Pokemon: Tabletop Adventures - Episode 7-10

 Another bunch of PTA recordings. Things are really starting to get moving now. My PCs can rest assured in the fact that there is in fact a plot and it is incoming. Ask me about cross classing!

For my players, Mystic Update PHB


Episode 7 (45:05)
In which our heroes are attacked by a Scyther. It takes Dave out from the beginning, slicing into his arm, leaving the others to fend for themselves. Yuki does so by running away again. At the end of a climactic battle filled with fire and blood, Bonsai throws a pokeball! And fails. Dave passes out from the sheer excitement of it all. Persuading others not to attack, and with Casey's pokemon enduring a fearsome blow, Bonsai tries again, and succeeds! All rejoice! Or not, as Casey points out that they don't actually get the XP if the pokemon is caught.

Episode 8 (57:56)
In which our heroes are still buzzing from their battle. Casey calls their old friend Youngster Shelly, not realising, given the dence forest that it is in fact the middle of the night.They swiftly escape the research place, and are attacked by crickets! Dave incurs the wrath of the gods as he is assaulted by a powerful Noctowl, and after long last, the group reaches Pewter.

Episode 9 (FT:FY)
In which I guess I caught a Missingno because the recording is corrupted as fuck. I have taken out the worst of it, and there is a lot of content left, albeit with sudden jumps in dialogue, but really I only bothered with it for the sense of completion in my music library. Scratch that. It actually seems to have been replaced with episode 8. Suffice it to say I am pissed. The fuck. Off.

In short, the group wake up, and challenge the gym. Bonsai and Patrick gain badges, while Dave wisely forgoes battling for now on account of his only having Bird types. He subsequently takes a quick trip to the Pewter Battlegrounds.

Episode 10 (46:20)
In which our heroes earn money in the tried and true method of trainers everywhere. Gambling on the outcome of fights. This should really be Episode 9.5 but I thought it would be nicer to end the year on 10.

Finally, as something of a christmas present, I present to you a collection of the best clips from the recordings so far.

Protected by this painfully adorable Vulpix
How is it holding that cookie? I don't know and I don't care.

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Digital Love

"What are you doing?"
"Just working on Pewter City for my RP PCs
"Right. Cool..."
"What's wrong?"
"Hm? Oh, nothing."
"Hey now, don't be like that."
"Like what?"
"You're upset about something. Come on, you can tell me."
"...I just feel like you don't appreciate me."
"Hey now, don't talk nonsense. I love you."
"I know, I just...I know I'm being selfish, but I don't feel like you love me 'enough'. I've seen you with that Apple slut. I've seen the look in your eyes."
"Look? What look? Me and MacBook are over. Through. She's out getting all manner of viruses from my sister."
"But when you were with her...did you love her more than me?"
"That...it's not that simple."
"Yes or no!"
"It was a different time. I'm not that person any more. I've grown. Learnt to like less childish computers. More complex, interesting."
"You had to 'learn' to like me?"
"You know that's not what I meant. I had to work to get you to work with me. You are so much more to me, emotionally, than her. I have grown through you. She was easy. Just a piece of eye candy. I may have tricked myself into thinking I loved her, but it was a farce. You are the one for me."
"Until the next model..."
"I can't tell the future. It's unfair of you to ask me to. I can't promise you tomorrow, but I can promise you today. Please tell me that that is enough for you."
"I just don't know."
"Ok. You're upset. I understand, and you have every right to be. But just remember that I'm here for you."
"I know. I'll be ok. Just give me a little time."
"Sure. Then, do you want to watch A Bit Of Fry and Laurie?"
"I'd...I'd like that."

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Pokemon: Tabletop Adventures - Episode 6.5

In which our heroes finish off fighting the Diglett. Except for Yuki. She ran away. The Diglett initially score 2 critical hits and a particularily heavy regular hit, forcing most of the party to switch pokemon. A particularily forceful blow from Mr Kipling, Casey's Mudkip enables Ace Trainer Patrick to catch one of the moles. The remaining two are quickly finished off, ending with a ferocious blow from Dave's Pidgey, "Superfly". Stay tuned for next session when our heroes face off with a dangerous foe...

Mediafire download here guys!

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Pokemon: Tabletop Adventures - Episodes 1-6

As promised, here are the recordings of my P:TA group's adventures. The links are in the titles. Enjoy.



Episode 1 (1:40:15)
In which our heroes continue their journey from the first, non recorded session. They threaten some chavs, consider extorting a small girl, critically fail stealing some pokedex, and get a guy fired.

Episode 1.5 (1:38:16)
In which our heroes stock up at the Viridian Pokemart and I explain the various leveling and experience rules. Dave and the Professor gain some on the side XP and catch a Spearow each. Nothing much else happens, hence the .5.

Episode 2 (2:01:54)
In which our heroes spend a lot of time in Route 2. Casey catches a Sentre, Patrick catches a Ponyta.

Episode 3 (46:52)
In which our heroes make it to Viridian Forest, Yuki catches a Caterpie, a trainer battle is fought, along with a random encounter or two.


Episode 4 (50:38)
In which our heroes enter the depths of the abandoned Viridian Research Facility, and our session is interrupted by some chav twats playing table football.

Episode 5 (44:33)
In which our heroes' pokemon level up, I realise I have fucked up the experience rules, and Bonsai not so much saves as aquires a family of Pikachu.

Episode 6 (35:26)
In which our heroes face some hurriedly created Diglett, and the GM learns a lesson in making up random encounters.

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Not Dead, Just Working

Sorry for the offensively long hiatus. No real excuses save that I've been working towards various exams and projects. Soon they shall be over, or at least lower in intensity, and regular updates will return, but for now, I offer the next few installments of my rendition of Pokemon: Tabletop Adventures...

Next update.

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Pokemon: Tabletop Adventures - Episode 1

A long time ago, an elegan/tg/entleman had a dream. It was a dream all of us who have ever played Pokemon have had, usually brought about by the question "What if I could...". What if I could be a member of Team Rocket? What if I could kill pokemon? What if I could focus on contests, without having to gym battle? And such things. And being a denizen of /tg/, he found others with the same dream. He realised that such freedom can only be obtained in one place. The Tabletop. And so it was that Dr. Mr. Stark and others created some rules that would be gathered to become the Pokemon Tabletop Adventures alpha.

I was not there at the beginning, alas. However upon discovery, it became something to look forward to. I downloaded the alpha, and had a look. Having never GM'd anything before, I (rightly) considered it too much for me to handle at this point. Nonetheless, like many others I eagerly awaited the release of the beta. Then it was released, and it was good.

And so it was that I got together some friends, and posed the simple quesiton to them, "Do you want to play?" After a couple innuendo based jokes at my wording of the question, it was generally accepted that this would be a fun thing to do, and after a few weeks it happened. We had our first session. It was decided that, while bumpy, it was pretty ok. Between that session and out next, I decided that I wanted to record our sessions. And that, my dear reader, is why I bring you here today. I have uploaded the audio recorded and invite you to listen and laugh at our 2nd session, in which I monumentally fuck up the rules, one of our players threatens a small child for money, and in-fighting starts between PCs.

Mediafire download
Episode has been reuploaded and listed in a later post.

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Crete, Episodes 5-7: So, nothing else really happened.

1324, Listened through entirety of Roots, Rock, Riot. Succeeded in drowning out Europop with Ragga Metal.

I have a straw hat and am in swimming shorts...

And then it rained on our last day. I wrote some really poetic stuff, but don't really feel like typing it up.


I'll see you next week for some back to normal Thursday postings.

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Crete, Episode 4: And Not A Single Fuck Was Given That Day

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Crete, Episode 3: Christ I'm an angry person today

1154 I want to write but have been dragged poolside. It is irritatingly noisy. No noisier than on the balcony, but at least up there I could pretend that I was seperated from the rest of it. Now the volleyball is back and very in my face. Can't even swim for a cool off.

Apparently it is actually water polo. I'm not really paying attention. It still features a beachball and grown men screaming like children.

The losing team have to do the chicken dance mentioned in Episode 1. Because if you're not suffering throguh playing, you may as well be suffering through watching.

Said dance appears to start with a bit of a sumo ground stomp. The participants certainly have the bodies for it OH SNAP.

You know how some music takes old songs, adds an electronic beat and sends it's on its way? The song feels a bit weird about what's happened to it, but it carries on, and actually kind of works. Purists will turn it's back on it, but whatever. But then you get some other guys who see this, so they take a brilliant, or at least cult song and add an electronic beat, because that should be even more successful right? But they kind of miss the point. The focus too heavily on the electronic bit, and forget their meant to be augmenting the original, not just making "An electronic version of x". Some don't even try. They just take the old song, chop it up, inject sections of completely irrelevant trancey eurodance, sew it all up and send the carcass out the door, where it promptly rots, or if its unlucky takes some kind of mimicry of life and shambles along in some undead halflife.
an analogy would be that some people take a kind of standard car, not too shit, but nothing flash. It runs, doesnt make any unwated noises, and is kind of popular with first time car owners. The then start adding to it, giving it subwoofers, a more powerful engine, that kind of thing. It's not necassary, it's kind of douchish, but on some level it works, and arguably it can be seen as having been "improved". Other people however take a super car, the kind that would Jeremy Clarkson would be wanking over, and they give it a flourecent yellow and pink paint job. And a pair of fuzzy dice. They then proceed to take out the engine, replace it with some colourful play doh in a roughly engine shape, then, I don't know, take a crowbar to the windshield. For substance. They then get in the car and try to drive it, oblivious to how much of a waste of flesh they are, and how they should be taken out back and shot.

I was going somewhere with this.

Stop messing with my music!

I was swimming quite happily when suddenly I notice the pool is empty. Using my finely honed senses I worked out that some organised shit was about to go down. Sure enough, at the end of the pool, a bunch of people were lined up ready to bow to the animatyion team's will. Music started, they danced. It was one of those synchronised simplistic dances, like the macerena or something. I honestly don't see the point in those dances. At some point in my life, maybe I was attacked by a wild tribe of macerena dancers, but it all just seems so purile. "Oh it's just, like, fun!" "You just got to do it, you know?" No,I don't know imaginary late teen girls, and I resent you for suggesting that I don't know what I might or might not like. Go be irritatingly bubbly somewhere else. Go on, the bar has free Bacardi Breezers.


1649, Just had a nap. Am now reading by the pool, listening to Daft Punk.

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Crete, Episode 2: The one in which I remember how much I love the sea

1002. Mandolins have been replaced with "What if god was one of us?"

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1321 So me and my sister were almost ophans. The way my dad tells it, my mother and him were swimming in the sea, and they suddenly realised "Oops, this is a bit far out".  So they try swimming back, but the current is fuckstrong, and nothing really happened. So my dad, heroic figure that he is, grabs my mum and more or less throws her closer to shore, not really helping matters for himself. He does this again, and them mum waves her arms for the lifeguard. He subsequently saves her, leaving my dad to once again fend for his own life unhindered
   It is worth noting that I was in that sea a while earlier, and it is damned strong. Pulling myself back along the bouy line felt like I was pulling against a waterfall. However whereas I flourish in the prospect of death, I guess other people tend to get a bit scared, and desire safety. Fucking' weirdos man.

