That’s right, Tenacious D. And their set was a STORMER. I really can’t describe how brilliant it was, but I will give you a couple of buzzword highlights.

“God damn it, Kyle, I told you we were dressing as WIZARDS!!” – Jack Black in a cloak, on guitarist Kyle Gass’ cartoon lizard costume.

THE METAL!!!

A brilliant reprise of the Rock Off versus the Devil from the climax of the band’s infamous comedy musical, Tenacious D and the Pick of Destiny, complete with snappily-dressed Satan.

“Man, that’s a slow-ass train. Let’s rock that train, speed the fucker up. Ready?” – Jack Black, shortly before leading the band in an amazing impromptu rock song aimed AT the train which passed by the festival very, very slowly.

Eventually The D closed their set with arguably their most well-recognised song, Tribute, which of course EVERYONE sang along with. The lights stopped whirling and the between-set videos fired up on the gigantic screens flanking the stage. As the crowd somehow became even more tightly-packed and agitated,the subject of discussion moved on: Metallica were on next.

I’ve seen Metallica before. I saw them a couple of years ago, headlining on Sunday, just like this year. They were awesome then, and it was highly likely they were going to be awesome this evening.

But I wouldn’t really know because I buggered off about three songs in!

AHAHAHAHAHA! XD

That’s right! My feet were KILLING me from all the walking of the weekend so I decided I’d rather go back to the campsite and get really REALLY ruined for the final night’s festivities rather than hang around, watch a band who I admittedly like but don’t by any means love and then get caught in the utter crush that accompanies Sunday night’s arena evacuation.

Back at the campsite we made FIRE! Well, Justin made fire and I admired the flames and kept ‘em fuelled while toying with the edges of the firepit using my shoe.

And then we got really classy.

At about 2AM, Gem, Mo and I decided that we should go on a final wander in order to flog as many of Gem’s remaining balloons as possible. While we suffered an EPIC FAIL in that department, we did nonetheless have an awesome wander. Mo and I Happened to several unfortunates, and I had the forethought to take my “I HATE IT HERE.” Satchel with me, loaded down with spare beers.

Awesome.

We saw many amusing sights on that wander. We ran into and chatted to groups of people far, FAR more wasted than us, made snide remarks about security (because let’s face it: they might do a good job but they’ve come to expect it) and got completely terrified by some of the other campers.

Hm? Terrified, yes! Honestly got a bit sketchy at one point during the wander, as we arrived in Green Camp only to discover that the fuckers had gone tribal!

We rounded the corner into Green, having heard the massive clamour set up by a ton of people bashing metal onto metal indiscriminately, and were met by the utterly devastated Green Toilets, which sat forlornly in a cesspool of mud and less savoury substances, it’s doors and frame wrecked and warped by fire and destruction. A nearby campfire lit the scene as sixty or so people swung bits of toilet at a pile of refuse, making what had sounded like tribal drumming when a mile or so away but up close resembled nothing less than full-on noise. These people were mud-stained, wearing scraps of festival clothing, some of them wore dayglo paint or stupid hats, but all of them were hooting and shouting while slamming metal onto metal.

We made our way past fairly quickly and trotted back to the relative safety of Yellow Camp and our campsite, where Mo proceeded to Happen to just about everyone, including the camp of twelve-year old Skins rejects that, according to some of our lot, had access to far classier bitz than what would have been considered the norm for a gang of adolescent indie kids. The drinking went on until the wee hours, or so I’m told. At one stage we were treated to a satosfying BOOM in the distance, and everyone shot out of their chairs like meerkats to inspect the orange glow off to the South. The toilets were on fire. And quite impressive they were too.

I threw in my towel at the reasonable time of 4AM, with the aim of being up and packed by maybe eight the next day.

BOOO BOOOO WRONG BOOOO

The next morning was spent tidying up the tent, getting as classy as possible before having to go home (well, those of us who didn’t need to drive, anyway) and trying not to break down in tears because we were forced to go home.

So after wishing everyone a Happy New Year, I followed young Dustbin and our impromptu chauffeur, Adam, back to the White Camp car park, in order to begin the long, lazy journey home.

It was a good one, and by far the longest amount of time I’ve spent chatting to Adam for about three months, which was good fun. We listened to a shedload of music while young Justin lazed on the backseat, and only interrupted our homeward trek for the traditional stop at South Mimms services, and Burger King OM NOM NOM NOM!

And here I am.

Obviously I’ve missed out an absolute shedload of information and it’s highly likely that some of my info is messed up as it is. I’ll excuse myself from too much responsibility by mentioning once again that I was VERY VERY RUINED for most of the weekend.

Right, now I’m completely bloody knackered, so I’m going to finish my coffee and get back to work, if you’d be so kind as to let me rest my aching fingers.

Well go on, bugger off!

Love, Odsox.

"BLOON!"

2008-09-02T07:56:00.000-07:00

Just a quick filler to clear the page and let you all know that I'm still alive. I'm working on a five-part Epic Festival Blog at the moment, though at this rate it's just going to boil down to whatever highlights weren't obliterated by the copious amounts of booze we consumed over that weekend.

For those of you who don't know, THIS is where I was.

Speak to you soon!

Love, Odsox

"Ladies and gentlemen.. Fasten your seatbelts."

2008-08-19T06:13:00.001-07:00

NURH-NURH-NUH-NURNURNUR-NURH-NURH-NURH-NURH! (Pendulum: Fasten Your Seatbelt)

Do you know what’s happening over the coming weekend? No?

Well you’re being deprived.

For the next five days, I am going to be in Reading (U.K.) for the [url=http://www.readingfestival.com]Carling Festival[/url].

I’ll be enjoying the weather, the atmosphere and an absolute [url=http://www.readingfestival.com/lineup/index.aspx]SHEDLOAD[/url] of live music. A few of my friends are going, and the rest of our Colchestrian Camp will be made up of people who can tolerate my presence, so I should be okay.

Our mission?

BOOZE. BANDS. FUN. SUN.

I thought it best to let you know now, just in case I don’t make it back. It’s going to get messy, and I fully expect to be Changed when (read: if) I return. I’ll be putting my Character/Personality Reboot into action while I’m there; attempting to reclaim the angry-looking-dude-who-doesn’t-talk-much persona that was mine so many years ago, before I became the chatty-bastard-who-just-complains. This could go horribly wrong, but Reading is the kind of place one likes to try weird things.

LOCK AND LOAD, PEOPLE! IT’S FESTIVAL TIME AGAIN!

Love,

Odsox.

"What's this word? 'Ess-kah-pay.. Funny, it looks just like the word escape?"

2008-08-14T06:28:00.000-07:00

It's a new look blog!

I got a bit tired of the old layout and appearance (there are only so many Warhammer fans in the world, after all), so I decided it was time for a change. I hope you don't mind.

Right, first things first: Removing my beard has not had any noticeable effect on my physical or mental capabilities SO FAR. I fully expect my body to just shut down halfway through my ride home, leaving me comatose in heavy traffic.

What? I've had worse.

Important news: I've received a blessing from Saint Auntie Gill in regards to my Reading Festival Fund, which has made a monumental difference, taking it from £00.00 to.. a bit more. =D I'm sure she'll appreciate my attempt at discretion.

The banks are still maintaining their policy of 'lol ur poor!!!11 no u cant have an ovrdrft u fsckn n00b'. They're rising up my list of Places I Will burn Down Come My Ascendancy.

Ooh, speaking of lists, since cycling to work I've been compiling a list of songs to listen to in order to improve my cycling performance. They're working really well so far, so here's the Top Ten in ascending order:

10. Test Icicles - Boa vs. Python

09. Pendulum - Slam

08. The Pixies - Wave of Mutilation

07. Backyard Babies - Minus Celsius

06. Howard Shore - The Bridge of Khazad-Dhum (LOTR soundtrack)

05. Rob Zombie - Black Sunshine (Yes, there's a Guitar Hero song in nearly all of my music lists.)

04. Gogol Bordello - Bulla Bulla

03. Beach Boys - Surfin' U.S.A.

02. Bloc Party - Flux

01. Mooney Suzuki - Alive & Amplified

Man I love cycling to work and back. I feel a bit more awesome each time.

Odsox OOOoooouuuuuuttt..... (space echo)

"Why do we fall, Master Bruce?"

2008-08-13T05:46:00.000-07:00

I have come to a painful conclusion.

Tonight I’m going to shave off my beard.

I know, I know, simmer down. It’s the source of my power, of this I am well aware. But I’m also aware of how the ladies, apart from Adam’s missus (lucky bastard), don’t like a beard on a man. I’ll probably go clean-shaven and let it grow in for Reading, so hopefully I’ll have some respectable stubble for the festival.

That is, assuming I can go. I can’t get an overdraft on my current bank account (YES I KNOW THEY’RE RUBBISH I’m looking into getting a Lloyds account..) and I’ve really been pushing the limits of borrowing money from my relatives. I’m just grateful they haven’t broken my legs yet. This leaves my friends, who are equally, if not more so, strapped for cash, though they have come through for me many times in the past, the way friends do.

So it’s looking pretty grim, isn’t it? I’ll be giving my bank a call today, though God-Emperor only knows why, their accents are all so thick you can virtually hear the sacred elephants lowing in the background (that’s a pop at banks for outsourcing btw, not a racist comment). With any luck they’ll jump at the chance to try and skin more money out of me. If not, I’ll just have to find another way to make some extremely fast cash.

Anyone need someone killed? I’m cheap! Just £250 per head! Extra £50 if you want it giftwrapped, mind you.

Classy like.

Love, Odsox.

NB: Just thought I’d tell you quickly about a dream I had the other night.

I was at the bar in Valentino’s with some of my mates - Justin, Adam, Gem, my usual crowd - chatting idly (mainly nonsense words on their part) while waiting for a round of double JD & Cokes. Suddenly I feel this wrenching pain in my teeth, all around my mouth and I can actually FEEL them breaking against each other, growing out and snapping off. It’s not the first time I’ve had this happen in a dream, so I thought with a few minutes I could deal with the pain. Suddenly I spit teeth across the bar (no blood mind you, which is a bit weird), cough, feel AWFUL, like the world’s about to end, and start vomiting teeth. Not in little retching bursts, the way I normally throw up, but huge gouts of teeth, jetting out of my mouth and erupting from my throat. I can feel my stomach convulsing and emptying, and every single sharp edge and surface scrapes the inside of my throat like thousands of tiny bone-knives. After collapsing into a shuddering heap, the pain vanishes, and I wake up.

Bit of a strange dream, that one.

Anyway, TTFN!

"Charge the lightning field!"

2008-08-12T01:24:00.000-07:00

I should be pissed off.

I should be incredibly angry.

But I'm not. Yesterday I cycled to work for the first time in ages and it was GREAT.

I left at twenty to eight in the morning because I like to give myself at least an hour's head start when I'm trying a new or unusual (for me) method of transport, and I got to work at TEN PAST EIGHT!

