I have recently lost someone in my life to the blight that is World Of Warcraft. I have had a chequered history with this game and now, once again, it has raised its ugly head, got all up in my grill and insulted me to my fat face.
I have never played WOW – which for some reason is hard for people to believe. For one, I don’t like the thought of paying a monthly subscription for a game. As for two, well – I know damn well I’d be hopelessly addicted within a day, so I don’t want to risk it. I have Football Manager. It’s my methadone.
But I’ve known many people in my life who played WOW, and who still do. My time in CEX was littered with stories about The Horde and guilds and other shit like that, as 90 per cent of people who worked there played religiously. I didn’t give in to temptation. I made a stand. I held my nerve and managed to stay strong.
And now, many years later, Darling Sweetheart Girlfriend has taken up the Warcrack habit. I fear I have lost her forever. I attempt to start a conversation – an interesting one, naturally – and her response arrives with 12.4% less enthusiasm than it did the other day (pre-WOW). I may have to start punching to get the attention I deserve.
I mean, honestly – who gets addicted to video games? They’re for kids and nerds, right? Only losers play them, etc, etc. Ho ho, the bitter ironing.
What’s the greatest sandwich you’ve ever had? Is it ham? Beef? Cheese? A combination of other things all put together into one pile of nonsense? It could be, I don’t know. Maybe your favourite sandwich involves hammers and beans. That would make you a bit squiffy, truth be told, but at least if you admitted to it there wouldn’t be much weirder you could go.
But maybe your favourite idea of a sandwich is one with pastrami, mustard, cheese and something else you love. Maybe it’s a case of the best things that could possibly go in a sandwich combined with the best things you never thought could go in a sandwich (but could). Maybe it’s just that damn good.
Basically I want you to picture, or taste that ‘wich. I want you to imagine you’re feeling its flavour all over your mindtank. Then I want you to think of bread and butter.
Bread and butter is clearly the best thing ever made, even if you have olive spread instead of butter like some loser might (hello!). It tastes of very little, it’s of no nutritional value beyond being bread and making you eat it and… well, it doesn’t do much for the street cred of “the kids”. So there’s clearly no viable point in bread and butter.
Fuck viable though, I love it.
You wake up, it’s early, there’s someone in your house you don’t want to wake up – be it the beast/person in your bed, a parent, housemate or whatever else could possibly be in your house (that you don’t want to wake up). Obviously you’re supposed to be quiet at this point. It is, after all, early – or maybe it’s not early, and it’s just they’re working nights, or they’re lazy and you fear their temper, or you’re trying to sneak out because they smell of burnt cheese.
Anyway, you have a reason to want to keep quiet. That’s what I’m saying here. You have woken up and you don’t want them to also be woken up. Simple. Yes? With me? Right.
Every time I try and do this my body seems to make it my mission to do the exact opposite of what I intend. Years ago when my dad would be sleeping and I’d have to sneak around to not wake him up my brain would (probably intentionally) forget which were and weren’t the creaky floorboards, and make me step on the ones that made the loudest noise. He didn’t wake up, mind, as a herd of nuclear-explosion-farting wildebeest charging through his room with air horns erupting from their nostrils wouldn’t wake that man when his head touches pillow.
I awoke the other morning in order to go to work, where my job is, where I get paid a bit of money for a very silly reason (I was playing a Star Wars game all day today). Darling Sweet Girlfriend was still snoozing in my bed, so I knew I had to make it my mission to tread quietly and carefully, as well as to avoid any obstacles. One step later I had fallen over the giant beanbag in my room and clattered onto my weak, painful ankle, whereby I remarked to the world around me that this had caused me pain (i.e. “OW”). It was something that has never happened to me before, yet when I’m trying to be quiet it does. Fortunately not even a mallet to the noggin could wake Darling Sweetheart Girlfriend when she is doing a sleep. I know. I’ve tried.
I will have to attend some kind of ninja school in order to get my quietness seen to. After all, I’m very good at sneaking by accident, but when I try and do it where it matters I always end up falling, creaking, clattering or hearing my knees click really loud.
That is all.
I have a headache, so posting a complaint email I sent to Topshop’s customer service department a couple of hours ago will have to suffice for today’s entry. They are useless whelks and I hope they burn. No individuals, just the whole concept of Topshop.
