Pokemon Alpha Sapphire (3DS, 2014)

My girlfriend is in a hospital 160 miles away from me, unconscious, in the operating room, and there is nothing I can do. I haven’t spoken to her in a couple of hours, which isn’t unusual, but is still unnerving. Usually we go so long not speaking because we’re too busy doing something else, or sleeping next to each other. Not because we’re physically incapable.

On the train home from work, I weigh up my options for the night. I have to keep my mind off things. I have to entertain myself, even though all I want to do is sit very still and stare at a wall and think about all the ways things could be going wrong.

I let my mind wander. It settles on Pokemon Alpha Sapphire.

I stopped caring about Pokemon shortly after the original release of Ruby/Sapphire. I never played a version of the game released on anything other than a Game Boy Advance, barring atrocious spin-offs like Pokemon XD and Pokemon Channel. I had Ruby, and I revisited it several times, even after the GBA became defunct.

I won’t hear from my girlfriend until tomorrow morning at the earliest. The doctors have refused to call her parents to let them know how she’s doing, and insist they just show up in the morning to see her instead. Her parents send me messages to update me of a situation that I know all about already. They ask how I am. I try to keep my responses light and cheery.

I started playing Alpha Sapphire a couple of days before, during a particularly long train journey to my own parent’s house for a family wedding. It’s nothing like how I remember it. All 3D graphics and friendly rivalries and choosing genders. I end up playing as the female avatar and naming her after my girlfriend. It’s a habit. One I should probably stop.

I remember there being a phone system, where defeated Trainers would sometimes give you their numbers and challenge you to battles later down the line. I vaguely remember bikes, even though I’ve only just started and won’t get one for many hours. I do not remember having to jump on a boat and sailing to a seaside town containing a Gym I can’t beat with my Fire-type starter.

At home, I lie on the sofa and stare out at people playing in the basketball court near our flat. There are always people playing there, no matter the weather, no matter the time of day. Watching them is hypnotic in its own way – a distant collection of shapes running around, jumping, throwing, dribbling, slowing down after an hour or so, sitting around talking, moving on.

I lie very still and keep watching them. My mind is vacant for the first time all day.

Later, I’ll realise that for the last decade or so, I’ve been confusing Ruby/Sapphire with Gold/Silver/Crystal, of which I had all three, two of them having been given to me by Christmas. My uncle and former aunt got them for me from Hong Kong on the cheap. I played them all equally, despite being the same games. I cannot mentally separate them from Ruby/Sapphire, no matter how hard I try. When I look up the phone call system, I realise that was only in Gold/Silver/Crystal.

I never get round to playing Alpha Sapphire. Instead I order a takeout I can’t afford and don’t want to eat, and idly feed myself while watching a middling cop show, trying desperately to fill the multitude of voids that are growing inside me. In my head I try to make something interesting out of the situation, and start writing this blog post about Pokemon and feeling completely alone and empty without having the words to describe it.

I hope it’ll make sense when I write it.

Battlefield 1

Charles Edwin Nutt was a distant relative of mine – my great-great-great uncle, I think, if my maths is correct – who served in the First World War.

The man I’m playing as in Battlefield 1, who’s name I’ve already forgotten, apparently used to be a chauffeur and is now a tank driver, and has decided to wage a one-man war on a small town in France after his squadmate has buggered off and the tank captain is trying to fix the tank or something.

There’s not a whole lot of information available on Charles Edwin Nutt, from what I can tell. We don’t know his side of the family – or at least, if we do, I’ve never met them – so there are no stories to tell or history to him. Just one note that we have detailing one story of his.

Tank man, for lack of a better name, is sneaking around a French town trying to find spark plugs for the tank. He needs to visit four locations to do so, because apparently the Germans have only managed to salvage one spark plug per tank they’ve scrapped. He finds a silenced pistol in a convenient crate in a barn and systematically shoots each and every enemy soldier in the head, remaining undetected the whole time.

Charles first joined the war as part of the Cheshire Regiment – somehow, he ended up with the 11th Battalion East Lancashire Regiment, or Accrington Pals as they were informally known to try and draw in groups of friends who would all go to war together.

Tank man kills a German soldier by running directly at him and slamming a shovel in his chest. He has been at war for all of one day.

At the Battle of Lys, near Merris, an order went out for troops to retreat to a position near Merris Wood. The order didn’t reach the two left companies, who were behind enemy lines and faced being completely cut off. Charles, a private, volunteered to deliver the message alone.

Tank man has triggered an alarm and the entire town is awake and full of gunfire and shouting. He runs into the nearest barn and waits for his health to recover – he has been shot several times by now, but feels much better for having a little rest.

Charles Edwin Nutt ran three quarters of a mile into enemy territory, avoiding what is described as “considerable machine gun fire”, found both companies, and led them back to the right position under “heavy artillery and machine gun fire”.

Tank man grabs another gun off the ground and fires wildly, killing several German soldiers almost instantly. A soldier with a flamethrower appears – he is almost impervious to bullets, but tank man runs behind and unloads a clip into the gas tank. The flamethrower-wielding soldier screams as he catches fire and explodes.

For his service, Charles Edwin Nutt was awarded the Military Medal on May 4th 1918, six months before the war ended.

On May 17th, Charles was killed in action. If memory serves, he never physically received his medal.

Tank man has secured all his spark plugs. With the town awake and gunning for him, he jumps on a nearby horse and sprints past every soldier in sight. The horse cops a few bullets for him but seems unphased. The mission is a complete success.

My parents visited a military museum to see Charles’ Military Medal once, several years after we first found out about him. The museum curator happened to walk by as they were at the Accrington Pals section, and my mum pointed out Charles and said it was her great-great uncle. According to my dad, the curator stood with them for a time in total silence.

I don’t know if Tank Man is real. Most likely he is an amalgam of stories with some dramatic flair thrown in to make it more interesting to gamers.

I wonder, as I’m steering him and the horse through town, if Charles’ story would have made the cut for this game.

I doubt it.

The Perfect Trial (Phoenix/Nick x Manfred von Karma slash fic)

Phoenix slicked back his hair one more time. He was nervous, as always. He had all the evidence he needed, the prosecution had a witness testimony with more holes than Swiss cheese, and Maya was by his side. Everything was going to be ok.

But he was still nervous.

Suddenly, the Steel Samurai theme song started playing out of nowhere. Phoenix looked around, shocked, before he realised that it was just his phone. He laughed to himself and looked down. It was a text from Edgeworth.

“I know you’re probably nervous, Wright, but you’ll be fine. I believe in you.”

Phoenix smiled to himself, but was shocked again when his phone buzzed another time. It was Edgeworth again.

“x”

Just one kiss. Phoenix could imagine Edgeworth sending his first message, before begrudgingly deciding he should be more romantic. He was probably sat at his desk in his office, cup of tea in hand, feeling pretty stupid. It made Phoenix smile harder.

He looked at his watch. He had ten minutes until the trial started. He felt much calmer now.

“Mr Wright!”

A bailiff was calling his name. He walked briskly over to Phoenix.

“Mr Wright, sir, I’ve been told to inform you that the trial has been pushed back by half an hour.”

“Wh-whaaat??” cried Phoenix, staggering backwards.