Half an hour! HALF A BLOODY HOUR! I'm lucky to get to work in an HOUR on the bus! And then, to rub it in the universe's face even more, I got home in twenty-five minutes! It was amazing! LOOK AT ALL THE EXCLAMATION MARKS I'M USING!

So why should I have been pissed off if my cycling experience was so brilliant?

Well, I don't know if you're aware, but it rained from approximately 06:00 to 09:00 non-stop this morning, which meant that, owing to my lack of waterproof clothing and utter terror of cycling on rainslicked surfaces with the worst motorists in the world (Welcome to Essex!), I had to take the bus. Cue standing in the rain for ten minutes then a further ten minutes due to the bus being late, getting annoyed at having to spend three quid I don't bloody have, putting up with all the tosspot Colchestrians on the bus (how I hate them!) and then having the universe get back at me by clearing the skies of cloud ENTIRELY upon my arrival at work.

So I SHOULD be screaming, "CURSE YOU, RANDOM FLUCTUATIONS OF THE SPACE-TIME CONTINUUM!" from the roof of the office while wearing a suit made of tinfoil and shaking a lightning rod at the sky.

But I'm not. And here's why:

Have you ever seen the general populace during heavy rain? They're brilliant fun. They whine, they complain, they scowl, they bang on about the weather. They leave the house in ridiculous items of clothing, like hotpants over stockings with a skimpy cloth top that shows off too much of their lard handles. They wear £500 suits that get RUINED in the downpour and lament their idiocy at not bringing a brolly (that's slang for 'umbrella', to all my cousins across the pond!). They radiate this aura of undiluted misery and..

It cheers me up! I guess I really do take a subconcious pleasure in the suffering of others, because the further I got into town, the more people I saw being soaked, depressed, put-upon, etc. and the bigger my smile became.

I imagine the ska music I had playing in my awesome new headphones was partially responsible but for the life of me I couldn't help but be cheered up by their plight. There's the populace, trudging, running, shrieking and in one particularly pathetic case, crying, and here's me, grinning, bobbing my head to the music, jogging and leaping into puddles just to irritate women wearing skirts, soaked to the skin but happy with it! I couldn't help but burst out laughing when I saw the previously mentioned skimpy top-wearing slag, and now I'm really looking forward to the rest of my day, even though I had to spend three quid on the bus when I'd blatantly be able to cycle back home tonight. I even wrote 'DON'T PANIC' on the steamed up windows of the buses I was on.

I think I'll spend some of the last of my money on a kagool or something waterproofy.

In other news, Love and Revenge has been updated with an interlude sequence! ->

TTFN!

Love, Odsox

"Let me hold you, touch you, feel you, always."

2008-08-07T05:18:00.000-07:00

I forgot how much I love Blink 182.

AFTERNOON, MORTALS! How’s life been treating you? Good? Good! I’m pleased for you. Really.

You see, I finally got around to checking my old Yahoo! inbox yesterday, simply because I needed to use a Yank client for Dungeons and Dragons Online in order to play with my buddy Chris (who moved to sunny Walla Walla earlier this year) and I found a message sent during July by an old friend of mine. I thought she'd moved on to greener, college-shaped pastures with a distinct lack of local Odsox (that's the plural of Odsox, by the way. Why yes, I am lazy, aren't I?).

So that's buoyed my spirits a fair bit, and I'll give you lot a little rundown of how life has been lately, mostly for her benefit.

I’ve been having a fairly good time , truth be told. Tonight I’ll be making some more adjustments to Chris’ old bike in the hope of being able to use it myself and increasing my daily exercise from Virtually None to Some, which will be awesome. The diet of cornflakes/toast and a cup of tea for breakfast followed by a sandwich and apple for lunch with a dinner of chicken noodles is working out to be incredibly cheap and easily maintained. I actually had to stop eating my sausage roll for lunch yesterday because I felt full! =D It’s pleasing to know that my self-discipline is increasing in regard to some things, even if it’s failing miserably in others (curse you, ExTeel!).

Got my hair cut recently, and that always makes me feel a bit better about myself. I suppose it’s helped by the fact that the only person who ever really cut my hair was Mum, so I get that vague pulse of nostalgia when I get it done. It compliments the beard and swish sideburns quite nicely, if I do say so myself, though I’ve been giving second thoughts to either trimming the beard down or getting rid of it entirely. It means I lose my power for a while but hey, when it returns it comes back stronger!

Speaking of getting stronger, I’m continuing my self-torture (read: amateur writing attempt) on deviantArt, so if you feel like taking some time to read a bit of fantasy fiction (and if you don’t like fantasy fiction there must be something wrong with you) set in the Forgotten Realms universe, check out the shiny new link section ovah thur --> entitled "Love and Revenge". I realise the title is lame but that's never been my strong suit.

Well, what else is there to tell you.. Hm..

Oh! I’ve been reading the Codex Alera series by Jim Butcher and it’s REALLY good! I won’t get into discussing it (that’s what Wikipedia is for, don’tcherknow), but I highly recommend it for anyone who has a gap in their reading schedule!

I’VE JUST REMEMBERED!

IT’S THE CARLING FESTIVAL AT THE END OF THIS MONTH!

WOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Oh man, I have to get my finances sorted!

TTFN!

Love, Odsox.

"Who lives here, man?"

2008-08-05T06:22:00.001-07:00

Just clearing out the blog area for fresh ideas and ramblings. Need more views. Wonder if there's some kind of view counting widget or something.

NONOTTHESPOONARGH

Love, Odsox

"Are you doing something wicked?"

2008-08-01T06:52:00.000-07:00

It is to sigh.

I told myself I wouldn't do this, for so many reasons, but here's the second chunk of Odwyn's story.

I can't believe I gave in to writing this bloody thing..

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Water pattered down onto the broad brim of Odwyn's hat.

He stood beneath a massive tree atop a mud-slicked hill, leaning on his staff and glaring out at the bad weather.
'You used to love the rain,' said his companion, sat against the tree trunk and wrapping a longbow in a well-used oilskin. His blonde hair and forest colours contrasted with the sorcerer's dark robes. Odwyn sighed, turning his one good eye on the ranger.
'It felt cleansing, years ago. Now it just makes me miserable.'
He huffed impatiently, striding over to the ranger and looking about.
'Where has she gotten to now?' he asked aloud, peering into the trees. His companion looked up from his task, and tilted his head to one side. The sorcerer held a hand over his eye and smiled.
~Ah, there you are. Come on back now, dear.~ he sent. A buzzing noise came into hearing from the woods behind the massive tree, and a large beetle swooped from the shadows. It flew across to the sorcerer, landing cautiously on the tip of his staff and buzzing its wings once or twice.
'Poor thing,' Odwyn said with a smile, 'you're soaked. Allow me.'
He focused his mind on the staff, causing several of the runes to glow faintly. The drops of moisture on his familiar's back turned slowly to steam, and it gave a contented buzz before hopping to his shoulder. The blonde ranger stood up, watching Odwyn carefully. Sean Greensun hadn't seen his friend for nearly four years, and had already noted the disturbing changes in his appearance and manner. For one, there was the eye. In their adventuring days Odwyn had possessed two sharp, darting black eyes that took in everything with an air of cold calculation. One remained, but as a dull, black orb that swung lazily onto whatever the sorcerer looked at. Sean had still to find out what happened to the other, which was covered by a ragged scrap of cloth completely out of keeping with Odwyn's meticulous dress sense.
'You're staring,' said the sorcerer, frowning.
'Sorry,' Sean replied with an embarassed smile, 'I can't help it. We haven't heard from you in so long. Now you're back, it's..' he trailed off.
'Different,' said the sorcerer, returning his friend's smile. 'I know,' he said, walking over to the trunk of the giant tree and leaning his staff against it. He dropped to his haunches and the blue beetle buzzed upward to rest on a branch hanging over the two travellers. The tree dominated the hill, great branches extending a good fifteen feet outward and providing thick cover from the rain. It stood at the edge of the forgotten forest that Sean called home.
The dark, verdant environment was well known throughout the region, both for its beauty and for the tales of its terrible guardians; a monstrous dragon from ancient times, who sent his ruthless agent of death out amongst the eaves and shadows to murder honest hunters while they gathered food for their families. The stories said that the last thing many travellers heard was the whoosh of an arrow and the mocking laughter of the golden-haired killer that stalked the woods.
Odwyn knew better. He had met Sean for the first time while travelling through the forest on his way to Icewind Dale, when the ranger had dropped from shadows at the edge of his campfire and offered to share a brace of rabbits he had caught. After talking for an age, it turned out that Sean merely kept away the worst of the poachers, and took for himself only what he needed. As to the tales of a dragon residing somewhere within the dark confines of the forest, Greensun had never been able to elaborate.
Odwyn sighed, leaning back against the tree beside the ranger.
'It is complicated, Sean. Once I get to Neverwinter, you will understand.'
'Neverwinter,' said the ranger with a frown, 'is a stinking, despicable hive of thugs.'
His companion blinked with his one eye, before cracking a smile reminiscent of the old Odwyn.
'Your love of cities hasn't grown any, then,' he said with a short laugh. 'Have you even set foot out of your forest since last I saw you?'
'Only when absolutely necessary.'
'You've become a hermit, Sean, skulking in your forest and grumbling over outsiders!'
'I might say the same of you,' Sean replied, unable to stop himself grinning at his friend, 'we haven't heard from you in what, four years?'
'Five,' Odwyn said, raising a hand to confirm it with his fingers.
'Unbelievable. Odwyn Stadt, the recluse. Odwyn "The Sorcerer That Never Shuts Up" Stadt, Daniel used to say.'
'Daniel? Hah, I haven't even thought of him in years,' said the sorcerer, rubbing at his chin with one gloved hand. 'Where is he now?'
'Oh, knifing people in the dark alleys of Waterdeep, no doubt. He always did love picking on spellcasters.'
'I remember,' said Odwyn, recalling some of the practical jokes the rogue had played on him in the past. He removed his hat, placing it on the ground to reveal his closely-shaved black hair. He sat back, drawing his knees up and folding his arms atop them. The rain continued around them, and Sean took the opportunity to set out a few small water skins with funnels set in their necks. The sorcerer watched Sean work, and reflected on what he instinctively thought of as 'the old days'.
Years ago, before he'd consulted the devil Khadys; before he'd lost his eye; before he'd had his heart broken; before he'd fallen in love, he had been a wandering sorcerer. Meeting up with the band of adventurers had been a huge event in his life. Sean, Nila the half-elven paladin, who Odwyn had despised on sight, Daniel Walker and.. her..
The sorcerer curled his lip in a sudden sneer and reached out for his staff, which thrummed gently in response. He shifted into a cross-legged position and laid the staff out across his lap.
'More meditation?' asked the ranger.
'Clairvoyance,' said Odwyn sharply, closing his eye and playing his hands over the runes of his staff like he was playing a musical instrument.
'I tire of this rain, so I'm searching for a quicker route to Neverwinter.'
'This is the fastest route,' said Sean with a frown, 'believe me, I know.'
'Yes, yes,' snapped the sorcerer, his bitter personality rising after the thoughts of his old flame, 'but your method is slow. Now let me concentrate.'
'Alright,' said Sean reproachfully, and moved off to stopper the waterskins.