The beach is pretty sweet, incidentally. My life's experience of my Lady Ocean has been Portugal and France, and to a lesser extent, my own Britain's beautiful, but thanklessly frigid waters. For me the sea is pretty synonymous with "Jesus CHRIST this is cold", so you can appreciate how much I appreciate stepping into waters that don't make my extremities withdraw themselves like an above average turtles head. Now it's not a bath, but it's certainly easy to just walk into. Warmer than the pool, now that I think of it. Speaking of which, I'ma go for a paddle now, to wash off the salt. It's 1329. Late'

1500. There I am, sitting by the pool, reading my book on chinese philosophy
 & psychology, listening to Chopin, when my mother walks up to me and informs my that she is going to the hospital.
"What?" I query. She answers this by holding out a decidedly bloody finger.
"What?" I query again.
"You should see the toilet."
"What?" I query for a third time, should you be unable to count yourself. It seems that she had something of a dizzy spell, and fell. Upon reaching out to the toilet back for support, it broke, taking a chunk out of my mother's finger with it.
  So I put my headphones back on and started writing this. Well what would you do?

1641. Mother is back with a smile, 5 stitches, and a 180£ excess on our insurance.

I don't believe I shall write anything else today. It all seems inferior for some reason.

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Crete, Episode 1: Yes I am happy just reading, no I do not want to play your pool games, THANK you.

 For eases sake I shall henceforth refer to greek time. For easy translation to British, thats GMT +2 hours.
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It's coming up to 0800 at home, making it 1000 here. It's quite pleasant. There is mandolin music playing somewhere. There are men in matching clothes running around trying to get people who just woken up to go hiking. I am safe in my hotel room. Good luck guys.

Everything is delightfully multinational, which is nice. It's not a total Britishfest, and I don't feel like I am the only person who has no idea of the surrounding culture. Not that it matters. This is one holiday where I fully intend to just moodle about in the hotel grounds. Hell, even the beach is hotel owned. I am a little irritated by the lack of other people my age, but whatever. Who needs new friends when you have a bunch of books and free WiFi?
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 1023 That mandolin is really pissing me off.
_____________________________

1115 Just finished typing up yesterdays notes. Mandolin music is now louder and people are dancing. I believe someone will die before day's end.
_____________________________

Can't go in the pool. Will get dragged into  organised ball game. Dammit, this place is really good really, but these employed entertainment fucks are the fucking devil.

The replaced the mandolin with eurodance. In accordance to my previous observations, this is hell.

Wait, no, now one of them is doing aerobics in speedos. This is hell.

They have sensed my rage and have tried to placate me with Gaga. I am not sure whether or not to be offended.

Current pool contents consists of 40% middle aged women following Mr Speedo in aqua aerobics, 60% red faced men playing a strange volleyball/water polo hybrid.

It is worth noting that there is a complete gender divide between the above parties.

They've started doing the chicken dance. Kill me.

They've started clapping. Kill them.

It's like they're rhythmically applauding their own impending demise, each clap a beat on the drum keeping death's boat moving.

I'm do some pretty nice writing when I'm angry, don't I?
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French hip hop is surprisingly good. Why it should be surprising, I couldn't say.

Second thoughts, it might just be because it's female fronted. The vocalist was getting pretty intense. I could have pretended it was Queen Adreena.

Then they changed it when it got too angry. You know, when I began to really enjoy it.
_____________________________

I have retreated into the food hall. I have no idea of the time but obviously it is between the alotted lunch hours. The music here is much more pleasant. I assume some kind of greek folk. It has a kind of indian touch to it...I miss Ellie.

Food is ok. I had spaghetti.

Two words: Free. Ice-cream.
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I have returned poolside to find no music. Things are looking up. This unfortunately means less high-larious anger for you the reader.

A weeble shaped woman just blobbed past in a bikini. Everything is ruined forever.
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1607, Just back from the gym. Aww yeah, just workin' out, pumpin' iron BECAUSE THAT'S WHAT MEN DO. ARRRGH.

Shitfuck, the eurodance volleyball is back.
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I am forced to undo three whole buttons on my shirt, mainly because said buttons fell off. How will humanity survive my half-mast-shirted form? We can only wait, and pray.
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That is all of interest today. I predict the rest of the night will be me hating every moment of a disco, and coming back to the room to play WoW.

Good. Night.

Addendum, I ended up going to watch some pretty cool Greek dancing and live music thing, then went back to the room and played Maiden out of the balcony.

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Crete: Prologue

To make up for my stress induced absence these past weeks, I'm going to recount my holiday in Crete. It has however only just begun, so this is just what happened yesterday. Lucky you gets to stick around for a week of firther, at least semi daily updates. So enjoy the following unedited accounts of my fun packed life.This starts a few hours into the plane journey in which I decided to try some writing exercises, so expect florid prose.


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This tray seems not to be able to support my weight. Or rather that of my arms. It's coffee stained arms visibly ache at the force I inflict upon them

A nameless city passes below, visibility scarred by the occasional cottonbud cloud. I am mildly amused at how small metal rooves blind me from way down there. It's not so amazing, clearly, and I'm more amased at the amusement itself. But it s not amazing. It's just light. Consider the fact that it comes from the fucking sun. As does this blasted heat.

It's a curious thing. The plane is air conditioned, but it still feels like the entirity of the sun's head rests on my shoulder.

The city is gone and a river now snakes below. Eesh. A snaking river? How unoriginal. Oo. Mountains. Now that's beauty. Great structures crowned in cloud, testement to this ball of molten rock that we live on's power.

Already I have ink on my fingers.

There are different levels of cluds. you don't really think about it but I suppose it must be true. Well of coruse it is, I just saw it. But yeah, we do tend to think it goes land, sky, cloud layer, sky, space. Clearly this is wrong.

Mountaintops peer through the cotton blanket, like stone cats, curious about the midge flying above.

It's 1650. I'm going to try to read again.
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1735, and I have just noticed we are over the sea, and even from up here it seems gloriously, imposingly endless. The blue seems undefined and unless you look carefully you fail to see even the largest ripple/wave/whatever it's called out here. The sea merges with the sky at the Horizon so flawlessly, one would be hard pressed not to imagine that we had accidentally flown into a void in space where we are surrounded on all sides by infinite blue. Or finite blue, for the claustrophobic.
The Horizon itself  is a spectacle and seems to be the only place around with clouds. Two lines of them appear to ring us, so parrallel that I can't be sure where the Horizon actually is.

Small patterns of ice are forming around the small scratches on the window. I daren't stare for too long, unprotected as I am from the sun by the aforementioned clouds. It seems that living in Britain has literally sheltered me.

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My mind: "Holy fuck, I can see that wave! It must be fucking huge!" And indeed it would be were it not a mountain. We're back over land it seems. Still no clouds nearby, and the coast is still visible so the Horizon is still poorly defined. Not a problem, just and observation.

I have noticed that I write Horizon with a capital H. I blame the BBC.

The sea of water has been fully replaced by an ocean of mountains. A range of mountains. A mountain range, if you will, the tips of which twist and disect, like the veins of a body.
Sunlight casdaces onto the sea-facing mountainside, leaving the other side drenched in shadow. Fog and clouds fill the valleys of the further away ones like hands cupping water.

I accidentally looked at the sun. These plane windows leave no room for warning.

One of the ice formations looks like a skeleton. Ominous. Others look like ice. WHAT COULD THIS MEAN!?

Another river. Let's think of a better description than snake: March? Could a river march? Not really, too rhythmic.

My thoughts are getting dull. Back to reading. It is 1809
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1819 and the surroundings have taken on a rich blue hue, complementedby the now obviously setting orange sun. The horizon is a rich red, following a pale rainbow unpwards to the flawless blue sky. I dare to look into the sun again, and find my gaze briefly trapped, a willing pain sacrificed to glimps its beauty. We are over water again, the liquid mass now dotted with islands. We reach our destination soon.

The captain informas us that we just passed over Athens. I offer a silent prayer for the ancient centre of knowledge.

I am still in awe with the sunset, though mostly with the rainbow horizon. My fellow passengers squander the view chatting while I pull my eyes away only to describe it to you, my reader. Closest to the sun the colours are the most vivid. Scratch that. The sun is gone. Only a glourious band of colour remains, welcoming the night.

A single white pin of light in the navy sky appears to welcome us, and a brief weightlessness indicates our decent. The Horizon, for now it deserves the capital H, appears as if it were ablaze.

Welcome to Crete.
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1905, UK time. What the fuck timezone am I in now anyway? Waiting for luggage. Everything is delightfully beige. I use the term 'delightfully'  in a broad, and in fact fallacious sense. It is in stark contrast to the Hollywood shimmer and gleam of Bristol. I'll leave you a couple of seconds for that one to sink in.

It's ok really. Warm, but not unpleasantly so. Then again, it is night. Look forward to the likening of the day's heat to an oppressive dictatorship.

Goodnight sinners.


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EDIT: This being Greek internet, and thus Google thinking I am in fact Greek, spell check thinks everything is misspelt, so, sorry for any typos.

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The Space Above Your Head

Sit upside down. Go on, do it. Bring your computer along if you have to. Preferably with a laptop, as I suspect you tower users might be slightly inconvienienced in the mobility area. Just sit upside down. I don't care how, lie on your bed with your head hanging over the edge or something, just make sure your head and therefore your vision is upside down. Now look around. Doesn't everything seem more spacious? Suddenly, you notice the large area above your head. That is to say above, when you are the right way up.

 

This thought occured to me during a particularily slow day at work, in which I was lying back in my chair. The thought is that we constantly look forward or down, but rarely do we look up, and see there is a world of space above us. This observation could be a metaphor for...well, I don't know. I hadn't gotten that far yet. Feel free to discuss and conspire in the comments. Now sit up. You look like a twat.

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My Promise To You, My Reader

I have a problem. Well, I have many problems, each varying in their levels of concern. My most problematic problem probably reaches about 2 gigaconcerns, or 2GC. I digress.

I like to think of myself as a writer. I have written stories, (most of which being better thought out than the previous post which was dashed out in about an hour, all whilst I was taking calls from cunts who wanted to go places) and I have attempted to write books. Most of these are still in the process of being written, but I have been assured that what I have written has been polished to a mirror shine. My aforementioned problem (Probably only a kiloconcern sorry I'll stop that now) is that I also like to read.

"Christ, James," I hear you saying. "How is that a problem? Reading is meant to make your writing better. It is more or less essential to the writing process" to which I reply "This is indeed true you smug prick, but if you'd just wait one smug prick minute to leet me finish I will tell you why I decided to devote an entire post to the concept". Then I would have hurt your feelings and feel bad.