“Also,” continued the bailiff, “Prosecutor von Karma would like to see you in his chambers.”

Phoenix was about to cry out once more, but the bailiff took off purposefully, returning to his post by the door. Phoenix felt all his calm melt away and be replaced with fear. Von Karma? Chambers?? Delayed??? This didn’t sound good.

But what choice did he have? He grabbed his court record and headed off to find Von Karma. God knew what would be waiting for him.

*

Phoenix arrived outside von Karma’s door a few minutes later. He nervously slicked his hair back for good measure, and knocked loudly.

“Enter!” snapped a harsh voice from within.

Phoenix swallowed, then gently opened the door. Manfred von Karma was sat behind his desk, idly looking at papers, a glass in his hand. His eyes darted up over his papers, but his head didn’t move.

“Ah, Mr Phoenix Wright,” said von Karma. “Please, take a seat.”

Phoenix nervously walked towards von Karma’s desk, pulling a seat out from opposite the imposing man before him. The chair squeaked against the floor, causing Phoenix to wince, but von Karma’s eyes had returned to his papers. Phoenix sat down cautiously. Von Karma took a swig from his glass.

A few moments passed in absolute silence. Phoenix started to sweat slightly. What did he want?

Suddenly, von Karma finished his drink, and put his papers aside. He neatly placed everything back where he clearly felt they belonged, and turned to Phoenix, his arms folded in front of him.

“Now then, Mr Wright…” von Karma began. Phoenix swallowed again. He was starting to seriously panic.

“It’s come to my attention that you are… how can I put this politely… seeing? One of my children?”

Phoenix flinched. Von Karma’s children?? But he only had his daughter, Franziska, and she was in Germany!

“Ah, I can see you are confused,” said von Karma. “I am of course referring to Miles Edgeworth.”

EDGEWORTH?!

“B-but he’s not your son!!” cried Phoenix, sweating.

“So you don’t deny it then?” replied von Karma.

Phoenix bit his lip, and dropped his head. “N-no… I don’t.”

Von Karma snapped his fingers, and smiled wrily. Phoenix’s sweating got worse. What was von Karma’s deal??

“Good. I’d hate to see you try and pull one of your little… ‘turnabouts’ on that rumour.”

Von Karma stood up and began to walk around his desk.

“Miles Edgeworth may not be my blood relation, but I raised that boy to the man he is today. That makes me his father, and him my son. Do you follow so far?”

Phoenix nodded.

“Now, I have no issue with the two of you… frolicking together. What I do take issue with… is you, Mr Wright.”

Von Karma stopped in front his desk, and leaned against it, no more than a few inches from where Phoenix was sat, shivering in fear.

“You see, Mr Wright… I don’t know what kind of man you are.”

Von Karma looked down sharply at Phoenix, who visibly shook. Von Karma’s power was overwhelming.

“And I don’t know if you are… worthy of seeing my son.”

“OBJECTION!” Phoenix cried, standing up suddenly. “Miles and I are in love, and it doesn’t matter what you think!”

Phoenix suddenly clapped his hand around his mouth. LOVE??!? Did he really just say that?

But von Karma just looked at the ground and smiled his wretched smile. Phoenix couldn’t get a read on him still. Where was this going.

“That may be…” muttered von Karma, “but I’m afraid I need more… evidence.”

Von Karma’s hand snapped up from his side and grabbed Phoenix’s shoulder, who flinched in fear. But von Karma’s grip wasn’t very strong. It was… gentle, almost.

“Mr Wright… Phoenix…” said von Karma, “I… want to give you… a perfect trial.”

P-perfect… trial? Phoenix couldn’t make heads nor tails of it. He felt von Karma’s presence shift from harsh to almost warm… or as warm as a von Karma could be. Phoenix almost felt relaxed…

…and then von Karma’s lips were on his.

Phoenix staggered back, detaching himself from von Karma’s face. Von Karma just stood there, smiling that same smile. But it felt more gentle now, instead of shrewd. Phoenix was so confused.

“Wh-what are you doing??” cried Phoenix.

“I… apologise,” said von Karma, still smiling, “I may have been… a little too forward.”

Von Karma stepped towards Phoenix, who took a step back of his own.

“Come now, Mr Wright,” said von Karma, “we both know that you were enjoying that.”

His fingers snapped and pointed to Phoenix’s crotch, where a bulge was already beginning to grow.

“I only want to make sure that my son will be… satisfied.”

Phoenix swallowed again. It’s true. He was enjoying it. Von Karma’s overpowering presence was actually a huge turn-on, and his directness, while catching him off-guard, was something Phoenix liked in Edgeworth. He was beginning to see where the younger man had picked up his habits.

“So, Mr Wright,” said von Karma, softly, “shall we try this again?”

Phoenix stood rooted to the spot. He didn’t want to betray Edgeworth. But at the same time, if he didn’t do this now, would von Karma ever let the two of them be happy? He was too scared to say anything. All he could manage was a nod.

Von Karma’s smile grew, and he stepped forward once more, taking Phoenix’s head in his firm hand as he did so. He brought their mouths together, and this time Phoenix didn’t resist. He moved his hand around von Karma’s waist, pressing his mouth against the older man’s, feeling the other’s tongue enter his mouth. His bulge grew some more, pressing into von Karma’s leg, who reacted by kissing more harshly. His hand grew tighter on Phoenix’s head, keeping him locked in place. It felt… it felt really good.

Von Karma sharply pulled himself away, breathing heavily. He stepped back from Phoenix towards his desk, and leaned on it once more. He then started to unbutton his trousers while Phoenix watched, nervous and excited all at once.

“Now then, Mr Wright…” said von Karma, “let’s see how you handle this piece of evidence…”

Von Karma slid his trousers and underwear down, revealing a hard, throbbing dick. Phoenix was taken aback once more. It was… it was huge! So much bigger than Edgeworth’s. Phoenix thought he wouldn’t be able to handle it, but von Karma barked sharply at him, bringing him out of his stupor.

“Mr Wright!” called von Karma, “get over here post-haste!”

Phoenix fell to his knees in front of von Karma’s thing obediently, and immediately engulfed the huge member in his mouth. Von Karma groaned loudly, his hand immediately grasping Phoenix’s hair and holding it roughly. Phoenix gagged slightly as von Karma pushed his dick further into Phoenix’s mouth and held him there, clearly savouring the moment, before pushing Phoenix’s head away so he could breathe.

“Are you enjoying yourself, Mr Wright?” asked von Karma. Phoenix nodded.

“Good,” said von Karma. “Continue.”

Phoenix once more took von Karma’s dick into his mouth eagerly, feeling his shaft take up his whole mouth, and moved his head back and forth, taking more in with each motion. Von Karma banged his fist on his desk, groaning more and more, before he couldn’t resist and grabbed Phoenix’s hair again. He held Phoenix’s head in place and roughly fucked his mouth, moaning with each thrust. Phoenix let himself be taken control of, and was enjoying it so much that he decided to start tugging at his own member. Von Karma noticed and immediately stopped, pushing Phoenix to the ground.

“No!” cried von Karma, angrily. “You will do as I say, and nothing more!”