Odwyn drew himself up, hands flitting across the staff's surface. His vision, dark within his closed eye, slowly began to change. A gentle light moved in on his peripheral vision, white turning grey, and the constant patter of the rain became visual: the grey light shifted, thinner streaks appearing in it. A darkened patch appeared at the height of his vision, rounding out and splitting until it became the leaves of the tree above him. The centre of his vision pulled away sharply, stretching along and down, taking on the verdant shade of the long grass that covered the hill and curving into smaller hillocks and mounds, with a sharp spattering of colour to represent the few flowers that grew nearby. Taking a long, deep breath, Odwyn slowly turned his head. The vision followed after a split-second delay. A frown crossed the sorcerer's features and he tightened his mental grip on the spell. He felt his hands come to a halt over two particular runes, and the vision's focus suddenly sharpened, bringing detail to the picture. He could see the tiny movements of raindrops hitting blades of grass, the dark speck in the sky that indicated the only bird foolish enough to brave the weather, and even the insects crawling over the leaves of the tree atop the hill a league from where he sat. He allowed himself a satisfied smile, and moved on to his task. The vision swept forward suddenly, hugging the tips of grass blades and skimming through the air like a low-flying falcon. He followed the dirt path that led away from the bottom of the hill, looping around and into a shallow valley. It passed tall trees, foraging creatures and travellers moving so slow as to be standing still. The dirt path solidified, became a paved road, marked by milestones and signs pointing to roads that branched away. There in the distance was the dark shadow of Neverwinter, and a bitter smile hovered on the sorcerer's face. He had located the destination at least. Now to find a faster mode of travel.The vision spun violently, snapping onto the road again with a focus and speed that would have sickened the hardiest of travellers. It sped along, back past the paved road, past the motionless pilgrims and roaming merchants, past the tall trees, and finally past the hill where Odwyn sat. He noted his own presence at the edge of the vision, an almost pitch-black space beneath the massive tree. He took no notice of the strange representation, instead speeding onward. The dirt path continued along a track lined with wildflowers, with the trees of the forest thinning out and becoming sparse. Rocks and boulders began to appear at the sides of the path, and Odwyn noted the looming presence of cliffs in the distance. The rain had stopped.
A great caravan train appeared, and the sorcerer called the vision to a sudden halt, swinging upward to focus on the lead wagon. A woman sat at the reins, dark blonde hair shot with streaks more gold than grey. Her well-worn travelling leathers and focused expression told the sorcerer all he needed to know. She was experienced, and most definitely in charge here. He swept his vision across the rest of the caravan as an afterthought. Children scampered between the wagons, frozen compared to the speed granted by Odwyn's Clairvoyance. A train of beasts followed on, between two heavier-looking, armoured wagons. A real caravan community, thought the sorcerer, sweeping his sight back to the lead wagon. He watched the caravan's leader as she rode, slowing his vision down to a more familiar pace. She watched the road, gaze dancing back and forth as they passed larger rocks and mounds, on the lookout for any possibility of ambush. He moved his vision closer still, until it hovered scant inches away from her face. She was not old, though her face bore a few laughter lines and possessed a thin, severe mouth. She had a proud bearing, intense blue eyes and, Odwyn noted, a vicious dagger strapped to her thigh. No stranger to violence, and utterly confident in her management of the convoy. Yes, this would make for fine transport.

'Odwyn? Odwyn, are you alright?' asked Sean, resting a gloved hand on the sorcerer's shoulder. Odwyn's one eye snapped open, and for a moment Sean didn't recognise what he saw there. Then a lazy smile crossed his friend's face, and the sorcerer nodded.
'Better than alright, Sean. A caravan train approaches.'
Sean stared for a second before turning to look out at the rain.
'I see nothing.'
'No, no. It won't be here for a few hours, but it will definitely enable us to reach Neverwinter sooner.'
The ranger frowned thoughtfully, and turned to indicate the light under the tree. He'd somehow found enough dry wood to start a fire. The scent of cooking meat reached the sorcerer's nose and his stomach rumbled with hunger. Odwyn hauled himself to his feet, moving over to the fire. Keke buzzed down to land on his back before scurrying up to his shoulder and clicking her mandibles as he reseated himself.
'Oh good, we were just getting hungry,' he said, eyeing the sizzling rabbit flesh with a smirk, 'it's just a shame that you still can't cook to save your life.'
Sean frowned, jabbing at the flames with a long stick.
'You should be thankful. If I wasn't here, what would you be eating tonight? Dirt, that's what,' he replied. Odwyn picked up a strip of the rabbit, tearing it in half and passing the larger piece to his familiar. The blue beetle buzzed up into the tree with her dinner.
'What an odd little beast,' said Sean. He sliced another strip of flesh from the fire and leaned back onto his haunches.
'You know, in all the years we travelled together, I never asked of her origins. Some day you'll have to tell me about it.'
The sorcerer finished his first piece and swallowed, resting his staff on his lap. He helped himself to another slice of rabbit.
'Well, we've got a few hours,' he said, 'what would you like to know?'

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Hope that wasn't too hard on the eyes! Right, I could blog about a whole bunch of stuff now, but I feel strangely dull, so I'm just going to carry on looking at lolcats and sketching.

TTFN!

Love, Odsox

"Last time I sent someone down to talk you nailed him to the cross!"

2008-07-31T04:31:00.000-07:00

31-07-08

IT’S RAINING!!

Like, PROPER raining too! Some dude just came in from a bus journey drenched to the skin! xD He had to borrow spare clothes from the rest of the department – currently he’s wrapped up in a lady’s cardigan! AHAHAHAHAH!

I for one have been immensely cheered by the rain, it’s now very cool in the office as a result and my hay fever is nonexistent thanks to any pollen being bashed down by all the falling water. We even had a couple of thunder rolls and lightning strikes a little while ago!

Wonderful.

Anyway, I was listening to the raydlio last night, and on a whim decided to listen to Radio 1’s Colin Murray, who tends to play just about anything he can get his hands on, including some really tripped-out alternative music as well as the standard listener-magnet tracks. Last night he was on a ‘songs with brackets in their titles’ kick, the list of which contained some rather awesome numbers I haven’t heard in a while. Chief among them were ‘Ever Fallen in Love (With Someone You Shouldn’t Have Fallen In Love With)’ by the Buzzcocks, ‘Drawing (Rings Around the World)’ by Super Furry Animals and the utterly brilliant ‘(You Gotta) Fight For Your Right (To Party)’ by the Beastie Boys.

And all that aside, I heard a song that has been rolling around the corners of my brain since I heard it. I honestly can’t describe this song, but it’s great. If you get a chance, downl- sorry, ahem, ‘legitimately acquire’ Dan Le Sac vs. Scroobius Pip – ‘A Letter From God to Man’, it’s the dog’s wotsits.

BACK TO WORK UGH

~ Love, Odsox.

P.S. Just an update on the rain – The females are now TERRIFIED to go out of the building because there’s a three-inch deep mini-lake between the entrance and the car park! Bloody wimps! xD

"No fucking shit, lady. Do I sound like I'm ordering a pizza?"

2008-07-28T02:44:00.000-07:00

I watched Die Hard last night. As it started, it occurred to me that I've never sat all the way through it before, I've always ended up catching a few minutes here, a few minutes there, and never really got into it as a result.

So I decided to actually watch it, and I have to admit that it's one of the funnier action movies I've seen. Particularly the line I've used for my blog title, which was delivered by Bruce Willis as a sort of half-shout-half-scream of frustration, followed by loads of gunfire. Extremely entertaining.

How have you all been, by the way? I for one had an incredibly hot weekend, and found myself spending most of it outside in the sunshine, whether I was out identifying plants and insects in the garden with Big Rich (that's ma stepdad, if you didn't know), walking around the Greenstead estate and down to Tescos, or out in the garden with Alison (that's Chris' mum) enjoying the rustle of leaves in the breeze while I did some sketching. I didn't have much time for the PC to be honest, what with it being ridiculously humid and sticky as well as hot. The old chrome fan has been on pretty much 24 hours a day the past three days, even though I've got all the windows wide open and an adequate supply of cold water.

It really isn't computer game weather.

Still, saying that, the few hours I did manage to get in on the PC involved some fun online games of Dawn of War: Soulstorm with Chris (who's a bit ill at the moment, apparently there's something going round), and of course a couple of Warfare games on trusty old Unreal 3. I did, admittedly, get a bit PO'ed at one point while playing Unreal, though I reined it in, didn't say anything and set myself to getting vengeance on the bastard that kept sniping me. Squashed him good with a Manta attack speeder. Also managed to score some points while orb-running, and got a particularly brilliant Killing Spree that I ended AT THE EXACT SAME MOMENT AS ACHIEVING IT, thusly:

"Odsox is on a killing spree!"
"Odsox fired his rocket prematurely."
"Odsox ended his own killing spree."

BOOOOOO, though I did end up laughing at myself, which is what these games are all about, if you ask me. Having a laugh and relieving one's tension. Plus, the next game that my team played stormed into the enemy and won the game in approximately three minutes, which is unbelievable for a Warfare match. Not that I had too great a part in that match, I tend to spend my Warfare time going vehicle-hunting (NB: The AVRiL ((Anti-Vehicle Rocket Launcher - the i just helps pronounciation)) doesn't reload fast enough!), so I was speeding around in a Scorpion looking for things to kill when the game suddenly ended.

Oh, and by the way, I'm thinking of selling on some of my comics, so should any of you get the urge to make some impulse purchases, let me know. I'm still trying to understand the eBay thing.

"Directive?"

2008-07-24T01:26:00.000-07:00

I went to see Wall-E with Gem last night, and instead of launching into a huge raving review, I'm gonna say

YOU HAVE TO SEE IT YOUR LIFE DEPENDS UPON IT

And leave it at that.

Also, I may have fallen a little bit in love with the (technically) female lead, EVE. You'll understand when you see her in action.

So, the pure, unbridled brilliance that was Wall-E really made my night. The guys at work were kind enough to let me leave early, Gem and I snuck miniature bottles of Jack Daniels into the theeyaytah and dumped 'em in our Big-Glug Diet Cokes (heaven!) and that really helped! Also, I've found a kindred cinema spirit in young Gem in that aside from me, she's the only person I've met who intentionally sits front-row-centre at the pictures BECAUSE WHO CARES ABOUT YOUR NECK WHEN THE SCREEN'S THIS BIG and we actually got a laugh and a smiley conversation from the pretty ticketmistress when we started raving about how being front and centre is the best.