The problem lies in the fact that I like good books (Who's the smug prick now?). Books that make you think. Books that integrate quantum mechanics, theoretical physics and genius storytelling into the same thing. Ok, I've only read one book like the last one and I haven't even finished it yet, but shut up. I like books that require at least few minutes of cooldown time before you pick up the next one, while you consider what you just read, digesting words and concepts like mental toast. The downside is that while reading I tend to compare and contrast my own work against what it is I'm reading.

If I may, I'm going to draw your attention back to the paperback masterpiece I referred to earlier. Said book is Anathema, by Neal Stephenson. You may have loosely grasped my current adoration of this book. This book made me sit back up and remind me I wanted to write, if only to attempt to write something half as good. And that right there is the problem. This book is a colossus. It is a titanic superbook filled with amazing ideas, questions that really get you thinking, and a narrative that literally stuns. No, I mean literally. I was reading a scene in which someone died (it's not exactly a spoiler. Death scenes aren't exactly rare in literature). I was dragged willingly through the most teasing display of a character's death that I have ever read, and when the chapter closed, I sat, in silence, book closed in front of me. I mourned. I mourned a fictional character because that's how fucking good the writing was.

I long to write something like that, but this book has overwhelmed me. My confidence has been shaken, like a rubber dingy being pushed aside by an aircraft carrier. I refuse to write something inane, something without merit. I refuse to write self indulgent wankery unless I am sure that it can be justified by being interesting to a reader. I refuse to write Twilight. And therein lies my problem. It is my staunch refusal to write anything but the best that paralyses me when I try to write anything. "Has this been done before? Have I created a Sue? That bit is shit but if I delete it that bit doesn't make sense? Am I being too secretive? How much should the reader know?" These are but a few or the perfectly reasonable questions writers ask that my mind takes to petrifying extremes. This is where I take the wrong path. See, obviously, not everything I write will be good. In fact a good deal of it will be awful. Though I understand it, I am yet to fully embrace this concept. I must write constantly. I must create paintings with my words and never worry if my painting is a Da Vinci or a 6-year-old's finger painting. I must understand that most of my work will be more like an A level art student's "edgy" end of year project. Hell, this post-spellcheck post alone is riddled with typos and grammatical errors.


This isn't a whining post. This is a personal call to arms, and I say to you now: I will beat this mental paralysis, this poison of the mind. I will write, and I will write well. I will keep my story concepts as far away from my heart as I will my characters. They will be abused, mistreated, and relatively often they will be killed. I'm still talking about both characters and concepts there.

I say this to you now, I will finish a book, with the end goal of getting it published.

I will succeed in my goals, and upon facing failure, I will take it like a man, and force my way through it even if I have to carve out a cave with my fists.

That, my dear reader, is my promise to me. My promise to you, is that I will provide you with something to read. It might not be straight away. It may be years until I create something worthy of your mind. But I will do it, not for me, for in that way lies Mary Sue bullshit. I will do it for you.

OOPS NO FUNNY.

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Fred the Unicorn Goes to School

I missed Saturday's update because I was working. Here is a short story I wrote to make up for it. Aka: Why I shouldn't write children's books. Or be a primary school teacher.

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"Everyone, quieten down. It's time for today's lessons to begin."

It was a new day at Burrington Primary School, but much like any other. Based in a small village out of the way, this was a place where nothing much happened. And so, today was different only in that they had a new student.

"Now children, we have a new student today. Everyone give a warm welcome to Fred!"

"Hello Fred!" The class shouted out in chorus. Fred chewed on a book.

"Now Fred, You can sit over there next to Anton. Anton, you look after Fred."

"Yes miss." said Anton, smiling brightly at his new friend. Fred trotted over to his place and whinnied.

"Now, who can tell me what we were doing last lesson?"

"Addition, miss!"

"Very good! Now who can explain to me what addition is? Maybe out new student has an idea?" Fred looked blankly at the board and snorted. Sparkles fell from his body and onto a boy to his left. The boy scowled at Fred.

"Shy are we, Fred? No need to worry. You'll fit in soon enough" promised the teacher, her voice saturated with a sickly sweetness. She turned back to the board and started writing down sums for the children to complete. It was not long however before trouble arose!

"Miss! Miss!" It was Anton, desperately trying to get the teacher's attention! "Miss, Charlie is bullying Fred!" Immediately the teacher turned around to find the boy to Fred's left tugging on Fred's horn. Fred looked to be in pain, as he moved in clear discomfort and whinnied in protest.

"Charlie! How dare you bully our new student!"

"But miss, it's not my fault! He keeps sparkling on me! He's weird!"

"That is no excuse! You should no better" the teacher squared herself, as if she was about to recite the moral to a short story. "You should never judge people purely based on their appearance."

Charlie's head dropped, not only because he realised what he had done wrong, and that he had learnt a valuable life lesson today, but also because Fred had gored Charlie through the chest. As the blood poured down his horn, it began to glow softly. Runes appeared down the side of his body, as an ancient choir chanted a dark evensong from the aether, growing in power and fury by the second. A̅̐̐̃҉̼̤̙̺̫̥̮ ͉̭̺͇̯̻͟w̱͕͌͋́i̬͍͚ͦͮ͋̈́͒̆͋n͇̏͂ͣ͛ͭ̒͟d͈̞̔ͯͩ̌́ ̵̻̞͌f̱ͩ͒̈́ͬͯͪ͡oͪ̔̆r̜̻̥̥̤͍̳m͓͕̯ͥ̂ͦë̹̤̹̪͉́̓ͥ͛͑͐d̹̙̙͚ͣͣͭͣ͆͝ ͚̪̙̇̂̀͂̑ͥ̚͠ā̶̼͙͚̰̦͓̫̿͛̽̆ͦ̚r͍̥̹͙͍̮̝͒̅̇͐ͧ͊o͐ͬͫ̚u̪̩͍͖ͪ͢nͭ̃̔̐̅̀ď͏̫͔̠̜̝̫̹ ̛̖F͈͚͈̦̬̤̜̃̈̔ͬ̽̚r̰͙͓͔̟̮̼̒̅͂̓̈́ë̔ͯḑ̝̱͈̙̼̋͐ͫ̊ ̴ͭͩͮ͛̔̇̈́ạ̭͙̘̯̪̻͑s̛ͩ̎͂̄̔ͮ ̷̪̯̬͕͍h҉̝i̘̤̝̝s̠͙̹̪̈́̂̒̆ ͇̞̗̇ͬͧ̆ẽ̫̤̖͚̹̥͞y͎͚̤̘̥̔̓̍͘ȩ̳̗̲͎͑ͨͤ̽ͫͤs̱ͯ̑͐͆̋͘ ͉͍͕̮̃͜sͤͦ̄̾̋̚t̮̲̔͌a̶͚r͍̮̫̼͙͕ͯ̐̅͗ṯ̦̉̔͟e̳̼͙͔ͮ̅̃d̙̪̱͊́ͦ̐ͬ͋ ̿͗ẗ͇̻͙̙͈́ͯͯ̑͊o̵̹̤̣̲̱̝̒ͫ̆ͧͥ ̭͓̖̺̟̫̹ͮ̃́g̰̤͛͒̃̂̎͌l̨̇ͨo̍̀̓͆̓̅͏̖̪̗̘̣w͂͑͑͢ ̱̻̪̣̾̈́̆̈́ͮ̎͡a̻̱͚̹̅͋ ̙ͬͨ̇ͧͭ̀͘c̘̜̩͂͑̂o͋͋̉ͣl̺o̗̍̎̓͟ų͎͎̘̰̖̝ͤ̉̈̓͊ŕ̗͎̺͓̘̏̿̇ ̢̈́̔͑́l̤̠͔̖͙̯̾̃̐o̷̎̃̔̓̿̚n̸̼͚̰̙̑͛̔͊ͫ͌̎g̷̰̳̭̼̠͌ ̸̳͇̠͙̣̱f̦̞͈̱͚̝ͦ̍̐ͮ͆o͖̦̼̼̥̲͆̓̊̎̽̂͠ͅr̜͎̬̺̞̭ͫ̋̒̐ͯ͆ͅg̱͇̙͚̙̜̃͑̒̐̒͊ŏ͂͏̟̫͍̯͖t̯͓͎̎ͯͮ̽ͧt͉̘̆̒ͦ̾͘e̢̜̍̎ͥ̇n̵ͬ̿̌̂̒, ̦̃ͥ͗̅ͮa̰͊̆̐͟n̼̈́̒͌ͭ̆ͤd͖͖̠̮͉ͯͩ̅ͦ

