Observe the valuable life-lesson below, presented in glorious technicolour, then proceed to answer the four questions. Show your working where possible. You may use a calculator.
Great news readers! Joyous news! Mr Trench has reminded of the kid’s televisual trip-fest Wizbit! I was sat in my chambers when Mr Trench meanded in, wearing nought but a small yellow cone over his nethers. After a little discussion it transpired that Mr Trench had been partaking of the Scotch and playing Hide-And-Seek with some of the more nubile female members of the kitchen staff, whereupon his drunken state had caused him to misunderstand the rules about what exactly was being ‘hidden’.
With Mr Trench shoo’d away into the Randomlinkage Ice-Bath to calm down, I began to recall Wizbit and how bizarre and freakish the whole show was. Of course the father of the show Paul Daniels was in it, casting spells and doing magic tricks like there was no tomorrow, and the odd sort of triangle/cone of Wizbit did some stuff and there was a big rabbit too, but it’s the theme tune that everyone remembers. So with little delay, let’s dissect that very theme now…
Opening Theme:
Ha ha this-a-way, ha ha that-a-way, ha ha this-a-way, my oh my
Ha ha this-a-way, ha ha that-a-way, ha ha this-a-way, my oh my
Immediate confusion. Listeners are immediately pulled this-a-way and then that-away, only to return back this-a-way again. The ha-ha-ing only adds to the confusion; are they ha-ha’s of enjoyment or ha-ha’s of an evil cackle? The my oh my is also confusing, as it seems quite a polite phrase to use after such this-a-way and that-a-way-ing.
What do we know about Wizbit
Now he comes from the planet of WOW
I’m unaware of the planet of WOW, but if it produces characters like Wizbit I imagine we’ll carpet bomb the crap out of it from space before we ever set foot there.
Once he was a little bit, little bit, little bit
A little bit of magic in his Daddy’s eye
A curiously sexual comment here, presumably referring to the old phrase “A glint in the milkman’s eye” or similar. Or was he literally a small piece of magic in his Dad’s eye, making his poor Dad feel uncomfortable and itchy about the ocular region?
Time came grow a bit, grow a bit, grow a bit
Wizbit grew about three feet high
These are very imprecise measurements; grow ‘a bit’ and ‘about’ three feet high? I think the watchers of Wizbit deserve to know exactly how much he grew at each growth spurt and his exact height upon reaching maturity. Still, at around three feet high he’s a bit of a short-arse.
Ha ha this-a-way, ha ha that-a-way, ha ha this-a-way, my oh my
Ha ha this-a-way, ha ha that-a-way, ha ha this-a-way, my oh my
Having told us nothing much about Wizbit, except that he lives on planet WOW and that he grew a bit, more baffling to-ing and fro-ing goes on. With such deception and subterfuge being deployed in these early lyrics, I am forced to conclude that Wizbit is a Communist.
Ending Theme:
Ha ha this-a-way, ha ha that-a-way, ha ha this-a-way, my oh my
Ha ha this-a-way, ha ha that-a-way, ha ha this-a-way, my oh my
Again, further entrapment and sinister bamboozling tactics. As if a show about a magical conical yellow freak and his spaced-out giant rabbit friend wasn’t enough, children are then plunged further into madness by the lyrics.
Ostagazuzulum, that was the magic word
Ostagazuzulum, my oh my
The magic word is revealed! And it’s pretty rubbish! Ostagazuzulum just doesn’t have the same impact as Abra-cadabra. It sounds more like the noise someone might make when they have a particularly mucus-heavy sneeze.
He can do magic, magic, magic!
Magic a rabbit, eight feet high
Exactly what use is an eight-feet high rabbit? And is that all the magic that Wizbit can do? If so, his career in magic is going to be spectacular but short-lived, though he could always take up a new trade as a butcher with a speciality in cuts of rabbit.
Ha ha this-a-way, ha ha that-a-way, ha ha this-a-way, my oh my
Ha ha this-a-way, ha ha that-a-way, ha ha this-a-way, my oh my
With images of massive rabbits towering over little midget Wizbit and wizards shouting Ostagazuzulum into our bewildered faces, we’re quickly pitched back into the catchy-but-meaningless ha ha segment of the song again. Presumably this leaves the viewers, the poor innocent child fans of Wizbit, susceptible to whatever comes on after it, which might well have been Commy propaganda disguised as harmless children’s television.