Phoenix nodded, and removed his hand from his own throbbing dick. Von Karma snapped his fingers again, and shook his head. He reached over his desk into his drawer, and pulled out a small black object. It took Phoenix a second to recognise that it was von Karma’s favourite tool… his taser.

“Bad boys like you must be punished by daddy,” said von Karma, harshly. “Do you understand?”

Phoenix nodded once again, tensing up. Von Karma flicked the taser on with a touch so subtle Phoenix barely noticed it. Von Karma knelt down next to Phoenix’s hard dick and gently touched it with the taser. It was on its lowest setting, but the pain was excruciating. Phoenix loved every moment of it.

Von Karma stood up again, and looked down at Phoenix’s quivering body.

“Stand up, Mr Wright,” he said.

“Y-yes… daddy,” replied Phoenix.

He stood up, his legs shaking, and felt von Karma’s hand on the back of his neck. Von Karma pushed Phoenix over his desk, sending the papers he had been reading earlier flying off into the corner of the room.

“Making a mess, are we, Mr Wright?” asked von Karma, sarcastically. “I do hope you understand the consequences.”

Von Karma pulled Phoenix’s trousers and underwear down to his knees, and thrust the taser straight onto Phoenix’s bare behind. He yelped in pain, his body shaking with electricity. Von Karma removed the taser from his body as sharply as it had been put there, and tossed it aside. Then he took his place behind Phoenix, and pinned his head down on the desk with one hand while guiding himself into Phoenix’s waiting ass with the other.

“Are you ready, Mr Wright?” asked von Karma. “You’re about to feel the level of perfection we von Karmas have dedicated our lives for.”

Phoenix could hardly speak, and once again nodded. Von Karma grinned wildly, and slammed his hard dick straight into Phoenix, who cried out in a mix of pain and pleasure. Von Karma retreated slightly, before slamming him again, and again. Von Karma’s groans drowned out Phoenix’s moans as he felt von Karma’s rock-hard thing drive into him over and over, unable to get himself off. Von Karma realised this, and slid his hand around Phoenix’s cock, pulling it out of his trousers and jerking it hard and fast.

Phoenix cried out in pure pleasure, grasping the desk with both hands, as von Karma pounded his prostate while roughly jerking off his cock. The two men writhed in pleasure, von Karma occasionally letting go of Phoenix’s head to slam his fist on the table, before returning it to the back of Phoenix’s neck. Sweat poured from both men’s bodies, until von Karma suddenly spoke.

“Now, Mr Wright, let me show you why a von Karma never loses!”

His grip tightened even harder on Phoenix’s dick, who couldn’t hold it in any longer, and came all over von Karma’s desk. Von Karma, enjoying the sight, came inside Phoenix’s ass simultaneously. His moans echoed throughout the room as all the tension fell out of his body, and his grip on Phoenix loosened almost immediately.

The two men stood for a moment, panting, trying to catch their breath. Von Karma straightened up suddenly, redressing himself, and returning to his usual calm demeanour within an instant. Phoenix had no such luck. He was still twitching from his orgasm, whilst panicking about the mess he had made.

“Mr Wright, please, compose yourself,” said von Karma, gently. “Do not worry about the mess. I will have… someone come and clean it up right away.”

Phoenix sheepishly redressed himself, feeling von Karma’s hot mess fall gently into his underwear. Sheesh. Would he even have time to change before the trial?

…wait. THE TRIAL!!

“W-we’re supposed to be in court!!” cried Phoenix, entering full panic mode. But von Karma just smiled, as he always did.

“Don’t worry, Mr Wright,” he said. “I have found us some… suitable replacements.”

This only made Phoenix worry more.

“Oh, and Mr Wright?”

Phoenix looked up, and found von Karma’s eyes staring him down.

“You were… satisfactory. You have my permission to see Edgeworth.”

Phoenix’s face lit up slightly. Then it fell again. Edgeworth. He’d betrayed him for what he thought was a good reason. But how could he tell Edgeworth about what had happened? Could he ever confess?

“Mr Wright.”

Phoenix snapped out of it once more to find von Karma stood by the door, holding it open.

“I thank you for coming by. Now, if you don’t mind…”

Phoenix froze, then nodded in understanding, and hurried out. He had to see what was going on at his trial.

*

Phoenix arrived at the court’s waiting room an hour later for his trial. He couldn’t believe it. What would he say to the judge? Did von Karma actually have replacements organised?

At that moment, the courtroom doors opened, and out stepped Edgeworth, looking perfectly composed as always. Phoenix gasped. Had… Edgeworth been his opposition all along?

“Ah, Wright,” said Edgeworth. “You missed quite a trial.”

Phoenix stood in front of Edgeworth, panting. His mind was catching up with his body. Why had Edgeworth come out from the defence’s side? And why was Maya with him?

“Oh, didn’t you hear, Nick?” said Maya. “Mr Edgeworth stepped in for you at the last minute! He was amazing out there! Maybe even better then you!”

Gee, thanks Maya, thought Phoenix, looking at Edgeworth. Edgeworth looked at him curiously, before shrugging and shaking his head.

“It was an open and shut case, Wright,” he said. “I don’t see why you were so worried. It was almost the perfect trial.”

Phoenix shuddered. He never wanted to think about a perfect trial ever again.

Sonic Mania

I am young, very young. Probably like 5 or 6. My sister and I are playing games together – one game really, we can’t decide on anything else, so we always break out Sonic The Hedgehog 2 and play the same four levels over and over. Emerald Hill Zone. Casino Night Zone. Special Stage. Mystic Cave Zone, I think. It’s all kind of hazy now, but the feeling is still there. Two players, sat in front of the TV, me usually winning because of too much time spent playing the game.

Eventually we will move the Mega Drive into my room and put a PlayStation in the lounge and everyone will have to put up with me playing the Rugrats licensed game. Both of them, in fact. But for now we are keeping it simple.

I am 24 years old, and I have a sudden urge to call my sister.

I am 18, I guess. Sonic 2 comes up on Xbox Live and it’s so cheap I’d be a fool not to buy it. I can’t get over the fact that it has save points now. I don’t have to beat it all in one go. I can just work my way through.

This never happens. Every attempt must be in one straight run, and every attempt sees me dying in Casino Zone because let’s face it, I’m just not good enough. After a couple of goes I put it down and never play it again.

I am 21. Someone asks if we can play Sonic 2. I say, sure.

I am 22. My niece is playing Primal Rage with me, but I long to show her the game of my childhood.

I am maybe 9, maybe 10. There is a crummy PC that my parents still use, and a disc with Sonic 3 & Knuckles on it somewhere in the study. I spend an afternoon installing it and loading it up. For some reason it opens in windowed mode, and everything moves at twice the speed it should. It runs fine in fullscreen.

Somehow the level select cheat code remains in my fingers and I’m jumping between zones, failing constantly. Tails dies again and again and again and again. There’s a fire shield.

I am 12, I think. Mum has taken me around several places she is mystery shopping, and in each one I find a GameCube stand and play Sonic Adventure 2. The last one we visit, we leave with a new GameCube and only one game – it will go down as one of my favourite games of all time.

Several years later I will remember Knuckles and regret that decision.

