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Good things I wrote in 2016

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I spent Christmas amid the dog hairs and beer bottles of my ancestral home, a place and time which would have given a more pensive mind the chance to reflect on a dauntless year, but gave my mind the chance to swell on pints of Smithwicks and the odd blast of gift-triggered serotonin. I also got the chance to meet my three-month-old Nephew for the first time. He did not cry when I held him, which I found endearing and suspicious.

Last night, I arrived back in Central America, where I saw Orion had once again fallen on his side. At the top of my street, the porter welcomed me by picking up a clipboard and revealing a handgun beneath it. The magazine had been ejected and lay beside the gun, with a single golden bullet protruding at the top, like the glinting nib of a ballpoint pen. “What’s your name again?” he asked, smiling and squinting at the clipboard.

Outside my apartments, there was black dust everywhere, a messy film I have come to recognise as responsible for the fifty-five sneezes I endure daily. It comes from the volcano Turrialba, whose consistent eruptions 33 kilometres away cover everything for days in a pathetic ash. At this point, I discovered I had forgotten my keys and I sat down in the black dust, waiting for my girlfriend to rescue me. I took off my my hoody, undid two surplus buttons on my shirt, and rolled up each leg of my jeans.

“I have written some good things this year,” I thought.

* * *

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The Ridealongs. I went flying with a real pilot and stalled 2000 feet above the ground. I roamed through Minecraft’s most offensive server with an archeologist-of-sorts. There were many other ridealongs but my personal favourite was when I explored an abandoned MMO with a player who was once a King of the whole virtual land, but had become reduced to a tiny farm and a stolen horse.

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A War in EVE. Some days, as a games journo, you log in to your various dripfeeds of cyberknowledge and see a single article being passed around like a clandestine floppy disk, over and over again. Look, someone says, Andy Kelly has written about videogame toilets. Or Christian Donlan has wirtten about a 3000-year-old Egyptian board game. When you see this, you understand that this writer has won Twitter today. But some days, if you’re lucky and you work hard, you’re the one on the floppy disk. I felt like that when my story about EVE Online’s revolutionary casino-fuelled war went up. It might be the best bit of games journalism I’ve written, or maybe just the one I’m most proud of.

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Premature Evaluation. I took over this weekly column in the daily thunderstorms of July, and proceeded to fill it with stories of me being terrible at my one job: playing games. This one about management sim Software Inc was probably the most fun to write.

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Keeping a diary. Diaries are the thing I like to write the most. Take an appropriate game, explain the systems and features briefly, then set out to achieve something difficult or weird in-game. In Stellaris, I was a race of human-loving robot father figures. In Rimworld, the manager of an ill-fated desert hotel. But a lesser-known game gave me the most satisfaction to write about. Hackmud was an excellent, complicated multiplayer hacking sim that saw me become both the worst gambling kingpin and a sentient newspaper algorithm.

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Free Loaders. Every week I slap this up, a short list of free games. It’s something I look forward to, because writing it has become an weekly exercise in describing concise things concisely. It’s sad to see a lot of good stories and games still going unnoticed in the deluge of 2016 but also understandable. So I did a list of the best of this year’s freebies.

* * *

My girlfriend has rescued me. I’ve finally made it back into the house, where we will eat pizza and exchange presents while suffering guttural and dark laughter at Charlie Brooker’s annual news roundup. Outside, tiny motes of black dust are still falling, like invisible snow.

 

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Eighty Pages To Archimboldi

I have been reading the same book for ten months, a monster by Roberto Bolaño, and writing the same novel for 5 years. In the book I am reading, which is sitting beside me now like a sphinx, prostitutes are murdered in droves and the persons responsible remain out of reach of the Mexican police force, who are incompetent or overwhelmed.

In the book I am writing, which sits on a whirring hard drive by my knee, nobody is dead yet. I want to correct this, but also I doubt that I ever will. On that same hard drive, which spits out the Tetris theme as I type, through headphones perched on the corner of a tiny desk, there are 4 other abandoned novels.

1. The Misfortunates – in the 1920s, a man with a form of malevolent vampirism cheats mortality by sustaining himself via schadenfreude. His memory is fallible. He discovers he is the Wandering Jew, the man who laughed at Christ as he carried the cross to Golgotha.

