Guess If I’m blogging, I’m feeling better again. There’s times when all I want to do is blog, but can’t think how to start. That said there’s times I wanna chuck myself outa windows. Not through suicidal impulses, I’ll have you know, I don’t want this misconstrued (and no I’m not in ‘De Nile’), but just to see what it feels like. You know the whole le parkour, urban-jungling thing is fine if you want to threaten yourself with death, but all I want is the experience – imagine, air juggling your cheeks, eyes drying out through the rapid passage, clean, sweeping everything past you as you fall, Batman sticking his head out of the window as you pass. Maybe it’s just the high pressure or the heat, but that seems a nice thing.

Anyway, as I sat on my window ledge a few moments go, eating my eggs, roasted peppers (did them myself, left them in oil overnight – luvvly) and soda bread the bells started going. I was sat there, staring at the big cathedral just opposite, and I was thinking ‘move damn you!’ Course, I know damn right that it wasn’t going to move, like it had the capacity to hear my thoughts, or reason, or any capacity whatsoever, except to sit there and just be regal. Just one of those peculair hman creations, things that have one particular quality, but no other. Like anyone I associate movement with noise, and vice versa – you drop a stick it makes a noise, swoosh-bang-clatter – but this big bolstered building makes a noise like a ventriloquist’s dummy, sitting there smug, saying ‘it wasn’t me, honest guv.’

Course, I’m no fan of churches and cathedrals either. Big bloody buildings that drew the blood of thousands of less-privilieged people just so a bishop (no god) could live like a king in his fancy raiments. Sat there at the centre of a web of lesser evils, built for the rich exploiters of bath, like a gilt crucifix, pretty enough, but reeking of death.

Mutha…! As I was writing the church doors opened and the sunday mass poured out, like so much unleavened bread. And, for fuck’s sake, as htey were leaving, they were accosted by a full African choir, who danced for them! I started joining in the singing, jigging along, rolled into my bathroom, then realised that I was singing all those hebrew folks ongs from my childhood. The most professed atheist, goes out of his way to insult those hung-up on the deity, and he finds himself singing “Manish Tannahm halileh-hazeh, mi-cohl hal-ey-ous.” at the drop of some tztitzis.

Tron 2.0

The discus game’s on the disc, as discussed. (disgusting puns, we know.)

The only internet game ot have been programmed by more people in more ways than Tron, is Mah-Johnng, and that’s not including playing snake on your mobile.

There are two parts to this demo; a single player arcade light-bikes game, much like snake, and a multiplayer game.

The single player light bikes game is simple enough; there’s a quick tutorial, in case one of the first computer games of any sort is too complicated, and a computer head to ehad mode.

The multiplayer also includes a lightbikes section, where you shake your snake with the best of them. Then there’s FPS section, where you take on the role of one of many programs battling it out to prevent erasure (which anyone who remembers the eighties must agree is a boon.) There’s only one map in this demo level, but it’s a doozy. Stick to the platforms, get ready to dodge the discs,

Went to the Walcot nation day yesterday. Wasn’t quite sure what to make of it. As a perpetual outsider, I might be expected to make a good observer, but that doesn’t follow – depends whether the outsider ends up looking out or in – anyway, Walcot seems to consist of people who love being the outsiders, people who always wanted to be the outsiders. Nice for them to a have a choice, but then I guess we all do. They’re the same middle-class-yet-white-trash stock I’m springing from, those who, because of mentality, internal codes, or simple social deformity, can’t, shalln’t or won’t make it as part of the smug middle class – A1s and B1s, as opposed to us sultry Cs.