Eoin Monaghan vs. The State of Gaming Today

I grew up in an age where the best thing you could hear on a Tuesday night was the cracking of a can of gone-off Tennant’s while James was calling Alex a sap because he beat him three times in a row in Facility with Proximity Mines only on. If that sentence means anything to you then you were a winner.  You had mates who would call round to your gaff to slag you. Someone would have a lump of the soapiest of soap bar and someone else had an older brother who would go to Deveney’s to grab the aforementioned fermented beverages. But these days, what do you have? A 2.2 in a useless degree because you sat up till 4am every weeknight playing online against Annyong, the 14 year old Korean, at the latest Call of Duty which you bought for 60e despite the only difference from the last one being that “occasionally my AK turns a slightly darker gun-metal grey when I have exactly 47 bullets left”. What did I get in my degree? Well, eh, a 2.2…but that’s different! Everyone remembers the night where we hooked up the N64 in Luke’s tree house and nobody realised that the trapdoor in the floor opened downwards…what do you have, online gamer?

“Remember when, like, the headshot was, eh…”
“No! Only Annyong remembers that you anti-social buffoon!”

It’s not that I can’t game alone, I most certainly can. I’m the kind of person who has forged Tournesol in Final Fantasy X, unlocked 00 Agent mode in Goldeneye, played till 2026 in Football Manager. I play Skyrim. I completely understand wasting many, many hours in front of a screen alone. But the latest batch of online multiplayer shooters, football sims and racers just leave me cold. The new Fifa is better than the new Pro Evo? Sure, but I’d still rather invite the lads round and play the far superior Pro Evo 6. Want to meet online to play Battlefield 3? No, why don’t I call over and look you in the eye when I monkey-gun your sorry ass in Timesplitters 2. Ever played 8 player Mario Party 4 in a tiny room with a load of cans? There is no better Thursday afternoon to be had. I hate that gamers have forsaken each other for lifeless, robotic stat building. And that’s all online gaming is, there’s no story, no characters, no surprises, no…spirit! The latest gaming buzz-verb “prestiging” is basically an admission of failure. Prestiging 3 times is failing to realise 3 times that you are a mindless drone looking for acceptance in a community that doesn’t physically exist.

I’m not arguing that it shouldn’t exist. The idea of online gaming is brilliant. Play your mates and don’t leave the gaff? Chalk it down, I’m in. But then the Fear comes on strong…when did I last leave this house…this room...this chair?

In the end, it’s the standard of games and the people that play them that turns me into a Larry David-esque, cynical grump. If there was a multiplayer game up to the standard of Mario Kart or Perfect Dark, I probably wouldn’t leave my house. But there’s not. Unfortunately, the online community doesn’t stand for n00bs that didn’t buy the game on release day and devote a week of learning how to count the frame rate of Dhalsim’s Yoga Flame either.

I really can’t implore people to spend more time with older games, cheaper beer and actual people enough.  There’s better ways to pretend to study and if you’re not a student, far better excuses for not having a job. 

As an aside, a lot of promoters, musicians, DJs and generally great people that I've worked with or had the pleasure of knowing are really quite angry about Una Mullally and her bland typing position at the Irish Times. While I agree that, yes, the article in question could have been dribbled onto a page by a four year old on a trampoline, it really isn't overly offensive. I'm surprised there's been such a reaction to the piece because, frankly, I'm surprised people care at all. Of course, it is disappointing that the paper that has housed O'Brien, Banville and Humphries (not you, Binchy) should print such tripe but how and ever, the readership and target demographic of the Irish Times Weekend Review is not that fit girl you were dancing with beside the Stage at Maya Jane Coles (who were you, fit girl??). Its not your mate who's just done an E.P. made entirely of kick drums, or even that DJ you booked once who wanted a hot cup of tea walked through the crowd when they were on stage. The Irish Times unfortunately didn't take the people who the article was about into consideration, just who they wanted to read it. So what's changed as a result of the article? Nothing. People still think Una's a twit and everyone's continuing to make music, DJ, create, be brilliant and go completely unnoticed to the masses. I wouldn't have it any other way.

Ian Maleney has written a superb response here :

Interstate 808

And the original can be read here too :
Una Mullally - Irish Times

That team I like...

