UK Resistance is futile

In about 1999, I was shown a website by one of the few people I have actually met who were prepared to talk to me voluntarily. Hunched over the one computer that actually worked in Computer Exchange and squinting to see through the cloud of cigarette smoke, reading it changed my life. Actually, it didn't change my life, but it was good. I have always hated lots of things, and in particular a little known Japanese company called Sony has always attracted my ire. I hate Sony because of their vastly-inflated prices they have always charged for their sub-standard bits of kit, and continue to hate them to this very day. My hatred for them only grew when Sony decided to enter the formerly-sacrosanct market of videogames.

For some reason I always liked Sega. Maybe it's because my brother liked Nintendo. I had a Mastersystem with a few games and a gun and one game that worked with said gun. It had control pads which made your thumbs become deformed if you used it too much. In truth, it wasn't much good, but compared to the dreadful colour palette offered by the Nintendo Entertainment System and its daft robot, it was aces. Then I got a Megadrive which was brilliant, and I don't care what any Super Nintendo owners say about their machine. I'm not having it. Megadrive is best. The late '80's and early '90's were full of these conversations, kids would constantly argue which was better of the 2 mainstream machines of the time. Things like Colour palettes and sound channels would be meticulously compared. Now kids are more likely to argue about who gets first dibs on a gang rape.

I did like my videogames. I have around 20 games consoles in my mum's loft, including 2 Sega Saturns, a PC Engine, a JVC X-Eye, a Matsushita 3DO and a Neo-Geo MVS. I have loads of games. If my mum ever moves, I'm in trouble, as all of those bits and pieces have no chance of squeezing into my pathetic excuse for a loft. Maybe I will ceremoniously burn them. For me, Sony sounded the death-knell on videogames, for Sony bought them to the mass market and made them more lucrative than films. This has had the unfortunate effect of reducing them to appeal to the lowest common denominator.

Playing most games now is like reading the Sun - you can feel your braincells committing suicide in protest at having to be utilised in such a wasteful fashion. Sports sequel after sports sequel and thinly-veiled recruitment tools for the US Marines adorn the shelves these days. Microsoft followed suit, although I interestingly don't hate Microsoft. This is because 1) they are not Sony and 2) they are not Apple. Nintendo decided to give up by deciding to go after the female and retard market. They now have a gimmicky joke console as their main revenue stream, with a gimmicky joke handheld console as their other one. Shame on you Nintendo. Sega collapsed altogether as a console manufacturer as the morons of the world turned their back on the Dreamcast in favour of the mongoloid Playstation 2, which had to wait approximately 3 years before it got its first good game. Unfortunately, Sony had more resources to win the war of attrition.

I realise writing this that writing about videogames is tricky unless you're good at it. I'm not. Gary Cutlack has always been good at writing about games. He started UK Resistance in 1996. Ostensibly a website to review games for the sadly-defunct Sega Saturn, we all read and occasionally laughed as he battled through the 5 stages of grief for his beloved Sega over a period of 15 years. Yesterday marks the end of UK Resistance as Gary has decided that presumably there is no more to be said. I agree with him. Sony has made sure that videogames will become more lucrative, less risky and more pedestrian as the downward spiral of banality sucks in more and more stupid idiots who are quite happy to spend their lives playing sequels to FIFA and Call Of Duty until some thoughtful deity pulls the plug on us all.

Thanks for the memories, Gary.

Here's a 'Novel' idea, don't destroy daddy's legacy for a quick buck

*WARNING - SCIFI GEEKERY ALERT*

When you have a child, I imagine it would be quite natural to have a sense of pride if your offspring was interested in your chosen profession. All those jobs that seem glamorous and exciting to children like Policeman, Fireman, Accountant etc. All well and good. Sometimes you might be an actor and have a son, daughter or a Jamie Lee Curtis who would like to follow in your footsteps. Marvellous. Unfortunately, charges of nepotism become unavoidable, especially if you are not very good, and are deemed to only be in the profession because you have family in the business (see Cage, Nicolas)

But that's fine, too. Annoying, but fine. No-one is under any illusion that someone like Peaches Geldof is not a dough-faced, slack-jawed imbecile but she is basically harmless. She has also helped 'like' become the fifth-most uttered word in Britain, so at least she's achieved something. Claudia Winkleman may be essentially useless, and needs her hand held by a more able presenter on Film '11 but she is still preferable to Jonathan Woss. Nigel Clough may not have set the world on fire as a footballer but no-one begrudged him due to the effort he put in, and eventually he has become a respected manager, despite living in the shadow of the most northern football manager ever.