I am 24. My sister is a couple of hundred miles away now, and I probably won’t see her until Christmas. That’s OK, I think. It gives me time to get better at this.

I smack into a wall and run down a small incline. My thumbs instinctively begin a spin dash and I fire myself back up the wall and into harm’s way. Not for the first time.

Most things change enormously over time, but some will always stay the same.

The Mars Volta Channel

I’m in a field about an hour outside of Bristol drinking spiced rum mixed with Asda own brand cola straight from the two-litre bottle. It’s drizzling, or it has been drizzling, or it’s about to drizzle, but there’s that vague haze in the air like the drizzle is, has and always will be there regardless, and it’s grey and stuff, and the clouds exist, and what have you. The rum is not mine. I have recently played Scrabble aboard a double-decker bus that is also a cafe and book exchange for about forty-five minutes with two gentlemen who feel younger than they probably are. One is ill and lacking in energy, but throws quips and jokes around with ease. The other seems full of energy in an almost desperate fashion, like this is his last chance to do something fun and exciting and stupid with his life before it all crumbles back to mediocrity. He is the one who offered the rum and a beer. Coors Light. I have never liked beer but I suppose now I’m getting used to it.

A friend and I are telling these new people our life stories. They seem far more taken with my friend, whose musical prowess easily beats mine, and who, unlike myself, doesn’t hide behind modesty for fear of appearing arrogant and then inevitably appears arrogant in other ways. I’m comfortable with this. I don’t have to answer any real questions, I don’t have to worry about being misunderstood or looking strange or annoying. It will annoy me later when people can’t remember my name at all, because “quiet” is not an attribute that makes a lasting impression, but I don’t know this yet, and have already forgotten their names anyway. We ask them for their stories. We discuss the festival. We say it is our first time. We ask about the silent disco, if the others are going, what was it like.

The rum is passed. The silent disco? Oh it’s great, like, you look at everyone here and the bands playing, and you have all these obscure names and the genres and stuff, and these people who think they’re really cool, but as soon as Beyonce comes on over those headphones everyone knows the words, and they’re all singing along. It’s madness.

OH and there was the Mars Volta channel, that was weird.

Wait they had a channel specifically for The Mars Volta?

A grin. Oh yeah! They had two DJ’s and then just, like, this one channel that played The Mars Volta non-stop. It was crazy. All these people dancing to, like, Rihanna, and you’re just stood there watching and listening to The Mars Volta.

(The Mars Volta, for lack of a better explanation, are an experimental rock band, which really can only be heard to be understood.)

We laugh at the concept. Only at a math-rock festival. Of course there would be a Mars Volta channel.

Other people arrive, saying hello, being introduced. We discuss geography, determining who is the most Northern of the group, which is obviously me, it was pretty much always going to be me, and someone proclaims they have a pork pie, which they do, and that I should eat it because it’ll make me feel right at home, and I smile sardonically and eat it because I like free food and don’t mind being the butt of the joke. We talk about ages and university and subjects. We ask about the silent disco. Apparently there was a Mars Volta channel? Are they doing it again this year?

Someone pipes up that they had a chat with the guys selling the headphones, and apparently there might be, but there’s no official ruling yet. There’s a collective sense of disappointment, you can feel the air sink out of the group and into the atmosphere, which reacts and begins to drizzle (if it had not already been doing so). Oh and speaking of the silent disco, you should probably get your headphones now, they sell out fast. Oh ok. We set off.

The headphones are in abundance, it’s fine, we probably didn’t need to set off so soon, but we’re here now and there’s a screamo band playing, so why not. We queue, as we do. A discussion kicks up at the front. Will there be a Mars Volta channel this year? It was the best part!

Ah. Yes. The Mars Volta channel. That was actually a mistake. See, there was supposed to be an iPod playing through a whole load of songs, but it broke, and got stuck on these three Mars Volta songs, and we couldn’t fix it, it just looped forever. We didn’t even know people loved it so much. So no, we hadn’t really been thinking about it. Sorry.

Oh no worries.

The rum is passed. I swig just a little too much and then some more for good measure. No one else wants to drink it, and the guy with the nervous energy doesn’t want to be carrying it round all day, so he’s willing to share, and my friend and I are willing to drink, and before I even step foot in the large tent to watch a nineteen-piece indie-pop band play happy, uplifting music to a damp crowd, I can feel my footing start to loosen and my head begin to lighten and everything at that moment is great, forget the weather, I’m here amongst nice people who are drunk and high and loving everything, and I am young and carefree and have plenty of money and it’s just lovely, everything’s lovely.

The day progresses. We nap and sober up and battle through the now torrential rain to get front row positions for a band I really want to see, and they are amazing, and I eat a burrito and it’s lovely, and we decide to drink again despite the horrific prices at the bars, but the mellow feeling returns and suddenly I don’t care, and the final band say their goodbyes and the headphones begin to light up. Queens of the Stone Age come on just as I’m finishing up my third drink, just as I hit the nice point of drunk, so basically it’s perfect, and we head to the throng of soaking wet bodies thrashing around in the mud. Two DJs stand on a stage surrounded by others, making gestures to the crowd to make some noise, have a good time, dance, etc.

I flick between channels on my headphones, watching the inside of my hood light up in the alternating colours to represent which channel I’m tuned into. I switch from rock to hip-hop to rock to hip-hop to rock to a strange almost crackling sound to hip-hop and then pause. I look around and watch the mass of bodies change the channels on their headphones from red to blue to red to blue to red to green to blue and raise an eyebrow. I switch the channels again from hip-hop to rock to piano and maybe some guitar I can’t really tell to hip-hop to rock to crazy drums and my vague knowledge kicks in and I smile.

We have found the Mars Volta channel.

You can see everyone else slowly realise this too, people who have no idea what it is, people who remember it from last year and smile at what feels like a huge in-joke for the regulars, people who just really like The Mars Volta, and it’s a magical moment. People flip between the channels still, some staying longer than others, a few staying there forever, the headphones a bright green to give away the fact that they are in their own little world of Mars Volta, watching others sway to a time signature far far away.

Later the rain will become too much, my legs too tired, my alcohol level too inconsequential, but for that moment there was only the bodies, the headphones, and the Mars Volta channel, and all was good.

Kim Kardashian And The Child Downstairs Who Wants His Mummy

“I want my mummyyyy” shrieks the child downstairs, putting on his wellies in some vain attempt to make us take him seriously on the matter. He doesn’t. We know he doesn’t. We know he knows that she’s at work. We’ll ask him this later and he will concede that he knows precisely where she is, then forget and start crying for her again, or say some piece of paper is his mummy, or ask where is teddy is, or ask what Richard’s doing, or just mumble nonsense while waving a plastic shopping basket over his head and potentially injuring himself, and that’ll have to be written up in the accident book so why the hell won’t he just put the fucking basket down.

Kim Kardashian is asking me if I want to run her business in Miami, a job everyone has told me to take because it beats folding clothes in wherever it is I’m currently working. I’ve been blowing off work for days now, jetsetting around the world to have my photo taken in the same clothes because I can’t afford anything else. I look Kim Kardashian dead in the eye and say yes, I’d love to run your business, only I’m going to attend some more photo shoots and be in commercials and try and build my own brand rather than actually run your business because I’m a free goddamn spirit that’s why. Kim Kardashian is pleased, I think, I don’t know her face doesn’t move. She shows me how to do a shift. I fold clothes. I flew from one coast of the US to the other to fold clothes while Kim Kardashian’s lifeless face stares me down.