Well think about it, the screen's MASSIVE when you're that close, there's no-one sitting in front of you to get in your way, AND you can take your shoes off, stretch your legs out and slump comfortably into your chair, thus avoiding potential neck-ache! Plus, you don't have to fiddle and fumble for anything you've brought with you because you've got the entire floor to use!

Also, Gem pointed out that when you're in the front (and the only people at the front, like we were) you can pretend the rest of the cinema doesn't exist! It's just you, the screen and EVE..

..she was lovely. For a robot, of course.

Right, I'm going to go and see if anyone'll accept blood as payment for a Carling Festival ticket.

Have a nice day!

P.S. If anyone knows how many souls it would cost me to get a pair of these badboys, let me know!

Murkanary

2008-07-22T04:25:00.000-07:00

Sounds a bit like a pokemon, doesn't it?

I'm not going to start out this blog with a tirade of bitter sentences all in capital letters or complain about anything in particular, much as I would like to. I've been having one of those runs of annoyance and frustration that one blessed with less testicular fortitude might refer to as 'depression', so I've decided to list my Top Five Favourite Things to cheer myself up. I might do some writing later on as well.

So!

5. Online Gaming.

Just gotten back into online gaming recently with the addition of my shiny new 'net connection, and I have to say I'd completely forgotten that it can vary so much! There are the obviously irritating moments, i.e. when ANYONE uses the word noob or one of its variations, but
there's the sheer brilliance of co-ordinating movements with another player and formulating battle plans, as well as sharing ideas and tips!

4. Movies.

I LOVE a good movie. Especially on those incredibly rare occasions when I get to go with a group. I've been unable to do this recently due to my lack of funding what with Reading coming up, so my monthly issues of Total Film are becoming slightly dog-eared as a result. If I can't see the movies I just have to read about 'em as much as possible. :(

3. The Sandwich.

I WOULD go with 'nuff said', but I can't expound upon the virtues of the sandwich enough. I assume you already know the origins of this humble yet satisfying snack, so I won't go into that, but I am of the firm belief that you could cram just about anything into a sandwich. Hells, I
remember the grotesquerie that was my neighbour's children living on sugar sandwiches when I was little.

2. A Good Book.

No, not THE Good Book (although I have read it cover-to-cover and to be honest I only liked Genesis and Revelations, the rest was a bit dull). I mean the satisfaction that comes from reading a good book, or even better, a series of good books! There's something great about getting to know the characters and the worlds of someone else's imagination, then the reactions you get from whatever occurs. I highly recommend the Farseer Trilogy by Robin Hobb, by the way.

1. The Carling Festival (Reading).

Do you know how I measure my year? You probably measure yours the same way as everyone else, i.e. 1st of January to the 31st of December (or otherwise where applicable) but what I'm getting at is that my year ends on the final day of the Festival (Sunday) and begins on Monday morning, when all the grubby, smelly, bleary-eyed, hungover or else wasted festivalgoers pack up their little canvas homes for another year and roll on back to civilisation. It's the most amazing three (sometimes five!) days of my entire year, without fail. I get to spend nearly a WEEK with my best friends (well, most of 'em, it's a shame my geek buddies aren't into festivals), listen to some awesome bands, hang out with thousands of people who are trying far too hard to be cool, which is no end of amusement to me, and get the fuck AWAY from everything. No offices, no computers, no buses, no chavs, no drug-crazy neighbours, no rent, no tax.. I'm getting all nostalgic now. I may even squirt a few tears.

Of course, the saddest thing is that this, potentially my eighth year in a row, is so far looking like the least likely of years for me to go. Unless I can pull out all the stops budget wise and scam some money out of people, I won't be going. SO! If anyone knows of a way to make a quick two hundred squid or wants to buy any of my doodles from the gallery (see Linkage, right ->), now's the time to let me know!

And how hard can it BE to use this eBay thing, anyway..

...oh hell, I don't know what any of these words mean! GEM! HELP ME OUT BUDDEH! What in the name of the Emperor is a 'listing charge'?!

Ohsh- HE'S GONNA RANT!

2008-07-21T06:00:00.000-07:00

Lex Ferenda

The year is 2066, and after a ten-year war spanning the globe, the heroic agents of the British Empire's Metahuman Corps have successfully halted the threat of the American-Asian Alliance, but at a terrible cost.

Europe is in ruins. France is gone, carved from the continent by a Chinese super-weapon called the Moon Sword. Italy has been decimated by an earthquake induced by American weaponry that split the country in half. The rest of Europe and the British colonies along the eastern coast of what used to be the United States are slowly recovering, though they are surrounded by desolate wastelands that stretch across thousands of miles.

Beaten into retreat by the world's greatest legion of metahumans, the Americans have gone to ground. The Empire is attempting to rebuild its lost colonies, and is working to reinforce its hold on Europe to block any further advances from the still-defiant forces of Asia. The Imperial forces are beset by spies from within and deadly raids on their territorial borders from without, all the while working to keep the vitriolic metahuman population of the British Central Isles under control.

You are one of the Empire's latest recruits, a metahuman with untapped potential. On your arrival in London, you are transferred to CAPE, the base of operations for the nation's empowered protectors. After a rigorous training regime, you will have your abilities unleashed and put to good use by the Empire.

Assigned to a Street Team of fellow recruits watched over by an Enforcer, one of CAPE's formidable psychics, you will work your way up through the ranks to become a true hero. During your actions in London, it becomes clear that the fires of rebellion seethe beneath the skin of the Empire, but will you stamp it out or fan the flames?

As your career progresses, your team become embroiled in a sinister plot to bring down the Empire from within, and will be forced to cross into hostile territories, including the European Wastes, the war-torn battlefields of Asia where the fight never ceases, the mysterious city of Desolation, U.S.A. and even the abandoned Chinese lunar complex housing the deactivated Moon Sword.

GAME FEATURES:

The abilities you gain during your Activation affect the way you play!

+ Decimate enemy armour, shrug off bullets and reduce buildings to rubble with your bare hands as an unstoppable Titan!

+ Become a Hawk to eliminate enemies at lightning speed and take flight to strike with deadly precision from the air!

+ As a Warrior, the ultimate fighter, any weapon you pick up, be it blade, bludgeon or firearm will become a masterpiece of death in your hands!

+ Speak to machines, create bizarre weapons and control astounding vehicles of war as the ever-ready Enginseer!

+ Focus your mind to shred metal and destroy your foes with Tactile Telekinesis as an Enforcer or become a Puppet Master to hurl objects and your enemies around like toys!

+ As a Pyro, Geo, Aero or Hydromancer, control the elements themselves and the destructible environment becomes your playground!

Customisable Characters!

Hundreds of customisation options -

+ Appearance - Make your Hydromancer stand out from the crowd with silver hair and blue skin or create an imposing Titan with fiery eyes and a rocky hide that bullets bounce off!

+ Background - CAPE recruits from all over the world! Is your Puppet Master fleeing metahuman persecution from the African Borderlands? Was your Hawk an S.L. Academy prodigy whose whole family has enrolled as CAPE agents? You decide!

+ Personality - Does your Titan love monster trucks as much as you do? Are they more likely to help a wounded soldier than grant them a merciful death? It's up to you!

(NB: Like all good game designers, I've listed these last two as customisation options when it's really just a few boxes for information you can choose to leave blank! NWN Alignments and Background, anyone? xD)

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Okay, so there are the bare bones for my game. Lex Ferenda is a working title which means 'The Law as it Should Be'. It would play like a Role Playing Game, with elements of first-person-shooters and God of War-style action sequences with a ton of enemies, and it would be intensely story-driven (and written by me, damn it, I'm sick of the pee-poor dialogue I keep seeing in games), though without a huge emphasis on finding people and talking to them. It's war out there and possible insurrection in here, YOU AIN'T GOT TIME TO CHAT!

There would be an extensive single-player campaign spanning chapters and issues in a comic book style-ee, but I'd like a multiplayer campaign too, where you go through the game with a team formed from your friends or clan mates or acquaintances or whatever. It'd probably be quite sweary, with a few seriously gory moments, because let's face it, reality is harsh, so why not take it further with fiction? And that brings me to my reason for thinking this up:

I am tired of seeing reality duplicated in videogames. You can keep your precious football games (which as far as I'm concerned aren't games anyway), sponsored racing games and fething World War games. This is all stuff we know, we've seen, it happened, it's OVER.

I want to see more games with freaky creatures and weird goings-on, alternate dimensions and histories, more examples of surreality and just out-and-out weirdness! Stuff that just doesn't happen in real life! Who cares about whether the new Fifa has all the licensed players from the many and various leagues (I know next to nothing about footy btw) - Have any of the players got five eyes? Guns for toes? do they have a predisposition to eating old rubber tyres or do they fly starships made from cheese to their games of ubarfitba (which is a game played on aircraft carriers using horses, tridents, one military-grade laser cannon per team and one very worried were-hamster)?

We already know about reality! With videogames you can do anything! USE YOUR IMAGINATIONS FOR A CHANGE!

...wow, I'm really sorry, I didn't mean to go on such a rant.

Anyway, I'm particularly fond of the battlefields idea, and before anyone asks, I'm aware of how obvious it is so it's no spoiler, but YES, THE MOON SWORD IS A GIANT MOON LASER.

....LAZERZLAZERZLAZERZ

Any questions would be welcome :D

"Like anything worth writing, it came inexplicably and without method."

2008-07-16T08:40:00.000-07:00

Yeah, I'm never going to get tired of that quote. It's Kay Eiffel (character) from Stranger Than Fiction, number five on my Top Five All-Time Favourite Movies. Anyway, here's something I wrote today. It's D&D-oriented and details my Neverwinter Nights character's reasons for heading to the cold city and enrolling in the Academy there. LOOK OUT NON-NERDS!

