Recently I found myself in the Museum of London searching out a fascinating artefact referenced in the footnotes of Alan Moore’s sprawling and masterful From Hell. The museum was unusually busy that Sunday morning and I was curious as to why.
Intrigue overpowering my inherent instinct of avoiding “crowdthink”, I tracked the main flow of traffic to a basement gallery housing a rather pedestrian exhibition of “London Street Photography” (basically smug intrusive snapshots of assorted eccentrics, freaks and losers).
I have something of a knack for anticipating future video games. This knack has often proved startlingly prescient.
Example. As a child who had quickly grown bored of the repetitive nautre of the banal Duck Hunt (to say nothing of the intense frustration I felt at being unable to shoot that dog up the asshole), I envisioned a much more complex shooter that would test the Nintendo Entertainment System’s “Zapper” light gun to its limits. The game I had imagined was a hard-hitting affair called Zapper, P.I. which featured a moustachioed private detective engaging in a perpetual car chase with a plethora of heavily-armed perps who had raped his wife and kidnapped his young son. The player would control the character with the light gun, shooting enemies as they appeared on screen and scoring double if he steered the character’s car over their felled bodies. Being five-years-old and encumbered with parents who refused to nurture my creative side by furnishing me with the expensive computer arrays I demanded, I had no way to actually create this game, so it remained confined to my fertile young mind.
Recently I found myself in the unusual position of having time to kill, following the collapse of a musical project I had been working on.
The project in question was Siegfried Bassoon – a musical autobiography of Siegfried Sassoon (for Bassoon). I had poured hours into a promising first draft of the piece, but the project collapsed when it transpired that Britain’s foremost bassoonists consider themselves too important to travel to Carrickfergus for a weekend of intensive development work, despite my assurances of an 8% share of any future profits. I suppose I will now have to focus my efforts on Wilfred Bowin’ – a musical autobiography of Wilfred Owen (for Cello). I hear cellists are a much more reasonable breed, equipped with the sort of foresight that is foreign to the mind of the eminent bassoonist.