The child has ceased his desire to find his mother. I tell him to take his wellies off. He snaps back a short “no” but takes them off anyway. He sobs while he does it.

Kim Kardashian asks me if I like men or women. I’m not sure why I can’t like both. I ponder the question for a while. I defer to the person whose name I’m using for my character, and she says she doesn’t mind either way. We settle on men. Don’t want to mess with the status quo. Kim Kardashian wants to know if I like athletic or arty types, and let’s be honest here there’s no chance I’m gonna date someone who thinks of themself at athletic, so I go with arty. She knows just the right guy for me. He’s not even a nerdy sitcom writer. I’m a little hurt. I meet him though. He’s called Mitchell. His eyebrows are very special. I don’t find out what kind of writer he is. I spend $100 on wine. We call it a night.

The child downstairs is asking where his mummy is. I tell him that she doesn’t love him and has left him here for the rest of his life so that we may raise him as our own. He nods solemnly and asks where his daddy is. I tell him daddy’s at work.

Kim Kardashian doesn’t know that I muted her a long time ago and replaced her soundbites with the Bastion soundtrack, but I’m not sure she cares either way. She’s resting in her mansion in Hollywood or Beverly Hills or something. I think she drives there but I have to get a bus, and I’m wearing one of those dresses that has kinda see-through bits so I feel a bit weird about taking the bus, but sometime’s that’s the best you can do in this life. My agent calls and says he’s got me a spot in a commercial for glass wipes or something. I’m not listening. I go to the filming and spend a chunk of my energy doing precisely nothing, checking my makeup, checking the lighting despite having no qualifications in the area, and then once running through my lines. I nail it. I’ll be the talk of the town in precisely forty seven minutes and twenty six seconds. It might push me onto the D-list. It probably won’t.

The child asks where my mum is, and I tell him, and he is dissatisified, and I want to tell him all about how we can’t have the things we want in life, that sometimes we end up disappointed and stuck and there’s nothing we can do, but then he asks where his teddy is and I realise that I’m fighting a losing battle and tell him to shut up instead.

Kim Kardashian grins at me some more. It’s starting to freak me out.

Thoughts On “Consensual Torture Simulator”

If the title of this blog post has already got you feeling a little uncomfortable, you may want to stop reading now. I won’t be offended. It’s OK. Google “fluffy kittens” instead.

NOTE: I am a complete newbie in the world of kink, impact play, and just generally that kind of stuff. If I use the wrong terminology (like “that kind of stuff”) or say something problematic (I will try and refrain from using the word “weird”) then please forgive and/or inform me so I can be more accurate/correct in future. I don’t mean to offend or upset, I am just ill-equipped for this task.

Causing physical harm to someone has never been an appealing prospect. I have been in one fight in my life, which I instigated, and consequently lost. Most times I get into fights with people, I curl up into a ball and plead with them to stop hurting me. I don’t like pain. And I don’t hugely like the idea of inflicting pain on other people. Even if they ask me too. Which is happening with alarming frequency.

I’m not sure what about me strikes people with the idea that I would want to hurt them. Sometimes I think it might be my eyebrows. My face looks permanently pissed off, so maybe it’s that. There’s a rumour circulating that I once drunkenly barged my way into a girl’s room and threatened her (what exactly I threatened her with is a mystery) because she had broken my heart. Although apparently I also threatened to kill myself over webcam for the same reason. I don’t really know why people would believe these stories. I’m a sweet kid really.

When I saw Consensual Torture Simulator I was immediately intrigued and thought that spending $2 to satisfy that curiosity was probably a good idea. I’m not sure if the people who monitor my online traffic will think so. I haven’t received any emails from the university about it so far, but there’s always that worry, you know? So anyway I bought it. And then I played it. And then I had to sit quietly for five minutes and try to understand what had just happened and decide if I was OK with it or not.

Consensual Torture Simulator is a Twine game made by Merrit Kopas. In it, you are tasked with physically harming your partner until she cries, and then I assume you can probably keep pushing it and break the trust she has in you. I don’t really know, I didn’t experiment that far. You have three tools at your disposal; your hands, flogger and cane, and you can choose to take a break to catch your breath or just stop completely. You can, in theory, stop before you even start. But then that would completely defeat the purpose of the game.

You’re hurting your partner because she wants you to. You never have sex with her at any point, in any form. This is all about the pain, which, I’m guessing, is being done for sexual pleasure. And as the game informs you, causing someone to cry real actual tears from pain inflicted on them is a big deal. There’s a lot of trust there, like that you won’t go further to the point where it stops being fun. I can understand that. That seems fair.

I’m still not wholly comfortable with the idea of hurting people for pleasure, however. I’m sure the game wasn’t supposed to change my mind on that front, and is instead there to open people’s eyes to the idea that pain in video games can be inflicted for the recipient’s pleasure, not just as a means to an end or because you want to kill them. So on that front it’s a raving success; the writing is fantastic and (for someone not used to or particularly interested in kink) kind of arousing. Which was a strange one to take on board.

A few hours after playing Consensual Torture Simulator a girl I’ve been seeing sent me a text telling me that she couldn’t stop thinking about me hurting her, so I invited her over to play the game. She’s far more used to that whole area of sex, so I thought it’d be interesting to see her thoughts. I don’t think she quite grasped that you could repeat actions several times to amp up the pain, and she stopped before making her partner cry.

And then she threw a shoe at me in the hopes I would slap her in return. Which just didn’t seem fair.

I don’t really know what I thought about Consensual Torture Simulator. I’m still trying to piece together my thoughts now, hence the rather rambly blog post.

I think it left me upset and confused because it’s not something I particularly want to do. I don’t like hurting people. I have years of repressed anger and hate that I pushed away because its useless to me, and I fear that if I was given the opportunity to let it all go then I might go too far and do serious damage. I guess that’s what safewords are for.

I think I was conflicted because, well, suddenly I wanted to hurt someone for pleasure, and that’s an incredibly unusual feeling for someone who has never desired harm on anyone before. But the game made it sound like fun, and if the partner was willing and everything was agreed upon beforehand so that nothing got too out of hand, then surely that’s OK?

I put my hands around my ex’s throat once as a joke (only lightly, I didn’t squeeze and she was never at any point in danger), and she screamed and told me to never ever do that again. So I guess maybe that memory still resides deep in my mind, telling me not to hurt women I like.

There’s probably some darker stuff from my childhood holding me back as well, but I don’t really think that a blog that can be read by anyone on the Internet is the best place to discuss that, particularly if my parents find this.

My worldview and ideologies have changed a lot over the past few months. I think I’ve changed quite a lot as a person too. Consensual Torture Simulator acted as a reminder that a lot of things that I considered “weird” and “icky” before are actually, you know, perfectly acceptable. It’s not domestic violence, it’s consensual violence. People use the word “play” to associate with what they’re doing. I don’t think I like the word “play” in this context, but equally my linguistics brain says that it’s fine, people can use words how they like, don’t diss. So I’m trying to keep an open mind about that. It’s hard work, and it’s very confusing and scary, but I am trying.