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Odwyn tightened his grip on his staff, watching the rift open with one narrowed black eye. The swirling purple vortex grew into a tall oval shape, spilling tiny lights and a thin mist that
clung to the edges of the summoning circle, outlining the cylindrical confinement. The light reflected from his robe, highlighting the gilt silver edging against dark, red leather. The spell
had gone perfectly, as he'd expected; the small frown he wore merely a result of the theatrics insisted upon by the creature he'd decided to summon. He inspected the runes laid out around
the circle with a practiced eye. Not a single rune or sigil out of place, as usual. He looked up at the rift, which had begun to twist and now resembled a spiralling cloud of lights that seemed to be taking a more familiar shape. The cloud swept up suddenly, breaking from its spiral, and began to pour down, filling out a figure from the feet first like some expertly crafted hourglass pouring sand made from stars. Odwyn let a small, vain smile cross his lips and ran over the binding incantations in his mind, bringing his memory of the control and punishment spells to the fore. The purple light glowed faintly now, and an obviously female figure stood within it. Tendrils of a darker colour stretched out from the back of its bowed head, spreading out and becoming a long, thick mass of hair curled into ringlets of a style popular in Waterdeep. As the more intimate details of the figure's skin began to appear, a simple shift of fabric in purple so dark as to be almost black slipped into being, coiling slowly up and around the figure like a protective lover. Its face lifted to the air, and a narrow nose appeared above full, red lips curved in a smile. Two tiny points of light came into being on its face, expanding into softly glowing eyes of a solid, crystal white.
'Ah, Odwyn. So good to see you again,' purred the apparition, tucking a lock of purple hair behind its ear with a perfectly-manicured finger. The corners of her mouth lifted in a smile, and she lowered her eyelashes, looking at the sorcerer coyly. He frowned again, and raised a hand, making a claw gesture.
'None of your games, Khadys, I haven't the time.'
The summoning made a pretty pout, folding her arms petulantly.
'But Odwyn, don't you enjoy our games? Why else would you summon me?'
The sorcerer sighed, and snapped his fingers. A clicking noise answered him from the darkness beneath a workbench. A huge blue beetle came scurrying across the tiled floor and leapt to his shoulder, wings buzzing furiously. The horned insect tilted its head back and forth, eyeing the captive woman. It inclined its head toward its master. The sorcerer smiled and ran a beringed finger gently over the beetle's carapace.
'I know she doesn't look like much, dear Keke, but she does have the answers we seek,' he said quietly, adding ~Watch her carefully. Mind her tricks,~ through his familiar's mental link. The apparition appeared put out by this display of affection, and casually allowed her shift to slip an inch or two down one shoulder. Her captor returned his attention to the being in the circle. Her purple skin reflected the light of Odwyn's candle-lit workroom in a distracting way, highlighting the smoothness of her skin and the gentle curves that trailed off beneath her shift. She flicked her head lightly, and the subtle glimmer of -
Odwyn yelped suddenly as Keke bit down on his ear, and shook the familiar free with a snarl. He raised his hand in a violent gesture, then realised what had happened.
~Thank you, Keke,~ he sent. The beetle settled back onto his shoulder and the sorcerer's scowl became a smile as he turned the punishment spell against his captive. The effect was instantaneous. Lightning crackled across her purple body, tearing an ear-splitting shriek from those full lips. The luxurious hair which draped across her shoulders paled to a matt white, becoming coarse, sharp and straight as it crept back from her forehead to reveal two dark horns. Her white eyes became an electric blue, glinting with malice. As the simple shift she wore fell away to reveal a more muscular, red-skinned body, far darker in tone than the one she had worn, Odwyn grinned in triumph, and spoke in tones of command.
'Khadys Tal'Ratha Orin'vesh'tak Y'lrahtep, I bind you by the runes of blood, the runes of fire, and the sigil of law.'
A darkness seemed to fall upon the room as the sorcerer spoke.
'My will is greater than yours, my faith is greater than yours and my power will forever be a sun to your mere spark.'
Odwyn loomed suddenly, the darkness rising behind him like a vengeful shadow.
'Answer my questions truthfully and without deceit, lest your being be torn asunder by my wrath and the runes which bind you here,' he finished, snapping his hand around in a lashing
gesture. The summoning's body went horribly rigid with this last motion and as another shriek split the air a pair of leathery, eldritch wings exploded from her back, convulsing madly. Odwyn reigned in his power, and watched the succubus with an impassioned black eye. The devil shuddered, and ran her black talons through the coarse hair atop her skull, her wings folding back into repose with only the occasional twitch.
'Ooh, you aren't playing around at all, are you,' she asked, batting her eyes at the sorcerer and licking her lips.
'No need to get hasty,' she added as Odwyn curled his hand into a claw once more, 'I'll tell you what you want to know.'
'About time,' he growled, tapping his staff against the tiled floor. He drew himself up to his full height, fixing his one eye on the devil in the circle.
'You know how much I despise resorting to such formality. Still, if you insist,' he continued, clearing his throat, 'Khadys Y'lrahtep, I charge you to tell me the whereabouts of -'
'Neverwinter,' interjected the succubus, causing Odwyn to blink and falter mid-sentence. The sorcerer narrowed his eye again, and tapped his staff against the floor. Khadys raised a hand
in supplication and tilted her hips, wearing a patient smile.
'I swear by the sigil of law that binds me to this place that the one whom you seek may be found in the city of Neverwinter, hidden from your sight but clear to mine.'
'How may I find her?' asked the sorceror, his fingers playing anxiously across the runes of his staff. The succubus' pointed teeth came into view with her smile. She dropped one hand to her hip and rested the other against her chest, closing her eyes and tilting her face downward.
'You will find her among the people of Neverwinter. She will reveal herself to you when the time is right.'
The gravitas in her voice made the sorcerer frown. He tugged at his beard thoughtfully, staring past the succubus at the map of Faerhun on the far wall. Neverwinter was a long way away,
he thought to himself, already thinking of ways to make the travelling spell simpler and more efficient. Perhaps he could enlist Khadys' aid the journey. The succubus had proved her
resourcefulness in the past, and there was always the possibility of a cold night, when her infernal warmth could help him pass the nights in comfort, if not -Keke wrenched at his ear again, buzzing furiously. Odwyn swore loudly as the familiar spun out of his way and levelled his staff at the summoning circle. As the first syllables of the punishment cantrip left his mouth, leaving tiny lacerations on his lips that bled down his chin, he faltered. Where the succubus had been, the woman he sought now stood, surrounded by the gently thrumming runes he had painted. She was tall, with curled, jaw-length hair of a deep, autumnal red. She wore scaled armour of silver and gold over a leather tunic and breeches of a darker red than her hair. A weighty hammer hung at her left hip while a thick tome marked with the sigil of Kossuth, the Lord of Flames, hung at her right, attached by a pitted metal chain. Her green eyes were filled with a sorrow that pierced the sorcerer's heart.
'Odwyn,' she said, her voice quiet and pained, 'why are you doing this? What has changed so much that you would hurt me this way?'
A shiver of sadness passed through him until Keke buzzed up to his face, looping around his head. So quickly his familiar reminded him that this was just another of Khadys' tricks, faithful
creature that she was. Odwyn sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose and tightening his grip on the rune-covered staff. He shook himself, and looked again at the image of his former lover.
She raised a hand to the barrier between them, but seemed to hesitate.
'Is this how she appears now?' the sorcerer asked, tilting his staff toward the circle.
'Odwyn, I don't know what you mean. Are you well?' asked the image, and the look of concern on its face finally snapped him back to his task. This could never be her. The staff blazed suddenly, and a coil of light extended around the circle, blades of blue energy extending from the band of light.
'Drop the charade now, Khadys. I grow tired of it, and you would do well to test my patience no longer.' The blades sliced into the cylindrical prison, and a sudden sneer appeared on the
face of the red-haired woman.
'Fine, fine,' came the voice of the succubus, and the scaled armour melted away, revealing Khadys' naked red form once again.
'You have grown serious, Odwyn. It doesn't suit you,' said the devil, a disappointed frown crossing her face for a scant moment.
'I have told you what you wish to know, now unless you want to play, let me go. I have other souls to enrapture,' she added with a smile, her pointed tongue tracing her upper lip. The sorcerer frowned once more as he ceased his spell, the blue blades dissipating like fine mist. The succubus flexed her wings within the confines of the summoning circle, anticipation apparent on her face. Odwyn nodded, and began the banishment spell. He spoke in a guttural language, his eye closed in concentration. Keke flitted around the circle, watching the devil with her multifaceted eyes. The runes around the circle slowly began to smoke and disappear, each one making a little fut! sound as it vanished. Before long, the stern, solid sigil of law was all that remained holding the succubus in place. As Odwyn began the final incantation it broke down into several squares, each breaking into smaller squares until they were gone from sight. The purple rift tore into being behind her and Khadys threw her captor one last glance as she stepped into it, curving her lips in a teasing smile.
'Oh, and Odwyn?'
The sorcerer looked up carefully, his staff set in an offensive position, ready to counter any tricks the succubus might decide to play.
'What?' he asked acidly, preparing a lightning bolt.
Khadys fixed him with her cruel blue eyes.
'She still loves you.'
The rift snapped closed, vanishing from sight as the bolt of elemental force crashed into the brick wall where it had been. The sorcerer heaved a breath, relaxing his grip on the staff. Keke
buzzed about his head curiously, before swooping around and diving onto her perch in the bookcase. She watched her master, clicking to herself as she settled into the elven skull that
served as her nest. Odwyn straightened up, sending his staff to its hook in the darkest corner of the room. He contemplated clearing the few singe marks from the floor and repairing the
damage to his far wall, but could not tear his thoughts from the journey that lay ahead. He moved to his desk, and sat down in the high-backed wooden chair. The clawed feet of the seat
trotted toward the desk until he was in a comfortable position. As the sorcerer pored over the piles of parchment and paper scattered over his desk, he snapped his fingers idly. Keke
buzzed across the room to alight on his shoulder. Odwyn tilted his head slightly, frowning in concentration.
'Hm? We're going to Neverwinter, my dear,' he said, one finger tracing the outline of a teleportation spell in a great blue tome. The beetle crept down his arm, hopping onto the book and angling its head up at its master. The one-eyed sorcerer blinked, then a satisfied smile stole onto his face.
'To find my true love, of course,' he said with a chuckle.
Keke's wings buzzed shortly. Odwyn lowered one beringed hand to the table, relishing the tickling sensation as his familiar stepped onto his palm. He ran a finger across her wing casing with a smile and lifted her back onto his shoulder. As he spread a scroll out onto the desk, weighing it down with two small metal figurines resembling toy soldiers, the beetle buzzed at him once more.
'Oh,' said the sorcerer, a contented gleam coming into his eye, 'We're going to kill her.'

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

There you go, that wasn't so difficult now, was it?

Thanks for taking the time to read through that jumble of fiction, I hope it didn't take up too much of your time. :) There were a few songs I listened to during the writing, I may as well list 'em.

Billy Talent - The Ex
Billy Talent - Line & Sinker
Paramore - Misery Business
Porcupine Tree - What Happens Now?
Ivy - Worry About You
Offspring - Gone Away

I listened to a few more of course, it didn't take me twenty minutes to throw this together. xD

Oh, as a side note, isn't it annoying as HELL when you're in the loo and some bastard just shoves on the door without even looking at the vacancy bar? I've never left a door unlocked, but it still pisses me off that these idiots just attempt to barge in without even checking the occupied/vacant bar.

Love, Odsox.

"We can't stop here! This is bat country!"

2008-07-15T07:50:00.001-07:00

No particular reason for the title other than it's one of my favourite movie quotes.

So how is everybody? Sitting Comfortably? Then I'll begin.

Online gaming. When did it become so addictive? Also, am I the only one who is influenced by those around them during online games?

Example:

Normally, I am one of the most placid, considerate online gamers around, apart from my tendency to furiously ignore anyone who types using leetspeak. I'll let people steal my kills, fling their pointless insults (loser, fag, and of course, noob) and generally give the community a bad name, without a care in the world. What goes around, you know? But yesterday while playing Unreal Tournament 3 I suddenly became very, very angry. Not to the point where I was forced to swear AT anyone, because let's face it, slagging off people who live thousand of miles away isn't going to be nearly as effective as as a good slap, and one can't deliver one of those unless actually seated beside the offender.

