Old Skool gamez Rool

I'll admit I'm not a big games fan. This year we had all three Playstations in my house. I think I played the PS3 once for about 10 minutes. Call me an old git, but I'd choose Pacman over Ridge Racer any day. I'm such an old git in fact that I had to look up the PS3 on Wikipedia so that I could find the name of one of its games. Try and see gaming from a bystander's point of view. If you only have one TV in your house and it's being used for game after game of ProEvo, it's bound to get dull after a while isn't it? If I wanted to watch a bunch of lifeless chumps kicking each other's balls, I'll just watch Eastenders.

The Wii is a step in the right direction as it forces you to get off your arse and do something. But if you're playing baseball, football or tennis, why not just go and do it outside? If you're crap at sport don't worry- a couple of Stellas and you're better than Babe Ruth, Ronaldo and Nadal put together...

In my view, games should be kept simple. The second that Mario and Sonic went into 3D I lost interest. Helicopter shoot em ups used to rule the planet but because we don't fight real wars any more you're given tedious missions like guarding some Canadian diplomats in Slough or delivering cocktail sausages to the UN. Give me some rockets and 56 lightly-armoured enemy choppers to shoot down! And of course the helicopter should have so many missiles and such thick armour that it would be unable to take off in reality...

My favourite game of the moment has to be Battle Pong. Just like traditional Pong but with powerups and weapons. Check it out: http://www.miniclip.com/battlepong.htm

Honey, I'm home

Hi kids, I'm back. Like all true Englishmen I've managed to drink beer, eat some spicy things, insult a frenchman and come home exactly as white as I was upon my leaving.

I have so much to share with you all, but sadly after a 19 hour trip and no sleep for 48 hours I now have to work for 13 hours before falling asleep in a sheperd's pie.

I'll be back as soon as I can.

Bolt from Beijing

Sport, sport, sport. That's all we ever talk about, I hear you say. I'll keep it brief, but I can't help but marvel at the new 100m and 200m record holder Usain Bolt. Journalists love him because his name makes a great headline (BOLT FROM THE BLUE, THUNDER-BOLT etc) but the rest of us love him simply because he runs bloody quick. I'll get this Bolt-rant off my chest, then we can go back to talking about credit crunches, rain and those naughty Russians.

One word on Russia though. I wonder- how many Americans woke up that day, heard that Georgia had been invaded, and flew into a mass panic, bought huge stocks of food, formed local militia and built baracades in case their state was the next unfortunate victim? If it’s any less that 100 millions I’ll be astounded.

Anyway, back to Bolt. It's so much his achievement as his attitude. Here's how his 100m record-breaking day went according to an interview.
"Got up, ate some nuggets, watched a little TV, went back to bed. Got up a few hours later, ate some more nuggets, then ran 100m in 9.7 seconds"

I wonder what those nuggets contain- chicken? vole? nandrolone? I say we should all adopt the relaxed Usain Bolt attitude to life. Everyone should start eating nuggets and just sleeping when they're not doing anything important.

If more people had had that approach to life just think where mankind would be now. If Einstein had spent more time relaxing with German reality TV and a bucket of KFC he could have invented a working time machine or proven mathematically that there is a God after all and he's very very angry with us...

If Gandhi had rested a little instead of tiring himself out with speeches, he could have raised a massive monk army that would have overwhelmed the British Empire and reduced it to the size of a small hamlet in Wiltshire.

If JFK had spent less time gallivanting to Berlin he could have been wise to his eventual assassination. Like a ninja, he could have sprung from behind the grassy knoll, wasted Lee Harvey Oswald with an uzi then driven the open-top limo at breakneck speed back to the hotel for a night of hot steamy fun with Jackie.
As it happened he was knackered so they shot him.

To cut a long story short: if you want to succeed in life, eat some nuggets and go back to bed.

Amen.

Latest Olympic news

All the latest scoops from Beijing, hot off the press.

-Britain soar up the medal table by plundering the "specialist" events of pony trecking, yachting, extreme ironing and dogging
-Middle aged men who should know better try not to touch themselves as they watch pre-teens prancing in leotards. Another day of women's gymnastics...
-Britain win a bronze on the pommel horse. Ex-Blue Peter presenter Matt Baker gets overexcited causing him to fall headfirst into a pit of eels
-Everyone agrees that China can keep Tibet after all, and as a reward for staging such a bloody good Olympics they can have Bhutan as well

The day orange squash saved my life

Oh dear god. What a day. Here I was, all set to regale you with another amusing mugging story from the Parisian underworld, when this happens. Bear in mind the following story is not for the faint hearted or squeemish...

I went to give blood today for the first time in a year. Just a little prick (ooo-er matron), needle goes in, needle goes out. It all went fine.

"Put your finger on that"- Nursie says, pointing to the mark where the needle had gone in. I did as she asked but putting pressure on that spot on my arm (the bit that only heroine addicts are meant to touch) suddenly made me come over all funny. I really wanted some Um Bongo but there was no one there to give me any. It all went grey and I began to wish I'd gone to Ikea instead...



