The joys of FPS and limb waving

Ok, so after weeks of repetitive silence, here’s the problem. With the gift of a PS3 came the curse of the FPS.

First-Person Shooter (FPS). A game where men relive childhood pistol fantasy and “shoot” the whats-its out of each other.

Although I’ve written curse up there, its being evil and horrific is not strictly the case. It’s very much fun actually. So much so, that I seem to be sacrificing regular activities for the sake of one… more… game. This low level addiction got me thinking. What is it actually, when it all boils down, that drives millions of men of all ages to run around on a screen to the sounds of “FRAG OUT!” or “GRENADA!”? Why is it that there are plenty of facebook groups “wittily” entitled “I lost my BF to COD lulz!!11!!11!!”?

Well it is fairly straightforward in most cases. As I mentioned above, much to their mother’s disdain, at some point or another all boys pick up their imaginary James Bond pistol and Rambo machine gun and start running around the garden yelling “RATATATATATATATAT!” or “BRRRRRRRRRRPPP!”. Its the childhood hero complex – we want to be the superstar saving the day, and as we get older, the girl. So when a machine provides an opportunity for now fully-grown boys (which is most definitely what most of us are) to run around and shoot things without actually running about we leap at the opportunity.

The childhood growth idea is only one argument however. Depending on the game, and the man, there are other factors at play in this addictive nature. Competitivity is one such thing. I’m no Olympian medal hunter, no cup-winning sportsman, hell, I’m no high-flying academic, but the thrill of attainment is something I crave. It doesn’t just apply to my gaming lifestyle, it applies to all aspects. If there were supermarket sweep-esque challenges when I did the weekly shop, you can guarantee I’d be flying round those shelves with my eye on the prize. Like I said, I’m no super-geek when it comes to academia, so when the high marks started appearing this year I was like a pig in brown stuff. FPSs provide an opportunity for us to be attainers on different levels: there’s the unlocking of equipment and ascension of skill levels, there is the team victory or top 3 free-for-all finish and then there is the unhinged joy of slowly creeping up behind that sniper that has been picking you off for AGES and gleefully dominating him with knife or unnecessary amounts of metallic slugs. It’s such thrills that have kept my eyes firmly attached to the screen over these last few weeks. I’m no expert, and I tend to find that my meagre kill to death ratio of 0.87 would make most seasoned professionals and 10 year old girls laugh, but I couldn’t care less. Because, for 10-30 minutes (depending on the game) I am back in a childhood fantasy and adult competitive tapestry, and it is great.

It’s strange that it has taken the passive act of sitting to do this, considering that I’ve had a Wii for a long time now. But the waggle has worn off, as I think it might have done for many people. All you can hear from the companies is that waving your arms in time with the screen is the next big thing and that it offers a way of being fully in tune with the games, but I really have started to find such activities tiresome. Don’t get me wrong, playing tennis in your living room after a few drinks is probably one of the funniest things you can get up to, aside playing boxing. But on a day to day playing level, such exertions are really not what I’m after. The novelty (that is most definitely what it was) has worn off. If I wanted an immersive game where my actions in the real represented my actions in a game I would go and play the damn thing. With the exception of doing it drunk, playing tennis/golf/football (WITH ARMS?!)/shooting stuff is not enhanced by me having to get off my backside and prance about in my living room. That’s what real tennis is for. Maybe Nintendo is to blame for the current poor showing on the British Tennis front, who knows. I can certainly imagine the press release. “We lost. It seems the Lithuanian’s traditional training was too much of a match for our Wii Tennis techniques. Apparently we can’t flap for 10 minutes and win a game.” I remember way back to the first week of owning a Wii, and laughing as my good friend Marc decided that Wii Bowling should now only be played by staying on the couch and waving at the screen. It still worked.

The idea of games in general is that they are enjoyable. That they immerse you in an alternate world where you are placed in otherwise unreachable situations. The FPS is one such thing. It’s fun because it provides an opportunity to live the hero life without placing yourself in the perils that such men face. I would never want to hold a real life deathmatch. But all I crave right now is one more game of sprinting around with my SCAR-H to the soundtrack of whining twelve year olds, droning clansmen and really, really annoying snipers. It’s fun.

racing for life

Bank holidays in the United Kingdom are wonderful things. Every now and then, they charitably donate an extra day to the weekend, allowing the general population to rest easy on a Monday morning.