But this guy/girl, probably a guy, looking back at the name, was costing my team the game. In a horribly blatant manner, as well. In one particular Warfare level of UT3 (Tank Crossing, Unreal players!) the most effective method of assaulting the enemy objective (Power Core) is to do the following:

A) Capture the Bridge Node. This activates the bridge which spans the huge chasm in the middle of the map.

B) Drive the Goliath (each team receives one of these massive tanks) across the bridge.

C) Navigate your way to the enemy power core and park the Goliath on a pressure pad which opens up the blast doors protecting it.

D) Fire.

But this was beyond the offender in question. He would REPEATEDLY jump in the Goliath (which means no-one else can get into the driver's seat) and proceed to drive backwards and forwards over the equivalent distance of about four metres. He wouldn't cross the bridge, he wouldn't get out of the tank, he wouldn't even fire the bloody thing.

Now, if one gets into a fast-paced First Person Shooter online, the one thing, above all else (including skill, talent, graphics, aiming, driving ability, EVERYTHING) that should concern a player is this:

Lag.

If one begins to lag, one bloody well notices. You won't be able to move, your weapons won't fire, nothing else will be moving or else everything will be moving in incredibly jerky fashion, like one of the old webcams that updated every second or two instead of streaming constantly. So there's a reason to ditch the game. I've done this myself once or twice. If all you can do is hover in mid-air because your computer's lagging so much that you aren't going to land for the next thirty seconds, it's time to leave the game. Common sense lads, fucking common sense.

So if this fellow was lagging (and the constant movement of the vehicle imply that this was NOT the case) he should have damn well known that the only thing to do was quit and let the other players enjoy their game. So the only other options (to me at least, most of the other players just assumed he didn't know how to drive, which is ridiculous) are that he was away from his keyboard, had gotten his keys jammed, or was just messing around and ruining it for everyone else.

The first you just don't do. Not while you're driving, for the Emperor's sake! Ditch the vehicle, die and respawn! Just leave your character to hover: this is accepted practice!

The second, well, you could at least TELL us! Would it take so long to type out, give me a moment here, let me get this right, 'sry keybord stuk lol'?

And the third, well. I don't like to think about it. What sort of person would deliberately do that? How can that be as much fun as actively participating in the fight?

Okay, rant over. My lunch break's nearly up and I needs me some cool water.

Thanks for putting up with me!

Love, Odsox.

"Odsox rode his own rocket into oblivion!"

2008-07-10T14:52:00.001-07:00

Just a quick one to say I played my first few online deathmatches on Unreal 3 tonight. It's official: I suck.

But it's a bloody brilliant game! It was incredibly frantic, gunshots going every which way, and after two games I got into my stride, i.e. the bottom of the scoreboard. XD But I must stress that in Unreal there isn't any time to stand around and insult the other players, it's straight up kill or be killed. I think that has to be what I really love about it, everyone's too busy fragging to insult anyone else.

I soon realised that I was up against some serious players, who were just dominating the whole game. I always forget that in the FPS genre, you have to take your online game seriously, otherwise you just get rolled over. It doesn't bother me so much that I just kept dying, I was laughing at the sheer level of destruction for most of the game. ^o^

The final scoreboard before I decided to let the decent players enjoy themselves showed everyone in double figures (top score was 50 ftw) and right on the bottom line, there he is, young Odsox, with a grand total of 4 kills.

BUT THEY WERE BADASS KILLS YO

Not really, I'm convinced they were all flukes. Still, I had fun and probably got a few laughs from players who noticed how bad I was, and sometimes making 'em laugh is all that really matters.

^^;

TTFN!

Love, Odsox.

"What do you mean, 'file corrupted'!?"

2008-07-09T05:19:00.000-07:00

BASTARD BLOODY THING!

When I went to bed last night, I thought to myself, hmm, I haven't played Pokemon (Emerald) in a while, I wonder how my game was going?

So I loaded it up, sat there happily in the dark, lit by the single, brilliant light from my little white DS Lite, enjoying the introductory animation and of course, the epic music.

...

...

The file cannot be loaded due to corruption. The game can be played.

New Game?

YOU- YOU- ARGH!! My precious pokemon! My Torkoal! My Torchic! MY POOR LITTLE JIGGLYPUFF!

This is why I've only ever finished Pokemon Red. I feel that somewhere out there is one of the Gods of Gaming, She Who Pwnz Pokemon, and she's laughing at me. My struggles to complete these gargantuan games are nothing but a source of amusement for her, and she'll never let me win.

So, intending to battle it out and start a new game, I began to play, promptly fell asleep and woke up at about three o'clock this morning when I dropped the DS on my face (I have a weird habit of falling asleep with my arms in the air, don't ask me why because I don't know). It really hurt, and I was disheartened further when, through bleary eyes, I realised I hadn't even gotten my first Pokemon from that bastard Professor Birch.

Never mind, eh.

Warhammer 40,00: Squad Command is turning out to be a lot harder than I thought - I'm stuck on the third level! Interestingly enough, I have a history of getting stuck on third levels. But that's beside the point.

Squad Command is fun, a bit more involved than expected, and rife with nice, fluffy bits from 40K. I particularly enjoy the moments after Space Marines get shot, when they snarl, 'Cast out the traitor!', or when the scouts say, 'For the Emperor!'. Plus, Sniper rifles are great fun, while shotguns do a damn sight more damage than I would have guessed. I expect to pick up shinier aecondary weaopns later on, but for now I'm content with my bolters, shotguns, sniperrifles and plasma guns. Those last are really powerful, they can cause massive damage to groups of enemies, and easily take down walls and fortifications.

Something I've only just noticed is that your troops can crouch behind cover as well,and setting them on Overwatch (leaving them with enough action points to fire their weapon should an enemy cross their path) is proving vital to my defence during the Enemy Turn.

I must must MUST get past this level so I can get more Space Marines and ditch the Scouts.

Later on we get tanks too!

Hope I didn't take up too much of your time!

Love, Odsox

"Why so serious?"

2008-07-08T05:38:00.001-07:00

Oh come on, you knew I was qoing to throw a Battyman quote in here sometime. All the cool kids are doing it.

I'm not entirely sure why I've posted a poll, seeing as how (as far as I can tell) only two or three people visit my blog at the moment. Still, I've been hankering for some new writing and the few scrap I have going at the moment are a bit stale.

I'd love to start a comic (feels like I whinge about this every few weeks), but while I trust my writing skill in that regard I don't have quite nough talent to make a passable illustration of what I want to happen. And after a little thought, I realised that just posting lines of dialogue and barebones descriptions isn't going to work as an updating serial. So if any of you buggers know of an artist who's struggling to write their own comic and can take direction well, give us a shout, won't you? I've had a comic idea rolling around up here *taps noggin* for a while, and it's just the art that's eluding me. I can see the characters, I can see the world, I know how they behave and I know what's gong to happen, but I can't show anyone because I wouldn't be able to do it justice with my own level of skill.

[Side question: If you're an artist or, as I prefer to think of myself, a doodler: Do you have a style all your own? How did you get to it? Are you satisfied with what you can do? Why the platypus?]

Deep sigh. Anyway, I don't know about you but the price of movie tickets is really starting to make my blood boil. I was chatting to my buddy Chris about the price of movie tickets in the U.S. (or at least, in a certain part of Washington State) and found out that over there it costs a mere $10 to go to a late showing or a weekend showing, which works out at about a fiver! IT COSTS SEVEN POUNDS EIGHTY in our cinema! And the yanks can get one of those enormous popcorn boxes refilled for a paltry $1! THAT'S FIFTY BLOODY PENCE! One of those boxes over here would set you back a fiver on its own, and they'd probably chase you out with a fire extinguisher if you asked for a refill!

Speaking of movies and that, I don't suppose anyone fancies going to see The Incredible Hulk at some point over the next couple of weeks? There are so many movies coming out that I simply cannot afford to keep up with them anymore. It's a crying shame because I get Total Film delivered to my door every month (thank you yet again, Auntie Gill! ^o^), and I used to be a bit of a film buff, but because I can't afford the cinema anymore I have to read my TF religiously and pretend that I've seen the films. ;_; Also, I'm desperate to see Wall*E. It's out on the 21st, I think, so if anyone wants to pile down to Colchester or hit the big cinema in Ippers with Gem and me, you're more than welcome!

Hope I didn't take up too much of your time!

Love, Odsox.

....I'm Batman.

"Don't. Push. Me. 'Cause. I'm. Close. To. The. Edge."

2008-07-07T04:26:00.000-07:00

It's extremely rare that I post two blogs in one day, but I just went down to collect a (insert appropriately healthy meal here) from the sandwich van, and as the sandwich lady did that weird thing where she goes to put the change in my hand but doesn't quite tip it into my palm and leaves her fingers there a bit too long for the umpteenth bloody time, it occurred to me:

I'm not very fond of being touched.

It's true! I get a bit nervy when people are too close to me (that's about six inches) and I nearly always jump a bit when someone touches me, unless it's something I anticipate (like a handshake) or initiate. I've just realised how self-concious physical contact makes me. It happens all the time - I usually manage to appear unaffected, but get very, very tense. I have a particular dislike of close talkers and people who hover. I think a distance of about twelve inches is a pretty good talking range, and if you're going to hover, I need at least ten inches of space to feel comfortable while allowing whoever to effectively observe what I do. There's a specific person to whom the hovering applies, and every time they do it, their face about a handspan away, I just have this urge to nut them or give them a slap. People shouldn't be that close unless they're, well, you know.

In a complete switcharound, however, I have no real problem with initiating contact myself. I'll happily offer a hug, or a shoulderpunch or a shove or whatever, just not the other way around. I chalk it up to my ridiculous amount of innate selfishness, but maybe there's more to it. Or maybe I'm reading into it too much, I don't know.

It's not a phobia by any means, I don't quake with fear or anything; I just don't like it.

Anyway, that's enough rambling for today.

Thanks for putting up with me!

Love, Odsox.

"Don'fuhgetchateef!"

2008-07-07T02:04:00.001-07:00

Let me tell you about my Wii injury.

It begins way back, through the mists of time, in Essex, somewhere closer to Barking than Colchester, outside a huge block of flats built in the traditional council estate fashion, at night. The blocks are huge and imposing in the darkness, looming over their concrete gardens like gritty sentinels, covered in thousands of glass eyes, some lit, some dark.

A red mondeo pulls up to the kerb about a hundred metres away from one particular block, just by a small, foot-high brick wall surrounding the concrete slope used for games during the day. As the engine dies, the passenger door of the car pops open, faintly illuminating a young boy with dirty blonde hair and a gap-toothed smile. He hops out of the vehicle, turns and shuts the door with a bit more force than is necessary. On the driver's side, a tall, black-haired man with a single gold earring has climbed out, and gives the boy a half-joking frown.