2. In The Nidhogg’s Mouth (or ‘Londerground’) – an orphan, now grown, and his energetic friend become part of an underground videogame collective in a subterranean city of the future, which constantly shifts around and entices all citizens to take part in a collective social network game.

3. Hey! Atlantic Ocean! – an 11-year-old boy crosses the Atlantic from Donegal, Ireland with an anthropomorphic jellyfish. But this story is being told by four different people in four different places, and each version is different, introducing new characters – giants, creatures, pirates. In the end the four storytellers meet. They are siblings, and have gathered for their adoptive mother’s funeral – the woman who first told them the boy’s sea-faring story. They argue about the ‘canon’ ending of the tale and the story collapses on itself, killing the jellyfish and other characters in the process. The boy of the story is left alive, on the shores of Newfoundland, mourning the deaths of his friends.

4. The Backwards Pilgrim – a man without faith walks the Camino de Santiago de Compostela in the opposite direction intended by the followers of St. James the Apostle. He writes a guide for those who follow and learns three ghost stories along the way. There is no ending.

5. The Age of Openness (current?) – a dozen Londoners collide over the course of a single day, as told by an unknown narrator. A former Call of Duty champion with carpal tunnel, an impatient local news journalist, a charity PR scouring Tinder for pointless romance, an unemployed Spanish immigrant, and others. All of the characters are linked. One of them, an Algerian professor of computing, gives a lecture on artificial intelligence. The narrator, we learn, is an AI she invented.

I hate all of these books. I say “books” when I mean “files”. A yellow folder of word processor documents filled with text that will never be complete enough to love, nor skant enough to delete.

The book I am reading, 2666 by Bolaño, is really five books. They were put together against the author’s wishes following his death, but the characters and places are nonetheless meant to intertwine. One of the characters is a tall German author called Archimboldi. In the first book he is the focus of a group of critics, who travel to Mexico trying to find him. They are unsuccessful. The middle three books do not mention him. The fifth book is called “The Part About Archimboldi”. I am still eighty pages away from it.

I do not know why any of this is important.

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I’m Moving To Costa Rica. Here Are Some Things I Wrote In 2015

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I’m leaving London. Bye!

When I first arrived in the Imperial City, with the gleaming eyes of a child, I stayed on the floor in my sister’s flat and also, periodically, in the bath tub of my aunt’s high-rise in Kilburn, a district still popularly known as the 33rd county of Ireland despite now being composed more of Eastern European newcomers than anyone else. These places have been seared in my memory as wondrous disembarking-grounds, the likes of which you find in massive online RPGs, where you learn how to click on things in the correct order. But in London, the tutorial encompasses the use of Oyster cards, the Job Centre’s XP system, and navigating shops stocked exclusively with Polish lager.

One evening in those early days, my sister told me, from her lofty position above ground-level, that it takes time to get to like London. The common saying was that “it takes three years” to know it well enough to enjoy it. I recognised this logic from my formative months in the muddy trenches of videogame reviewing. London was like Final Fantasy XIII. You have to play it for at least 20 hours before it was any good. I can now report that this idiom is false and politely request that all current users stop repeating it. Having spent almost five years (note that this is much longer than the requisite three) trying to enjoy the place, I have found that the highest level of familiarity and kinship I can attain with the capital is that of Tolerance. I tolerate London.

Well, not for much longer. I am moving to Costa Rica. Don’t ask me why, I haven’t fully deconstructed all the incidents which have led to this moment. All I know for certain is that it involves my girlfriend. She has told me that she is being thrown out of the UK because her Canadian Visa is due to expire and we need to decide on a new temporary domicile. I have since become aware of many legal schemes one may use to extend one’s visit to the UK as a Canadian citizen and I dimly suspect she has known about these all along. But I have ignored these suspicions in order to achieve my own dark motives RE moving to a country where it is never below 16 degrees Celsius.

Why Costa Rica? Well, the PR line I have been feeding people is that we considered many places, almost scientifically, and one by one we each vetoed the places we thought unsuitable. She suggested India because she has been there before and enjoys the privilege of understanding approximately 10 useful words of Hindi or Urdu or one of the other languages, I’m not sure. I vetoed this because I enjoy defecating in a seated position, atop a cylindrical bowl i.e. I am a small-minded Westerner. This reasonable elenchus continued over many months, covering a vast array of countries and sub-countries. Eventually, a continent was decided upon (Latin America) and then a country (Costa Rica). Did you know Costa Rica has no standing army? It’s true. I will never be conscripted there.