Just more wood to the fire, nothing new or interesting here. The dust has settled and the dissection has begun. Journalists, pundits and bloggers alike have been circling the Ashburton Grove waters since the turn of the year, waiting for a sniff of blood...and on Sunday, they got their opportunity. The Manchester clubs did the double over London, helped by Wenger’s “Championship Manager-esque” substitution and Defoe’s best Gazza impression. Tottenham should still be a lock for at least 4^th at this point however and honestly, Arsenal weren’t that bad on Sunday. But compared to what standards? A lot of Arsenal fans’ standards currently seem to be set decidedly higher than the Arsenal manager’s. We deserve more. Wenger has almost certainly been afforded too much leeway in terms of how this club is run, that much is clear, but I still want him to leave the club a legend. If that means sooner rather than later, so be it. Look at Dalglish, 100m spent in a year and they've regressed to what many would consider a poorer team than Benitez’ last days. Expect the King Kenny backlash to start around the beginning of March when Gerrard tears his cruciate playing golf with Michael Owen and Dalglish brings in Owen Hargreaves on a emergency exchange deal involving most of the Kop’s season ticket holders. I fear Arsene’s backlash has just begun (again). Previous to Sunday, Wenger has always decided on his subs before the game starts. The Djourou sub was genuinely surprising because it was a reaction to what was actually happening on the pitch not just a statistical analysis based on conditioning and how much pasta Djourou had eaten that week. Then what happens at 68 mins? Back to the book for Wenger, replacing an 18 year old with an international captain.

“Look” exclaims Arsene, “Andriy has acceleration 17 and finishing 16! Certainly, he shall win the game for us.”

Here’s some stats Arsene, we’ve lost 3 games in a row, we’ve had 6 seasons without a trophy and this will absolutely be a 7^th without one of note, we have conceded more goals than 15^th placed West Bromwich Albion and Andriy Arshavin has scored 2 goals this season, the exact same tally as Alexander Oxlade Chamberlain...but with over five times the amount of playing time. Play Moneyball all you want Mr. Wenger but they are numbers you cannot argue with. Arshavin has never worked out, only flattered to deceive. Walcott has not progressed in the slightest. Rosicky hasn’t scored in two years. Injuries? Man Utd have injuries, they seem to be doing pretty well. Their substitute’s bench is built on perseverance and experience rather than raw talent but as good as Yennaris, Ignasi and Miyaichi look, they are either not given the playing time or are simply not ready yet. Would you rather be leading 2-1 away and bring on Scholes and Ji-Sung Park or be losing at home 1-2 and bring on Arshavin and Chu-Young Park?

On the transfer side of things, why was Cahill allowed to sign for Chelsea for £7m? Were we not in pole position in the summer but wouldn’t pay the £16m? Why were we not jumping at their throats January 1^st for a cut price deal? It took Koscielny a year to grow into the Premier League and he has proven to be exceptional this season but would not the same have been expected of Mertesacker? Alex, a player who has dominated against us for both Chelsea and PSV, is available for buttons this January. If we wanted a Chelsea reject, I just don’t know why we’ve ended up with Yossi Benayoun. Even on loan, Alex would provide both cover and experience. Two players heavily linked, Hazard and Gotze, are supremely talented and while we’ve always been ahead of the pack in this regard it all feels a little familiar. Torres, Aguero, Mata, Yaya Toure and Phil Jones have all been subject to miserly bids from Arsene and his Board before moving to top Premiership clubs. Each (with one current exception) has excelled in the Premier League for their teams. Clichy, Adebayor, Kolo Toure and Nasri, their own personal performances for City aside, are looking increasingly like the first rats of the sinking ship and increasingly like very happy rats on very dry land. Each was sold for what I believe was good reason but the fact remains that they weren’t adequately replaced and they’ll all be in the Champion’s League again next year, we may not be joining them...

This lack of ambition in the transfer market is astounding and well documented but the bigger picture is that we’ve had to watch our rivals surpass us on the pitch, in the trophy room and in reputation. Why would Hazard move to Arsenal when he can skip the stepping stone and play for Chelsea or Man City now?