I hope you enjoyed this in-depth critique of the lyrical abomination that is the Wizbit theme and that I have not crushed your happy childhood memories of the same. Now you must excuse me, for I have forgotten to release Mr Trench from the Ice-Bath and must do so before his already withered man-bits drop off from the chill.
For those of you desperate to gorge yourselves on the lyrics further, here’s a clip. It isn’t the best quality, but it’s better than nowt. (NOTE: Watch to the end for the rabbit dancing. Deranged, truly deranged.)
Happy New Year readerfolk. I hope you enjoyed your New Year’s festivities. Myself and Mr Trench had a most splendid time; we burnt some peasants, quaffed much mead and attached the least-efficient members of staff to fireworks before sending them skyward. It was a fabulous evening, the only downside of which was Mr Trench ‘accidentally’ stabbing me in the leg with a corkscrew before stealing the last of the mead. I shall have my revenge; my trusty mallet is ready to strike at him.
In light of the New Year, I have decided to enter the modern world and have purchased a gizmo, a gadget, a technological marvel. I am now the proud owner of a Smartphone. It took me a little while to work out how to make a call on it but that’s all sorted now. It’s all very whizzy, shiny and dramatic.
However, I have experienced problems with the autocorrect function when sending a text message. My previous phone had no such futuristic feature so the whole autocorrect world was very new to me, but within minutes I was cross. I wanted to type the word ill; my phone determined that I should type the word I’ll. I tried to type Skyrim; technology wanted skydive.
Of course, I am now entirely up to speed with autocorrect and it’s numerous annoyances, but whilst searching for ways to either adjust the autocorrect settings or switch them off entirely, I came across a very funny website.
Very, very funny.
It’s called Damn You Autocorrect and is a store of some of the finest, most comical autocorrect errors ever to have blighted the world of SMS telecommunications.
There are a lot of examples of autocorrect disasters on the site but here are just a few little ‘tasters’ to whet your appetite.
Hopefully I won’t send any messages with quite such horrendous implications but if I do, I’m going to blame autocorrect. The entire website is brilliant and those two little tasters are just the tip of a very tasty comedy iceberg.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to beat Mr Trench with my huge meat.
With the unpleasantness sorted for now, I return with much glee thanks to the wordy prattlings of Mr Trench. Those Gladiators lyrics really did need some in-depth analysis and Mr Trench did us proud.
With the bar set so high, I’m going to move us seamlessly from Gladiators lyrics to… cleaning out the inside of my computer.
There, hardly anyone noticed that change of direction. Relatively recently, I did something that I’m sure my neighbours think is very much on the bizarre side of things. No, not that thing with the leather straps and the Cardinal, though that is quite bizarre; I am referring to the bi-annual activity I refer to as ‘de-dusting’ my computer.
Working with computers, I am all too aware of the damage that evil dust can do to the innards of one of Babbage’s electronic offspring. It can clog up fans and heatsinks, cause overheating and, overall, lead to things to break and explode and blow up and other dramatic sounding verbs of that nature.
To avoid such badness happening to my very own computron I take 30 minutes every six months to clean out the dust. Unfortunately, I’ve got into a curious routine that I now feel obliged to do. Before I begin the routine, I need the following equipment:
A chair
An extension lead
A hairdryer
An electric shaver cleaning brush
Some cotton buds
A duster
My PC
A cup of tea
With such crucial items gathered, I then do the following:
Put the chair, the brush, the cotton buds and the duster outside.
Plug in the extension lead, put it by the chair and plug in the hairdryer.
Unplug everything from my PC and take it downstairs.
Take the side off the PC.
Use the hairdryer (cold setting) to blow out the ‘loose’ dust.
Use the brush and the cotton buds to clean the fans.
Wonder whether there’s a better way to do this.
Detach the heat sink from the processor and give that a little clean with aforementioned brush and fans.
Give everything another blast with the hairdryer to get rid of any newly fallen dust.
Avoid the confused and sometimes fearful looks of the neighbours.
Re-attach the heat sink and put the side back on the PC.