̙͍͖̞́̆͒̔͑ͪ̈́a̟̮̻̹̼̰̞ ̟͕̬̺͕̭̐ͨ͒͒͗ͭp̸̣͍͈̙ͪͭ̍̓ͭͩͯḯ͓͖͔̞̂t̹̟̹̯̱ͫͯͨ̉͌͊̎c̝̙̀ͧ̓̚h͏͉͉ͅ ̝̖͇̺͚͓̉̓̄̚ó̙̙̜͚̖͎̅̑̔̚r̈b̷̼̖̻̟͓̘͖ ̮o̦̬̘͖̻̗f̴̫̦̣͇̜ ̗̩̺́͂n͙̓̎̈̍ͥ̕ǫ͍̥̫ͧͩ̽̐͗͊ͦt̝̝̮ͥ̏͂̈́̀ͦh͕̮̯ͤi͛ͩ͐̍̇̃n̝͚̹ͪ̉͋̀g̢ͬ̃̏ͧ ̶̬̺̫̗̝ͩf̪ͥͪͫͪͩ̾o̺ͅŕ̨m̽̾͢e̩̮̥̤͈̰̘ͦ͊d̃ͭͩ ̵̖̮̬͚͇ͤ̏ͧ͑͑a̖̦̹̮͉̖̭b͖̻̺͖͓̼̾͗̈̂̉̒̚͜o͖͕̲̦͎̺ͩ̈̈́̎ͮ͊v̷̹̱͖ͧ̍͌ͣ͋̿e̓̐͐̅ͭ̀̚ ̳͕t͇̔̋̾͗h͙ë̞͙̫́ͨ͌̽̆̄ ͍͓̫͚̲͉͙͒͌̽̍͐̇ͨc̡͔̙̻̠͙͑̓̊̚l̼̽͐͗̓͘ą̳̐ͬ̈ṣ̐̇̿̔̅̽̐s̜̼̦͓͇̗͟,͂ ͇̠̳͇̦͙̌ͣl͊̍ͦ͟ó̮̫o̰̺̗͊̏͐m͕i̤̟̥͍ṉ̜̭̙͚͔͓ͫ͂ͯg̳̪̘̫̰͆̿͐͊͟
̵͎͖̬͚o͙̘ͤ͛vͮë̓̃̀̒̓͋͏̭̳̬̺̲͉̪r̝̻̹̜̼̥̔̀ͫ̋ ̐̏̍̀̕a̲͖̘̜̒̑̄͞s̮̟͇͚̹ͣ̈́ͤ͛ ̧̲͐ͮ̌̏͊̑i̜͖̭̼̽ͫ̋ͬ̔ͯf͈͉͟ ̛͗̾̂͆͂a͓̹̫̳̫̫͝ḇ̖̩͚͈̼͟ͅo̪̔͗u̞͚̣͇ͪͤ̈͑̒̽t̵͎̱̙̘͚͙͉ͮ́ͪ͊ͮ̓ ̬͂ͫ̎̂̎̃̀t̉̍̈́̅̾͗͏o͕͙̹̰̭ͅ
̵̼͈͖sͣ̈́͏͔̭p͎͔̽ͩ̑̎e̙̻͇̦͚̳ͧͣ̀̎͟w̨̲͎̭̥ͮ̊́̉̾͊ͣ ̖̖͕͓̳̘͓̆ͧͧ̉f̖ͥ̐̄̄oͦ͊r̢̳͇͈͒̊ͮͩ̌t͙̔͝h̘̮͙̫͍̲̟̑ͫͯ̚͝ ̶̗͖͍̰̯̜͂ͮa̲̗̲̤ ͂͠n̟̣̰̫̥ͅě̱̭͍̦͉͐ͅw̖̮̓ͤ̅ͮ͟ ̗͟h̞̿̐̑̈̈ͭ̚͘ḛ͈̞̯̙̯̋ͅl̸̪̈́͐l̵̲͈ ̵͎̖͕̫̖ͣ͒͒̋ͪ̎ủ͉̙͠p̵̺̟͎͍̫ͩ̿̋͊̉͊ͭͅó͙̞̇͠n̪̤̼̹͔̯̍͂̽̉̕ ̠̲t͎̞̩͈̳͈̠̊̾̾̔̆͐h͉̳͎̰͓ͩ̊ͩ̿͟e͑ͩ̚͡ ̯͓̦̟͖̮͇ͨ̐̌ë͙̰͉̩̹̟̘́̃ͨ̽͌ḁ̳̟̟ͩͮͨͣ̅ͫ̇͜r̯͒ͩ̐̋ͅẗ͇̻̖̤̦͓̠́̈́h̝͈̱͎͚͍̞̾̑̊ͤ̇̏.̣̙̻̮͚̣̖̇̈̀̾̎̇̈́́ T̲͈͕̫͇͋͑̔h̶̜̒̒̈́̑̀̉ẽ͚̤͙̱̗̎̉͋͠͝ ́̉̾̀̇̄̐͊̄͟҉̼͎̜̥͎s̴̴̠̝̦͙̍ͅo͈̦̐ͥ̌͊̇͋͢ū̵̶̼͕̭̱͈̱̔̿͌̋ͫ̓ͅn̢̩͕̜̖͎̬̓ͦ̋͑͑̄͒̌̀͞d̦̉̿́ ̛̳̺̹̱̙̦̱̓̌̉o̢͓̩͔̔͒͊̐͛f̰̂͐̒ͧͭ̉ͫ͒ͨ͟ ̸̗̩͈̲̈̔ͥ̓̒̔ͣͮ͊͞ͅd̳͙̗̟̻͕̖̅̎͛̃͛̊̔̌͘͝ͅi̧̳̥͍̩̹̤͉̯ͨͫ͋̔ͪ̓ͭͧ̈́̕s̸͕̩̖̬̿̓̏̑̋ͦ͝e̥̻̻̔̈̒̍ͣ̈̔m̨̘̥͚͍̿ͮͭb͛ͧ̍̍͗͋́͊ͩ͏̪͎̺͇̦͓̣̯̦o̭̭̗ͯ̇̍̊̌ͬ̍̚͟d͖̯̠̟̱̹ͬ̆͛̆̈͂̀̚ï̢̝̫̱̪̥͉͚̤̒͋ͩ̀ͪě̐̄̋̚͏̱̣̝̝̦ͅḑ̷͎͇̖̼̝͔̬̳ͧ̄̂̈̈́̏̒̈́ ̮̠̦̫͚̺̣̯͐̍s̸̼͎̦̬̺̤͍͔ͬ͐c̸͍͎̬̹͊̾̒͑́́͜ṝ̥̱͎͑͑͠͡ȩ̵̜͉̠̘̟̫͈̿͗̏͑̇ͯ͊̾͜a͊̔͆ͬ͏̤̩m̴̫̙͒̀͟͜s̨̥͍̯̬͋̽̕ ̢̦̟ͦ̒́ͫ͟ç̶̙̝̠̓̌ͣͯ͌̋̎o̿ͨ̓҉̟̲̬̳ų͙̩̺̄ͯͯͬ͑̐̅̇̎͘͠l̵̀͛ͩ̆̾ͪ̓̑҉̙̗̝͠d̶̘̺̭͕̦̗̥͊̓̒ͮ̊̉ͧ͠ͅ ͆̇̋̋͊͏̵̢͖͚͓͙͈͍b̴̘͔̘̝̫̭̪̅͂͑e͉̝̩̫̔̄̽ͧ̕͜ ̷̹̩̞͓̦͇̲̰ͩͪ̆͊̌͆̈́́h̴̨̼̩͉̋̎̈ͣ̈́͊̕ę͔̹̥̻̝͙́̆̓̀̐ͤ̆̀͞a̢̼̘ͪ̈́̒̓ͥ͗ŕ̗ͫ̔ͣͪ̀̀d̴̸̰͚͙͖̼̣̩͎͑̄̃ͩ͠.̧̮̪͙͖̣ͩ̌̋̐͜͡ ̇̊̽͠͏̰̻̰̩͙͟S̢͇̩̠̬̱̟̲̥ͬͤ̍ͣl̨͖͗̊ô̸̼̫̹͔̘͙̙ͪ͑̓̾̅̚͟͠w̙̞͓͕̯̝ͫͤͫ̕ͅl̖̯͔̜̰͔̺͔̑ͩͬ̋͝͝y̡̧͚͚͔̗ͮ͆ͬ̉ͬ̂ͅ,͓̺̌͑͡ ̛̥̣̯͖̭͕͍̫̿ͬ͑ͧ͢͝t̎ͪͧͬͦ̏͌̎҉̴̛̥̗̮͙e̢͎̟̙̎̇ͧ̒ͨ̊̒̋̀͘n̖̾̇ͣ͠ț̶̳̯̯̭͖̥̈́̿ͨ̊͌͞ã̷̫̩͉̳̱͌͊̓̊̎ͪ͒ĉ̷̳̗̻̗͈ͤ͞l̴̤͇̼̙̹ͫ̈̅̏̂̇̏͜ē̵̥̰̟̙͑͊̿ͅs̴̞̭̜̪͙̮͚̔̋ͣ̄ͥ͢͜ ̤̲͎̎ͫ̂̑̒̚̚̕͞f̛̺̩̳̬͓̈́e͌́ͨ͂͏̠̝̦̥͚l̷̦͚͖̖̘͎̙ͨ̄ͭ̉͜ͅͅl̴̠̘͍̿̔̚ ̨̳͎̄̎̓̔͝f̢͙̦̹̱̹̫͕́ͣͥͨ͐ͫ̃͑̐̀͠r̛̺̗̟̖̫̪̖̗͗̓ͬ̌͋̑ͧó̞̥͖̣̙̖̦̽̇̐ͦͯ̍̎m̨̛̲͙̠̍̉͑̓͞ ̸́͐ͨͮ̈́̑͊͠͏̥̼ṯ̨̋̊̐̊̓̆ḩ͖̪̎ͯ̒̎ͥe̴̫̘̭͚͒̌ͭ́ ͊ͭ͐̀҉̭̯̙̺̞͈ò̪̐ͥͅr̢̮̪̼̬͉̘̲͊ͅb̦̩͇̟ͩ͝,̻̪̥͈́ͨ̐́ ͕̯̖͍̈̾ͭ͂ͯ̒̐̚͜i̵̶͇̙̣͇̥̟͉ͬ̑ͩͭ̕n̶̹̜̺͎̯̠̼ͣͩ̓̒͆̿ͫf͒ͯ̍̍͏͉̗̣e͗̉̐̆͑͏̡̛̤͈̳c̳͎̈ͣ͂ṱ̨̫̦̓̅̄͊͠i̷̹̭͉͚̦̥̊ͯ͑̃͢ͅň͛́͗҉̠ͅğ̺ͪ̊͆ͫ̆ ̈́͐̌̌҉̼a̛̯̮̩̥̯͎͎̾̂ͅl͆́͜͟ͅl̸̷̲͎͕̺̏̍ͣ̎̀͠ ̷̨̛͚͎̖̦̩̣͍̤̾̈ͦ̌̇̿̿̆̚t̛̹̘̏̌̒ͦ͐͋h̐̆͆̉͌̒̀ͣ͌͏͉̥̫̻̥̣̦̙͈͘ẻ̵͙̪͍̟͐͗̄͊͋͐͝y̬͖̪̹̰̘̣̣̒̈́̇͒̓̚͠ ͈̹̀̒̑͊ͨ̇̇̽t̶̢̖̠̰̱̅̂ͭͪo͔̤̺͇͑͜͟ụ̘͉̮̩̼̜̝ͥ̓̈̋̌̈̍̕c̷̦̜̯͔̩̩ͮͅẖ͚̬̖̼̯̬̪̌̍̓̀́͂ͬë̟̻̥̖͔̼̠͌̂ͤͣ͆d̴̵̤̾ͪ ̢͔̼̘͖̘̍̅͑̀w̰͆̅͛͑͆͆̈̂͊ͅį̣͚̺͙̰͉͐̾ͪͮ͆t͔̒̓̓̊h̶̡̭̤̱ͬ̏͗ͣͬͯ͞ ͓̟͇̠̫͖̤̙͑̂ͬ̀̊ͬͦͭͧc̩̳̠̲͈̮̝̮̓̏ͧͦͬ̚h͍̱̱̤͂ͩ̃ͨ̓̓ͅā̛͈̹̻͋ͭ̊ͧͯ̆ͯo̔͑̽҉̛̣͍̱̣̦̹͉̕ş̳̪͓̳̯ͥ̊ͬͨ.̧̖̞̯̻̫̼͊ͨ͋̏͗̐͝͡ 