Wenger can paper over the cracks with sub-par signings to appease the baying mob or he can set Arsenal up for the present and the future. As the voiciferous Emirates crowd sang on Sunday; “spend some fucking money”. Bring in Gotze, Hazard or Podolski. Current “equipe arabes du jour” PSG have been offered both Kaka and Pato in the past 10 days. If we are to bend or brake our wage structure, we could do far worse. Pato is still a superb talent and big game player, Galliani just prefers Ibra and Robinho. If anyone has doubts about Kaka’s ability, watch Madrid’s demolition of Bilbao last weekend and tell me he still can’t perform at the highest level. I say that through gritted teeth as a staunch antimadridista too!
 

We need 4^th place. We need the Champion’s League. Without it, Wenger’s project has failed. Without the CL, we become a selling club once again. Financial sustainability is admirable, but only when our income is constant. What happens to the rainy day money when it won’t stop raining? “In Arsene we trust” has echoed around Islington for the past 16 years. Maybe it’s time we change that and do what’s right for the club and right for the fans, maybe what we need to be saying is “In Arsenal we trust”...

Upstart!

Michael O'Doherty "writes" for the Herald and despite being a publishing giant in Ireland, you probably know the smarmy fuck from occasional television appearances on appalling shows you happened to know someone on. Like that thing on TV3 when they were looking for a new presenter. This is a a man who's vaccuous idea of self-promotion was to pretend to fire someone on RTE's latest sitcom, Fade St. He then decided to lay into Upstart, the Arts Group that I am currently blogging for. Upstart is a brilliant project highlighting the need for discourse and debate within the Irish Arts in this time of political change. I hope you've had a chance to see the posters in town and if you haven't make sure you get in before the end of week! How anyone could possibly have issue with what the group is trying (and succeeding) to achieve is beyond me and this particularly vicious attack by O'Doherty has left me seething. A response was written as part of my writing for Upstart which I will link to. I obviously could not be as brutal as I can be here but O'Doherty, for someone who runs magazines (guess what, magazines are part of the Arts, dickface) cannot write. I really do mean he can barely put a sentence together. His ironic failure to win any support for this has caused even more discourse and has therefore completely ratified the idea behind the project. It is a pity he had to attack the team but it is nice to see the comments on my official Upstart response backing us and realising that this bafflingly stupid man is getting nowhere.

If Mongrel magazine still existed, I'm sure Michael O'Doherty would be one of the front-runners for their annual "Cunt of the Year" article.

Anyway, LINKS! My new article will be up by the end of the day!

My section - Politics and Art

Upstart Home Page


Meanwhile, I found this T-Shirt. Love it.

It's Only Mondo's Super Amazing Christmas Shopping Guide!!

Waking up in a hut in Bali is something most of us do on Christmas morning ...before we actually wake up, realise it was a dream, realise that its freezing and go back to sleep. Last year however, for me and my intrepid travelling buddies it was reality. Despite it being an incredible experience, it wasn't Christmas. This year I can't wait to decorate a monstrous tree, drink copious amounts of mulled wine and turn down hundreds of mince pies (seriously people, they're all kinds of wrong). Obviously I have therefore fully embraced commercialism again and have created a Shopping Guide with all the most awesome, geeky and weird things you can buy for your family and friends! Clearly just an excuse to put up some cool design links to stuff we can't afford then...eh, yeah. Let's begin...

Danny Kuo, who is a bit cool, has created this ingenious storage system.

Just what Granny needs...

Daisuke Motogi have a sweet homepage worth looking at because it's a Japanese cartoon about a cat, and they've only gone and made THE BEST CHAIR EVER! Seriously, I have chronic problems finding things that are obviously beside me. This is brilliant.

Books, iPhones, Sandwiches, you'll never lose them again!

I have no idea how much these things cost but getting a chair down a chimney is not easy I would imagine, so let's help St Nick out with links to more manageable items...

Like this, which I love,

Parinto Tank Girl T-Shirt

Anything Jamie Howlett influenced is fine by me and if you ignore the hideous, Lori Petty-starring movie, Tank Girl is actually pretty badass. Dayglo is now drawing the comics and it looks like he's nailed the feel with this print. By the way, if for some reason you don't know who Jamie Howlett is, please watch this.

Sticking with a comic book theme, The Walking Dead has been taking over TVs but far superior is the original book. Definitely worth investing some time on those cold nights by the fire. No link because you should be going to support your local comic/book shops!