See how tolerant I can be? The mere thought of nepotism used to have me bridling with anger. But the pills put paid to that. But there is one area where I will not tolerate perceived interference by future offspring, and that is the art of writing novels. Dune by Frank Herbert is widely accepted as the Science Fiction equivalent of The Lord of the Rings - A novel of unprecented depth and richness of themes, including environmental awareness, feudalism, immortality and the cost of it, amongst many others. I urge you to read it. Not everyone who has read it is a twat like me. Frank Herbert died shortly after completing the sixth Dune novel, which hinted that there was still more of the story to be told.

Dune has spawned a plethora of media, including a miniseries on the SciFi channel, an absurdly bonkers movie adaptation by David Lynch, a line of toys and figures from said movie and several videogames. Rumours of new movies continue to surface every couple of years. You could assume that Frank Herbert's estate sport pretty deep pockets, bulging to contain all the cash accrued from syndication and merchandise alone. But for some reason, this wealth and the the protection of a very talented writer's legacy were deemed but a trifle when Frank Herbert's detestable sprog decided to 'expand' (capitalise) on the universe which his father so richly painted.

It started innocently enough. Brian Herbert, enlisting the help of longtime Starwars pulp novelist Kevin J Anderson released a couple of books here and there, expanding on some of the backstories of some of the factions while largely preserving the canon of what went before it. Then came more and more books, relentlessly wringing every last drop of creativity from Frank Herbert's cadaver. There were manuscripts being found in lofts everywhere. Apparently they were inexplicably missed on the inevitable first sweep when Herbert unexpectedly died decades ago. These 'ideas' were documents created by Frank Herbert and not at all dreadful plot devices dreamt up by 2 talentless hacks which were quickly turned into pulp novel after pulp novel, with each one being worse than the last.

In the same way that we all like to take a gander at the victims of a nice fresh car accident, I morbidly read some of the books. I borrowed them, mind. I will not grace Brian and Kevin's hairy palms with any of my silver, thankyou. There were several events and people alluded to in the original novels which were not explicitly explained. One of which was an event called the Butlerian Jihad, in which mankind decides to do away with any machinery which exhibits artificial intelligence, on account of mankind becoming lazy and stupid (sound familiar?) This event was turned into an action-packed swashbuckling trilogy, where, (inspired by the matrix no doubt) mankind must rise up against the machines and destroy them who are oppressing them and shit! With an explosion on every other page, it is the book that Michael Bay would write is he were able to grasp a pen.

There is a race of desert people called the Fremen, whose origin is shrouded in mystery. This mystery is resolved in the aforementioned trilogy when a bunch of escaped slaves proclaim that they will become the FREE MEN! of the desert. What amazing writing. Seriously. That's a stretch isn't it. How did they get from A to B on that one? I'm imagining a meeting. Kevin and Brian are in Starbucks with their macs, scratching their monobrows when the eureka moment hits them LIKE A FREAKIN' GIANT SPACESHIP ON FIRE WITH ROBOTS ON IT. I'm so glad that I can finally sleep now that every piece of mystery and intrigue has been removed from one of the best novels of all time. Thanks Brian and Kevin!

The ultimate insult was that they proclaimed they would finish the original 6 novels off, with one final 7th novel. This is akin to having Christopher Nolan directing the Batman films and then suddenly dying half-way through the last one. The studio then hires Michael Bay, who has just lost half of his brain in a shooting accident. To all the fans of Michael Bay's work, sorry I keep picking on him. Actually I'm not, the man is a hack. You should be ashamed of yourselves. You must be super dim to have to watch every action sequence in super slow motion from a thousand angles. Your tiny brains obviously cannot cope with sequences played at normal speed. It's like reading a children's book in large print at 25. You wouldn't sit on the train at 25 reading a child's book would you?*

So, novel 7 eventually becomes novel 7 and 8. Where's the sense in 1 book when you can tell the same story with more padding in 2? So release 2 more books they did. They capped off my favourite 6 novels with what I can only assume are abortions since I will never, ever read them. Given the choice, I like to think that most sane people would rather have a Bugatti Veyron with the front bumper missing, than one that has had a Fiat Multipla bumper badly welded to it, and then some git has gone and defecated in the engine bay. That's what Brain Herbert has done to his dad's legacy, he has defecated all over it, with his tawdry, childish and clumsy sequels and prequels. What a shit.