In terms of being a game, Consensual Torture Simulator is very good. It’s well written and paced, there’s enough options available to keep things interesting, and there’s multiple endings to achieve based on how much pain you inflict. So mad props for that.

In terms of opening my eyes to kink and impact play, I still feel a little strange about the whole thing. I don’t know if it’s something I really want to explore in any great depth, but I do know now that it’s OK, so long as everyone knows what’s going on and everyone’s agreed that it’s fine. You can’t just suddenly start beating your partner during sex, for example. Which may seem obvious, I dunno? But set guidelines beforehand and it’s cool. OK. I think I can handle that.

Anyway you really should check it out. It’ll give you some food for thought, or turn you on, or maybe it might just gross you out. But any game that can inflict numerous different feelings to numerous different people is surely deserving of attention.

You can buy Consensual Torture Simulator here: https://gumroad.com/l/consensualtorturesimulator

Ten

“You’ll never guess what I’ve just seen,” boasted Henry Fifteen as he rolled through the door of the storeroom. Henry’s Six and Seven attempted to roll their eyes, but found the task beyond comprehension. Henry Sixteen, who had to put up with this shit all the time, stayed quiet. In fact, the whole storeroom remained silent, save for the sound of a daddy long legs battering itself against the light-bulb dangling from above.

“You’re supposed to guess,” said Henry Fifteen, audibly pissed off that no one was taking an interest in his latest exploits. Henry Fifteen’s adventures were all of a similar nature, so the occupants of the room felt they would nail the guess in one go, but couldn’t find it within themselves to care. The awkward silence continued, as Henry Fifteen cast his gaze around the room, searching for even a glimmer of interest. He began to smirk as his eyes rested on young Henry Ten, idling in a corner, clearly trying not to make eye contact.

“You should take an interest in your elders and betters you know,” said Henry Fifteen.

Henry Ten shuffled uncomfortably.

“There’s a lot you could learn about the world, son.”

Henry Ten risked a glance at Henry Fifteen. The trademark smirk was in full view on his huge face.

“Come on then lad,” said Henry Fifteen, “take a guess.”

Henry Ten swallowed, trying to find the words.

“I don’t know, Fifteen.”

A collective groan from the crowd. Ten doesn’t know. Bloody kids. Coming in here, taking up jobs and not knowing the basics, like don’t talk to Fifteen about anything ever. If Ten’d kept his bloody mouth shut then Fifteen would’ve got bored and buggered off. But no. The smirk remained on Fifteen’s face as his verbal assault continued.

“That’s why I said to guess, lad.”

Ten thought for a little. “You found a fiver on the floor?”

Fifteen laughed. “A fiver?” He made a face as though the very thought of a five pound note repulsed him. “You think I’d come in here and tell you lot about a fiver?”

Ten wasn’t very good at guessing games, and he was even worse at trying to convince people to leave him alone. He didn’t have the aptitude for ignoring people; his mother had raised him to always speak when spoken to. He couldn’t tell Fifteen to bugger off either, since Fifteen was big and scary and older than him, and spoke so loudly and so often that Ten rather naively assumed he was the de facto leader of the pack. To disrespect Fifteen would be to disrespect the whole group, or so Ten thought. In fact, shutting Fifteen up probably would’ve made the group more open to Ten. As it happened, they continued to quietly exude disdain to the kid, who was struggling to come up with another guess.

“Someone dropped their membership card?” he tried.

Fifteen frowned slightly. “You’re really bad at this, do you know?”

Ten nodded slightly. He knew.

Fifteen sighed, looked slightly disapprovingly at the kid, and then brought his smirk back into full force and spun round to regale to the entire crowd.

“There I was, patrolling the Women’s Golfwear section,” he began. Another groan was once more collectively emitted, with a couple of “Christ”’s thrown into the mix of barely concealed hatred. Fifteen was undeterred. “I was just going along, minding my own business, when this old dear trips over me. I told her to watch where she was going, but she didn’t hear me. Probably deaf. Anyway, she drops her handbag and everything spills out. I mean, everything; bus pass, purse, Werther’s Originals, the lot. And she bends over to pick it all up – and I’m trying not to look, you know, keeping myself to myself – but I just happen to look up and you know what I saw?”

Only Ten was listening, mostly through a sense of obligation, but he waited the appropriate amount of time for a dramatic pause. Fifteen, however, was not aware of the power of silence as a storytelling tool, and so began to look around for someone to query what it was that he in fact saw. His eyes once again fell onto Ten, who tried his best to stammer out a response.

“Uh… um… her skirt was ripped?” he tried.

Fifteen gave Ten a quizzical look. “A ripped skirt? Are you right in the head, lad? You think I give a shit about a wrecked skirt?” He sighed once more, clearly annoyed at his flow being disrupted. “No, she wasn’t wearing any knickers!”

A few ears perked up, but did not actively register interest. Henry Six began to shift, and then remembered who was telling the story, and thought better of it. Only Ten, who was being stared down by Fifteen, that permanent smirk still prevalent, begging him to respond in some way, dared to provide the appropriate response.

“No knickers?”

Fifteen lit up. “Aye! It were all just there, blowing in the wind! I could see her tonsils!”

Ten considered this for a moment, but the look in Fifteen’s eye suggested the phrase should not be taken literally, so he moved to his next question.

“So what did you do?”

“I looked away, of course! Bloody hell, you think I want to stare at an old woman’s whoosit? Christ, why would I waste my eyes on that when there’s plenty else to look at? Yesterday, right…”

A third, slightly louder groan was about to find its way into the ether when suddenly the storeroom door flung open and the crowd was saved a retelling of yesterday’s upskirt adventure. A tallish woman walked in and surveyed the room. A hush fell over the room once more, but suddenly smiles were on everyone’s faces, and eyes were widened as far as they would go. Take pride in the job, the older boys said, and make it look like you want to be there.

Ten didn’t want to be there, but he didn’t have much choice. His mother had worked there until she died. His father was still there, but Ten rarely saw him any more. He’d been moved to a different department on a higher floor, so their paths seldom crossed. And Ten’s parent’s parents had worked here. And their parents. Etcetera ad nauseum. Ten was destined to work here and die here, a fate he was none too happy about. So he sat in the corner and hoped he could at least wile away his time without having to do much work.

Today he had no such luck. The others smiled and widened their eyes and waited, but the woman walked over to Ten’s corner and grabbed his handle all the same. Tuts and mutterings filled the air. Always the young kid. Lazy bastard doesn’t even want to be here. Ten was hoisted into the air as it filled up with a collection of quiet verbal abuse, and looked down at a mass of still widened eyes, staring up at him, mouths moving quick and with slight movements until one accidentally shouted “Prick!” and the whole storeroom burst into laughter as the door closed on them.

The woman heard none of this. She had grabbed number ten because it was the newest, and therefore probably wouldn’t break, and she couldn’t be arsed telling her manager about a broken vacuum again. Number ten was barely used and sometimes hard to find, but she had a sixth sense for hunting down the newer cleaners. She carried the vacuum a short way from the storeroom, set it down on the carpet, grabbed its power cord, and went off in search of a plug socket.