Return the PC to it’s desk home.
Put everything away in it’s correct place.
Feel slightly grubby and ashamed.
Drink tea and feel better again.
Reading that back, I admit that it makes me sound a little bit mad; you are wholly permitted to consider my mental state fractured like a broken bauble. I sit, in my garden, blowing cold air at the inside of my PC with the Feisty Kim’s hairdryer and cleaning out clumpier bits of dust with cotton buds.
Did I mention that I do this in the nuddy? Well I don’t. I wear a bow tie.
Do these actions make me mad? Deranged? A nutter? I shall leave you to make up your own minds, readers, but when your computronic devices erupt into dusty flames, I shall be having the last laugh.
Oh, before you pass judgment, it’s probably worth knowing that I did speak to a psychologist about this but he said I was a “proper maniac who should be locked away in a lovely padded room”, so without haste I chucked him into the enraged reindeer pit over in the North Wing of the Towers. Just thought you should know.
Over an evening glass of sherry and a friendly Connect 4 campaign, Mr Penge did remark unto to me that what the site needed most was an analysis of the lyrics to athletic gameshow king, Gladiators. I dismissed this at nonsense and retired for the evening.
Later that night whilst awake in bed, a voice repeatedly intoned “Gladiators, GLADIATORS, lyrics, LYRICS, awooga, AWOOGA”. Turning over I found Mr Penge beside me, his hands cupped around his mouth hole. I politely asked him to leave and after some minutes, we came to an agreement that I would write the piece and he should not enter my bed chamber without my express permission. Deal made, we would never speak of this awkwardness again.
The Gladiators, mid-nineties telly legends / Saviors of the lycra industry.
Do you feel the power of the Gladiators? Can you face the challenge of the champions?
Do you have the courage of a hero? Do you have the will and the skill?
A good start, just 5 seconds into the credits we question whether the viewers can feel the majestic power of the Gladiators . Can they face the challenge, do they have the required courage? If not, the faint of heart should turn over now. Only those with both will and skill should proceed even to the second verse.
Do you have the speed, the strength, the heart to be a winner? It’s not for beginners.
Deep down in your soul. Are you a Gladiator?
More soul searching for the viewer. Quite literally this time around. This is no mere Saturday night freakshow, this is an existential dilemma. Also if you are a Gladiator, why are you watching this? Shouldn’t you be at the Birmingham NEC rolling around in a metal sphere?
Gotta move like a streetwise fighter. Gotta face the fire of the tiger.
Gotta give your all to win. Ready or not, let the challenge begin.
Hmm dubious. Do streetwise fighters have moves? And what are streetwise fighters? No time to think about it much, because there’s a flame wielding tiger that you must face next. In fact, let’s just start anyway regardless of whether you’re ready shall we?
Can you match the strength of the Gladiators? Do you have the fire within you?
Do you have the heart of a lion? Do you have the power in your soul?
Do I have the strength of a steroid enraged gym maniac? No. Do I have a fire within me? No, not unless the tiger from verse three had it’s way. Do I have the heart of a lion? Why yes I do thanks to my extensive leonid anatomical collection thankyou very much. Oh great we’re back to this soul business are we?
Now it’s time to race, it’s face-to-face, get on the track now.
There’s no turning back now. Your future’s on the line. Are you a Gladiator?
My future is on the line? What kind of show is this? Are those… potential employers in the audience? Dear Lord this isn’t what I signed up for. Somebody help me? Fash?! Fash where are you?!
Gotta move with lightning speed. Feel the strength for what you need.
Gotta take it on the chin. Gotta love it, love to fight and win.
If success is determined by my ability to move at 140,000mph then frankly I’m doomed. The only strength required of me is that needed to wrestle my way past the building’s security and get out of here. The less said about taking it on the chin the better. Although doubtless Wolf wielded some star power back in the day and his backstage demands would have been legendary.
Do you feel the power of the Gladiators? Can you face the challenge of the champions?
Show the stuff you’re made of. Can you seal the fate of the Gladiators?
Can you challenge the Gladiators? Will you take on the Gladiators? Will you be the new champion?
Ah, the double verse indicating the finale. More power, challenges, “stuff”, fate and champions. Leading me to believe that the lyricist only had enough ideas for two verses at most, and was forced to stretch them out for 2 minutes.