Apparently this is now happing to Stieg Larsson's books too, but I don't care since he was shit anyway.


*I forgot about Harry Potter. I despair, I really do.

Spring is here... whoop-de-doo

Hooray, Spring is here! The days are getting longer and Cadbury's creme eggs are back on the shelves in supermarkets across the land. iPhone owners are quivering in anticipation of the shift to British summertime that will cause their useless pieces of over hyped tat to explode, embedding shards of molten plastic into their slack jawed, lumpen faces. The poshest children have probably already broken up from school to enjoy their 20-week summer jaunt in a palace on the moon. The playgrounds are full of delinquents from about 5pm onwards, taking it in turns to shove their stubby, nicotine-stained fingers up the easy bird around the back of the slides.

For Britain is truly a joyous place to be in the spring time, as green chutes of new growth tenderly make their way through the tangled mess of used condoms and other detritus that blights our fair isle. Birds start warbling at 4am and finally decide to shut the fuck up at about 2am the next day. Road surfaces across the country are being smashed to smithereens by oafs, their poo-stained bumcracks on full display as councils desperately try to flitter away their budgets before April. Lardy ladies parade the vomit-coated streets of Croydon in their finest boob-tubes which they have stolen from their 5-year-old daughters at the first hint of sunlight. The trains and tubes get (even more) packed and stuffy as the bovine-brained individuals who can only wake with the sun start taking ever-earlier journeys into work.

The streets start to smell worse than usual as the feeble sun bakes all the piss and other bodily fluids that were thoughtfully deposited on the pavements - and of course not cleaned by the lazy shits who work at the behest of the council - during the long winter. Traversing through central London on foot becomes impossible as smatterings of enormous American tourists clog up walkways all over the place. On the corner of every pub are mobs of bucktoothed hooray Henrys braying at the top of their lungs as they vie for the attention of the homely secretary who looks a bit like mother that they want to have embarrassing sex with.

Bring on winter.

Annoying things that happen to me all the time and make me annoyed

I often fantasise that I have any friends, or indeed any people who are concerned enough about me to wonder why I am so bitter all the time. Allow me to explain. it is the little things that add up, one at a time to become galling and annoying. Little things that collectively make me very cross indeed. I have some examples of things that make me annoyed below, that will probably eventually see me going on an unsuccessful rampage with a shotgun.

Tesco jaffa clemetines with 500 pips in them

Tesco just take the piss out of me. I expect a pip-free clementine when I buy a Jaffa one. OK, so perhaps one or two pips per clementine would be understandable, I'm not a pip Nazi. But a Jaffa clementine with more pips than actual clementine takes the biscuit. I even photographed the remains of said clementine, just to prove how bad things at Tesco are. Do they care? No. Bloody fat cats.


Annoying train things

Being stuck behind a broken down train for 30 minutes, watching all the people who got up later than me breezing past on the adjacent track. Having my oyster card checked with all the interest and application I have come to expect from people who work on trains. One time, I held my work pass up instead and he didn't bat an eyelid. But the one day I forgot my oyster card (and my wallet) I had the train guard equivalent of the Gestapo to deal with. Being in a 'quiet' area on the carriage, but still having to listen the the train guard repeat the same message into the P.A. at 200 decibels, literally 10 times during a 20-minute journey. Yes I know there is a short platform at Isleworth.

Streets without signs on them to tell you what their names are

I am rubbish at knowing where I am. I cannot orientate myself at all. I was in Barcelona when I realised this, because it seems to be a game of chance whether street names are provided on actual streets or not. Relying on my natural sense of direction doesn't work, because I don't have any. I even struggled to find Barcelona's enormous stadium. I assumed that a stadium as prestigious and well-known and the Camp Nou would be clearly signposted. But then where is the fun in that. There were lots of maps on the metro - just not any that showed where things were.


Speaking to people

I hate people talking to me and saying things and then I have to say things in return, even though I haven't listened to any of the things that they have been saying. In fact, I hate having to say anything to anyone. I have nothing to say of any interest whatsoever, and I am almost certain that you have nothing to say to me that would interest me at all. Just leave me alone, will you.