In preparation, I am learning Spanish (yo aprendo Espanol) and we have both been stabbed multiple times in our arms with tiny amounts of tropical diseases in a bid to ward off Typhoid, Hepatitis, and other illnesses that are so tropical I can’t spell them with any reliability. I am also in the process of hawking my room out to strangers on the internet, like some petty administrator of a crumbling property dystopia. One of the species I have grown to despise in London are the Estate Agents and it sickens me to think I may be adopting their likeness. I have nightmares that I have grown mandibles and that my wallet is absolutely stuffed with cash, all stained with the blood and mucus of my past self, whose body lies dead, eyes still gleaming like a child, looking up at the famous London skyscraper, the Shard.

Did you know that in Costa Rica the average monthly rental cost for a  two-person casa is the equivalent of about £200?

Anyway, I leave toward the end of January (SURPRISE!) and I will miss the many amazing people who made London bearable and sometimes even enjoyable. I love you. Not with an intense familial love, you understand. That’s disgusting. I mean with a scholarly, intellectual love. The most under-appreciated of the loves. We are having a party to celebrate our leaving. If you have not been invited, it is because I do not like you, I have never liked you, and I will be glad to be free from the social mores of this grand, grey city that, for some reason, dictate that I should pretend we are friends. Either that, or I have forgotten and you should definitely get in touch and ask me where it is.

I will still be serving in the vast army of videogame journalists (periodistas de los videojuegos) and my writing will still grace the glowing screens to which we now live in continual serfdom. So do not panic, I am not really going anywhere, if you think about it, since we all live as words on blog posts and communicate exclusively via Snapchat videos of passing scenery on trains. With this in mind, here are some of the things I did in 2015 which are OK. There will be more.

So long

(Hasta luego)

Brendan

(Brendan)

***

A story about learning to play chess again, and all the associated devilry, fear, cunning and accomplishment

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An article about how fast travel is rubbish and overused and you should be more adventurous you awful, awful person

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The first of my Ridealongs, where I go for in-game journeys and conduct interviews a la Louis Theroux, with citizens of “Cyberspace”. And an audio version of the same

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My new weekly column on free games, which is something you should check every week because it is weekly and that is how it works

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A review of else Heart.Break(), one of my favourite games this year, as well as one of the smartest, most stylish and most overlooked

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A memoirish compendium of all the dumb games I have played as a child and semi-adult, and a eulogy to their loss

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A top ten list article on hacking and computing games because top ten lists are excellent, let’s stop lying to ourselves

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The Unenviable Insomnia of Halloran Kin

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Hallo there.

For the past few months I have been working on a poem. No wait! Don’t go! This isn’t like those other poems! No, this one is good. You know those long, sprawling, spooky poems, like The Rime of the Ancient Mariner by Coleridge? Or twisting, dastardly misadventures like The Shooting of Dangerous Dan McGrew by Robert Service? They’re good poems, aren’t they? And you know why. Because they are long and they RHYME GOOD.

I have always admired a piece of poetry that rhymed and told a mysterious story at the same time. Much more than the cryptic, interpretive stuff that people click their fingers to (although that can be fun too). I thought I would do one of these narrative sagas myself, imbued with a tint of gothic modern life. So, I set out to write a long poem that RHYMES GOOD.

The result is a piece called The Unenviable Insomnia of Halloran Kin. Here is the blurb:

“Out to the churn, you will depart,
out to that London din.
And don’t return, without the heart,
of the man called Halloran Kin.”

 *

Halloran Kin lives in Belfast as an idler, just one of a clan of 1001 cousins. But when he finds himself hounded and criminalised by Djinn, he is forced to make a stumbling escape that will take him all across the North Atlantic nations of Europe – from the frozen tundra of Iceland to the foggy wilds of Galicia.

