#lads i am just trying to vibe as a little rat with my little rat hands

[sealcore]

me when i

[mandareeboo]

Do you have any game recs?

Always!!!!! A quick note that I am, as I've mentioned many times before, not great at video games, even if I play them a lot. Which means that while I've beaten all listed, I've certainly not gotten enough skill to give a professional opinion rip:

Pokemon Mystery Dungeon (any)- Look. Look. You like RPGs? You like Pokemans? Buy one of these bad boys. Most of the used copies range between twenty to thirty dollars, and they're all over 15 hours of story content plus extras. This was my first experience with Pokemon. This was my first experience with a storytelling video game. Playing them as an adult, you'll spot the twists and turns, but as a child I DIDN'T and it's partially what got me so into writing. I don't have a time gear tattoo fer nothin'!

Far Cry Games- Far Cry games are racist. I'm not lying or ignoring that, and I never recommend giving money to these people when pirating is possible. But if you care about gameplay over a shitty, repetitive, bigoted storyline, Far Cry games are massive, sprawling, and beautifully rendered. You can do basically anything in them. You wanna steal a truck and run it off the road? You wanna hunt? You wanna play shitty poker? Go off majesty, it's there. One of my first FPS experiences.

Psychonauts and Psychonauts 2- You ever read A Series of Unfortunate Events? You know the vibe of 'I have a vague time period where this set in, but this is not how the world acts or people act but it's so compelling'? That's Psychonauts. Set "loosely in the 80s", the games star an acrobatic lad as he uses his psychic powers to enter minds and stop evildoing. It's twisty, it's twisted, it's FUN, and if you aren't sure it's ten dollars at full price for the first one, so you're basically in no real risk of losing out. If you like platformers and are looking for a hella fun time with interesting mechanics, definitely give this a try. (Though, fair warning: Psychonauts 2 has a fair amount of vomit in one mission. So if that squeezes you out, maybe watch a playthrough and skip the goats)

Bioshock 1 and 2- A staple, I know, but I just got to play them for the first time last year, and I loved them. Period-accurate sci-fi that is filled to the brim with POC with plotlines, backstories, and aren't just "lol isn't racism fucked up" fodder? Yes, please. You can pick between a myriad of power-ups and do battle however you want with them. Hack machines or freeze your foes or send bees after them. It's all available. I've not beaten Bioshock Infinite yet so I can't properly recommend it, but I've been told a lot of the fun mechanics are still there.

Celeste- Another platformer, Celeste has gorgeous graphics, challenging but fair gameplay, and lots of memorable characters. Climb a mountain and fist-fight your own mental illness. Each screen is its own sort of mini-level, and you start at the beginning of that when you die rather than the start of the level. It's on basically all your handy consoles AND steam, too.

Fran Bow and Little Misfortune- fun fact about me, I love weird little horror games like these. Full of imagery and psychedelic ideas, you're allowed to write your own story in the characters.

Fran Bow is the tale of a very disturbed little girl- or, perhaps, a girl who can see demons. It's all up to you. Set in the 1940s, Fran has been entered into a mental asylum following the murder of her parents. Desperate to find her kitty, you must guide her out of the jail and into the unknown, facing off with demons, ghosts, skeletons with lovely tophats, and your own uncertainty on what is true or fake.

Little Misfortune is about Misfortune, a little girl who wanders away from home to find Eternal Happiness for her mother. This one is more concrete in real-vs-fake than Fran Bow- you meet foxes with staffs, rats hosting clubs, and the pain of saying goodbye. (Warning: both games are very dark, but Little Misfortune in particular contains some vomit)

Night in the Woods- hey, you wanna question your own mortality? If god exists- and, if he does, if he even likes his job? The downfall of small town America? Cults?? Untreated mental illness? Possums? All with great humor and dialogue?? This may be your JAM! NITW honestly changed my life. It gave me a lot of perspective. And I've wanted a tattoo of a whale with the words "I believe in a universe that doesn't care, and people who do." on my right forearm ever since. 

What Remains of Edith Finch- a walking simulator, walk through the tale of the Finch family, all cursed with bad luck, as Edith returns to her childhood home and writes it all down. Each story is told with amazing flair, interesting stylization, and horrible death.

[pangolin-404]

The Property of Hate chapter 4 liveblog/thought thingie time I am clawing my way through this like a feral rat

ueuehehueueu rgb spinnin his cane.., his flowery vague way of speakin (or maybe that’s just how things are idk) just assume I go :D at everything he does

Hero’s so neat. she rolled with the whole “wanna be a hero?” bit and is just curious about what’s happening. an innovative sort of fellow! not afraid to try new things!! She really took RGB saying he was the worst monster to heart and fears Nothing in this world

hello edgy grinning bird drug dealer-looking person. goodbye edgy grinning bird drug dealer-looking person

DIAL.., COOL,, energetic lad

for a second I got the vibe RGB and Dial were longtime friends and then I got to “You hate him, don’t you?” “So very, very much.” made me go back and re-read that

RGB kicking back against a tombstone getting ready to sleep seems like a horrible idea but he’s gotten them this far

RGB IS INSTANTLY LOST IN THE TELEVISION SAUCE THIS IS GOING TO GO HORRIBLE I CAN FEEL IT. do NOT like how he immediately slumped over but also it’s cute how Hero put his hat back on

my heart dropped when my mans got licked I thought some dreamscape nightmare was gonna go vampire on him 😭. Actually his suit did turn white, is this his equivalent of marie antoinette syndrome? was that the nightmare(?)? whys he so LEAKY. I’m assuming that’s sort of like drool?? but also similar to blood if he has pints of the stuff and he feels woozy after getting drained? my little octopus <3