I woke up and four women were standing over me. That cliched "unconscious guy's point of view" shot you see in films. I had absolutely no idea where I was. At first I thought I'd fainted in a shopping centre, but the age of these women reminded me of a Blackpool Tower Ballroom Dance final. I laughed at an imaginary Bruce Forsyth and they all exchanged worried glances...
I suddenly remembered the needle, the vein and all the rest. I'd been screened off from everyone else and made to sit under a fan. Clearly not a very good advert for giving blood. I felt like a patient in a Vietnam war hospital.

A bloody good rest, 10 cups of orange squash and 8 biscuits later I was well enough to toddle home. "It's perfectly normal for your first time" said Nursie.
"It's my 7th time!" I whined. I'll never get that crystal decanter now...

Despite the nastiness of it all, that brief sensation of not knowing who you are or where you are was actually quite cool. Maybe they could work it into an Alton Towers Ride.

Anyway, next time I'm definitely going to Ikea (we're not being sponsored by them by the way- it just happens to be nearby)

The essential British checklist

As Benji sets off to the continent full of fear and trepidation, I'm still readapting to like back in the good ol' UK. It's been hard, believe me. My Coventry English is now very poor indeed. We have little words like gamboll, tip-top and backie that are easy to forget and harder to remember... If only the local radio had subtitles...

Still, to celebrate my return I've been slowly ticking off all the British experiences I've been hankering after for the best part of 14 months:

Scotch eggs: 1 (handmade)
Real ales: 5
Tea: 15
Bovrils: 1
Pies: 1
Puddings: 7
Crumbles: 1
Getting rained on: 8
Night out with lairy men in white checked shirts: 1

I still need a full english breakfast, a cornish pasty and a sunday roast. The cravings are unbearable. I feel like the ever-pregnant Kerry Katona...

two-month update

well, just before I set off I thought I'd share some interesting stats I've found out as we enter month three of The Hardcore Effect.

Most referenced word/item/topic

1) Scotch Eggs
2) Football
3) Blancmange

Most victimised celebrities

1) David Hasselhoff
2) Kerry Katona
3) Olof Mellberg
4) Petter Hansson
5) Lukas Podolski

Most used swear words

1) Fucking
2) Shit
3) Bastard(s)
4) Cunt
5) Cockbadger


On another note, voting for The Hardcore Awards begins next FRIDAY. See you next thursday people.

Au revior!

Well, just mere hours to go now till I embark on an epic train journey to France, giving the Hardcore Tour a touch of much needed class.

We've got euros, we've packed and I have a police photo-fit of two guys who look suspiciously like Flava-flav and Pat Butcher from the Ravman.

I weirdly have a dark sense of forboding about this trip, whether its that I have a long journey ahead, the fact that I'm passing through several crime-ridden cities in the dead of night unable to speak the language in many of them or just that the final destination is France.. something doesn't sit right with me.

I've already received some solid advice;

1) Don't accept any help on the Metro

2) Don't make it obvious you are a foreigner

So, with reluctance I've removed my union flag passport cover, my England football shirt and my drunken imperialistic urges and adopted a cunning disguise to allow me to pass right through undetected, it looks a bit like this;

or more accurately, this;

The problem is that Jonathon Foreigner doesn't like the honourable British Tommy, we don't share many interests for one thing.

They enjoy cheese, and surrendering. We like beer and fighting. We're just natural enemies, so I've informed the British Foreign Office I'm going to be in France and all they suggested to avoid being singled out as a foreigner is "try waving a white flag and not washing".

Sheep offered me some help with communication, teaching me invaluble phrases in French, truly a beautiful language;

"Le Chauffage-centrale ne marchait pas" - "The Central heating is broken"

"il n y avais pas de savons, dans le salle de bain" - "There is no soap in the bathroom"

cheers mate.

I am sure however, that despite my fears, this plan shall all come off without a hitch and I'll have a few epic stories to tell upon my return, for now though I leave you in the capable hands of Ravi until I return.

The day Welsh saved my life

So what's the big hype about Wales?-I hear you wonder.
Well actually it's a country I owe an awful lot too- I'm half Welsh, 50% of my family are Welsh and a lot of my ancestors also were Welsh. Even more than that though, the good people of Wales actually saved my life while I was living in Paris. Without them I could well have perished in a gutter like so many disgraced PE teachers.



One Parisian Saturday night I got a little tipsy in a bar with mates and got the night bus home at around 3am. Bus number 13, which is apt due to the slightly inconvenient events that were about to unfold.
I was a little tipsy so when I saw everyone standing up despite there being free seats next to the gangstas at the back, I scooched in next to them. Hell, I thought, hundreds of aristocrats got their heads chopped off so that people like me could do this. Like the scarlet pimpernel, I plugged in my mp3 and waited...