And with that, I hope to have briefly satisfied Mr Penge’s weird hunger for unecessary lyrical breakdowns, at least for the moment. So let’s you and me readers agree never to remind him of Wizbit, shall we?
Some months back, Auntie Beeb announced that she had secured a deal with the beloved Sky mega-corporation to co-present the 2012 F1 season. This was terrific news for you if you:
A) Love throwing money away and really like the idea of paying £40 a month for something you’ve been watching free for your entire life.
B) Think F1 was doing altogether too well for itself this year, what with it’s award winning coverage and exciting races, and would rather have it die a slow, unwatched death.
Naturally I was rather annoyed by this rather pathetic move by the Beeb, ( which was solely put into place to stop another terrestrial channel buying the rights from under them), so for the second time in 30 years I actively considered… not watching an F1 season. ( First occasion: The dull grey, emotionless void known only as the time of Raikonnen.) I want to watch whole races, not highlights, so with a heavy heart I resigned myself to an F1-less year or two.
Status: Not watching 2012 F1
Cut to the final race of 2011, Brazil, Interlagos. Beeb decided to only have the highlights on iPlayer so I begrudgingly watched them. And if I’m honest, they weren’t half bad. If I’m honest, I felt like they gave a good account of the whole race, I didn’t feel like I’d missed huge chunks of time. My moral stance began to waiver.
Status: Watching 2012 F1
Perhaps sensing some element of excitement entering the sport, ex-world champion and mono-syllabic charisma void Kimi Raikonnen declared he would return for the 2012 season. Great.
Status: Not watching 2012 F1
In a remarkable display of mind reading, worlds tallest tv pundit, Jake Humphries, posted a blog entry in response to my inner doubts. Whilst I don’t think much of Jake, or his terrifyingly giant limbs, I was impressed by the passion for the sport he and his team displayed. I made my mind up, I would give them another chance.
Status: Watching 2012 F1
Almost immediately I perused the comments for Jakes post. One of them made reference to Martin Brundle, awesome commentator extraordinaire, leaving the Beeb. Surely this couldn’t be the case? Martin has been one of the voices of F1 for half my entire life. He did the unthinkable, he replaced Murray “Unless I’m very much mistaken… I AM VERY MUCH MISTAKEN” Walker as the voice of F1. One google search later and my fears were confirmed… Martin was off to Sky along with the live coverage. I could hardly blame him.
Status: Not watching 2012 F1
Which leaves us where we are now. No word from the Beeb if they’ll buy Martin’s dulcet tones to go along with their limited programs. Can they do it again? Can they win me back over? Frankly I need a lay down from this emotional roller coaster, please Beeb, just decide what I’m doing for me.
Hi readers. I’m afraid there’s going to be a bit of radio silence from me for a short while whilst I deal with some unpleasantness.
This doesn’t stop Mr Trench from posting things, we’d just need to find him first.
In the meantime, please enjoy the music of the Randomlinkage Towers house-band, who are most certainly not playing under the threat of violence or vigorous spankings.
You have crafted a superb game in Skyrim, where a world of thousands of possibilities are laid out at the feet of RPG fans like myself. Storyline, music, voice acting, graphics, all aspects of the game are masterfully crafted.
But could you explain to me why the local wildlife in Skyrim is able to rip me to pieces in a few ‘bites’? I’m talking bears. All too many times my poor character has been brutally mauled by a bear as I wandered around the wilderness.
My character is a Dragon-born, a slayer of the mythical beasts. How come I can readily battle a dragon, a massive fire-breathing scaled dragon with a mouth as big as my entire body, but a ruddy bear is able to claw me to death in two swipes?
It is my belief that I shouldn’t find myself eagerly running into battle with a dragon but frantically sprinting away from Bobo the Bear.
Aside from this slight issue, the game is top stuff. Well done.
Way back in 2008, when the world was a simpler place filled with milk and honey and happy smiling people, I wrote a few posts on Linkage listing five Wii games and five DS games that I had utterly no intention of ever wasting my time playing. The intention was to then proceed to listing dreadful games from other systems but, as per Linkage tradition, this intention fell by the wayside; presumably I was distracted by a shiny penny or a ball of wool.