"̧̋̊ͦͨ̿ͭͮ͒͗ͪ͒̏̈̃ͭ͑̅͠͝҉̬͉̯̤̲̩̲͕̭̻͓̜̖͕ͅH̢̨̝̪̩̩̍ͮ̔̋͒ͥ͗͂͑͟A̵̽̑ͥ̿̿̇ͪ̽̂ͨ̔̚҉̬͓̩̜̲͍̝̦̳̺͙̩̪͈I̴̧̳̭͈̣͈͓̫̙̰̠͍̣̯͎̜̭͂ͭͩ̚͞L̡͓̳̞̦͉ͧͣ̆ͨ͑̓ͣͯ͟͞ ͕̗̹̲̝̰̯̘̰̻̞̏̋ͮ̌̀̎́̎́́͟C̡̟̳̫̩͖̹͎̘͉̞̮̯͇̬̻̓̐̂̆̑̍ͦ̔ͪͭ̌ͩͦ̋̓ͫ͛̕̕ͅͅH̛͍̥̖̹͕̄̍ͯ̈́ͥͦ́ͦ̏ͫ̾ͭ̎́̕͠͝A̵̷̱̲̰̪̱̜̗͈̝͉̭̲̽̓ͬ̾͒̂̔̌ͯ̅ͭ̉̌̆̒̎ͭͅO̡̮̰̱̦̪̟̦̼͇͈̣͍̯͙̩̿͂̓ͮ͗͋̚͞͠͠Ş̵̢̨͓̯̺̰̮̠̭̩̥͑ͬͪ̓̐͢ͅ!̴̢̢̣̣͖͙̦̟̞̼̠̒̽̐ͭͮ͌̀͞ͅ"̵̨̨̪̹̣͖̦̱͎̝͓͍ͥͣͪ͒̾̒͐́̈ͫ̇ͭ̾̐͗ͅ ̸̵̢̗̜̖͕̞̩ͣͭͣͨͯ͛̍ͦ̆ͧ̆̋͑̐ͬ͛̔̚͜t̸̛͎͙̯̪͕̜͓̩̹̗̐̾͒ͯ̐̚ͅh̡̻̫̥͕̼͖͎̹̠̝̟̻̤̭͈̖̐͊̿̉ͩ̍́̂̅̈́̿̉ͦ̌̑ͬ́͜ͅe̢̢͖͇̣̪̣̦͔̥̒̾̆̐ͭͧ̂̓̿͂́͊̽͛͑̏̋͐̚͢ ̡͛̏̏ͦ̎͛̉ͭ̐̽̊́͜͜҉͔̬̰̤̺̼͔̠̭v̸̡͓̝̺͕͔͙̳̪̖̳͍͔̠̫̳̺̱ͦ̾ͦ͑͌̋̚͘͢ǫ̷̩͓̞͕͈͙̫̪̻̬͕̘̟̗̯͂͛͊ͬͤͯ̊̌ͧͬͯͬ͒ͯ̄ͫ̈́ͣ͢͜ͅͅi̴̺̠̤̮͉͕͓͍͙͓̤̠̟͛͋̃̐ͦ͐ͪ́͢͡ͅc͚̜̯̣͉͕̺͔̫͙̙͎͙̤̰̲̥̹͎̆̍̅͑̅̅͊̐̄ͮ̀͢͡͡e̢̫̟̖̜ͤ̅ͩͪ̅ͦ͌̔̏̾ͭ̂́̑ͤ̃̒͗͐͟͜s̸͎̼̻̠̱̘̻͙͙̪̣̙̳̮͚̹̮̺̩̉̽́ͧ̀̀̆ͦ̀̿ͩ͛́ͫ̿ͬ̿͑ͭ͡ ̧̛͙͈̩͈̠̝̤̆͋ͥ̋̈͊ͫ̀ͧ̇ͧ̅͊ͭ̍ͦͬ̀̚͟s̵̴̢͙̝͈̹̖͎ͯ̾̄͛̍̍̃ͤͨ͒͂̐̓̿ͬ̈͊ͅc̴̵̡̡̟̞̟̹̝̜̬̤̻͉̤̬͚̥̞̼͓͈̿͆̇͛͂͡r̎͊̃̋͑̊̈́ͥ͛̓̽͊҉̵̢͕͓̤̭͉͓̹̻͎͞e̓̃̇̾ͧ͏̵̜͙͕̱͚̥̰̜͈͈̭̙̣͘͟ͅa̶͆̌ͫ̎̈́͏̸̡͖͚̯̗͍̝̦̦̪̹͔͓͉͜m̩͍̬̣̦̬͖̯ͯ̾ͥͩ͋ͦ̽ͤ̓̾̅̋̚͢͢͝͞ė̂ͪ͆̄ͤ̓ͫ͂̾ͦͥ̇̅̆͘҉̶̠͍̱͉͎̪̯̲̪̲̲͖̩͎̺͢d̢̜͓͇͍͈͕̆ͭ̇ͪ̒ͯ̏̅͞.̨̟̗̮̫̭̠̣̺̠ͣ́̍ͧ̃̄͑̓ͪ́̂ͥ͛́͘͟ ͈̤͍̠͖̖̣̺͋̇ͮ̀̆ͬ͘"̦̰̣͙̱͇̜̗̖̼̳̞̜̝̟ͩ̆͑ͨ̔̔͟B̲̲̻̟̠̫̹̯̉͊́̐ͯ͐ͮ̆̃ͩͮͨ̾ͥͩ͊ͯͬ́̚͝͡Ǫ̢̗͓͍̰̗̥̻̆̏͂ͤ̾̂̓ͤ͘͢͠W̶̧̢͇̦͍͈̲͎͔̬͇͕̞̤̘͎̬͕̠͌̇͐ͭ́̏ͫͨͫ̋̊̓̆̈̒ͧ̽̚̕͞ͅ ̢̳̬̝̰̬͍͙̗͖̹̥̀ͣ́̄ͨ̒̕͜͝Aͬ̌̑͒̈͂ͬ͐̎ͦͮ̀҉҉̺̼̞̯̜͇̳Ň̾̾̒̄ͣ̿̀͂ͣ͋̑̃ͧ̚͏̷̙̯̞́̀D̡͈̹̩̹̼̜̥̫̣̣̳͖͆̿̀ͩ̂ͣ̓́͘ ̒̄̃ͤ͏̱̠͍̙̘̲̮̀Sͪ͑̍͂̀̽͑̓͗̽̓͆ͯ̒҉̸̴̫̻̫͔̝̫̕E̴̝̲̬͓̥̯͛̓ͭ̉ͦ͆͐ͤ͆R̷̷̢̳̯͎͉̺̯̜̰͔̮̼̥̰̭̉̈́̔̓ͯ̍ͩͯ͒͛̍̍͗́ͣͫ̎ͨ̉͞ͅV̷̧̞̭̝̳̮̯̥̭̯̠̘̳͗ͨ̿͑̄͋̄͑ͫ̍̀ͦ̀̀E̡͉̪̝͉ͫͨ̅̑ͤ͆̏͂̃͊͂ͬ̔͗͛̆̿͘ ̴̷ͭͬ̾̿ͮ̊͐ͨͮ҉͍̻̯̥͙̳̮Y̶̛̖͔̭̖̪̼̟͇͙̺̺̯̘̹̭̏ͬͪ̏̓̃̿ͦͫ͛ͤ͑̃ͦ͜͠O̴̫̳͚̩̮͉͚͉̗̰̞͓̩̭͎͚̺͕͆͐̆͋̌̆̏ͧ̉̊̔͞Ų̼̺̲̰̫̠͇̹̟̫̖̺̫͙̜̣̰̯̩̈̃̓ͫͬ͆͂ͣͮ̏ͭͪ̓̿̓̚̕͝͡R̺̼͙͖̫͖̦̔̇͗͌̓̌ͬ̔͋́ͨͮ̆ͯ̏͢ ͒̓ͣ̃҉͟͏̝̼̭̝̹N̴̢̞͈̻̙̮̮̩̾̀ͫ̎ͥ̑ͥ̅̃̓ͥͣ͂͛Ȩ̵̭̗̦͖͈̉̈́̂͐ͫ̀͝W̢̧͙̼̳̫͈̭͉̰̳̠̩͍̏̒͊̓͋̽̀͝͞ ͋ͮ̑͛̈̀͏̨̢̘̞̣Ḿ̷̶̜̪͚̜̘̘͈̫́̇͊͢A̴̘̜̺̲̪̮̤̮͕̖͖̬͍̱̹͛̔̂̑ͧ̿ͥ̃̋̚͘Ş̴̢̻͙̲̠̬̘ͤ̓̆ͫ̈̉̀̾̄́̅̚͟͡T̡ͧ͊͛̐̎̌̉͒͗̐ͥ͏̶̩̖̠͔E̶̛̳̩̺̭͖̫̮̞̾̅ͩ͑͌̓̏̄ͪ̄ͩ̚͝R̡̦̤̦͕̘̩͚̠̪̃̊̆̔͂̈̔̂̎̌͞Ş̡̛͈̲̦̠͚͊ͤͫ̀́ͫ̇ͭ̋̓̀̃͂̾͂͜͠!̨̧̝͕̬̭̻͎̠̤̭̳̪̫͙͔̝̟̲ͦ̆̂̑ͬ͂ͤͧ͊ͩ̇͂"̡́̾ͯ͛̂͊͐͋͆͒́͏͏̡͖̟͕̟
M̡̗̼̫̞̹̩̫̟ͧ̊̇̋ͤͥ̔ͮa̴͓̳̝͇̹̲͈͙ͤ̃̔̾ͪ͐ȳ̬̳̟̟̯̦̩̳̿̀̒ͅ ̶̛̯͈͓̭͎̺̈́̔͒̎ͧy̸̡̞̩͕̗̲̥͖͛ͮͫ͠o̊ͯ͊̏͊͒̃ͩͧ͘͏̘̯̱͕ų̲͕̪̬̰̩͇̪ͨ̏̈́ͮ̇̌͌rͣ̎ͣ҉̗ ̥͈̱͕ͣ́͢͝d̙̝̬̩̫͇͉͈̈ͣe̟̣̺͔̙̙̓̉̈̎ͦ̋ͩͩ͘ą͓̙̩̳̺̄͗͛͂̂̏̾ͫ͞t̒ͧ͏͈͙̥̫̫͎̣͚͞ͅh̐̅̄̈́͠҉̩̣͈̦́s̶͎̺̫̭͓͓̿̂̈ͫͥͫͪ ̸̧̝͓̭̝̺̩͛̉̾ͤ͢c̭̟̤̠̘̺̓̀͛̓̈͟͠ͅo̸̢̨̜̬̟̲͆ͯ͋̇m̨͖͈̬̠͖̘̠̉̈ͯ͋̅̎ͭ́e̼̘̪͖͈̹̲ͮ̈́͢ͅ ̧͍͎ͥ̇ͯ͜ș̵̺̗ͣ͒͌͋͘w̹̰͙̦͂͛ͧ͐̕͝͠ḭ̢̨̥͕̯̘̭̲̉̊͌ͪ͗͋f̻͇̙͔̐̉̅́t̫͗͗̏̊̅̔̆ͣ̌͝l̡̦̖̮̼ͩ̅͑̉̾̔ͯͨy̶̱͚̻ͧ̈̓͆̾̅̄͡,̷͕̉͗ͬ͢ ̤͙̳̥̮̎̃̋ͯ̀̀͜l̰̙̦̥̩͚̒̔ͫ̍̕͢ȩ̱͉͈̣͙̿̒̽ͦ̓͠͠s̡̝ͥͩͬ͞t̡̥̠̯ͮ͛̎͌ͥ̔̚͝ ̨̡̗̜̹̜͈͔̿ͩ̏́͊͑ͅỳ̜͕̹̳̬ͦ͢͞o̲̠̪ͭ̚u̧̔͛̾̐͐͌͊͏͕̥̲͉̱͚͎͉̻ ̷̹̞̭̫͗ͧͣͯ̓͐͑̀̚͠ŝ̸̪̰̯͇͚͂̓ͅu͍ͩ͑̀̕͜f͚̥͙̻̯̭̞̭̽̑͘͡͠f̴̼̌͛ͬ͡ë͕̫́ͩͧͧͪ̉͝ŗ̺̯̫̌ͭ̎̉̓̓͂̀ ̬̞̘͎̱̙̙͔͛͘ͅt̷͙̥̙̞̤̙̗̻̋̐͊̇̈ẖ̢̒ͨ͋e͇̰̖̥͚̣̯ͭ̑ͦ͆̏̿͛̑ͫ͡ ̝̩̜͓̣̠̲ͬ̑͋ͩ͜a̿̌̽ͫ̓̊͏͔͔̖̺̰g͇͈̮̯̬̈́̂ͧő͎͕͔̥̙̥͆̓͌̄ͩ͑́n͙̝͕̹̩͈̤̍̿y̡̰̪͚̾̓ ̩̗̗̲͎̟͍̪ͬͦͬͣ̔́͘͞o̙̲͕̜̩͕̜̬͗̓͛̂͂͋͑̌f̶̶̱͍̥̩͇͎͎̔̑ͅ ̌̆̽̽ͮ̉ͨ͏̴̭̼̮͍͎̳͚ͅe̵̺ͭ̎ͮ́̈̂t̙̄̈́̐̑̓̂̋ͦ͊͘͞e̷̦̣͎͉͈̞ͨ̐̇͝͠ŗ̶̹̹̹̖̦̞͇̤͊̉ͭ̒̔̌̅nͮ̋̃͏҉̼̺͇͉̲iͫ͌͏͎͕̘͘͢t̸͇͔̗͔͙͗ͫ͆ͥ̍ͦͧy̧̩̤̬̪̼͔̹̖͕ͤͦͣ͋̎,̛̤̦̠͈̥̮̉ͤ̈́ͨͭ͆͂͝ ̥̙̝̤̮̿ͣͩ̍ͧ̎̊