'Christ, shut the door,' he says, turning the keys to lock the vehicle up.

"Sorry, Dad!" replies the boy, grinning and looking around in the dark. His father steps around the car, fiddling with his mobile phone. The boy turns to look at the blocks, and, in the way that young boys everywhere do, sets off at a sprint.

His father has walked perhaps two metres, glaring at his phone, when he hears his son's step falter, followed by a thump, a quiet crack, and a high-pitched wail. He instantly moves into a sprint, heading toward the sound. As he steps over the little wall with his long legs, he spies his son on the concrete ground; on his knees and clutching at his mouth, tears streaming from his eyes.

'Oh bloody hell, come here, what have you done?' he asks the boy, lifting him to his feet and peering at his face. Some blood circles his son's mouth; not much, but enough to prove an injury. The boy speaks, but his hands muffle his voice. His father wipes the boy's eyes with the cuff of his jacket and pulls his hand away. Already possessing a sizeable gap between his front teeth, his son's front tooth has been cracked diagonally by the impact on the concrete, leaving an almost pointed remainder, coated with a little blood. The boy sniffs and whimpers, looking around for the missing piece of his precious tooth.

'I was running, and, and I fell over the wall! It really hurt!'
His father sighs, and grips the boy's shoulder.
'Well, it's your own fault for running off in the dark, isn't it? Come on, get inside and then we'll get you down the hospital.'
'I DON'T WANNA GO TO THE HOSPITAL!'
'Don't be stupid, you've got to. Come on, let's get inside, eh?'
'What about my tooth?'
'I'll come back out and look for it once you're settled in.'
'Okay.. but shouldn't we see the dentist?'
'Rich, we're going to the hospital.'

Fast forward twelve, fifteen years, to Essex again, but in Colchester, more specifically a small, cosy flat stuffed with mismatched furniture. Several young adults are gathered in the room, seated on different pieces of furniture. A big man sits nearest the massive television, seated on a pink sofa, looking quite comfortable with a Wiimote in his right hand and a large glass bottle of cider in the left. He grins as he chats to the others, still gap-toothed but with a whole front tooth where the cracked one once was.
'Weanie mate, this is brilliant. I need to get me one of these.'
'Hey man,' replies an even bigger man sat in a green leather armchair, leaning over to grab his own bottle of cider, 'you're welcome to come over and play anytime.'
'Cheers dude,' replies the young man, dirty blonde hair now a light shade of brown. He swings the Wiimote back and forth, playing against one of his other friends.
This is great, he reflects, eyes and Wiimote never leaving the tiny digital tennis ball zipping back and forth on the large screen, I can drink and play this at the same -
The sudden crack against his front tooth makes him drop the Wiimote, and, staring blindly at the television, he removes the cider bottle from his mouth. As he suddenly realises the idiocy of what he's done, he turns to the others.
'That was very, very stupid,' he says.
'What did you do?' asks a tall, skinny fellow seated on the arm of his girlfriend's chair.
'I.. I was thinking about how awesome it was that I could drink and play at the same time.. then I swung the Wiimote, hit the glass bottle, smacked it against my teeth and cracked it against me fake tooth.'
The other instantly burst out laughing, and the young man can't help but grin as well; he'd laugh too, if it hadn't been him.
'Shit,' he says, feeling the tooth with his tongue, 'That's definitely cracked. I'm not gonna be able to leave it alone, either. Bloody hell.'

Sure enough, over the next day, try as he might, he can't stop running the tip of his tongue across the edge of the fracture. It feels like a hairline, and on inspection he can see the line itself.

Later on, as he's over at his stepdad's, enjoying a slice of apple pie with hot custard, he swallows a mouthful of the sweet pie, and blinks. Cautiously, he taps the end of his tongue against the tooth.

A chunk of it has fallen off. Rushing to the mirror, he inspects the tooth. There. The corner of the tooh, made from a kind of dental concrete, has chipped off, leaving a jagged edge to the tooth, and a larger gap.

'Oh, brilliant,' he sighs, peering at the broken tooth.

'Back to square one.'

"All weapons.. ONLINE."

2008-07-05T01:24:00.000-07:00

I'm baaaaaaaaaa-aaaaaaaaaack!!

I finally have a home net connection, and I have to ask - what the fuck happened to the internet while I was away? Everything's fast and sleek and shiny! This BBC iPlayer business has to be one of the coolest things EVER, and -

I just remembered I can install my full version of the SPORE Creature Creator.

BYE!

love, Odsox.

"I JUST WANNA KNOW WHO DRIVIN' A BLACK MITSUBISHI!!"

2008-07-04T05:00:00.000-07:00

I use the word 'hate' a lot. An awful lot. So often that no-one takes it seriously anymore. This got me thinking on the bus this morning; if I'm honest, what do I really really hate? And, after a careful process of whittling and battering my way up the list (it was like those friggin' steps at Pai Mei's place in Kill Bill 2) I managed to think of just a few things that genuinely piss me off. Things I can preface with the words 'I hate' and mean it. They're small, petty, personal things, but I've found that they're worth the most hating. Here we go, in ascending order:

5. People who claim to have hayfever but spend 97% of their Summer in blissful clarity.

SRSLY. I HATE these bastards. 'Ooh, I have hayfever, sniff sniff' BOLLOCKS!!! They don't understand TRUE suffering. I can't describe quite how horrific my hayfever becomes, but let's say that if you picture my mug with a streaming nose, snot in the moustache, eyes so bloodshot it looks like I've been in a Dutch greenhouse for a year, mounds of tissues that infest any place I go (so much so that I've been accosted by several of my managers over the years for the unhygienic ramifications of them) and an itching INSIDE MY EYES that no amount of scratching, rubbing or applying sandpaper will get rid of, then you have an inkling of what REAL hayfever is like.

4. People who walk slowly.

I know for a fact that I ain't alone here. How many times have you been trying to get somewhere only to have two or more (the worst is the Tourist Family) people casually stroll out into your path and proceed to walk so slow they may as well be going backwards? I honestly have to fight the urge to just elbow my way past these fuckers, so much so that I've decided my twilight years will be spent tracking groups of them in my Ben-Hur wheelchair with the wheel spikes and dozer blade in order to horribly maim them so they can't do it to anyone else. And if anyone says anything I'll just plead senility.

3. PDLs.

Or 'Public Displays of Lust'. Displays of affection are just fine with me. You know; a peck on the cheek, a gentle kiss, a casual slap on the rear, a hug, that sort of thing. It's when people insist on kissing like a pair of mating octopus that pisses me off. KEEP YOUR FUCKING HANDS ABOVE THE WAISTLINE, you degenerate shitters! When I'm wandering around I don't want to see Scrawny McWhiteboy trying to diddle Slaggy Whale-Arse's pooter in the middle of the bloody High Street!!

2. OMG

I swear by the blood of my ancestors, if I ever, ever murder someone, this is the likeliest of reasons. I cannot express my hatred of this phrase enough. It started with she-who-must-not-be-named (but you can find her on any cheapslack Home Video site) as far as I'm concerned, and it must end with her death. It's not even like I'm religious. In fact, some days I wish I WAS religious so that I could really take offence and be like, 'Don't speak the Lord's name in vain! TASTE GOODBOOK, HEATHEN! *BIBLESLAP*' I would actually carry a bible for that purpose. A leatherbound one with sharp metal studs on the cover and a bloody great raised metal crucifix for maximum bruising. Anyone, ANYONE who says this phrase in my presence is taking a risk. It implies a lack of intelligence, originality, creativity and just plain common sense. At least 50% of people (even if they don't like to admit it) don't believe in God (the Christian one, anyway), so they're impugning their own intelligence by uttering the bloody words!

1. People who think sharks are 'misunderstood'.

Fuck you. Fuck you right up the ass with a rusty chainsaw. A chainsaw with a fucking shark painted on it.

Do you even know anything about sharks?

"Evidence for the existence of sharks extends back over 450–420 million years."

This should imply something, at the very least. A predator that has been around that long has to be considered successful, if not ridiculously overqualified.

"Estimates suggest that over a span of a few years a shark may grow tens of thousands of teeth."

Yeah, did you ever read Little Red Riding Hood? ALL THE BETTER TO EAT YOU WITH, MOTHERFUCKER.

"Despite the common myth that sharks are instinct-driven "eating machines", recent studies have indicated that many species possess powerful problem-solving skills, social complexity and curiosity."

WHAT fucking myth!? They are driven by the instinct to eat!. AS ARE A MULTITUDE OF LIFEFORMS!!!! For fuck's sake!!

----------------------
Right, it's getting too sweary and idiotic in here for me, so I'm going to bow out and go to lunch.

Also, in response to questions about my Most Hated No.1 - Yes, I did consider The French, but deemed them an evolutionary cul-de-sac and ultimately harmless, whereas anyone with two brain cells to rub together can see that sharks remain a high-risk threat to international welfare.

"Blues suck!"

2008-07-02T08:42:00.000-07:00

So with my upcoming net fix and the release of SPORE in just a few months, it occurred to me that the Carling Festival (Reading) is also coming up. How the hell am I going to afford that? Apparently we, by which I mean several people whom I consider close acquaintances if not friends, are heading down on the Wednesday to get drunk in the queue for tickets. This plan has been circulated around the group, and I for one fully expect it to go as swimmingly as all of our other big group plans, i.e., only two or three of us actually go through with it while the others have excuses not to, thereby making the remainder somewhat bitter about the whole thing. I could be on either side of that divide. Hopefully the latter. At least I'll get to go to Reading this year. It'll be my eight year in a row!

Also: Cubecraft [dot] com. DO IT. DO IT NAO.

I've already printed out a Star Wars Imperial Stormtrooper and a full-colour Iron Man to sit on my desk at work. I have a horrible feeling that most of the others (Dr. Manhattan! DR. BLOODY MANHATTAN! I bet most of you don't even know who he is!) will be joining them at some stage.

Not the Master Chief one though.

Fuck Master Chief. FUCK 'IM UP HIS ASS.

Love, Odsox.

"I just called.. to say.."

2008-07-01T07:07:00.001-07:00

AHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!

Manic laughter = epic win.

Right, first off - I are has a job. It's good, I'll be given my official start date soon, and then it's monthly pay and desperate rebudgeting for a few weeks.

Now on to the more important news (meaning something I WANT rather than something I need) -

I've just had the most awesome news from Virgin Media. I paid out for a new net connection (plus home phone and t.v. package - winner) just last Friday, and while I requested the 6th of July as an installation date, it turned out they decided to lumber me with the 8th of July instead, which is a Tuesday.

Now, for those slackers among you, most people WORK Tuesdays, especially between 08:00 and 13:00, which is when they'd scheduled my installation for. So I sucked up my courage and asked my manager if I could have the morning off. Sadly, I knew this approach was doomed from the start as I'd gotten a sneaky peek at our holiday rota earlier on. If I had been allowed the morning off it would have left our new fish on her own, which would have been incredibly out of line, even for someone as selfish as me.