So a mere three years later I’ve resurrected this scintillating concept and we’re going to have a nosey at the absolutely worthless dregs of the PC gaming world.
I think it’s fair to say that the good old PC, the humble ‘home computer’, has more games available for it than the major consoles and handhelds. This increases the chances of there being some proper stinkers out there, games which might have Babbage spinning in his grave so fast he’ll reach the revolutionary equivalent of terminal velocity and teleport to a different universe.
I’m not saying these are the worst five PC games ever, indeed the word ‘game’ is a dubious term for a few of them, but they are ones that I will not spend a single second of my meagre lifespan playing.
Road Works Simulator. Enjoy all the thrills and spills of road works! Experience the sheer thrill of sitting down drinking tea beside a queue of angry motorists who want you to get off your bum and do some work! Dig a hole! Fill it in again! Switch on an orange flashing light! Switch it off again! A whole world of massively limited possibilities awaits you in Road Works Simulator!
Street Cleaning Simulator. I’m not sure what fun can be had from a street cleaning simulator, I presume you just drive up and down pretend streets getting in the way of traffic. Maybe there’s an emergency call from base: “Dave, there’s a discarded crisp packet on London Road! CODE RED! CODE RED!”. This is an even more cynical ’simulator’ than the roadworks one. Are these simulators commissioned by the Government to mentally prepare the youth of today for some future jobs in service industries? Will we soon see ‘Public Toilet Attendant Simulator’ or ‘Airborne Pollutant Monitor Simulator’?
Bungee Jumping Simulator. OK, is someone taking the wazz? A bungee jumping simulator? What’s the point? I can’t imagine you get much of an adrenalin rush from it. A real bungee jump looks terrifying as you hurtle toward the unforgiving ground attached to nothing more than a glorified elastic band, whereas on this simulator you can experience all the thrills of jumping off high-up things whilst sat at home in your chair drinking tea and eating cake. Here’s a bungee jumping simulator that you can make at home: Get a photo of the ground, hold it at arms length, then bring it nearer to your face. Sorted.
Farming Simulator 2011. Notice a pattern here? Simulators. What a waste of bloody time. Presumably Farming Simulator 2011 sees you slaughtering cattle infected with foot and mouth, shooting at trespassers on your property, driving tractors slowly along roads and saying ‘ooh-arr’ a lot. Presumably you ‘win’ the game by being the farmer with the ruddiest cheeks.
PDC World Championship Darts 2008. It’s darts! If you want to play darts, go out and buy a dartboard and some darts! Sorted. Other sporting games are successful because us mere mortals will never be able to do them in real life. I’ll never drive an F1 car but I can pretend to do so with an F1 game. With darts, it’s just… darts. Blokes stood on the spot chucking sharp sticks at a board. I assume that the game features two screens, one being a dartboard and the other being a bar, and the player can develop their skills in lager drinking and bling jangling.
It’s our hope that one day a cure can be crafted by scientists that will rid the world of these amazing specimens of digital dross. Not only would such a cure save the lives of those poor simpletons who actually play these games, it would also free up shelf space in shops for good games which require more than a handful of braincells to enjoy.
Comics | Gaming| penge @ 11:39, November 15th, 2011.
I don’t know much about Marvel comic characters, nor am I a great fan of Capcom’s range of games characters, but the trailer for the upcoming fighty-hitty-punchy game Ultimate Marvel vs Capcom 3 has just destroyed my mind and reduced my brain into a pile of dribbly goo.
If you think you can cope with almost six minutes of awesomeness (officially recognised by the Council of Awesome) then strap yourselves in and watch the trailer below. If you’re weak willed or of a nervous disposition then it’s probably best if you just go and bake some bread or re-pot a plant or something, because in all likelihood this trailer will kill you dead.
Other game companies take note: That is exactly how to make a game trailer. I only knew about ten percent of the characters in that trailer but I still want to buy it.
Yes, Mr Trench is indeed missing again. Someone asked me recently whether we’d fallen out with each other, perhaps in a heated argument over money or the usage of the electro-pants, but no, there have been no disagreements. We share the electro-pants.