So, this Bank Holiday weekend we travelled. We traversed the M25 and headed into East Anglia, specifically, Norwich. A town renowned for Mustard, Delia Smith and in my mind, Belgian cuisine. The latter is a fantastic restaurant, although I’m informed that since attaining 5 star status it has become rather pricey. Still, it is tasty.

So yes, Norwich. Home of Stephen Fry and the Canaries. We travelled to visit a good friend, and to pledge support in her quest to Race for Life. Now a national event, Race for Life is pretty special. I won’t go into what it is too much – the link is there if you’re interested. What I’ll go into is an account of Norwich’s Race for Life in a first person perspective.

RUN!

‘Twas a warm and fluffy day that beheld the event. People gathered and milled. We arrived to swathes of pink and green. The first impression that you get of this event was one of pure, simple fun. People were there to have a good time to the extent that running 5 kilometres can be fun.

Picture lots of women walking around with smiles, grins, exchanges and laughs, pink shirts and black shorts, black outfits with pink undergarments worn on the outside for effect, a pinkish hue fancy dress.

A very happy place.

We haunted the awning of a tree and watched as we were guided through warm ups by the Nivea Male Cheerleaders (a cohort of fantastically over enthusiastic ear drum destroying jeer purists) and then an aerobic work out warm up held by an ageing fitness instructor with way too much joie de vivre.

warming up

I must admit at this point that as a male, I was not racing. This event is a solely female exercise. So in true male stoicism, I stood stock still during the warm ups, and smirked at the decidedly “camp” presentation the Nivea team made. They made the best of the situation I guess. I definitely would not be able to do much better.

The race started up, and ran its course. The course trailed around the show ground in Norwich, allowing us ample follow the runners space right up until the finish, where every runner is met with some tape and a big screen appearance. My friend ran her 5k in a solid time of 29 minutes, which was not too far of the winning pace of 20 minutes (turns out the winner was a UK national runner). If you had wanted to sponsor my friend it is a little late now, but I’m sure making a donation to the charity itself wouldn’t go amiss if you do. They are a worthy cause.

Before the race began, they played a short video to the assembled crowd in which they displayed a fact that I personally hadn’t been aware of, but recognised:

1 in 3 people will have cancer at some point in life.

You have a 33% chance of being diagnosed. I conducted a 1 in 3 test of my own, of the people I was with that day (me, my wife and friend), 2 in 3 of us have been diagnosed with cancer. Startling.

Thanks to the research that this charity helps to fund, cancer can be caught and stopped far more easily than ever before. More people are being diagnosed and then going on to survive. It’s fantastic. The video gave famous examples and public examples of people who have beaten cancer in an uplifting and motivational manner. More and more people survive in the modern age, and with Cancer Research UK’s mission to diagnose 2 thirds of all cancers at a stage where they can be treated, many more will too.

But of course, some do not. If you can, spare a moment for those families.

…

heart FM event sponsor, and kid with skateboard.

Race for Life is an annual affair in the UK. If you want to give it a shot, there are still events this year, which can be found here.

Men can join in too with the Race for Moore and Run 10k events.

Superbowl? Megadish!

It’s Superbowl Sunday time once again.

I have watched the Superbowl every year now since the start of my university career way back in 2003. This may not sound special, but as a European, watching a Superbowl requires certain… commitments to be made. For example being committed to staying awake till half 3 in the morning, watching kneel after kneel to get to see the ceremony. Being committed enough some years to watch alone. Being commited enough some years to watch with someone. Being committed enough to have to explain the rules to someone. Repeatedly.

These things aside, I enjoy my yearly tradition. The game is always interesting (at least for the first half) and the half time shows are for the most part appealing (or… revealing).