So I made the call. You know, the inevitable call that lasts for half an hour during your lunchbreak when you could be doing something useful, like sitting down.

Except it didn't take half an hour. It took ten minutes. I got through to some shock-horror COMPETENT advisors, who after hearing my work hours suggested Saturday as an installation date.

THIS SATURDAY. Between 08:00 and 13:00. Andwaitforit!

...they even told the installation team to call me beforehand to make sure that it was okay!

How awesome is that? Now I'm going to eat my mini cheddars, scoff my coronation chicken sandwich and reflect upon all the horrible things that are likely to happen to me to counterbalance this run of good luck!

I hope no hot girls die..

Love, Odsox

"Nobody puts Baby in a corner."

2008-06-30T09:24:00.000-07:00

Only time for a quick one today, my arms are knackered from playing WiiSports.

Bloody thing! Weanie and I went out Sunday morning to buy a Wii for his new pad, ended up getting served by some monkey-retard trainee at Argooz, didn't he? Poor blighter. And then he made the mistake of showing me (once it was all set up - much fun, I love mucking about with tech) Wii Boxing. I proceeded to play it for about an hour.

NOW MY ARMS ARE BLEEDING INTERNALLY

That is all.

Love, Odsox.

P.S. Just checked my NationState, look at what we do to immigrants in our country, the Dictatorship of Od Sox:

"Hold on there, hold on people!" says Stephanie McAlpin of the Od Sox Broadcasting company, "We don't have to take either extreme, all we have to do is make a TV game show out of it! We put deadly obstacles on the border and monitor it with television cameras! Those that make it across win freedom and citizenship, and those who don't, well, lets just say that our buzzards won't starve. We could call it 'Who Wants to be an Immigrant?'!"

Yeeeeeaaaahhh! Now I for one would watch that show religiously.

"Mazel tov, it's a boy!"

2008-06-27T02:35:00.000-07:00

Anyone else looking forward to SPORE as much as I am? I certainly think so.

Probably not for the same reasons, mind.

A main point for me, no matter which game I play, be it real-time-strategy, first-person-shooter, beat-'em-up or action game, is customisation.

You have to realise that when you pick up a game, pop it in and play it, most people are happy with what they get. They get a character or two, a story, personalities and amazing situations (well, unless you play the Sims, but that hardly counts as a game, does it), all created by someone with a world of their own in mind.

I'm never happy with this. I play games and look through what we get, and the first thing I always want to know is: All well and good, but how about what I want? I don't want to play as an army of pointy-eared nazi elf bastards, I want to play as an army of giant floating eyeballs with bat wings and a fondness for books. Heck, I don't want an army, I want a horde, a rabble, a mob!

As a result I often come across as a bitching, miserable bastard who's never satisfied and won't be unless he has something to complain about. Which isn't entirely true.

I lust after customisation and definition; when I play a game with someone else, they can pick one of the out-of-the-box factions or characters or cars, whatever. I want to be able to say, 'You know what? I'm going to use my own creations.' Be it a car made out of cheese and dreams or a fighter whose special move is called The Nostril Raper (left-left-right-medium punch and medium kick together!), I don't want to use what I'm told to use, I want something I've made for myself!

Which is why SPORE is going to become (possibly; Dawn of War 2 has yet to be finished) my favourite videogame. The level of control and customisation is extraordinary, and the possibilities near-endless. Over a million creatures have been donated to the SPORE galaxy already, and I haven't added any thanks to my lack of a 'net connection (though I have 18 and counting ready to go).

To summarise, go and look at the site, download the trial, get the creature editor and for the sake of the God-Emperor, get SPORE the moment it comes out.

DO IT.

Love, Odsox

P.S. Just for the record, my creatures are all middling to high levels of effort; I average two hours per creature. The only ones that I feel really belong to me are the Odling, the Lankiflora, the Rumblebum and the Vicious Bastard. Copyright (as much as that's possible :S), motherfuckers!

"It's time to light the lights!"

2008-06-25T09:02:00.000-07:00

Good morning.

So were you one of those kids who knew what they wanted to be when they were little? Like fireman, policeman officer, vet, showjumper, model, actor, singer, blah de blah yakkety shmakkety?

What did you want to be?

Because I didn't know. I remember once when a friend of mine was over, we were only little, five or six or seven. I think it was his mum that asked us what we wanted to be when we grew up, and I'm pretty sure my buddy responded with one of those usual answers. I, however, replied simply, 'Nothing.' Looking back on it, that seems like a perfectly legitimate answer. Shit, up until a few months ago I still didn't know what I want to do with my life.

I've been through phases, same as you guys. I wanted to be an actor, I wanted to be a musician, I wanted to be an artist, a writer (admittedly I still want to be a writer - keep an eye out for dodgy fan fiction and short stories!), for about a week I wanted to be a fashion designer. Seriously! I was fifteen at the time, I think. Obsessed with cool outfits and the like. I wanted to be something that involved doing what I wanted, using my imagination, and the last thing I wanted to do was be stuck in a boring job where all I do is take orders from higher-ups.

Hence my never having a paper round or getting a Mac job. But you know, I was working in retail at the age of fifteen, and I stuck with that job for three years. What a mistake. I've been known to flit between temp jobs - I've been a temp for about five years now. I had one permanent job at a restaurant which worked out really well once I started my chef training, but due to constant misunderstandings between myself and the boss, who I admittedly never liked anyway, I quit.

Now, at the age of twenty-three (feels more like forty-seven), I've finally whittled my ideal job list down to one thing, one almost unattainable thing.

I'd like to work for the Jim Henson Creature Workshop. Obviously I have no training, no experience, no skills, no nothing, but I think if I ever got the chance, I would take that job like a fucking shot. Have you ever seen The Muppets or Farscape or The Storyteller? Not to mention Labyrinth, Dark Crystal.. Their creatures are just so brilliantly varied! I'd LOVE to make monsters for a living!

Anyway, I've gone on for a bit, so I'll let you lot get back to whatever it is you were doing before I interrupted you.

Hope I didn't take up too much of you your time!

Love, Odsox

"There's no god-damn Mr. Pib!"

2008-06-23T03:53:00.000-07:00

Well, I for one had rather a good weekend. Rain cancelled play (read: anything involving leaving the house) on Saturday, so I spent a good five hours messing about with the SPORE Creature Creator. I had to suffer the trial version mind you, seeing as I still don't have a 'net connection at home. Christ, it's got to be coming up for a year now. Anyway, I highly recommend SPORE for everyone. Seriously. I sent messages to friends, relatives and strangers about this game. If you have even the tiniest spark of creativity in your veins then this game is for you.

Other than that, not an awful lot this weekend. Lack of funding meant I had to miss out on a mate's birthday party Saturday night, and spent Sunday morning and afternoon going over the Creature Creator a bit more, throwing in a couple of hours on The Witcher as well. It's a bit buggy, but rather good fun, and once you start unlocking more powerful spells and fancy swordplay the combat becomes something of a rush. Motion-capture footage of a professional swordsman was used in the creation of the combat moves, and it really becomes apparent when Geralt (that's The Witcher's name) starts flinging his sword around like a lethal majorette.

And I managed to catch Top Gear on Sunday night! First in a new series, and it was a blinder. I highly recommend catching up with it on the BBC iPlayer (what a fantastic way to spend your lunch hour!) if you missed it or just don't know what I'm talking about.

Meanwhile, I'm back off to work, wondering how to get a 'net connection on the cheap and how I'm going to afford all the important events coming up this year. Have a nice day, kids.

Hope I didn't take up too much of your time,

Love, Odsox

"Slap my face, why don't you?"

2008-06-18T06:34:00.000-07:00

As I was walking over a grassy stretch in the sun on my way to work this morning I found myself wondering:

How difficult would it be to pack up a bunch of my gear and just fuck off to the countryside?

Because, if you didn't know already, this country (that's England, by the way) and the world (that's the rest of you) are going down the shitter. I sat at home sketching with the news on last night, and all I heard was stories about the death tolls of natural disasters, the rising prices on everything, and more depressing news about climate change. And to top all that off, both our country and the bloody yanks are still dossing about in the Middle East! Then there was some bollocks about breeds of 'celebrity' dogs, which isn't essential news at all, is it? Who gives a toss about yapping rats that poo in their owners' handbags.

Now don't get me wrong - I'm all for apathy and I'm an incredibly selfish person, so matters concerning anyone other than myself don't usually get me interested, but it's getting beyond a joke now, isn't it, really? When you can't watch anything on telly without someone prattling about endangered species and increased flooding and climate change, and you can't go to the shops without paying through the bloody nose for food that's SHIPPED IN FROM OVERSEAS when we have perfectly good supplies on our own shores (think about THAT for a moment), and you can't go ANYWHERE without noticing the slowly deteriorating standard of society - underage mothers, rapists and murderers who do a cushy few years in high-class hotel-standard prisons and then walk away free, unrelenting knife and gun crime, floods of immigrants - be honest, it bothers you as well, disillusioned children whose parents don't understand them BECAUSE THEY'RE STILL CHILDREN THEMSELVES, and then, as a final twist of the knife, some cunt went and came up with Big Brother.

Perhaps the best way to get this across is to use my selfish nature to relate my own situation to you.

At the moment, I pay £59.63 per week to rent my Council flat, and £37.00 Council Tax. That's NOTHING! you might say, but consider this: for that £96.63 a week I can get my security doors smashed on a weekly basis, share a building with a mentally unstable thirty-something with previous convictions for attacking police officers with a concealed weapon, put up with crowds of threatening, layabout youths who barge into the building irregularly to loiter and take drugs in my security hallway, get my front door broken up and all my valuables stolen while I'm out at work and then wait a month for a new front door, get rat infestations, and generally live in fear of the countless thugs and bastards that make up my neighbourhood.

WHAT A FUCKING BARGAIN.

It's a pokey, one-bedroom first-floor affair which doesn't suit me at all, but it suffices as a roof over my head. It's got nothing going for it in terms of location, layout or economic advantages, other than the fact that there's a bus stop outside. And.. and..

Do you know, now that I've written all that down, I feel a lot better? That's weird. On the bus this morning I had to work really hard to stop myself from snapping and taking a bite out of someone's throat, but now.. I feel almost cheery. Moving to the countryside hasn't lost its appeal, mind you. I'd still prefer to live out in solitude, with just the radio and my gaming PC for company. Of course, at some point I'll need to find a female willing to put up with my constant bitching and complaining, and that'll be fun.

On the subject of ladies, I decided a while ago that I'd love a girl who could kick my arse. Verbally, physically, mentally, whatever. I need someone to balance out my caustic nature with a healthy dose of threatening behaviour. A STFU to my GTFO, if you will.

Anyway, now I'm somewhat lighter of heart, I think I'll get back to work.

Hope I didn't take up too much of your time!

Love, Odsox