Finally, movies you really should have because it's nice to. Links to Amazon because they're not like books :)

Inception (Three-Disc Blu-ray/DVD Combo + Digital Copy)

Don't believe the hype, just watch it yourself and create more. Possibly my favourite cinema experience this year. It's just awesome.

Lost in Translation [Blu-ray]

Somewhere, Sofia Coppola's new movie is out this week so here's my chance to plug what may be my favourite movie.

Elf (Ultimate Collector's Edition) [Blu-ray]

No Christmas is complete without it!

Summer Wars: Movie [Blu-ray]

Not out till February but this is just incredible. Gorgeous anime and definitely worth checking out this studio's other work too.

Pixar Short Films Collection: Volume 1 [Blu-ray]

Everyone raved about Pixar's Toy Story 3 this year and...it's good. Better than Cars but miles off Nemo and The Incredibles. This Shorts collection is my Pixar pick of the year though. Every single one is a gem.

More during the week as the countdown to my first Christmas in two years continues. Next up is all my favourite Christmas tunes. Peace x

P.S. If Santa is paying attention, can I have one of these please?

He looks about 25/26. Obviously hammered. Stumbling through Euston at 7.30 on a Saturday morning is never pretty. No ticket. Oh, well sir, you better come this way as we introduce you to our Direct Payment Machine. No excuses, no chance for him to escape. Of course, you appeal. But who has time for that?

"The man told me..."

"I don't care what the man said sir, the only way for you to leave is to give a generous donation to our National Rail Service"

Pay now, get it back later. What are the other options here? Fake name? Address? He considers it but no way he could pull it off. Not here. Not this twisted. Reaching inside his coat pocket he finds the answer. This will save me thinks. Offers it to the good employee, truly convinced.

It is a lime.

Simple plans on a Friday night turn into frightful attempts at human contact. The desire to feel wanted. Friends battle over the affections of another. No words are exchanged, no heated conflict, but we, the outsiders, know what's happening. Yet no-one will admit it. Not on the night, in the midst of war. The following day, the smoke has cleared, the grass still trampled. It always starts with "remember when...". Nervous agreement. What else did I do? The questions rattles around the eggshell that your mind has become. We all laugh now and pretend to be embarrassed but secretly embrace our pride. I created a story, we all think. The protagonist of everyone's thoughts today.

Breaking down a night out the morning after is our generation's equivalent of the therapist's couch. Tell story, hold some back, gauge reaction, repeat. It's incredible to see the abject failure of some to hold back delight. The resonance of the Irish Storyteller runs deep in us as we subject ourselves and our friends to the masses. I abhor banality. Give me chaos. Show me someone generally ashamed of what they did last night and I will show you a liar. We try to create our own legends but we only do so by forgetting this. It is only when we surround ourselves with the right conditions, the right people, that we are in danger of being brilliant. I believe in you. You can be unashamedly proud of the funny thing that happened you. You got shot down by a girl. Your friend told you she had a boyfriend and you went back to her to apologise.

"I'm sorry, I didn't know you had a boyfriend. I shouldn't have gone in for a cheeky smooch there."

"I don't have a boyfriend..."

"Oh..."

Some brilliant people I know have things for you to do.

If you're in Dublin, support the Westway Flyover. They packed out the Twisted Pepper for their last shindig so keep your ears and eyes peeled for the next joint.

http://www.facebook.com/pages/Westway-Flyover/277424843355

And London hold tight for the Tasteless massive descending on Holloway Road once again this Friday 12th November. Dave Magnier and his crew bring the sexy to the Herbert Chapman.

http://www.facebook.com/event.php?eid=169580426389453

Next time, a collection of music and images and less bullshit.

See you all at something soon x

Do you remember the diagram from Junior Cert geography for precipitation? The one with the smiley cloud that rains on the mountain and it runs down and evaporates and repeats the cycle? That's the Irish in London. We get pissed on in Dublin until Michael O'Leary sucks us up and pours us into the pint glass that is London and eventually we drip home for a few days until it repeats itself. It's weird.