I think one thing that I often remember about superbowls is how different each one has been for me so far. My first, a dozen or so first year students crowded round a non license fee TV in halls, not truly understanding the game but watching it anyway. My second, sat in my student let house with a best friend and some beers. My third in an Irish bar in Munich, running up an almighty tab with the same best friend. The fourth was in London, at the Superbowl bash in Battersea park with the same guy, which was ridiculously good – projected images on two massive screens in HD. There was also the opportunity to buy helmets (but later on this transpired to become “opportunity to wish we could afford helmets”). Last year I can’t remember what I did for it, but rest assured it was pleasant enough. That’s not the point.

The focus for this super kitchen crockery reference is my best bud. I have known him for the same amount of time as I’ve known American football.

We met at University, when happy coincidence placed me in the same bedroom as him. At first, when you discover that you’re to share your room with someone you don’t know, you can feel a little nervous, or annoyed. You might soon start thinking about other  situations that may arise during a first year away from home. In all instances, the “at first” thoughts seem like you have drawn the short straw.

Nay I say.

That first year took me further in personal development than 18 years of schooling. Well, probable overstatement there, but you get the picture. I entered the house a shy skinny recluse, I left the house a semi confident alcoholic smoking skinny person. Or words to that effect. It was awesome. We spent the next year living together in a house, where we had a ”gig” stacked basement (musical friends and our equipment combined to create a damp but thoughroughly enjoyable jamming room) and a living room splayed with paintball pellets and pulp fiction posters, the obligatory playstation 2 complete with (i)Grand Theft Auto and (ii)generic football game (this instance it was FIFA). Again, progress was made (so much so, that I met my future wife).

Year abroad came and went (we lived at opposite 8 hour train journeys apart in Germany: few visits could be made or afforded).

Final year we shared with some others, but due to the nature of our courses we spent a LOT of time watching Voyager or Black Books with cups of tea and cigarettes. Yes, there were steps in the right direction. Or should I say steps in’t right direction.

There’s your back story. Brief, yes, but sufficient. This entry is largely a written account of my thanks to him. I don’t know if he’ll ever read or see this, I haven’t written it for him to see, he knows how decent he is. I felt the wider world deserves to hear it though. I mentioned what passed during our time at University, but the real focus is what I took from being friends with him. During the multiple bouts of game playing, dvd watching and beer drinking we talked. I learnt. I learnt to respect everyone, to honour appointments (however significant), to enjoy yourself completely in any situation, to laugh, never to take yourself (too) seriously and most importantly, to sleep in till the evening whenever possible.

Marc, you are a legend.

Theatrics of Football

Action Shot

I always enjoy looking at photos of football matches in full swing. The best are the postures that are created through a player kicking the ball. Just look at any football coverage site, at action shots, and you’ll see players seemingly floating, their faces contorted in complete concentration, eyeballs flaring at the spherical object they’ve just pounded.

the face says it all

Or better still, the tackle shots, where you see one man flying sideways across your image as the other hangs with matrix like prowess above, possibly with open mouthed outrage as he heads for his inevitable tête a tête with the grass.

The same can be said for many sports. That instance, that fleeting moment captures so much energy and intent that you have to admire the photographers instinct. He or she has tapped into a raw display of competitivity that reminds me so well of what it’s like to focus so purely on one thing.
It shows us both concentration and aggression; commitment without a clear idea of the outcome. It also shows that kicking a ball about looks like, and is, damn good fun.
However, there are times when despite all the grace that a still catches, a moving image tells so much more. Especially in terms of trying to attain that “I feel your pain” factor. What better example of such a moment, than Reggie Bush’s painful end to a well read play.

American Football may well have few true fans in Europe, but the power demonstrated in every game they play goes so much further it seems, than any football match ever could. For brief 10 second periods ever single player on that pitch is giving 110% to effectively eradicate their opponent, who by no freak of planning, is an equal match up in all aspects of the human build – the huge guys take on similarly huge guys, and the quick nimble ones are opposed to nifty counterparts. Each play seems like a Darwin-esque duel between them – every player blocks, runs or tackles someone and until the ball is released, the outcome is never clear. No amount of planning can pre-empt being mauled like Reggie.

Where am I going with this? I don’t know. However what is known, and well understood, is that I like sports. And disconcertingly, images of people being hurt. Worrying.