̶̢͍̻͉͚̫͙͇͑̆͐ͭ̚͠y̺͇̩̜͍͛̓̆ó̷͇̰ͨ̐̔̾͆͛u̬̥͕̖͖̓ͥͣ̽̉͝r̙͕̙͐ͥ̅̉ͧ͛̂̋͝ ̢̛̠̖̝̘̠̗̖̖̹͛ͭ͂̃ͣͬf͓͎̫̺͉̥̜̎͆͒ͮ͛o̿͗ͭ̂̓ͤ͑͗̌̕҉͚̻̹͇̦͕̟r̙̝̟͔̥ͨ̒͗͂̆̆͆͗m̤̠̑̐ ̵̶̰̲͕̆̂̓̓̀͟t̰͍̑w̩̭̜͓̺͕͇ͪ̽͛̎ĩͭͮ̆̌͊҉͔͕̭̺̲̠͜s̵͍͈̮͚̦̮͓̘̝̎̋͑t͚͉̻͆ͤi̐̇͂̊̉̊ͧͮ͏̝͔̥̙n͚̭̪̦͎̙͎͚̄͊̌̊ͫg͎̣̥̮̤͚͓ͦͩͫͣͬ͡ͅ ̮̺̻ͪ͑̕͢w̞ͯ͗͌̊̒ͭ̚͢͝i̡̞̲̫̹̱͊͋̎͌ͮͣ̑͢͡t̸̜͉̩̠ͯͣͥ̎ͣ̾͠h̵̞̮̩ͥ̈́ô͚͖̗̪̩̱̥̗ͭu̮̝̙̖ͣͥ̎̋̉͝t̡̫̯ͩͥ ͦ̊͐ͧ̈҉̶̢̱͕͔c̷̭̫̙̥̉ͣ̒͛̓̑ͥ̆͋͜ō̡̤̪͇ͫͬ̊̈ñ͍̬̙͕͔̪͔͓͇́͛h̃̄͋ͧ҉̻̩͔̺̰͇̮̯e̵͎̹͙͎̼͇̮̙̜̾̇̃̇ͧ͂͘̕r͍̼ͥͥͬͪͣͥ̿̎͠ȇ̜̹̺̟̒̒̀ͤͣ̊ͣn͛̉̍̊ͮ̚͏̯̰͙̼͙̭c̶̹͍̜̬̻͗̄̍͗ͭͨe͍̠̹̰͊̌ͬ͋̾ͩ͡,̼̱̙͕͈̤̮̉͊̈́̃̈́ ̵̣̫̺̳̻̹̍̇͞ņ̌̾͒͋͏͙̞̰̗e̢̲̙͙̟͗̓̚vͣ̾̓͏҉̯̱͍̠é͚͙̣̫̬͎̬ͮ̏͢r̙͙̃̀̑̓̈́̑ ̥̪̣̖̜̪͖̂̊ͨ̉̕ë̻͔̫̯͕́͗̀ṋ̶̟̞̖̠̥̎̉̓ͨ̈͟d̢̪̯̲̰̟͖͈̤́i͊̔ͭ̀̃̎̍҉̺̱̗n̫̦̪̔̈̿̑̔ͪg̦͇͇͈̰͖̮͙̒ͮ́͡͠,̜̫͖̞̜̱͚͒̿͆̽͋͟ͅ ̦͙͚̥ͪ͂ͤͤ̐͋̀͢p̦̄r̶̝̖̤̍ͥͩ̃̓͐̐͌͢͡ͅȧ̸͖͕͉͍̤̙̠͈ͯ̑̋ͧ̊́i̬̮͉ͭͥͭͧ͗ͣͨ̚͝͝s̫͙̣͒ͩ͠e̡̫̱̲͕͎̲ͦͣͬ͂͐͗ͩ́ ̤̞̬͇ͧͬ͒̑̅̈́͒̕t̥̤̞̾̅̒ͯ̃̇ͯͪ͆͘h̢̛͍̣̠̹̪͙̗ͦ͠ẹ̵̖̭̘̺͎̬͋
̖̳̯͆ͧͮ̿ͬ̂ͩḑ̴̷͓̪͉̳̟̲͒̽̊̊͐̄à̃̎̔̾̄ͤ͏͎r̵͇͙̳̎̔̀̈͐͜͟k̤̼̩̦̲̅̽͂̿͢ ̵͎̥͎̟͇̄̐͒̀m͔̋̌̋̀̇ͪ̄a̴̤̮͋̎̋͟s̮̣̘̫̙͖̱ͮ͌̒ͩ̑ͥ̂ͬͬ͘ͅͅtͯ͋̃́̋́̉҉͇͉̝͡e̹͇̝̥̺͓̥̠ͨ̒̓͢͞r̸̫̬͋ͫ̑́̀͞ś̵̵͍̼̄͝ͅ ̯̜͚̄̑̄̆̿͑̊̚̚͡ͅͅt̨͓̯̖̓̐̍ͦͫ͂̄hͧ̓͒́̔͐͊̓͏̴̸̫̝̘͍̩̲̼̻ͅạ̡̳͖͖̤̜͎̤͌͗ͩ̋ͩ́͝ṯ̪̙̟̺̎͆́̚͜͠͝ͅ ̢͕͇̮͕͖͌ͮͭ̋̀̒c̛̻͍͍̹̪̼̩͔̭ͩͮ͌ͧͤ̔̏͠o̸̟͇͓̽ͨ͌ͩ̌ͦͬͬm̢̘̟̬͚͛̄͗ͮę̻̼͊̎̾̋̚͠͠ ͩ̓͏͏̞̝͓ͅf̯̣̹̠͈̣͕͓̓ͣ́͜o̪͎̩̖̲̠̱̖̊ͬͮ̒̅ͨ̃ͫͅr̭̗͊ͥ̓ͫ̓̐ͫ̄̃̀͜ ̢̳̒͑̍ͪ͛͒͐͞ͅo̢̬̻͚̼͍̦̞̤̻̓̓ͫͮ̄u̢̦͇͖̹̼͒ͮ͜r̳̝̫̘̗͇̟̟̽̎̀ ̶̫͇̩̬̿̒̉ͭ̊͌̃͟͟l̼̱̬̻̤̤̄ͦ͠ͅi̢̘͕̫̻̔̅ͪ̇͐̏ͧ̌ͮv̸̔ͧ̉҉͈̹̹̙͈e͂̊ͦ̇̍͆͌̈͏̼̻ș͙͈̩͉̙͍͗ͦ̌ͪ̊ͭ̿̃̀ͅ ̮̗̝͗̾̎̐ͯt̷̴̖̻̬͉̣͈͓̬̋ͫ͟hͤ͌̽ͪ̿̂̔҉̱̥ͅě͔͍̞͉͗̌ͭ̃͌̍͆́y̸̹̯̦̦̤̆̑͊̒̃͞ ̸͉̭̩̰͔ͫ͊̉͋́̈́̉̀̓ẗ͔̤̰̤̻̦͔͍́̔ͮ̀̒̐͛h̭̝̓̏e̦͍ͯ͊͒ͦ͆ͥ͛y͖̱̓ͭ͂ ̐̀̈̈́ͩ҉͖̠̙̬m̡̛̻̩̮̣̣ͮͮͧ̒̏ͬ̑ͭ́͟a͚̞̒̇y̧̲͓̱͇͎̹̑̚͝ ̮ͩt̡̥̝͍͖̹̣͆̊ͪ̏͐ͨ͂̈̕ͅͅa̴̭͙̪̜̘̦͚̲͒̉̇ͪͅk̈̎̓͗͊̽͝͏̶̹̺̤͙̞ȩ̘̝̝̘͖ͣ̏̑̏ͪ̚ ̨̥̩̱͔̮͖ͩ͐͆͡ͅt̶̡͈͈̠ͭͮ͐ͥ̾̌̋h̢̤̤̪̱̗̪̦͌ͫͬ͜e̢̳̰̣̱͉͒̀͝m̴̈́̌̉̉̆͗͌̾̔͏͖̺̗̰̣
͖̝̦͒̄̽ͬ͆ͯ̾͟b̴̞͓̯͍͍̦͈̗̋ͫ͑ͧͫͫͦͩe̞̻̻͉͉͕ͩ͗f̣̲͙̣̺͕̟̤͌ͥ͂͘͝o̡̪̥̘͕ͦͮ̋ͦ͊̽ͥͮṙ̸̗͔ͬ͆̆̅̆ͭ̃͋͡eͦͥ̆ͤ̊̌̈̐҉̭͟ ̧͍̮͉̳̓̀ý̜̬͔̗̩ͫͯͪͧͧ̀͜o̷̞̲͕͕̼̎͋ͭ̕͠ų̖̭̈̔ͪ́͊̊ͮͧ͝ ̃̑ͨ͏̣͓̱g̻̠̲̪͙̺̟̔̄ͨ͆͞͝͡l̘̝̤̣̫͙͖̥͌ͮ̾͜iͮ҉̲̙̣̜̥̰͎m̨̯ͯ̐̒̔̎̿ͣp̷̺̫̦̣ͥ͋̅ͣ̎̉̔ͦ͆̀s̟͙͙̦͉͖̋̊ͤ͞e̹̝̞͚͙̓̌ͪ ̶̸̜̻͇̤̝ͯͦt̡̛̞̩̜̿̀h̗̠͋͒̈́̔͝ȩ̤͕̺͖̫̻ͣ̄̉̓̀͡i͓̬̗̬͖̽ͭ͒̔̕r̒ͮ̆͋ͪ͝͏͚̲͖͙̝̫̞ ̦̩͇̳̃̂ͯ̔̎ͫͯ̈́i͋͏͈̦͈̱͖͙͖͇͚͞ṁ̧̢͚ͫ̃p͍͇̥̮ͩ͂ͤ̐̋͆ö̧̥̲̪̼̝̀̑̅̊̋̐͊͢s̴͍̹̳̰̟̣͎̓̇ͦ̂ͨ̀̕s̠̲͙͚͓̑ͫ̒iͪ̇͑̉͐̑͒͂͏̷͍͕̼̜̠̟̭ͅb̞̠̬̞̏̔͆ͩ̅ͣ͘͝ͅļ͓̩̺̪̈e̪̼͙ͥ̊̽̃ ̵̫̗̣͚͛͞ͅͅf̸̫͙͕̰̥͈̺̮̋o̼͙̲̩͉̙ͭ̀̀ͅr͓͖̰͙̗̈̋̈́̈̏́̕͝ͅm̴̼̪̞ͣͮ̆ͫ̍͐ͅs̯͙̪ͭ̈̊ͮ̇̋ͣ͐̕.̡̯̬̱̝̹̻͙̹ͧͥͣͥ̅̽