Ten sighed lightly to himself. Hiding in the corner never worked. Clearly someone knew something. Maybe he’d have to dig his heels in so his nose got torn, and they’d choose someone else. A broken Henry is a dead Henry, as the older guys said, and Ten didn’t see much point in continuing his existence if being dragged around a shop, day in day out, was all he had to look forward to. No; mustn’t think like that. Dad wouldn’t approve. Ten pushed the thoughts out of his mind, and surveyed the area. Which brought about his next horror.

The lingerie section.

Not that Ten had any problems with the range of lingerie on offer in the shop, of course. Wasn’t that the whole point of lingerie? He had never witnessed it worn, of course, but he understood that it was used by women to allure men, or make women feel sexy, or something. But he also understood that a man wandering around a lingerie section wasn’t exactly welcomed, unless he was buying a gift, and even then isn’t that still creepy? What’s OK about a man deciding what would be sexy for his partner to wear?

Subsequently, Ten began to panic. Only Fifteen would be pleased to be seen dragged around the undergarments of women, and he was an arse. What if someone else rolled past and saw? Would they think Ten was some lewd pervert as well? It was already pretty clear he was disliked, and this would only serve as more ammunition for the others to hate him.

(He was, of course, neglecting to realise that all Henry’s had at one point had to cover lingerie, and felt exactly the same as him about it (unless their name was Fifteen.))

The woman returned, and wondered briefly why the hoover had rolled back a little from the lingerie section, but decided not to press the issue. She knelt down, flicked the switch to ON with a snap, and grabbed the hose. She began to vacuum up the dust in front, then to the side, lifting the nozzle onto some stands that had gathered noticeable colonies of dust and stray fibres that had drifted down from a bra. Satisfied with her progress, she moved to carry on, pulling the nozzle to encourage the rest of the machine to follow.

The machine did not follow.

Ten stood his ground as best he could, which is something when you consider he rested his entire body on four small wheels. He did not want to have to look around women’s delicates, and it wasn’t as though he could avert his gaze. The best he could do was to focus all his weight down.

The woman struggled on for a moment, but gave up. She didn’t have time for this shit. She was due to finish in fifteen minutes and she was not going to let some stupid machine stop her from finishing her last job of the day and cause her to get yelled at by the boss again. She stepped over to number ten, grabbed his handle once again, and carried it to her destination.

Ten hadn’t thought of that. He realised there was no way he could win this.

The task carried on without a hitch from that point. Ten dutifully sucked up the natural detritus, while the women chatted lightly with passing colleagues. Ten didn’t listen to the conversations much; for one thing, he made a hell of a noise when he went about his job. The chance of hearing anything over his own din were slim, so phrases like “new one” and “this one’s pink” went by completely unheard. He tried to listen to the easy listening music that echoed through the store, but it was mercifully turned down low, so again there wasn’t much to hear. He resigned himself to counting how many fibres he picked up. Two thousand and seventy three. Four. Five. Six seven eight what was that?

A pink shape floated by, as though it was rolling on air. Its eyes were huge. Its eyebrows were almost as large. What so often looked like a smirk somehow appeared demure and beautiful, rather than smug. And the nose… so long, so slender… Ten was in love. He watched as the shape was carried past, transfixed. The person carrying it turned a corner and he learned her name. Henrietta Twenty Two.

Henrietta Twenty Two. Henry Ten had found his soul-mate.

The man carrying Henrietta Twenty Two saw the woman dragging Henry Ten and realised that if ever he was going to ask her out for that drink, it had to be now. He had been building up to this moment for days, nay, weeks, and he wasn’t going to chicken out now. He gently placed his machine down and wandered over.

Henry Ten suddenly found himself looking over, directly into the eyes of the woman he had just fallen in love with, who was looking back, smiling. He tried to convince himself the smile meant something. Maybe she was smiling inside. How could he know? And would it matter? They probably wouldn’t even work in the same department. She’d be shipped off upstairs to work at the restaurant and he’d be stuck down here cleaning up the oh shit oh shit he was nose deep in the lingerie section.

He began to yell something about how he hadn’t wanted to be here, share with her his beliefs about men in lingerie aisles, but the distance was too great. So here he was. Whirring loudly, a stupid smirk on his face and his eyes wide and soaking up the lace. If he could’ve turned a deeper shade of red, he would.

The man was having a bit more luck. The woman had been waiting for the man to ask her out for sometime, quietly hoping he was as interested in her as she was in him. She could never make the first move. She’d been taught better than that. But here he was, asking her what she was up to on Friday.

Henry Ten wished they’d hurry up hurry up please please stop talking and GO AWAY.

The man grinned and walked off. His day was looking up.

Henry Ten vainly attempted to look down. Despite all his effort, he failed.

The woman’s hopes rose greatly. She finally had a reason to wear that dress.

Henrietta rose into the air once more, and drifted away.

Henry Fifteen rolled by, being dragged by the nose, muttering about what a lucky bastard his young cohort was.

Lancaster University’s Bowland College – A Survival Guide (Of Sorts (But Not Really))

Looking at a page for Fresher’s to meet new people before actually arriving at Lancaster Uni, I saw someone say that they were joining Bowland college, which they had heard “is a bit of a ghetto”. (Someone also said that they thought men studying English Language was rare, but that’s another argument entirely.) There was some discussion from non-Bowlanders about how it is, in fact, a ghetto, although it isn’t as bad as Pendle ghetto. Ha ha ha.

I have a couple of issues with this. First off, that Bowland being a ghetto is a bad thing. Second, that Pendle ghetto is in fact a real place, and is worse than Bowland.

Let me get this perfectly straight: Bowland is cheap, cheap, cheap, in physical price and look and feel. It is the lowest of the low of colleges. Pendle ghetto ‘aint got nothing on Bowland. I’ve been to Pendle ghetto. It’s lovely. So don’t buy into that crap.

But Bowland is also great. And you should not be scared of it.

I’m gonna start off with the bad parts, based on my year’s experience living in Ash House, notorious for being the crappiest accomodation on campus. But don’t let them scare you off – it gets better if you keep going.

Cons

1. It’s Bowland College

On campus, Bowland is predjudiced against pretty harshly. With the opulent (in comparison) County college only a few minutes walk away, it’s hard not to be a little dismayed when your eyes fall upon the peeling paint, the ’60s architecture and the fact that the entire college appears to be built around the bins. Ash House is the worst reminder of this – if your room looks out over to the Chaplaincy Centre (the campus church, in short), then you’ll wake up every morning to the sight of rotting food and empty pizza boxes strewn about the place where drunkards couldn’t be bothered to dispose of the rubbish properly.

This isn’t to say other colleges don’t get stick as well; the aforementioned Pendle ghetto is evidence enough of that, and the usual response to “where the fuck is Grizedale/Fylde” from anyone who isn’t a member of those colleges is a simple shrug. And don’t get me started on Cartmel. Bunch of wankers, as legend tells. But any college with an accomodation famed for the myth that every occupant pisses in their sinks (if you live in Ash House, then get used to hearing that one) is definitely going to be considered the lowest on the food chain.