I find it funny that even after all the humalaboo about Autotune in the X Factor, they still use it for the robot that is Cheryl Cole. Shameless tripe out of her tonight anyway. Its even funnier that I'm writing about the X Factor. In my defence, I've been sick for two days and someone did sing Led Zeppelin (appallingly) but I can't deny I've been sucked into Cowell's malevolent grasp of all that is wrong with the music industry. They've attempted to make all nice with the public this year and have "different" acts. Mary B's on a mission to reclaim a bit of Irish dignity from the newly skeletal Louis Walsh but she's struggling to keep her wibbley chin up it seems. In fairness, he actually knows something about music unlike the crispy wafer that sits beside him.

It's not that I hate ALL the acts though. Byrno does have a serious set of lungs on her and poor little Cher(yl) Lloyd has a decent bit of sass. My only real gripe outside the judges is the producer's little mistakes. I mean, how hard is it to spell Page and Tracy really?

In the end, we all know its a big fix yadda yadda yadda so I'm calling One Direction to win. Get your money on now, expect the big push as Simon begins to fight for his one act (yes, one act) and everyone realises how much they definitely already totally was like only just saying to their mate the other day how much they knew they wanted a new boyband to love/be shoved down their throats. You heard it here first...



Found a bit of paper that I had scribbled some things on whilst on a train recently. That's right, live and uncensored, my innermost thoughts...

I definitely predicted the recession.

Deranged is an incredibly evocative word. I immediately picture a man throwing squirrels.

Train-racing?

House Parties are totally the new Eurovision Song Contest.

An Post is grossly underappreciated.

Vegans are surprisingly full of energy when full of Class A drugs.

What. The. Fuck. Back to my meandering anyway. I'm planning on doing a bit more of this so called writing soon. Join me some time when I'll be interviewing myself about potentially writing my own memoirs among other topics.

Here's a picture of a chair that I took.

Not The Morning Metro News

So the World Cup dropped by, left an annoying ringing noise in our ears and crawled back into the arse-end of Sepp Blatter's sweaty underpants. Fair play Fifa, you continue to undermine "the beautiful game" from its very core. Cheating is fine, the ball was the only thing anyone spoke about and in case you didn't hear him, Maradona DEFINITELY likes the ladies, NOT his players.

In other news, everything is shite apparently. The world will soon be covered in a big, black ball of oil thanks to BP and ironically everyone will still be broke. Poor Mr-BP-man-who-was-sacked-unfairly is being sent to Russia in a classic move straight out of the 1700s. Seriously, at least strip him of his ELEVEN MILLION POUND PENSION first. Give him a toothbrush with no bristles and a pair of flip flops with the weird rubber bit a little too tight so its really uncomfortable and make him walk to Russia I say. Ah well, when the world collapses next week we'll all be in the same position I suppose. Except a certain Mr Kane of somewhere, UK, who now has THE KEY TO THE INTERNET. Yes ladies and gentlemen, he can turn off the internet if and when the need arises with 7 (I may be making that number up) others who all possess keys. Except wait, they can only unlock 98% or something silly like that. A Mr.O'Bama has the only key that can unlock everything. You might even call it THE ONE KEY. Wait a second, two towers fell...he lives in the white house... Let me be the first to break the news that Barack "The White Wizard" Obama is in fact Gandalf and has recovered the ONE KEY from the wasteland that is the internet. All we need now is a midget to drop it into Mt. Eyjafjallajökul and the world is saved again. Where's Tom Cruise when you need him...


Speaking of the end of the world, to make everyone feel better, here's some lovely French house from the end of the nineties, when that loon Nostradamus got it all wrong.

It's been a while...

I'm currently struggling to put an article together for a magazine. 250 words by tonight and I can think of about eight. Always the way isn't it? My last entry here seems shamefully distant too. I've managed to move my life from Dublin to London in the meantime which is nice though. I've met some incredible people, seen some brilliant sights and said incredibly inappropriate things of late.

I should be able to wax lyrical about our new London lifestyle far more than this of course but its been a crazy month. Moments escape me. The combination of English bureaucracy, cheap booze and map reading has created a shiny, fuzzy mess where my brain used to be. Stories are attempting to free themselves from this and soon they will. But despite my inability to remember any details of this momentous change for now, here's what it sounds and looks like in my head...