Suddenly Fred sneezed. The whole class laughed as Fred swung Charlie's eviscerated corpse around in embarrassment. What fun the new student was, they mused as their very life source was ripped from them in order to fuel the eternal fear engine powering̘̻͇̘̜̹ͣ̈́͋͆̏ͪ͜ͅ t̤͓̊̒ͤ͆͟h̷͉͕̰͇̬ͤ̆e̮̊͛̓͞i̮̩͙ͩ̎ͭͤ̐̀r̺̘ͮ͛͊̍̓̓͡ ͉͞v͇̞͒͗e̸͎̖̋ͬͤͬr̖͍̩̟̋̀ͬ̇̊y̶͔͕͑͐ͣ͊̍̾̉ ̻̎͑͆͝ͅd̵̬̪͕̣̗̅ͩ̃͂̓é͕͙̺m̦̤̗̗̌̏͂i̢͔s̼̹̱̰̝̬̫̈́ͣ̃̌ͬ̚e̲͊̀ͩͫ̈̐ͨ




T̪̻̼̙͎͗͌̔͊́̍̃̐ͥ̑͌̿̈ͥ̒̀̕h̴̷̡͖͚̞̯̞ͤͥ͊͗̓ͬ̃͗̔͆̔ͧ̄͟e̡̥̙̩͍̮͕̟͉̩̠͇̹̩̱̱ͪͭ̀͋̑ͩ̃̿̀ͪ͞ ̰̳̼̲̠͔͍̬͍̺͎͖̃ͣ̿̑̑̈́ͪ̿̓ͥ͆ͫ͌̿͌͘͢ͅE̼͕̟̳̺͉̩͙͈͉̞̬͇̲̹̘ͤͮͤͪ͊ͥ̀̈́ͤ͂ͬ̿ͦ̀̕͟n̨̼̦͖̺̠̖̩̻̥̥̒͋̆ͣ̀̓͛̏̇̊̃̄̅̆̔͆́͢͝d̢͔̼̝̣͇͈͔̻͕͎͍̮͚͉̝̯̹̭̋̆ͣ̔ͥ̿ͥ̎̀


___________________________________________________________________

 Heartwarming, no?

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Why Driving Tests Are Bullshit: In Brief

I failed my driving test.

2nd one, actually. For the same reason. I didn't look in the mirrors enough.

Please tell me I'm not alone in thinking that that is complete bullshit. I didn't hit/mail/kill anyone. I was a safe driver. I stopped at red lights, and checked for other cars when turning. What I didn't do was look in the mirror when turning in the road, something that a) I did, and b) was completely unnecessary given that there was no one around. At all. I know, because I looked in the fucking mirror.

This isn't a rant. This isn't me complaining mindlessly because boo hoo life is so unfair. I just have a problem with the fact that I can drive perfectly adequately, and in fact in a superior manner to most other road users, and fail my driving test, while on the way home, dejected and irritated, I see 2 separate incidences of people running red lights, someone turning into a road without indicating, and yet another person speeding over a crossing with people on. These people have licences and I do not.

Ok, maybe this is a boo hoo life is so unfair rant. But my point still stands.

It's a short post this week because I am a wee bit busy so here's a picture I found on /tg/ of Batman as a Pokemon trainer.

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On Heat

I hate heat.

I am currently writing this from my room, the average temperature of which I estimate to be somewhere between surface-of-the-sun and Alyson Hannigan kelvin. Yes, the windows are open.
I am a warm person. I have been referred to as "The Human Radiator", a title which has shown considerable use during the winter. This naturally means that I do not do well in the summer. I tend to, well, melt. I'll be walking along the street and people will be going "Watch out, don't step in the James". Cars crash when I cross the road simply because my liquid form significantly lowers the coefficient of friction between their tyres and the road. Ok, I'm exaggerating. But my point still stands.

It would be like this, just 98% less ho...weird.

Christ's sake, this is meant to be England. We don't get hot weather. Americans come here specifically so they can coo at Buckingham Palace and be amused at the English weather. I work part time at the desk in an airport taxi company, and the main source of humour that seems to be shared with the passengers is "Welcome to England and it's lovely weather lolshittyirony". The people I work with are not that smart. If their primary source of banter is lost, what will they do? They can make jokes about how novel the warm weather is, but where's the irony in that? Irony, even of such polluted quality, makes these people feel smart, and without it, well, they resort to thinly-veiled-if-veiled-at-all racism, which they don't seem to understand is a bad thing, no matter how many meaningful glares I throw their way. In addition, if people are coming from abroad, they are missing out on a significant part of British culture, namely how fucking miserable it is.

He's an English prince you know.

Currently the only solution is to focus on other areas of traditional British culture, specifically quality beer and the inability to move without being watched by cameras. Seriously, I'm in the privacy of my own home right now and there is nothing watching me not doing anything illegal.

Now that's how to do irony.


In other news, I am going to make Saturday my update day. Maybe I'll be more inclined to post more if I actually have a schedule.

Be sure not to miss the post in half a years time when I complain about how fucking cold it is.

Slimegirl source: http://visublog.mechafetus.com/archives/185. Actually, looking at the rest of the site, I think I pretty much just linked you to porn.

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Re: On Jingosim

I was actually going to apologise for the last post. It was poorly written, brash, and really just pumped out in order to update for the sake of updating. It was pretty awful.

Then I finish my concert to hear about England's performance.

Oh. Dear.

Yeah, I'll admit, for all my harping on about how I don't tend to follow football closely, I omitted to mention that when I do, I can get fairly emotional about it myself. Like I said, it's cultish, and I get drawn right into it.

However, I am still detatched enough to be irritated at all the duality of English fandom. I went into the concert surrounded by people hooting and hollering about how great we are. While I dislike the lack of lealism, I was kind of impressed that we can engender such a strong sense of support.

I did my concert. It was really good, even if I say so myself. British cathedral music throughout the ages. Beautiful stuff. I meet my dad and he shows me the score. Its about 4 minutes to the end, so nothing much new is happening. I was mildly miffed, as previously indicated. But I walk outside and its a completely different scene. There was no shouting words of enthusiasm. Ok, we lost.

Well, we didn't lose, but we tied with the Americans. For most people that's going to count as a loss. But it's the first game guys! Don't fucking throw away all hope becuase of one game. I'm sure the Americans put up a good fight and are at this moment displaying their characteristic good humour. Where's our characteristic stiff upper lip?

In summary: Man. The Fuck. Up.

Look at the face. Everything is going to be alright guys. Everything is going to be alright.

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On Jingoism

I'm currently doing my hipster thing. Not intentionally you understand, I just have an hour to kill before I go sing in a concert and felt like killing it by having a small dinner in my favourite cafe. On my way here, I noticed something I have in fact noticed before. I'm fairly sure that everyone who doesn't live under a 15 tonne rock, conversing only with the moss and trees has noticed. Apparently today England play in the world cup against some moderately important country I've never heard of (yes, sarcasm). And Christ will people not let you forget it. On my way here I was barraged with flags, horns, more flags, and general good feeling. Horrible.

I'm being cruel, I know. There is absolutely no reason for me to not just ignore it and get on with my own business, aside from it being blared in my ear. But like I say, killing time, and it's this or waste an hour watching The Wire, so here we go.

Let me get one thing straight. I don't dislike football. At all. I even support a team, though doing so is more out of family loyalty that anything else (My dad supports them, my grandad supports them, etc etc). I just can't bring myself to support them to the extent that actual fans do. It's bizarre and strikes me as being decidedly cultish.

The World Cup though. That I understand. It's patriotism, innit. It's the love of one's country, and the desire for them to do well. Our country has it's myriad flaws, but fuck it, we're good at a sport, and we're going to beat the opposition into oblivion! Wait wait wait. Oblivion? I thought this was a game?

Maybe I'm being harsh. The kind of people who speak like that probably wouldn't know the word 'oblivion'.

But that's the attitude I get from these people. I can accept supporting your team. I can accept the buying into an obvious capitalist ploy to exploit such a stance in order to support your team with flags and little toys and plastic horns. What I don't get is when people act like it's a fucking war. When people get to incensed about their team winning or losing that they actually hurt people over it. When they go as guests into another country and fucking tear the place up. Proud of your country? You're a fucking embarrassment to it.

I suppose it doesn't help that this particular battle is against the USA. We've been majorly butthurt ever since they, you know, told us to fuck off. Though that particular argument kind of went out the window once they put God back into the equation. Separation of the church and state? Not anymore, fuckers. Ah, but they've had enough piss taken out of them by far funnier people than me. I'll leave them alone. As for Britain, well, maybe I'll make another post about them some time.

Yeah, I'm not a fan of either country and I apparently belong to one of them.

Still, it amuses me to see Americans trying to say that this match will be unpredictable because obviously we are going TO BEAT YOU US BASTARDS INTO THE FUCKING GROUND.

This is the worst post yet. May I sink no lower.

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On Apple

A long long time ago (read: less than half a year ago) I was, what the kind and understanding people on /wg/ would call a macfag. Yes, I was one of those people you see in coffee shops, shiny white rectangle on their laps, typing thoughtfully away on NeoOffice in the hopes that some passing hipsterchick would think I was writing a novel and be so totally moved by my obvious charm and sophistication that she would instantly want to start making out with me and- etc etc etc, point is that I was one of those people. It was not long before that however, that I was much much worse. Before that I was one of those people who worshipped Apple. I was, I struggle to admit, an Apple fanboy.