Inspired by poems like The Rime of the Ancient Mariner by Samuel Taylor Coleridge and The Cremation of Sam McGee by Robert Service, Halloran Kin is a long rhyming poem set in a dark world of monsters, animals and Ghasts. Told in seven parts, this macabre fugitive’s story spans a decade of chronic remorse, sleeplessness, betrayal, friendship and faith.

*

There you have it. Most of the tale is related by Halloran Kin himself, as he sits in a bar inhabited by strange creatures. At 1433 lines, the story is over twice as long as the Ancient Mariner, so strap yourself in for a long ride. At the same time, I understand that this can be quite daunting, so please have a read of the extract below, to see if it is something you feel you’d like to check out.

Or, if you’re already sold and want to avoid SPOILERSThe Unenviable Insomnia of Halloran Kin is available now for Kindle on Amazon for about £1.50 or on the Kobo ebooks Store for the same price. If you prefer, you can simply buy a file containing 6 different formats (.epub, .mobi, .awz3, .lit, .htmlz & .html) totally DRM-free from Gumroad! (Even if you do not have a tablet, the .html file will still allow you to read the poem as one long scroll on your internet browser). If you want an EXCELLENT PERSON DISCOUNT, just tweet me saying so (@Brendy_C) and I will send you a promo code! This will get you the book for 99p! 

That’s all the salesmanship I can stomach for now. If there is a little interest I would like to do an audiobook version of the book at some point. But this depends on many Things. Anyway, if you enjoy my writing and fancy a little adventure, be sure to pick it up!

Thank you.

*

An extract from The Unenviable Insomnia of Halloran Kin, in which our protagonist, for certain reasons, has escaped to a strange city called ‘Sheffield’: 

“A dark, dark place, an urban waste,
I’d been run down to a run-down,
but not a face the law would chase
into that ferocious town.
A firm of Adders and of Newts,
needed tough folk for a task,
they’d give you gloves and give you boots,
and questions they’d not ask.

They put us in a warehouse deep,
and told us not to shirk,
but ‘cause I could not eat nor sleep,
all I did was work.
We worked all night, our chests were tight
and there were plenty faintings,
our job for that dank reptile mob,
was framing fake oil paintings.

We’d graft the wood as best we could,
and sand the splinters gone,
varnish the grains, and fake the stains
– the ‘history’ – it shone!
And I filled crates, with two workmates,
called Gallagher and Jones,
and we’d make frames between our games
of Klax and Knucklebones.

Gallagher was kind and round,
and loyal to a fault,
Jones was skeletal but sound,
and drank her pints with salt.
At knucklebones Jones was the best,
she threw the bone so high,
that she could sand and sculpt and dress,
a frame while it did fly.

And skinny Jones, her face so wan,
of this skill she was proud,
and Gallagher, that jolly man,
was always laughing loud.
A year soon passed, with these good two,
in service of the Adders.
When we were asked, ‘what work y’do?’
we said: ‘We’re making ladders.’

And just when my guilt let me by,
and peace I thought I’d gain,
I took some oak, and set to stroke
some grimace from the grain.
And just when I thought, by and by,
I’d left behind my sin,
There formed a face, of that cramped race,
the second of the Djinn.

‘It’s Kin! It’s Kin! It’s Halloran Kin!
It’s him, that very same!’
The Djinn, the Djinn, his hateful twin!
I threw down the frame.
And still it spoke, with funny croak,
‘Kin! You’d best listen true!
I’ve come for craic, with six-a-pack!
I’ve come to humour you!’

With caution now I spoke,
approached the magic oak,
propped up the frame,
and asked the name,
of this merry Djinny bloke.

‘Call me Sofa, call me that,
I’m not what I appear,
I’m a wastrel, but no rat,
come see, just look in here!’

The frame, it shuddered,
the corners stuttered,
there grew a sudden canvas.
A shining screen, was all-between,
and filled with … sneezing pandas?

He played me GIFs, and funny clips,
of cats and dogs and bats and frogs,
and videos of falling down
and getting drunk,
and spinning round,
and children biting children’s fingers,
drowsy dancers, lousy singers,
and though not exactly profound,
the laughter in me lingers.

‘What say you?’ he said with flair,
that living, laughing oak,
‘Though Djinn you are,’ I said with care,
‘you can stay here and joke.
But ‘gainst this wall you will be lashed,
and if you harm these folk,
your canvas will be wholly smashed,
and your frame will be broke.’