I have just received the email quoted below. Seeing as it provides no reason whatsoever, I would like to know why this order has been cancelled. This is the fifth time this has happened now – four for my girlfriend, who has been trying in vain to make an order and now, as far as I can tell for no reason whatsoever, an order for the same item made with completely different details – i.e. mine – has been cancelled too.
What on earth is going on? I have money in my account, the billing and shipping addresses are present and correct, the card details were in order – I’m even on the electoral register, so it can’t be ‘proof of address’ nonsense I’ve encountered before. What is the problem? Why is this happening? Why are Topshop seemingly committed to not taking my girlfriend’s money?
Of course this does mean neither I or my other half will be using your site again to make any orders, such is the monumental stupidity of a system that bans legitimate buyers from making purchases. So please – no offers to placate or sort the order out. The issue has been raised many times before and it has never been sorted out thanks to some phenomenally poor customer service, so we’re beyond that. Your competitors win this round, because they’ll be the ones getting her cash.
I just want to know what in the blue hell is causing our orders to be cancelled? An allergy to Bournemouth, perhaps? Jealousy that the coat might look too good on my girlfriend? Maybe we’re considered too low-brow to be allowed to spend our money at the Mecca of classy clothing that is ‘Top’ ‘Shop’? Any answer is better than “YOUR ORDER HAS BEEN CANCELLED, CALL THIS PREMIUM-RATE PHONE NUMBER TO FIND OUT WHY”.
I await your response on the edge of my seat. No, literally – I’m perched here. My clammy buttocks are clinging on for dear life. I hope you respond before they run out of energy and I plummet to the office floor. Really, I do. Otherwise I’ll have another thing to be royally peeved about, and I’ll blame that on Topshop too.
I haven’t heard back from them yet. Bastards.
My ankle’s been hurting a bit more recently thanks to the cold weather. Seeing as it will never heal, it got me thinking about cybernetic implants. Obviously. I could have my ankle replaced with a newer, better, stronger, faster, more muscular ankle (with lasers). But why stop there?
I could have laser guided knees to replace my old-fashioned, quite shit knees. I could tear out my ribs and have them replaced with cyber-ribs – cyber-ribs which also double as a genuine xylophone. I could finally live out my childhood Kano fantasies and have half of my face replaced with metal and a red eye (that shoots lasers, of course). Ah, headbutting people.
I could get my brain replaced with a metal one – more useful for not much, of course, but it would probably make me more intelligent than I am. Because… metal. Or something. Arms: replaced with laser-firing hooks. Laser-firing hooks: replaced with laser-firing hands. The possibilities truly are endless, especially as I’m making it all up in my (non-metallic) brain.
Actually, I’d probably settle for less cutting edge technology to replace my ailing ankle. Of course I am referring to a peg-leg. It’s clearly one of the coolest replacement limbs ever, even if it doesn’t come with any lasers.
Obviously this all leads to Deus Ex-style moral and ethical implications and decisions to take into consideration. And these are the kind of considerations I can’t make when I have a headache and there’s rum to get drink… ed.
I had a bit of a dilemma today, related – as the most important things are – to putting a number on the end of some words. It got me thinking*- what is a reasonable excuse with which to mark down a game? Obviously there are reasons like “it’s shit”, or “it’s broken and shit”, or “I had a headache when I was playing it, hence it was shit”.
But then there are other, less black and white reasons. The one I encountered today being that the game was rather complex. I’m not averse to complexity. In fact, it often helps the experience, lending it depth and adding to the longevity of the whole package.
But then there are times when it just gets in the way. It stops you outright from getting to the tasty, fun centre of the matter and truly enjoying it for what it is. But you can see the delicious middle bit. It’s there, taunting you and laughing at your face. It’s there showing you that the whole package is, objectively speaking, one of true quality.
But you can’t actually experience that. You can’t get real enjoyment out of it. Does that make it a bad game? When it’s clearly not a bad game? When it’s actually a good game? Is it a bad game because the layman – ME – can’t get his head around it?
Ah, the difficulties of doing real work for a living. You doctors, firemen and soldiers don’t know how hard it really is.
*I had a lie down and felt better, don’t worry.