Daft Fucker

Sorry to say, but that’s the only response to this Wacko Jacko feller – John Walker asks “Mr Jackson, did you not explicitly state in 1987, that you were ‘bad’?” I prefer to think of him as a sacrificial hero – we build these people up to replace our heroes of old, and then we knock them down, like we did the sacrificial sun king when his year’s reign was up, we dig around until we find a flaw in our heroes and then take infinite pleasure in reminding thme that it’s the mob that’s always in charge.

I don’t like the guy; I think he’s been manipulated, abused, and so on, yet I think he’s been an arrogant shmuck and don’t see a reason to forgive a man his flaws just because they’ve got causes. He’s done something wrong and it’s something we think contrary to the maintenance of society as commonly conceived (and something we seem to have as the greatest evil currently available, worse than the taking of a life, the wrecking of one, but that’s a different story…) and in our society that requires punishment.

Though, as John says, he’ll buy his way out, the poor shmuck, and end up even more in hock to his managers and insudtry associates…

Genius is a word bandied around lightly in modern society; in today’s news, I spotted references to Simon Callow, David Beckham, and the New Zealand scrum-half as genii. I tend to side with the genius quarterback Joe Theismann “Nobody in football should be called a genius. A genius is somebody like Norman Einstein.”

The xxx brothers are geniuses. Look, sod the game; it’s good, but it’s a FPS with camo guys , and we’re going to see a few of them. It has idyllic environs and hot AI, but we’ll play it for a couple of months, and then move on; even the best FPS relies on a slightly different AI and a slightly better looking enviroment. The important thing about Far Cry, is the level editor.

Sure as…

…eggs is eggs, there’ll be Easter Eggs.

The Space Marine’s gaze is straightforward, straight-ahead and resolute. There’s not an inch of his body that lacks determination, not a quavering muscle on a limb. The eyes are flat, and stay flat as a frame edges into view, a black frame surrounding a black pupil twice the width of the Marine’s head, a giant white-flecked brush reaching for the Marine…

From the next room comes a tremulous wail, “I hate old women!” Kieron applies the white highlight to the model’s head, and straightens up as Dan walks in the room, clutching what looks like a mung bean in his hand. “I was just stood in the queue at the butchers, eyeing the breaded crumbed dehydrated-rehydrated ham, when the old ‘dear’ in front of me, orders something called a Bath Chap. I ask what it is, and she assures me it’s very nice with salad, dear. After that pitch from someone who lived through rationing, from someone with less teeth than Kojak’s comb, I bought it.”

‘Is that what the smell is’ asks Ron, a finely picked nostril falling back under the twin offensives of varnish and stench.

‘That? No, that’s the Stinking Bishop, some Nazi cheese that wants to be an acid, that some malicious friend told me was nice. You’d think I’d learn from the name’s tis not meant to be eaten. The, Bath Chap’s the pile of mouldering flesh in the kitchen bin, what I dug this tooth out of.’ Holds up said canine with disgusted look. “Guess I should listen when people say we don’t waste anything round here.” Flicks tooth into bin.

“Cuh,” says Ron, and his beplasticked eye follows the tooth’s arc as it sinks towards the bin, and thinks about how that’d look really cool in his latest diorama…