 As with most things, I'll be fucked if I can remember exactly when it started. I do remember that my first experience of a mac was an old G3 PowerMac one of the friendly looking green ones before Apple had an identity crisis and went totally brushed-steel-Orwellian. I didn't like it. The interface was irritating, and I wasn't about to learn an entirely new operating system when I had my mums laptop. Then the laptop broke.

And so, already a child of the Internet, I needed some method of feeding my NeoPets and generally sucking at Runescape (I know, I know. I was young). So I ventured forth into the world of OS X.3. And no, not 10.3. That's what the fucking "X" in OS X stands for. Anyway. I quickly found that my initial misgivings about the OS were mistaken. It took a little getting used to, but I learnt to live without the right click, to have the 'x' button on the wrong side of the window. It was the kind of brief disorientation you get when driving in Europe for the first time. I would imagine. I learned the ways of the Mac, and grew to love it. Eventually I found myself with OS X.4, G4 PowerMac, and the original iPod Mini. Then one Christmas, my parents got me my old faithful companion, my G3 MacBook.

This white box of comparative power marked the climax of my fanaticism. While I had 'converted' a few others, I was the one known as The Mac Guy. And I loved it. I was spreading the good word. Microsoft was evil, and Apple were the valiant good guys, struggling against an unjust foe.

This almost happened, more than a few times.

At this point I had the two original PowerMacs, long since out of date, but still chugging long when I needed them, a G5 iPod, aka the iPod Video, and of course my dear MacBook. It was around this time I was learning about the incredible brevity of 'current' technology. I was aware that my MacBook was quickly becoming out of date. OS X.6 was a while off but I could see the anticipation. Now, those who know me may have picked up that I am definitely one to mentally anthropomorphize my electronics. You yourself may have picked up on it with the adjectives  I've already used. I felt sorry for my Macbook, but still I yearned for the newer models. I just couldn't get them. I was a poor 6th form student. I didn't have a job and I certainly wouldn't ask my parents for the money, out of a mixture of pride and knowledge that thousands of pounds was way to much to be asking of my parents. So I sat, actually happy with my MacBook. It was slowing down but it still served me faithfully, like an old dog, to old to go running with you, but still content with the leisurely walk down the street, only occasionally falling into heartbreakingly amusing seizures that it just gets up and walks away from (The metaphor still makes sense to me, don't worry).

And so I learnt another lesson of technology. Yes it is always changing, always advancing, but that doesn't mean you -need- all the advances. Not just yet anyway. I also got my first inkling of Apple's true nature. You see, before the MacBook, money hadn't actually ever changed hands for our Macs. We had been given them through some means or another (legally, I hasten to add). When I first realised the 800 odd £ price tag of even the cheapest Macbook, I vowed to look after it, to draw from it the entirety of its monetary worth and more. When they just kept getting more expensive, I was confused. I reasoned, they're small, they need the money. But a niggling thought insisted but they're not small. The iPod has launched them back up into the ranks. So I had my first doubt. But I was stalwart. Microsoft was the fucking devil and I would not succumb.

Things didn't get better. By now the iPhone had been released, and Apple were fucking dominating. Yet Apple continued to disappoint. My MacBook broke and they were charging fucktonnes plus the cost of a new hard drive to repair it. News came of Apple not being entirely scrupulous with their business dealings, or some shit. Bullshit lawsuits and problems with apps and stuff.

Long story short, I lost my faith. I still loved my little MacBook but its parents were douches. I vowed not to get the overpriced iPhone and iTouch (Which I will continue to call it just to piss people off), and looked upon people who did with a vague superiority. Apple have lost it's old message, becoming a money grabbing, slightly dictatorial monster with a humourous mask. You know, to make it "User Friendly".

Then I just didn't care.

Earlier this year I got a new laptop. I cost me £500 odd and has better specs that the cheapest Mac laptop. I gave my MacBook to my sister since it only really functioned properly anymore for what she needed, email, Facebook etc etc. I couldn't just get rid of it. It served me well for 3 years, give or take. When she gives up on it I'll likely ask for it back. Not because I love Apple but because it did serve me well.

I'm writing this now from the new laptop. Windows 7. It is, as has been said, what Windows Vista was meant to be. Again it got a little getting used to. And it works. It does for me what my MacBook did, and better. Obviously it will, it's newer. But I've used OS X.6 and it's not much different. It's full of features that, if you're going to use them, are great. But I won't use any of them. I need better music creation software than GarageBand supplies. I don't need iMovie, I don't need iPhoto, because there are better alternatives out there. I still use iTunes, but have found very worthy substitutes in Foobar2000 and Songbird. Most of Apples own products assume that you are an Apple Fanatic simply because you own a Mac, and want to fork out the money for a .mac account. Windows is an operating system, while OS X is a constant advertisement for itself.

Both do what you want them to do. They just have different approaches. I've used both, and even dabbled in SuSe, Ubuntu, and Mint. For now, for simple sheer ease of use, Windows 7 has my vote, though I may try and Dual Boot it with a Linux OS at some point. But somewhere along the way Apple lost me. They became what I used them to avoid and drove me back to something that, as it turned out, wasn't as bad as they said.

It occurs to me that much of this sounds like a religious awakening. In fact, the process does ring slightly of my transition from hardcore Christianity to Atheism. That's part of the problem. Technological fanaticism becomes like a religion. The two sides see the other as misguided, even evil, and neither will back down. Apple has taken this and even started adapting it into it's employees. The first page of "Job Opportunities" has in bold "Part career, part revolution". Revolution? Excuse me, when did a fucking electronics company reach the ranks of Che Guevara? Just because the same kind of people who parade your overpriced tech around also sport those exploitative Che T-Shirts everywhere does not qualify you to call yourselves fucking revolutionaries.

It's hard to remain neutral. Believe me, I tried. But look at what I've got to work with. Again, I'm not saying Microsoft or any other software company are blameless.  Linux fans can be just as fanatical. But when an employee assessment questionnaire starts asking questions like:

you have to start asking questions yourself.

I shall try to conclude. I like computers. I like the Internet. Any method that allows me to use them I will have a soft spot for. I just think that while all computer companies realise this, Apple are even more exploitative than most. It's not a question of good versus evil. Its just a question of choosing the lesser evil.

 Or just go ahead and choose the ultimate evil. You know, for kicks.

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On Internet Fame

This must be the 5th blog I've started, and I say now, with a sort of cynical hope, an ironic optimism if you will, that I hope this one will survive my busy busy lifestyle of college work and procrastination.

The reasons the others failed are as varied as they are uninteresting. But I am going to try to recall them anyway for reasons that I will come to.

First, was my webcomic phase. I was young, in secondary school, middle school I believe. Year 10 or 11, or however that translates to those of you from America. Or Scotland, for that matter. I digress. I had often made little comics featuring whatever idealised self insert I could think of at the time. These ranged from Bob, a gravity-defying-haired surfing stickman with a talking cat, to Doctor Dameon, a psychiatrist with a House like attitude towards his patients (I would first watch House about 3 years later. Just saying). Both of these I created, as most other webcomic "artists" do, to become Internet Famous. I was just getting to grips with what the Internet was, and it was fascinating, the concept that I could upload pictures and people would praise me for it, because, to quote Yahtzee "You could wipe your ass on a page of Megaman sprites and there will still be someone on Comic Genesis who will tell you it's brilliant". These however fell victim to my increasingly growing impatience and need for originality. Once I realised I was ripping off Garfield, CAD, and whoever else, I let the sites fall.

Next was my reviewing. If you'll look around my account, you may notice that I'm not quite out of this phase yet, though given my last post in that particular blog, it's clearly well overdue. I may even delete it after this post. Let's see if I remember. Yet this is not where it began, oh no. Before EM was created, I was first jumping into the realm of website creation and design. From scratch. How hard can it be? I thought. So quickly I got myself a free .cc domain, a WordPress account, and got everything together. I made up a witty name, Tone Deaf music reviews, I put up reviews that no-one read and I was happy. Well, mildly amused at my own good self.

Then I became a dirty hipster.

Everyone uses Wordpress. Lets find a more obscure blogging platform. Sure it might be unstable but fuck if I won't be the coolest cat in town.

Long story short, a few site overhauls, lots of accidentally deleted content and a couple of extremely stupid months later it was all too much than I could be bothered with. I was making a shitty music review site that no-one read. This was far too much trouble. I wasn't committed, I wasn't going to update, I had exams and other projects, and a slowly dwindling social life to save.

This process happened about 2-3 times. Eventually I accidentally let the site go unchanged for a few months and the domain guys killed it off. Fair enough. I wasn't using it, so why let me take up the space?

Somewhere along the line I discovered 4chan, and so discovered /mu/, and so discovered music blogs like We Fucking Love Music. I decided that I wanted a piece of that particular pie again. But I would be smart. Yes, this would be a small operation, that I would only give to my friends. They would tell other people and they would tell other-yada yada yada. Once again I fell to the dreams of Internet Fame. I created Excess Music, and started posting my posts to Facebook. All was once again well. I had what amounted to a website, I guess, and I was "reviewing" music. And then I forgot about it and stopped updating. Then I remembered, but I was too busy. Then I remembered again but just couldn't be bothered. Other sites like it were getting shut down, and while mine was too small to really matter, I didn't fancy getting sued. Once again it just because too much trouble for what it was worth.

I'm sure I've forgotten small things, blogs started but ignored, forums joined but forgotten. Lots of small attempts to reach above the backwash of anonymity to grab a piece of the sacred Internet Famous cake.

So, some time passes and I think to myself "I need a blog". Just 'cause. No ulterior motive, just somewhere to put my thoughts. If other people want to read it, I welcome it, but primarily I just need somewhere that's mine.

And that's why, if you're still reading, I put you through the above. Maybe you found it interesting. Maybe it struck a chord with you, I don't know. I have no illusions that I am the only one with such experiences.

Even now you can see I am asking for some kind of readership. The quest for Internet Fame is a hard one to break. Anonymity is a blessing and a curse, and given the number of Facebook stalking cases you hear about, many clearly wish to be more than everyone else, be it through adding everyone you don't know on the social networking site of your choice or uploading videos of yourself being a complete twat on YouTube. And obviously I'm no different. The very creation of a blog instead of just writing a pen and paper journal is testament to that.

I don't want to be Internet Famous. That is what I will tell myself. I don't want to be Internet famous. Being Internet Famous is usually the result of being a complete fuckwad. To get famous on the Internet quick you have to make yourself a caricature. A screaming, attention whoring zoo animal, that people keep coming back to to see if you'll fling shit at the camera again. Or, god forbid, a meme.

True, some people make it without sacrificing their dignity. Plenty of people actually. And maybe one day I'll find myself wanting to become one of them again. And maybe I'll have the commitment to do so. For now though, I don't want to be Internet Famous.

That said, I'd settle for being Internet Liked.

And I'm still going to post this to my Twitter

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