And so he watched us as we worked,
and larked with us at breaks,
he played us vids, and yes we smirked,
while finishing the fakes.

He bet on Klax and, with wisecracks,
our games of Knucklebones,
became fast friends with Gallagher,
and solid pals with Jones.

For all his craic and all his fun,
I first did naught but spite him.
But since he was a funny one,
I too came soon to like him.

He watched our games, and learned our names,
told us of merry memes.
And with his ways, the next few days,
was cause of many screams.”

Halloran clasps at his eyes,
as if he’d tear them out.
I would bet there’s more regret
“Barman! A pint of stout!”

His eyes are veined, his eyes are strained,
his eyes are bloody-shot.
He needs another drink, you think,
to really hit the spot.

And here the barman comes along,
some creature made of cloth.
He fixes you with linen stare,
and a feather pillow cough.

“How much drink, d’you have to sink?
What time d’you call it quits?”
Kin just grins: “I’ve had one tin,
and I’ll not sleep ‘til six.”

He sips.
He stews.
He continues.

“There was a day, the Adders came,
and came with Newts et al.
They slithered in, but all the same,
they looked professional.

‘All right, you three, now listen close,’
they slipped around our shins,
‘Two of you have got to go,
That’s how the market spins.
Two of you are fired chums,
you’re to be sacked next week,
we’ve crunched the numbers, done the sums,
output has reached its peak.

Please accept this book token,
our deepest of contritions,
although we hope you three do ken,
our Terms and our Conditions:
There’s only one position hence,
but all three must apply.
Newts! Let’s go talk to our fence,
and sort these issues of supply!’

Yes, we three already knew,
the Terms of this damp, rotten zoo,
not by the skilled,
the position’s filled,
but the one who killed the other two.

*

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Top 10 of Everything in 2013

What a year. What a bumper, crazy year. We saw a lot of strange and scary events take place across the world, from civil unrest to unusual animal behaviour. But there was also a lot happening in the entertainment industry and huge leaps forward in technology. To mark the wondrousness of 2013, here is my personal list of the year’s highlights in games, books, film and more.   

1. Top Videogame: Slug Me A Dram

Slug Me A Dram was a surprise hit on the videogame circuit. Following the difficult post-war life of hardened Interstellar Navy SEAL Chad Mathers, players were taken on a rough and difficult ride through explosive flashbacks. Highlights included the section titled ‘Siege of Lava Planet X’ which saw the player wade through the crisp corpses of his child-soldier victims. But what made the game really unique was that these flashback sequences happened only in sharp, infrequent bursts of 30 seconds or less. The majority of the game (a one-hundred hour epic) was spent playing out civilian life on Earthlike Moon IV – getting the bus, buying your groceries, sitting in silence at the dinner table in your mother’s house. All the while terrified that a sudden party-popper might explode, sending poor Mathers into another violent FPS seizure. Much of the game is spent in the bar and it is no surprise that the ex-SEAL’s catchphrase (and title of the game) “Ack slug me a dram willya Kimberly?” became an internet meme within days of release.

2. Top Movie: Kill Them

Kill Them was always going to be big news. No film can be in production for 17 years without the weight of expectation crushing it into the ground on release day. When thousands of cinema-goers bought tickets for the opening screenings, explaining that the movie was likely to be “so bad it’s good”, they were universally disappointed to discover the reverse – that the movie was so good it was bad. Critics slated it, with a review in Empire describing it: “Spectacular, for fuck sake.” The story focused on the existential angst of Drill Sergeant Grisham Wells who has lost his lust for the march and begins to take an interest in Massively Multiplayer Games in an effort to rekindle his militarism. One after another, the games become dull and lifeless to him, until he tries a children’s game called Pony Hunter out of sheer curiosity. The tale of friendship, care and laughter that follows is possibly the most heart-warming film of the past decade. The derision and contempt that surrounded its release was perfectly summed up by award-winning film critic Silvia Ornst: “It’s excellent,” she said. “Sickening, really.”