We'll see how long this lasts due to my current debilitating case of unemployment but as the summer breaks over London Fields, I can't see myself anywhere else anytime soon.

The Gili Islands

There are no cars on the Gilis, no motorbikes and no touts screaming "transport, transport". Horses clip-clop up and down the one street on the island and bike bells tinkle as locals and tourists go about doing as little as possible. This is the kind of paradise that books are written about and films try to capture.

As for our time here, we spend the days swimming in crystalline turquoise water or watching movies in little beach huts when the rain comes. At night, the smell of fresh fish and satay grilling entices everyone to the strip of bars and restaurants that line the beach. Groups form to create a sort of alcohol fuelled U.N. at the various raves; Blue Marlin in a loft, Tir Na Nog on the street and Rudy's in Rudy's very ownpot-hole covered bar. Every bar advertises magic mushroom smoothies with eye-catching signs like:

We have bloody fucking fresh muchrooms
Take you to the Moon and back
No Transport Needed

Rudy's staff are particular advocates of mind expansion and eat a few shrooms before each shift.

Somehow it all works to create an amazing harmony of cultures. This is not Kuta. There are no 'Bintang' laden morons, no groups of Australian clones trying to see who can be the biggest dick. Leonardo DiCaprio went looking for an idyllic paradise in 'The Beach", he went to the wrong island.

After a week spent with our favourite Swedes, Jax strolled through our door on a sunny Sunday morning. Cue a day, no, wait, make that week, of dancing, drinking and myself and Jax's own brand of unintelligible humour. We're now known on the Irish as either "crazy Irish" or "double whiskey" by the locals. We have actually tried to leave the island twice now but winds and swells of up to 6m have meant that no boats can come or go. It's like theres a bubble around the island and we're stuck at the center. So for now, all we can do is sit back and enjoy all that the island has to offer. Not a bad problem to have really.

Half-time...

4Am and we're standing at the base of Mt Bromo wrapped in Jeans, jumpers, woolly hats and scarves. We've been waiting for the jeep for an huor in the freezing cold at 1500m. The jeep finally arrives to take us the further 1500m to the sunrise view point. We bounce up and down, clinging onto bits of the jeep, each other and anything in sight to stay in. It's pitch black and we're in the clouds so when our lights decide to retire early, what can you do but laugh? Our maniac driver does anyway so we chuckle along and prepare for our deaths.

Surprisingly we make it above the clouds and find ourselves peeling layers off as the sun rises over Bromo and 3 more very active volcanoes. We take phots of the spectacle as everyone else takes photos of us. Still not used to that particular Asian custom. Some do it on the sly, some ask but no-one ever explains why they do it...weird.

We hurtle down the hill and the driver decides to get involved in a race that exists only in his head.Swerving around jeeps, cars and motorbikes we get to the bottom only to be put on horses to go back up.

"Ah, we go fast, yes?"

the horseman asks and without waiting for a response, takes off at a sprint beside the horse. We bounce up to the 253 steps and begin our assault on the crater. Thankfully the horse doesn't attempt the steps too. We climb up to witness an active volcano spit smoke into the sky meters from where we stand. A nice pay-off for what was a fairly blurry start to the day.

A few days later, we climb Ijen Plateau which was a far more arduous task and continued our Javan fitness regime until we realised that we were headed towards Lovina with two sets of French folk.

"Ah, sure look" we exclaim, "we should all go together. And we have Arak!"

"Super" the French reply, " we have Calvados!"

So Yann, Bernard, Dewi, Sophie, Alex and ourselves end up celebrating Laurant's birthday on a beach in North Bali. Nice.

After a few days of speaking bad French and eating good food it's off to Ubud with Sophie and Alex before heading Eastwhere Christmas flies past in a flurry of Arak, phonecalls and photographs. Next it's Kuta's turn to welcome us and it does so to a soundtrack of shit music and drunken "schoolies". After managing to rope some Swedes into song-writing, drinking and general Kuta banter we've reached New Year's Eve and the halfway point of the trip so far.

Some particularly brilliant moments stick out and last night's very Irish conversation about our fine army is up there.

Alan: He was a sniper, did mad shit
Eoin: What the fuck was he sniping though?
Alan: I don't know..........Bosnians.

Classic stuff Duffman.