Oh the irony... our buoyant population growth will doom us all.

There are just people everywhere. Literally all over the place. It's outrageous! And cars, too. Double and triple-parked. Parked on grass verges which are also covered in discarded sofas and divan beds. Who the hell still wants a divan bed? Evidently no-one. Bloody people. Stuffing their gormless faces with E numbers and sipping on their 'Grande' Lattes. You can't look anywhere without seeing a person, even in the sky you will probably see a plane. They are all so greedy and self-important and bloody omnipresent.

I went to see the pyramids a few years ago, before Egypt went tits up. But my view of said pyramids was rather obstructed by millions of adolescent mentalists trying to sell me bits of plastic tat. One tried to grab my camera so he could take a photo and charge me 10 pounds. I had to push him off several times as he danced a merry jig of menace and lunacy around me, and shadowed my every move. Dodgy looking older blokes with no teeth tried to get me to perch on their mangy camels for some obscene fee or other. The floor was riddled with broken souvenirs and camel shit. Imagine the ancestors of these loons watching their legacy being surrounded by such chaos - they'd laugh their pampered asses off.

All countries have issues with overcrowding. London, and the surrounding suburbs is overwhelmed, full of scurrying little rats trying to pick bits of partially-digested cheese out of poo. Only crap parts of the UK are deserted, such as Scotland and Wales. London has a higher population than the whole of Scotland. Obviously a mixture of terrible weather, widespread alcoholism and unemployment is not getting the punters in. China has 10 squillion people, and India about a bazillion. All of this is of course unsustainable. Soon there will be no food. No fresh drinking water. So all this hoopla about diminishing oil reserves will pale into insignificance as everyone suddenly realises that there is actually no more food to eat.

The trouble is, that people are living too damn long. In the good old days you were considered to be elderly if you were 40. Now that is the average age of a Croydon grandmother. Epidemics are rubbish and disappointing. I remember when everyone was going to die of the AIDS, Swine flu, Bird flu, Ebola, Mad cow disease, the list goes on. All promising epidemics that unfortunately failed to deliver. In the old days, people with a sniffle would be read their last rites. The Plague, for example, pretty much annihilated half of Europe. Imagine what the population would be like now without it. And then there were 2 world wars which wiped out countless millions. Tragic, of course, but all that kept the human population from exploding to current levels long ago.

So now we're in the shit, all of us. We can go on fashioning our miserable little existence and die of old age, surrounded by our soft furnishings and Playstation 10 games. But in a few generations time our descendents will be dying of starvation, as a result of wars about starvation, or at the paws of our once-beloved pet dogs who will turn feral and rip us all to pieces because they are starving. Property prices will be at a premium, with even the average flat in Croydon costing several thousand pounds. The south of the UK will become so densely populated and built up that it will eventually sink, catapulting the inhabitants of Scotland into the North Sea. It's important to look for any silver lining, no matter how scant a consolation it may be.

In China there will be a bicycle pileup lasting several years, as one feckless chinaman will fall off his bike at an intersection causing the perfect storm of massed buckled wheels. The resulting mass of mashed up bicycles and humans will be visible from space. The entire USA will descend into cannibalism, as the legions of obese people will suddenly be without their genetically-modified cows and instead will eat anything that moves. They will eventually eat each other, until one gargantuan fatty is left, who will then die of a heart attack. Mexico city will spread to encompass all of Mexico and will then be destroyed by a massive earthquake, burying countless valuable Tacos and Burritos under tonnes of poorly-constructed rubble.

You may think this is far-fetched, but it WILL happen* if the human population continues to grow. So, here is my solution to solve the issue:

Control all procreation - this will be achieved by sterilising every female on the planet. The sterilisation is only reversed should the female have a pre-agreed level of income in order to bring up a child. The income level will be adjusted, dependent on the cost of living for where they are situated. After the birth of 2 children, permanent sterilisation is mandatory.

Encourage the gays - no babies, no problem!

Kill the old - All people get until the ripe old age of 60 to live their lives. they are then executed and spared the indignity of losing their health and mental faculties. Their bodies are then used to fertilise future crops. Their possessions are passed onto their children. No more selfish old gits rotting away in massive house while young families have nowhere to live.

Stop all benefits of any kind - If you can't pay, you can't eat. So fuck off and die already you lazy sponging bastard.



*the having no food bit