3. Top News Story: Calrax’s Entrance

This was a year when civil wars raged throughout many lands and the mass surveillance of an entire globe became known, first as breaking news, then as a Broadway musical in the form of ‘Stop! Whistleblower!’ (see Top 10 Musicals of 2013). So when life from a dimension beyond our own first appeared in the cavernous tunnels beneath Switzerland in February, many people were nonplussed. Calrax, as she preferred to be called, was unusual in stature, being a digitised body of infinite wisdom and cynicism. But that did not stop several tabloids from photographing the blemishes that appeared on computer screens all across the world at the time and splashing these photos across their front pages with headlines like: “CALRAX’S CELLULITE NIGHTMARE” or “The self-proclaimed ‘Bodyless Goddess’ can’t hide THESE snaps”. When Calrax retaliated by removing the email and bank accounts of all Daily Mail reporters from existence, many were worried that she had descended into a tyrannous rage. But these fears were fortunately misplaced. After her rise to power in Belgium, where citizens were glad of a computer to fill the reopening power vacuum, she put forward a global law to the UN which suggested all operating systems come with a built-in ‘Kitten Switch’, replacing all error messages with images of fluffy creatures. The law was unanimously agreed upon and Calrax won the admiration of millions of ordinary citizens. Reports of strange ethereal noises coming from circuit boards across the world have yet to be directly attributed to the Goddess’ interference.

4. Top Fiction Book: ‘Who’s A Sour Mash Man?’ By George Lambast

Fiction in 2013 was riddled with bestsellers. But only one piece of work stood out as a truly clever literary sensation. ‘Who’s A Sour Mash Man?’ was the story we had all secretly expected to exist somewhere in the world but which authors, up until now, had all been too fearful to write. George Lambast took that fear by the scruff of its neck and told it to stop misbehaving. Then he murdered it. ‘Who’s A Sour Mash Man?’ is the semi-autobiographical tale of an East Asian parrot called Barker who emigrates to Texas, where he falls madly in love with a pitiful rogue whom the locals have nicknamed ‘Benny Cough Syrup’. The blossoming relationship between the parrot and Benny is one of both tenderness and cruelty, as we begin to see the psychological warfare that consumes the pair. Increasingly ostracised from the rest of Houston, they turn on each other, resulting in a psychedelic cough medicine-soaked finale in which Barker the parrot states, with a deep, philosophical wisdom beyond his years: “Only a bird in love can know true terror. Caaaw!”

5. Top Non-Fiction Book: Compendium of Fierceness 2013

If autobiographies were the ubiquitous winner of publishing in the year 2012 (and every year before) then the rise of the Compendium is surely all the more notable. This year publishing house ‘Wrodsmiths’ launched their collections of miscellany to the cheers of billions of enthralled readers. The Compendium of Alertness was quickly followed by the Compendium of Morbidity and, while the Compendium of Lethargy saw a less enthusiastic reception, the Compendium of Malice broke August sales records in every country except Belgium (where the Calrax autobiography, ‘My Plan’, was eagerly bought by 107% of the population). But it was the Compendium of Fierceness which captured the imagination of inquisitive readers everywhere. Filled with comprehensive lists of beasts, monsters, mythical heroes, Amazonian tribespeoples, warriors, sharks, eels, spine-covered trees and hailstorms – all categorised in order of severity – the voracious consumers of the world lapped it up. Next year will see the release of many more Compendiums, according to Wrodsmiths, as well as the launch of an international ‘Compendiana’ – a deadly contest of memorisation and list-building, the exact rules of which are yet to be revealed.

6. Top Poem: ‘When I Yield, If I Yield’ by Charles Quail

A winner of the prestigious Heartbleed Poetry Prize for more than 10 years in a row, Charles Quail exceeded all expectations in November, when he released this resolutely non-rhyming epic into the wilds of the Kindle Store. Who can reliably remember a time when this poem’s great power did not save them from the ultimate destruction of hopelessness? (“I am in a wind. / The gale goes fast. / Oh God, it is not a gale at all. / Help. / Help. / I have fallen off a high building. / I wish I had not fallen off this high building.”)

