"...you may feel a slight sting. That's pride fucking with you. Fuck pride. Pride only hurts, it never helps."- Marcellus Wallace.
It's 1993, in a fictionalized version of Los Angeles, California. A shop-worn boxer named Butch Coolidge is receiving a pep talk from a mob boss who's paid him to take a dive. Despite the aforementioned warning about pride, Coolidge succumbs and having double-crossed the boss and bet on himself, he beats his opponent mercilessly. Later that night he would find out from a taxi driver that his fellow pugilist died of his injuries. He would tell her that he felt nothing.
I sit alone in my living room on Christmas Eve. It's pitch black and frosty outside; the lights are off and a laptop with the screen dimmed resting on my knee provides the only illumination. The house is empty beyond me and the dog and blissfully peaceful, save for the sound of my fingers tap-tap-taping away at my keyboard as I gleefully call someone a cunt on Twitter.
In the distance I become vaguely aware of the first few notes of a tune emanating from afar, possibly out of an approaching car's crackly stereo or a time-displaced 1980's kid's oversized Sony boom box. My ears prick up as I hear actual sleigh bells though, followed by the faint first whisper of Roy Wood's dulcet tones as Wizzard's "I Wish It Could Be Christmas" gradually bleeds into existence.
The music gets incrementally louder and eventually through parted curtains I spy a flatbed truck, once white as the driven snow but now filthy, and minus any festive decoration whatsoever. On the back, balanced as precariously as a UK Prime Minister's job security, stands a haggard, wizened old excuse of a Santa; more closely resembling something out of a Brother's Grimm fairy-tale than the jolly old soul from the Coke advert. Or the Krampus, if it had AIDS.
Where there should have been plump, rosy-red cheeks instead sat the gaunt, sallow face of a man clearly lacking the dimensions traditionally associated with the role of St Nick, the oversized red suit hanging off his thin frame in thick folds like the skin of a recent gastric bypass recipient. As his 'sleigh' navigates the empty street, a few bell-ringing acolytes (not dressed as Elves, 'Little Helpers', or anything Christmassy whatsoever for that matter) trail close behind the decidedly un-jolly one, while he waves maniacally to absolutely nobody at all.
A knock at the door makes me jump and sends the hound into a snarling, teeth-gnashing frenzy. I press my face to the window to see two of Santa's beady-eyed little demons staring straight at me through the misted glass, clutching what appear to be tinsel-lined charity collection buckets and peering inward in an attempt to make out my bemused and slightly terrified features, illuminated only by the pale glow from the laptop.
"What do these fucking creatures want with me?" I wonder...making the sign of a cross with my fingers in an effort to ward them off, much to their bemusement. "Have the come for my soul? A blood sacrifice?"
If that is indeed the case then I resolve to make them fight to the death for it, my eyes snapping left and right in search of anything vaguely resembling a weapon. "But what if I'm wrong?" I ponder, as my gaze wanders over the half-drank bottle of spiced rum and the remnants of a pile of unspecified narcotics, which - let's be honest - could have that effect on a person.
"Could I live with that kind of mistake?" I muse. "More importantly, would it put me on His naughty list?"
I didn't want that, that much was certain. Although ironically a lump of coal or two in a stocking would do some serious damage against such potential foes.
I took a deep slug from the bottle and peered back out through the glass. Far from making any attempts on my mind, body or soul, all Santa's little Acolytes were doing was pointing at the hand-written labels on their collection tins. Something about a children's hospice. Something about orphans.
My heartrate slowed, my breathing became more even. There was no danger here, no threat. Just some good people forgoing the joy of spending Christmas Eve in front of a roaring fire with loved ones in an effort to do something selfless for those less fortunate.
And so I do what any reasonable member of modern society does in such circumstances.
Reaching to my left and flicking on the big light, I bathe myself in a bright, white, almost Holy glow. They beam, hopefully, in a manner that suggests their endeavours haven't been particularly fruitful.
I move my face just inches from the glass, so that there can be no mistake, and silently mouth the words "FUCK OFF", before closing the curtains.
I'm a big Muppet guy, and while watching this clip of Sesame Street's Guy Smiley a while back I realised that if you refuse to suspend your disbelief, it takes a really sinister twist. Essentially what we're seeing here is a man, alone, confused and gripped by mania, talking to his possessions because they're all he has left.
Grand Theft Auto: Is
there an argument against it being one of gaming’s greatest dynasties? A constantly evolving work of digital art that has grown from a simple yet perfect run-and-chase mechanic into a
narrative-driven cinematic masterpiece and a money-spinning
multi-player monolith, all in the face of massive moral outrage and political opposition; GTA might just be the most storied franchise in
gaming history.
People are the most interesting things on this little rock, and I'll wager there never were, are or ever will be many more interesting than Lemmy. Social media is constantly besieged by feigned shock and sadness when a celebrity - or whatever they've stretched the term to encompass these days - bites the dust, but the twitter and facebook waterfall of condolence I woke up to this week came as more of a shock than most.
