Alone I Game.

With a New Year emerges new, usually domestic challenges. Increases in tax. National insurance. Rent. Utility bills. Inflation. Unemployment. All while wages stagnate, the economy fluctuates and the government flaunts its privilege while extorting the poor to fund next year’s extravagant New Year’s Eve party. I’ve often considered the possibility of deserting the congestion of residential monotony and living life off the proverbial grid. To seek refuge in the sanctity of a cabin, furnished with a kettle, decent WIFI connectivity and an accessible delivery route, if it meant avoiding all social interactions or humanity in its entirety. I believe that such nurtured abstinence would leave me a very contented mammal. And this inherent desire for social forfeit has only been further epitomised by the festive break.

Much of my gaming is economised by trivial domestic responsibilities, a province that afflicts many burgeoning diversions. And though Christmas permits much needed respite from the rigidity imposed by work, your patriarchal duty is satisfying your family’s demands. Now this is certainly my preferred environment, with food, booze and all of the festive hospitality you’d expect from a Christmas gathering. But the excesses of this socially repressive period affords little time to indulge in your own coveted seclusion. As someone as introverted as myself, thrust into awkward conversations with peripheral members of my family or indeed those inherited through my partner, can be a stifling. And even the obligatory moment of synergetic narcolepsy that afflicts every family unit post Christmas feast, provided scarce refuge to indulge in my gaming proclivities. Even with my transported Steam Deck for comfort.

The aforementioned Steam Deck enables a versatility impeded by the conventional console systems. Sure it’s not the most subtle device, one that evidently attracts the attention of even your cataract afflicted grandmother, and is considered a major social faux pas, but a necessary reprieve from the “invigorating” family congregations. But what suddenly occurs to me during this bustle of congenial levity, is that gaming really is as intimate as reading a book. I lack the requisite discipline to suppress the ambient revelry around me, that in turn disrupts my capacity to engage with the words on the page with any comprehension. It could be the noise from a television or a simple conversation, I just can’t concentrate. And the same applies for gaming. There is just too much activity encompassing you to fully immerse yourself in a game, and zone out for a few hours. Which has always been a prime incentive. Despite the versatility and portability of a device like the Steam Deck, it’s just not the same unless you can play it alone.

Sadly, unless I inherit a small fortune from a wealthy Uncle I “accidentally” murdered, I’m probably going to have to stop being so selfish.

Christmas

Christmas is a time for celebration. A respite from the tedium imposed by the burden of yuletide preparation and frantic work commitments. To revel in the annual festive traditions of Turkey, novelty jumpers, the jingle of bells, Die Hard, consumerism, saccharine John Lewis adverts, alcoholism, stockings, suspenders and all the trimmings commonly associated with this contorted religious festival. Christmas, until you reach that inevitable point of cynicism in your life, is the most magical time of year. A gleeful beguilement that is only rejuvenated by the mercurial derangement of your own children. Only through the vicarious delirium of children can you even hope to evoke that same sense of wonder you experienced as a child. But you’re also reminded of just how fortunate you are to have your family there to remind you of how great this time of year can be.

I have always been somewhat withdrawn, favouring the hospitality of my own inimitable company. Even when I’m coerced into social situations I can exchange pleasantries and engage in inane chit chat for short periods, before my limited interest wanes. Nothing gives me as much pleasure as the mere prospect of having time, as well as my home to myself. But the possibility of spending Christmas on my own is a depressing notion. Though there is a critical distinction between being alone and being lonely, Christmas presents a unique convergence of the two. And it’s in realising that being surrounded by your family, at a time of year notorious for inflicting such crippling despondency, is offset by their presence.

Most people take for granted just how fortunate their lives are. They find themselves aggrieved by mild irritants and asinine concerns, rather than appreciate what they have. Me, I have no such obstructions. I know how fortunate I am to have found anyone that can tolerate my misanthropic proclivities the way my partner does. I don’t want to refer to our meeting as providence, because that would imply that we had no control over our meeting. But there was such a coincidental set of circumstances that ultimately introduced us to one another that it does seem almost destined. Though I won’t go into details, it is staggering to me the unique set of circumstances that culminated in our paths overlapping. People will tell you that this kind of preordained convergence doesn’t happen every day. But it does. It’s just that some people lack the perception to see it. Which does make our daughter a rather miraculous creation. And I take great comfort in that.

As I sit here, gut swelling from the excessive consumption of stuffing, chocolate and beer. A generic Christmas movie reaching it’s final, saccharine conclusion, surrounded by warmth of my family, I reflect on where I could be and realise that though life is rarely perfect, it could be a whole lot worse.

The Sins Of Our Fathers.

I’ve often wondered what it was that possessed my father to cheat on my mother. What motivates a person to commit adultery, transgress the sanctity of marriage with such flippancy and leave your wife and children for another woman? As a father I find it inconceivable to acquiesce to a decision that has such devastating repercussions for the solidarity of our family unit. Was it lust? Did he feel trapped in a loveless marriage? Was he bored? Was there a genuine belief that infidelity was a preferable alternative? Or was he merely predisposed to his impetuous inclinations? A genetic trait that appears to afflict the men on my father’s side of the family? I don’t know the answer, and I’m not sure that the solution would give any kind of solace, but what I do know is that any burgeoning relationship we may have had, has been subsequently destroyed as a result of his actions.

The act itself was beyond my comprehension. For context I must have been 9 or 10 years old when my father left. Neither of my parents imparted to myself the particulars for his sudden absence, not voluntarily at least. But that day is a memory, vividly etched in my subconscious. Though my father was subject to limited noncustodial visitations on Sundays with my sister and I, it was evident that my father did this purely because it was required, not because he wanted too. Even though his desertion was a critical wedge between father and son, I think the real impetus for our estrangement was that you got the distinct impression that he didn’t like us. Perhaps that is a projection of my own neurosis. An understandable insecurity that can emerge from such a sudden, life altering incident. But the lack of correspondence between my father and myself over the last decade or so, despite the birth of his granddaughter, would suggest that my suspicions were correct.