2. It’s cheap for a reason

Well it used to be really cheap, but now I guess it’s just cheap-er than everywhere else.

Exhibit A: my room from Ash House.

Note the salmon pink walls. Note the uncovered strip light directly above my pillow. Note the sink peeking out from behind that wall. Behind this is a desk, a chair, a bookshelf and a wardrobe. There is just (JUST!) enough room to fit a single mattress on the floor, should you have a friend over, or find it impossible to share a bed with your partner.

It doesn’t look all that great, does it? But at least it’s cheap.

3. You will be sharing with lots of people

The largest number of people you share a kitchen with in Pendle ghetto is eight. Eight people is not a lot of people.

The largest number of people you share a kitchen with in Ash House is twenty six. Yes. Twenty six people, all together in one medium sized kitchen, with two cookers, two sinks (in theory, anyway, as our kitchen only had one sink between twenty six people), four fridges and two freezers. There is, in theory, enough cupboard space for everyone, but in actuality, some prick will take up three cupboards so they can individually place their plates and cups and take up as much of the kitchen as possible.

And of course, put enough people together in close proximity and eventually people will fall out. Arguments will be had. Water will be thrown in people’s faces. Passive aggressive notes will be left on fridges, toilet doors and under your own door. You will spend more time treading carefully around everyone else’s pet peeves than the mess they leave lying around.

BUT.

I spent a year in what my friends described as a multi-storey car park, and I will be returning to it again this year. Would I rather live elsewhere? Yes. But not because I hate Ash House. I love that damn place. And here’s why.

Pros

1. It’s cheap

Not gonna lie, I get a fair amount of loan. If I really wanted to, I could move into Cartmel and live in my own little box with my own little bathroom and have my own little world, and still be able to eat each week.

But in Bowland, I can eat like a king, go out when I like, and buy video games all the damn time. Socialising will be your biggest expenditure, and if you’re one of those people who doesn’t like to go jumping into their overdraft within a week, then you’ll be waiting to save money somewhere. Why not on your accomodation? If you’re drunk, you won’t even care what your room looks like!

2. You’re basically guaranteed to make friends

In Ash House you’re on a floor of fifty two people. Yes. Fifty two. That’s the number of cards in a standard deck. Odds are, if you can’t make a single friend from a group of fifty one other people, then you’re pretty much fucked anyway, and no college is going to change that.

The people you meet will also come from all over the place. Not everyone lives in Bowland because they can’t afford anywhere else. Some, like me, will be living there because they like saving money. Others will be there because they want to mingle with more people. Some knobhead will be there so he can hang out with poor people as some sort of bizarre life exchange. You might be that person. Don’t tell people that.

With so many people on one floor, you’ll be close by and privy to every drama that goes down, from who’s stealing the food to who’s banging who, and all the stuff inbetween. You’ll see these people on a day-to-day basis, either in the kitchen making lunch or just in the corridors, and you’ll get chatting to them because, hey, what else is there to do? Some people you won’t get on with, others you’ll have nothing in common with. But you will more than likely find several people you really hit it off with. The odds are in your favour.

3. If you can survive Bowland, you can survive anything

Your food will be stolen. Your showers will end up filled with crap. You will be freezing in winter and boiling in summer. Your extractor fan will fall out of the wall when you turn it on and nearly kill you. Your next door neighbour will have loud sex at all times during the day. Your other neighbour will sing Adele at the top of their voice at 2am the night before you have an exam. The list goes on.

These happen everywhere.

Now imagine they’re happening in Ash House.

If you can survive all that, and still raise your head up and say “Bowland ’til I die”, then you can do anything in life.

With these in mind, I would just like to offer a few tips to help you make it through your first year living in Bowland.

Tips

1. Go to County Bar

Bowland Bar sucks. It’s too small, it’s too quiet, and it’s always playing sport on the TV. County Bar, however, is really big, really friendly, and has one of the greatest music collections of all the bars on campus. And it’s probably even closer to you than Bowland Bar.

No one knows which college you’re from after Freshers Week anyway, and no one really cares to begin with, unless there’s a sport event on or they need something to laugh at you for. So just wander into County Bar instead.

2. Don’t go into the kitchen between 8am and 9am

You’ll probably bump into a cleaner. The cleaners will hate you, regardless of how much mess you’ve personally made. Save yourself the bother, and try to avoid them where possible.

3. Make a sign for your door

You’re drunk. It’s 3am. You’re on a hall with fifty one other people. No fucking way will you remember your room number.

Make a sign with your name on it and blu-tack it to your door. That way, everyone else knows where to find you, and you can stumble into the right room after a night out and save yourself some embarrasment.

4. Be nice to the porters

The Bowland porters two years ago were really nice peeps. Hell, it’s probably the same group now. If you get enough post, they’ll eventually learn your face, and then you don’t need to take your library card to pick up parcels. That’s a serious bonus.

So don’t piss them off. If they’re doing their rounds and your music is way up, apologise and turn it down. Don’t start arguing with them about the fact you’re throwing a party you didn’t get permission for. They’re hard working people who have to put up with knobheads on a daily basis, so save them some time and don’t be one of those knobheads.

5. If you’re studying business, consider changing colleges

The Business Centre is fucking ages away. Move to Pendle. Save yourself some time.

And that’s all there is to it! Don’t be a dick and don’t worry. Bowland College is one of the nicest colleges on campus, and it’ll prepare you for the horrors of real life in a way that gives you somewhere to hide away from it all. If you’ve got any problems, never hesitate to call a porter or talk to the Residence Officer or whatever, they’re all lovely and they don’t bite.

And if things get really desperate, I’ll be on D floor, crying myself to sleep.

(NOTE: This article was intended to be taken as a light-hearted, sarcastic account of my life in Ash House. If you’re now reading this thinking “Oh GOD what have I done uni is going to be awful” then I’m deeply sorry, and that honestly wasn’t my intention. You’ll have a great time, and I’m not just saying that to make you feel better. The first year of uni was one of the greatest years of my life, and I would honestly rewind time and do it all over again. I look forward to meeting some of the Freshers who found this post in about a month’s time! (I’m not Freshers repping, don’t worry – they only let cheery, positive people do that job))

A Quick Story From Ride To Hell: Retribution

There is a mission in Ride To Hell: Retribution where you are breaking into a guy’s farm.

His farm is protected by an electrified fence, and an enormous iron gate.

There is a truck stop behind you, containing a large truck with a fuel tank attached to the end.

You brutally murder four people to steal this truck.

You drive away in your stolen truck, blowing up police officers by ramming into them with your truck as they try to stop you.

You arrive at a giant dam that is the power plant for the entire town, though one would assume it powers a lot more than that given the size of the power plant.

You brutally murder twelve to fifteen workmen who try to stop you from destroying the power station.

You traverse through the power station and stand facing your stolen truck.

You shoot the truck until it explodes, destroying the entire power station, and sending you flying into the river.

You somehow make your way back to the farm and stand looking at the giant iron gate, which was not electrified.

You proceed to climb over the iron gate.

I will inevitably write a full review of Ride To Hell once I have completed it, but for now, I just wanted to share with you that morsel of the game that I deemed so incredibly stupid, I immediately put the controller down, sat staring into space for five minutes, and then wrote this blog post.