Monday, January 31, 2011

Hot Headed Weirdness

The heating was accidentally left on overnight. I was curious as to why I woke up in a pool of myself and Nat and Tom are now complaining of feeling as though someone has baked their heads. I am not going to tell them that in addition to the heating being on, I did try to bake their heads. Its horrible existing in a tiny bubble of warmth, leaving the shower only to feel like you are still in the shower, realising you are still in the shower and then actually leaving it to feel as though you are still in it. What's worse, is that as Nat keeps pointing out, we have to pay for this heat so she is refusing to open a window or door to let it escape. I honestly can't see how keeping it in will help. We won't be able to use it again later. Also I don't trust we'll look after it well. I bet within a few hours we'll have forgotten all about it and it'll have escaped. Keeping heat is something only real adults should do. Then they care for it day in day out until it grows up really big into a fire or a huge gas explosion and everyone admits I should've just opened the door and let it back into the wilderness where it belongs slowly heating squirrels and warming bees.

See? This is already the sort of blog I write when under the influence of a hot house. My evening yesterday consisted of watching a series of odd things on the box all of which haven't helped. Starting with a program called Boob Envy - which wasn't about people who are jealous of Peter Andre - with Tom and us shouting at women who weren't happy with their breastal regions despite having lovely ones. Some uninteresting journalist bloke kept going on and on about how its actually impossible for women to be happy with their bodies, whilst no one at all blamed media or society's stupid obsession with bodies in any way, which was odd. Essentially what it ended up being was a way to make a cheap program with tits in it and make absolutely no statement about anything whatsoever. Still, I have to say, it sort of worked. I don't want anyone to try and fire me from a job at Sky Sports, but I do have to say that sadly, despite shouting, complaining and whinging about the quality of the program and its hugely sexist point of view, this was all sandwiched in between occasional shouts of 'get 'em out' and 'phwoooar', only some of which were ironic. Sorry everyone.

This was followed by King of Kong a film about a man who dedicates a large part of his life to become the highest scorer on Donkey Kong in the world, beating the current champion who has a hair do that makes the 80's shudder. Nat had joined us by this point so we didn't shout for anyone's boobs to be shown at any point. Which I suppose is lucky as most of them would have been geeky man boobs on the bodies of very very sad people. It is a good film, but I was constantly berated by the pair of them for commentating on the loser rating of each and every one of the 40 year old men who still play arcade games from the 70's. Nat insists that at least these people have a passion for something rather than some people she knows that don't care or dream about doing anything with their lives. I sort of agree, but I also think that if your passion is for having a weak moustache, no friends and gaining RSI from a game who's graphics and noises cause migraines, then maybe you should re-evaluate life. I played Donkey Kong for the first time in years when I went to Dublin at the classic games exhibition. Its stupidly hard. Thing is, while something being quite so tough should make being a champion special, it also means that getting good at it requires such a high level of geekdom and studying that I think that it cancels out any coolness you might have for being a champion. There is a point when the main protagonist is being harassed by his little son to help him go to the loo, whilst he's about to get a high score. So he neglects the kid. At no point does anyone say to him 'excuse me, you're letting your kid have a shitty arse because you think its more important to jump over virtual barrels. Please re-asses your whole existence.' Apparently the conclusion is that I'm the dweeby one with the glasses who adjudicates game scores and Tom's dad is the Centipede Champion. Don't ever let it be said that our household doesn't have measured and well made discussions.

Then the evening finished with a quick go on the Dead Space 2 demo, which is the sort of game that would make everyone in King Of Kong cry tears of nerd. There were several screams and jumps across the sofa from fear as half dismembered creatures with blades for arms race towards you wanting to cut off your head and small dead babies try and eat your face. It's worse for nightmares than eating blue cheese with blue cheese dressing before sleepytimes. And with all that in my head my radiator cooked up some sort of mega storms of weirdness, boobs, nerds and scary freaks to make me find myself soaked through and trapped in my own duvet as I woke up. And now I have to go and entertain kids. I can't help but feel today may be difficult.

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