7. Top Board Game: Party Knife

This was an unusual gambit for veteran board game creator Stanislav Pike, who enjoys almost universal acclaim for his previous party games. In Party Knife, six or more players are dealt hidden role cards. Five of these cards are blank. But one card is coloured a deep shade of crimson and emblazoned with the words: ‘You Are The Party Knife’. Players must then disperse into the house, occupying one room each. They have to barricade themselves in as quickly and efficiently as possible. The ‘Party Knife’ will seek to make his or her barricade less sturdy, as he or she will soon try to leave and begin the Lurking Phase. During this time, the Party Knife will take a meat knife from the kitchen (or other instrument of equivalent sharpness) and stab holes in the doors of the other players. Players who receive a stabbed door must shout out: “Party Knife, Party Knife! I see you! / Spare my life, spare my life! Please won’t you!” then make a guess as to who the Party Knife is. If they are correct, the knife is slid under the door and THEY become the Party Knife. If they are wrong, the Party Knife will continue the Lurking Phase until he or she has been correctly guessed and replaced, or until all other players have been killed, whichever comes first.

8. Top Television Programme: Bust A Crime

When Netflix was bought out in September by the newly formed Calrax Initiative, along with 88 other companies of the FTSE100, television viewers were concerned that the quality of TV programmes would suffer. They need not have worried. Bust A Crime had every age group enthralled from its now iconic pilot episode. Who could not have instantly fallen for the charms of Pleasance White, the gruff but lovable non-gender-specific whisp of intelligent smoke, who solved every baffling police case using only the power of rhyme? Only the Belgian gameshow ‘Execution Live!’ received a higher viewer count than Bust A Crime’s bombastic season finale. Three more series are planned, with scripts for a movie doing the rounds in Hollywood among writers well versed in Rhyming Criminology. Poet Charles Quail invited the wrath of Pleasance fans everywhere when he said in an interview that the series was “Absolute twiddle-twaddle and quite shit” but later rescinded his remarks after meeting Calrax herself at a Royal Ball in October. What did he think of the digitally displaced being of ultimate power? “Absolutely charming,” he chuckled, “I concede she has done great things for television.”

9. Top Music: ‘This Room Stinks & You Can All Go To Hell Especially You, Jerkwad’ by The Elegants

After quickly establishing themselves as the big chiefs of featherpunk in 2012, The Elegants’ second album actually passed many critics by unnoticed. Many theorised that their quieter, less practiced and instrumental direction alienated fans of their post-grank cyber ballads. TRS&YCAGTHEYJ was a shocking tonal shift. Part whamrap, part krumpstep, the album initially baffled listeners by including ten 5-minute tracks of total silence, before finally squeezing every song they recorded into the final two tracks, two minutes apiece. A strategy that many music journalists have now concluded was ludicrously ahead of its time.

10. Top New Technology: The Shuffler

Admit it, you thought the Shuffler was a silly name to begin with. We all did. It sounded like a toy that would come into your house and mix up your alphabetised mineral collection. But it isn’t! The Shuffler, even though it has only been out for a month and a half, has revolutionised the way we think about pets. Before, our furry little friends were stable but bland. Our cats stayed cats, our dogs stayed dogs. But along came the Shuffler – another amazing species from the Calrax Initiative’s pet shop branch. As you read, your wonderful swordfish Fluffy may be cocooning right now, ready to start her fifteenth ‘cycle’ as an adorable stick insect, or perhaps a rattlesnake. The real genius was the decision to remove the customer’s choice from the regeneration process – you just don’t know what you’re going to get! Other technologies came thick and fast this year through the Calrax Rift above Belgium (the Twangboard, the Filth Ray, The Lazzzzer) but the Shuffler took humanity by storm in a way no others could, filling up Vines and Tweets with footage of humourous quadrupeds and the concerned faces of animal welfare officers. When the Shufflers began to mass cocoon over the Brussels skyline, locking the city into a huge humming cone of whitish fibre, some customers were annoyed. But when they saw that the 200ft chimera which emerged was under the caring command of Empress Calrax, the world breathed a sigh of relief. Better still, to celebrate the birthing of the ‘Skyhound’ (as Calrax affectionately named the creature) humanity would be taken through the Calrax Rift by the truckload, where we would all start our new lives as digitised ether in another world. It is my pleasure, dear reader, that when I passed through the glowing purple rupture I was immediately designated the form of the text in this article. I could not have asked for a more enriching and rewarding existence. And it is all thanks to the wondrous Shuffler.

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