A chap sitting across from me who looked like Flava-flav started looking at me, grinning with his gold teeth and mouthing something. Alarmingly, he didn't have a clock round his neck. If he'd been the real deal we could have just done some beat-boxing but this guy was more interested in in my crown jewels, both literal and metaphorical. I grinned stupidly and tried to concentrate on Kylie Minogue blasting in my ear drums. Suddenly the bastard came over and shoved his sweaty hands in my coat pockets! Empty thank god. Then he tried my jeans. Now, I was wearing very tight anti-ferret trousers so the pockets were dangerously close to all that I hold dear in the world. To defend my dignity I brought my hands down to stop him with a resounding scrotum-saving "smack".

Flava-Flav's boy(z) took offence at this. His mate, who looked like a cross between a Turkish butcher and Pat Butcher sauntered over, jabbed me in the chest and (in French) shouted: "How dare you stop my friend from feeling your crotch for pennies and suchlike". What do you do in this situation? Speak English or accented French to him, and suddenly he'll know I'm a foreigner and thus a rich source of travellers cheques and marajuina. I had to say something, so I spoke Welsh. An old poem I'd learnt once about the best time to go to the bog to ensure good digestive transit...


He was dumbfounded. The ancient Celtic consonants spouted from my lips like machine gun fire. Images of druids, cheese on toast, rugby and crazy drunken nights out in Llanelli were too much for him to comprehend. Had this guy ever played pinball on the pier at Llandudno or drunk Brains at the Horny Ram Tavern in Ffestiniog? Possibly not.
"You are French? German? English?" he demanded.
"Ar i'ach a gach a bore..."
He shouted again, too loud this time. The other passengers were getting shirty.
"Ar afiach gach yn hwyr". I tried to supress a smug grin.
The bus driver roared from the front. "Oy wot choo doing you slaaaaaag?"

Nuff said. Pat Butcher and Flav were chucked off the bus and some old geezer let me sit next to him.
"Actually I'm not Welsh at all" I told him.
He looked at me as though I was an escaped asylum patient and we drove on...

That's why the next time you're in Wales, learn the entire Welsh language. You never know when it might come in useful. Next time a copper tries to arrest you, read some Welsh poetry to them and they won't bother you again.
The system works boyo.

Libellous News We Just Make Up #1

Welcome to this, the first in an ongoing series of features where we shall make up the news purely because its far more entertaining, tonight's headlines;

Out of work actress Sarah Jessica Parker offers bareback anal for a packet of Jammie Dodgers

Despite the apparant success of the Sex and The City movie, old SJP finds herself struggling to find a new gig, pretty much unheard of in recent weeks apart from the odd mention of her troubled relationship, The Hardcore Effect tracked the actress to a Travelodge in North Wales.

So desperate her current situation, the painfully thin actress begged our writer Ravi, for his solitary hand made Scotch Egg, this clearly wasn't going to happen but Parker's desperation only grew until, with a wild look in her eyes, she began offering unprotected anal intercourse in exchange for a lone packet of "Jammie Dodgers"all our team carry in case of emergency.

Parker's agent claimed in a later statement that these events never occured, although went on to describe the offer as "a good deal".

Bored BeeGee taunts orphans

It would seem Barry Gibb, the former BeeGee, is finding the relaxing pace of retirement a litlle dull.

Our team responded to a phone call from a resident in the Slough area, who informed us of a low flying helicopter that seemed to be "bombing" a piece of local land with blunt objects. Upon arrival at the scene we traced the helicopter to the grounds of the Stella Artois Home for Spousal Abuse Orphans, where Gibb, cackling maniacally had set up an industrial food blender between the roundabout and the swing set and was callously dropping what appeared to be kittens and fluffy gerbils from his helicopter into the blades below. One orphan was injured when Gibb dropped his bottle of Bristol Cream and the bottle shattered yards from the child.

What follows is a transcript of our reporter's conversation over the sound of the rotor blades;

Ravi: Oi! Gibb! What the hell are you doing?!

Barry: What does it look like? I'm fucking murdering animals in front of kids, alright?

Ravi: Why?

Barry: Why not?

Ravi: You make an interesting point.

Barry: I know I do, I'm Barry Mother-fucking Gibb! .. give me my bottle back!

At this point, Gibb broke into song, namely an impromptu medley of "Straight outta Compton" and "Fuck The Police" before fleeing in his chopper.

His agent later apologised, claiming Gibb would compensate the orphans by offering them work "In my coal mine, or cleaning the fucking chimney.. or something"

Robin Gibb was unavailable for comment.

Racist Edmonds property deal falls through

Despite the recent sale of his mansion in the town of Crinkly Bottom, Noel Edmonds' attempt to buy a cotton plantation in north Africa fell through last night after the presenter reportedly asked the current owners where "his" black people were. More on this as we get it

And finally;

Unconfirmed reports are coming in that Dale Winton had opened fire with what is described by witnesses as a "Heavy Machine Gun" outside a Hackney branch of Lidl, after the budget German food store refused to stock his favourite kind of jam. Witnesses at the scene have told police the star was further provoked by an unexpected "bottom patting" from David Hasselhoff.