The last I heard Mr Trench was going to the shops for a packet of Hob-nobs but he hasn’t returned. I’ve checked all the usual areas around here, such as his S&M dungeon and the Randomlinkage holodeck (which is inexplicably stuck on the High School Musical setting…) yet I’ve found no sign of him.
He’s about five feet high, with hair on his head and a deliciously beardy face. He’ll probably be swearing at passers-by and muttering lewd comments at young pretty ladies.
If you do see him it’s advisable not to approach him as he tends to lash out at strangers. And people he knows. Instead, call the Randomlinkage entrapment team, who will ensnare him with some boxed set of DVDs he doesn’t own (such bait is becoming increasingly rare), tranquilise him and pop him into a little crate to be transported back to the Towers.
I’d like to say there’s a reward, but there isn’t, unless getting a whiff of Mr Trench’s manly musk counts as a reward, in which case there is a reward and you’re very welcome to it.
Recently Evil Lord Bray, he of the sinister laughter and dubiously enormous codpiece, sent me some of his favourite quotes from individuals throughout history.
Rather than write something myself, I thought I’d simply retype these quotes out for you all to share, thus saving myself the brain energy required to produce some original content. At present, this brain content is required elsewhere.
So let’s travel through time and see who Evil Lord Bray deems quoteworthy…
“Would anyone like a cup of tea?” Winston Churchill, 1939
“F**king hell that’s sharp!” Mary Queen of Scots, 1587
“Mine’s the brunette with the big tits.” Archbishop Desmond Tutu, 1977
“Every science has for its basis a system of principles as fixed and unalterable as those by which the universe is regulated and governed. Man cannot make principles, he can only discover them.” Timmy Mallet, 1988
“Well how would you have liked it? Day in, day out with someone’s hand up your arse, but how many people rang social services? No-one, that’s who.” Sooty, 2008
“Haha you missed m-” Col Muammar Gadaffi, 2011
There are a few surprises in there. I didn’t know Sooty could speak. Maybe the intervention of a human hand shoved through the core of his body affected his vocal chords.
In true time-honoured Randomlinkage tradition, this post is late by the princely sum of three whole days. Feel free to voice your complaints to passers by.
Three days ago, October 22 2011, was the tenth anniversary of a special day. A remarkable day. No, it wasn’t my ten year anniversary of learning how to wee into the grown-up toilet, but it was the ten year anniversary of a day that will live in the mind forever.
A day when I received a very exciting piece of mail, from the King of darkness and destruction himself, Lord Bray.
To be exact, I received the letter below.
An insulting letter and some tea. What a brilliant day.
I’d like to start this post by stating that I like Star Trek. I like The Next Generation, indeed I have fond memories of watching this on Wednesday teatimes with my Dad. I like Deep Space Nine and Voyager and Enterp… DS9 and Voyager. I like the more modern films; First Contact is excellent. I like the Universe that Star Trek inhabits and the questions it asks.
I like Star Trek. Got it?
However, as much as I like Star Trek, it does annoy me, hence the word annoyances in the title of this post. Yes, annoyances. Not observations, annoyances. Already I can sense the Trekkies getting irate, planning to kill me with The Force or whatever.
Whenever I watch Star Trek, there are always bits in it that annoy me. Not much, not to the point where I’m venting my frustrations by screaming at the television, they’re just little things that grate on my nerves and annoy me a little. They cause me to be a tad annoyed, you could say.
So what causes this small amount of annoyance? Let’s see.
Space – This Way Up
This is my primary annoyance. In the universe of Star Trek, it appears that space has a definite ‘bottom’ and a definite ‘top’. Whenever spaceships meet, they are always on the same axis (science boffins, is that the right word?). By this I mean that the ships are always facing each other ‘the right way up’.
You never see the Enterprise looking at an alien ship on the view screen only to find the other vessel is upside down, do you? I want to see the Enterprise being forced to engage manual thrusters to rotate itself 180 degrees to be the right way up, that’d give little Wes a challenge.
If the Lonely Island track below doesn’t make you laugh then there is something wrong with your brain part; I suggest you take it to get serviced by a trained brain mechanic.
To warn you, there are words of the rudey variety so I would deem this ‘Not Safe For Work’ and ‘Not Safe For Public Transport Unless You Want To Offend Some Of Your Fellow Travellers’.
