Games of My Life. No 1. Pac-Man.

Everyone’s done the joke. Pac Man is some cunt in a nightclub gobbling pills to repetitive music. Depending on who you believe, that joke was coined either by comedian Marcus Brigstocke, or Garfield.

pacMan2600Screen

Probably.

Anyway, during the early eighties, while I was developing in the gigantic tank buried deep in a fucking science lab, the cold war raged. Fridges were thrown. Ice cream was stuffed into gaping mouths. Icicles stabbed into enemy hearts. Polar bears! Polar bears running through the streets, tearing off limbs, carrying nuclear warheads into Argos.

Erm…I forgot where I was in this. Setting the scene nicely, I was in the first fledgling decade of my chubby youth. Running from that nightmare bear. Teetering on tiny legs. I was small for the only time in my life. I’d never be a child again. Stupid inexorable march of time.

Going off point for the second time there. Pac-Man was the world’s most famous yellow round man with a mouth that was half his size. Due to a heart condition, he was spherical and had just a mouth and an eye. The world was absorbed in his plight, and Pac-Man was roaring through the arcades like a racing wind of fun.

 

The game came to the Atari 2600 in 1982. The 2600 was a fine console. A clunky system of chunky pixels and sparse beeps, but to a young mind, a completely fascinating device. In among the realms of black stood towering character; incredible adventures. It was not so much that you used your imagination to fill in the blanks. You had to use your imagination. And still, there was something entirely unique about this strange, half-wood slab, and its satisfyingly blocky components.

The Atari Pac-Man was not well received. In fact, the bloody thing was partly blamed for the video game crash. Big trouble for everyone, but most of all for Pac-Man, buried in shit and beaten like a bruised apple, his yellowing bulk soiled with the feces and cum of thousands of the grudged.

 

Well, I fucking loved this version. For a start, it’s a functional, playable version. It lacks the detail and colour of the arcade, but so what? What the fuck did anyone expect from the Atari 2600 anyway? It could not render the sort of graphics to faithfully remake the game, but considering its limitation, the conversion is absolutely fine. I spent many days playing it, and happily went out munching paracetamols and punching ghosts like any other cunting kid.

 

Actually, they may have not been ghosts.

 

Oh, and it’s still better than Pixels. But then, so is kicking yourself in the fucking face for fourteen years in a row.

Next time! We’ll be jumping out of planes into a sea of utter piss. In Skydiver!

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Bad Sex

“Your sexual skills are workmanlike. By that I mean you’re like a complete tool, using your tool, like a fucking tool. You move like a bus on a trampoline. Your tongue feels like damp sandpaper on my clitoris. You may as well be tossing buttons into a pot you fucking useless cunt. Get out of my vagina.

Your hands are everywhere, but they’re slimy as fuck. You’re like a dead octopus draped over a hedge. Honestly, I’ve had better orgasms sitting in a bus stop with a corpse.”

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The Adult

It’s fair to say I don’t know how to be an adult. Not in the usual way, that sort of knowing wink to camera shit. Ho ho! I’m so ditzy I shouldn’t be old because I haven’t grown up yet! Tee hee! Aren’t we all the same!

No. I am not. In my case, I’m still actually living the life of a child. Because I don’t think they should get all the glory. The berks. Ever since a wakeful nightmare in about er….1988…where I lay awake, staring blankly into a murky, cold ceiling, I mused upon how terrifying it would be growing up. How would I deal with the change? How would I talk to people and do a jobs? Find a woman?

I never worked that out. I’ve not moved on. I shambled from the school gates, uniform crammed full of the hasty scrawls of felt-tips, signatures of the schoolmates that I would no longer inhabit a space with, learning stuff.

Thing is…I never changed those clothes. I’m walking around in a child’s clothing. I’ve got that uniform on. It’s several sizes too small, and it stinks. Twenty-two years later, I’m walking around in a school uniform, collar tight and choking, stained and rancid shirt. Stuffed in, sores and all, like a pineapple in a sock. I look ridiculous.

Not really. I did have to change clothes. When I finally lost my virginity. I had to hack myself out with a tin opener. Hardened, brittle shells fell off that day, clattering to the floor in a sickening lump of cloth.

It’s fair to say, she was impressed. “Have you been wearing that uniform since you left school?”, to which I replied, yes, as I picked shards of shirt from my grey, mottled scrotum.

I walked the streets, not knowing how to eat, or to take fluids. I ate Spectrum tapes. I drank Marmite. Not after dilution. Just as it was. I didn’t know the difference between liquid and solids. Often, I would simply throw it into my mouth, choking and retching into the noon sun.

I wore trousers on my head for a year. I thought that was the look. Head poking out of one end. Arms, uneasily stuffed through the other leg. It was a disaster at job interviews.

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Balls for Bums

I hate All for Love.

You know, that tossing pile of MOR shod that Rod Stewart, Sting, and Bryan Adams tossed out like a rotting cum-rag in 1994.

It’s a gallon of piss in the ears. A blustering, over-blown biscuit game of a record. They’re in a circle, wanking on the face of music, then greedily grasping at the sodden, spunky, sad little cake. Scrabbling and scratching, wolfing it down like savages.

I hate that song, and I wish it was alive, so I could watch it die.

I envy every single other planet in the universe, either barren, lifeless, or desolate, because they don’t have that song to look back on like a war-crime from old. That’s trillions of planets. Billions of stars. Millions of galaxies. And we got lumbered with that song.

So, I’m going to re-write the lyrics. Fuck off, you triumvirate of tossers. Here’s my juvenile version.

When it’s shit you eat
I’ll wank all on your shit cakes
then in piss you swim
I’ll make a massive shit steak
I’ll be the clown you can piss on
ram peas in your hole
shit in the fruit bowl
When there’s poo inside
I swear I’ll eat that shit log
then there’s a massive piss pie
I’ll eat it all fucking day long
I’ll be smearing shit spunk and poo
all over my face
and all over the place
Let’s make it balls for bums, and bums for balls
Let the beans you eat
be the peas you need
’cause when it’s balls for bum, and bum for balls
When we’re shitting in the snow
then just let your urethra flow
and make it balls for bums, and bums for ALL.

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Titanic Part Four.

titanitc2

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Titanic Part Three.

titanic

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