The concern for me now isn’t reconciliation, but the apprehension that I might be capable of repeating the same mistakes. Considering the devastation my sister, mother and myself suffered because of my father’s betrayal, not to mention that his subsequent marriage ended in divorce anyway, the idea of emulating his mistake terrifies me. I realise we are not beholden to our parents mistakes, not destined to repeat the sins of our fathers. And though I do feel burdened by it, I’m emboldened to not repeat them. What gives me solace is the fact that the ceaseless devotion I have for my little family unit. That the preservation to their happiness supercedes the ostensible genetic predisposition for infidelity.

If at some point my partner and myself discovered through the natural passage of time that our paths become inextricably diverged, then that is a conversation we would have to engage in, however unpleasant, to decide the best recourse going forward. But to forsake such a privileged endowment, with such a casual regard for the people you should be protecting most, in the pursuit of satisfying your own lustful urges is inexcusable.

It’s fair to say that I am still aggrieved by my father’s duplicity. And I don’t think that will ever change.

Tolerating The Intolerable.

Family gatherings are always awkward. In most instances they’re compulsory, which only further exacerbates the discomfort I endure. The solace of my mother’s cooking and genuine adoration for my family is what makes these congregations a tolerable affair. The problem comes from the one’s you’ve inherited through long term companionship. You’re familiar enough to engage in light, courteous dialogue. But not comfortable enough to express yourself without inhibiting filtration. It’s a necessary burden to maintain equanimity between yourself and your much more gregarious partner. But it does necessitate indulging in the distorted appraisals of those with a selective persuasion about the ethnicity, genealogy and sexuality that is representative of today’s society.

Engaging in direct discourse that conflicts with their own skewed perceptions of say, “immigration” for instance, is a futile endeavour. It’s also sparked by some tenuous associations, that they can retroactively assign to their own bigoted agenda. Whether it’s rising unemployment, the escalating cost of living or the reduced size of Mars bars, almost anything can be attributed to those pesky foreigners. They see it as a dilution of their national heritage. The deprivation of our sovereignty. It’s of little consequence if you are born in this country though. If you’re complexion isn’t one of perpetual pale transparency, then you are deemed an invader by default.

All the world’s sins can be attributed to those “foreigners”. Lamenting the demise of the English language, despite their own negligible understanding of it, slurring more obscenities as they sip from their bottle of imported lager. The type of person that refuses to eat anything that isn’t quintessentially British. Like chips (Portuguese/Spanish origins) or Tea (Chinese). This kind of subversive “casual” xenophobia, is only expressed in the abiding safety of a family setting. Knowing that these polarising views can be expressed without recrimination. Which is a deeply unsettling to know that they feel emboldened enough to confide in you, as though these discriminatory perceptions are reciprocated. All you can do is grimace and nod in a non committing fashion.

Nobody wants to be the errant agitator in such a relaxed, family orientated environment. Especially if you are the proverbial emigrant in the group. All it achieves would be to alienate yourself from people looking to enjoy a relaxed Easter weekend. Besides, challenging them on their flagrant, incendiary grasp of immigration policies, is like trying to describe colour’s to a blind man. Bigotry is not something easily reasoned with. But nor is it something that we should be complicit with. I’m a very tolerant person, scarcely offended. And though I’m not aggrieved by such repugnant attitudes, I do feel piteous of those that nurture it.

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But what do you think? How do you tolerate discrimination? Let me know in the comments below. Cheers.

A Gaming Bond

With the last vestiges of Christmas packed away into the closet for another year. My dangerously swelling stomach hanging precariously over my belt buckle. The discarded Ferrero Rouger wrappings, compacted between the folds of the sofa cushions, trapped until next Christmas, it’s time to reflect and rejoice on a period of such uninhibited consumption and flippant spontaneity that makes Christmas such an engaging jaunt. A necessary respite to relieve the tension generated by the burden of an unfulfilling job. Yet despite the extended rest, I’ve still been busy: Purchasing ornate furnishings to decorate my home. Assisting my neighbours with any errands that may need satisfying. Having my recently excavating fossils appraised. Fishing. Farming. Palaeontology. Attracting new residents to my paradisaical community. Or simply performing any mundane task that improves the reputation of my island, and being an exemplary emissary for this self sustaining parish. As well as celebrating the New Year with all my animal friends.

I’m joking of course….I have no friends, real or otherwise. I was in fact being deligthfully fiendish, with a deception that cleverly disguised my true routine during the Christmas period. By which I mean my addictive obsession with Animal Crossing. An obsession that my 5 year old daughter has now contracted. Much to my mystified partners chagrin. But a frustration I have negotiated by insisting on the game’s written narratives and dialogue to express characters thoughts, as well as verbalise speech in the absence of a fully voiced discourse in traditional platforms, is actually a practical application to teach my daughter to read.

Though not entirely convinced by this endorsement, she was sufficiently placated when my daughter read the word “museum” without assistance. A rather articulate word for a 5 year old. But really this game has been a binding diversion for my daughter and I. A collaborative partnership between father and daughter, to the point that my daughter will chortle the words “Chickey-poo” or discuss her plans for our islands infrastructure, to which her mother is completely oblivious to the context. It’s our thing. Even though she is a mummy’s girl, Animal Crossing is a whimsical bond that allows us to communicate, even though we have fundamentally different interests. Seriously, how can a 5 year old have a more active social life? While mother and daughter have their mutual affection for Disney. We at least have Animal Crossing.