WHAT was that dreamscape what do you mean that wasn’t how you died is everyone here some reanimated soul of someone who died. what was that voice abt RGB off his mark (assuming it’s addressing him) was he an actor? Train conductor? I wonder if Hero did something with the whole “I think therefore I am” concept with the graveyard and that’s why it’s more lush now

[asthesamcroflies]

REQUEST: Shattered

So, I had a request come in via messages, which is fine by the way, I can just post the details of it in order to reply publicly - I have to confess it’s something different for me, but I decided to give it a go to challenge myself. I don’t think I’ve ever written anything with that Son-on-Son vibe before, not for any particular reason, I just tend to have stuck closer to canon. Hopefully it’s not terrible lol - I did end up not going down the smut route, just cause I thought that slightly ambiguous, unspoken feel worked for this. I did kinda get all up in my own feels lol, so fingers crossed you guys like it...

Here’s the request details: Chibs, Tig, Juice (mentioned. Post series.) - Sad, Romantic, Smutty (if you want, it's not required) - 18, 15, 21 Past Chibs/Juice. Prez/VP dynamic. Chibs is shattered, he needs love, he needs peace of mind. Tiggy sees clearly this.

Prompt 18: “Please don’t do this.” 15: “Do you still think about her/him?” 21: “Would a kiss help?”

Shattered

It was late. Or early depending on how you wanted to look at it.

For once though, the Samcro clubhouse lay quiet and deserted. Almost. The new, eager-to-please prospect had tried to stay on to clear up, but had probably been barked at to get the hell out. That was an end to the night that was becoming more and more common – Sons, hangers-on and croweaters slipping away in the face of their stern president’s glare.

His vice president sighed heavily at that, wiping a hand over his face as he leaned in the doorway and took in the slumped shoulders and reaper on the back of the man he’d vowed to support come hell or high water. He could remember a time when the brash Scotsman was the life and rowdy soul of every fucking party.

Heavy is the head that wears the crown, huh?

Tig knew, perhaps better than most, what it was to carry guilt, remorse, self-loathing. He’d been there for the near-apocalyptic series of clusterfucks that had torn right to the heart of their club and all but destroyed it, so he knew the burden Chibs now had to bear in trying to see what could be salvaged from the ashes – all while desperately trying not to ignite any simmering embers that could flare up and burn them all to the ground all over again.

But it never got any easier to see him struggle under that weight.

He was about to speak, to make his presence known, when Chibs downed whatever was left in his glass and slammed it down on the bar, before stumbling to his feet and crossing the room to stand in front of the framed mugshots of members past and present, those honoured and those who now hung upside down, crossed out, disgraced and a warning to those who may come after them not to stray too far from the club’s rules, spoken and unspoken.

Tig knew from his own reaction to that wall, once a source of pride, how deep it cut Chibs to see it now. In both their minds, Jax Teller still deserved better than to be remembered solely as having brought shame on the patch. Their young president had lost his way, had made mistakes – catastrophic mistakes at that – but he had suffered for it enough and, at the last, had owned his part in his own downfall. Those he had left behind couldn’t help but cling to their love for their young president, or else what had it all been for?

But they had to put up a façade to appease Packer and the other club presidents. They knew the enormity of Jax’s crimes and the price that had to be paid. It didn’t mean they had to like it.

But as Chibs’ hand reached out for a different photo, touching it lightly before his fingers curled into a tight fist, Tig knew there was a fate that was even more complicated for the Scot to come to terms with. He had loved Jax like a brother, like a son even. Juice … Juice had been something else.

That fist lashed out, shattering glass that bit into flesh and drew a hiss of pain, even through what was undoubtedly an alcohol-induced fog. But despite lifting the hand to examine the damage, despite seeing the shard of glass still embedded in it, Chibs only slowly clenched that fist again, forcing it deeper as blood seeped from the ragged wound.

Tig was the one who winced.

“Please don’t do this,” he blurted out, unable to witness any more of this without intervening.

Chibs slowly uncurled his fingers, never turning around. “Go home, Tiggy,” he murmured, the words slurred and his accent thicker than ever.

“Yeah, ‘cause I’m gonna leave you in this fucking state,” his VP scoffed, finally galvanised into action and snatching up what he hoped was a clean cloth as he strode across the clubhouse to take charge. “Lemme see this mess. Jesus…”

He had to force himself to be less gentle than he’d have liked, for reasons he didn’t care to fully explore, but he was still careful as he examined the bloody hand Chibs had been left nursing, tutting over the shard of glass before slowly working it out and pressing the cloth to the wound to stem the bleeding. It looked worse than it was, but it was still bad enough.

“You might get away without stitches,” Tig decided. “So you wanna thank your lucky stars, brother, because I can’t sew for shit.”

“Lucky,” Chibs echoed dully, with a bitter little laugh. “Aye, that’s me – real fucking lucky. I need a damn drink…”

“No, you fucking don’t,” Tig insisted, grabbing him by the shoulders to steer him away from the bar and into a seat.

“Just leave me be, Tigger,” the weary president sighed, raking his uninjured hand through the salt and pepper of his hair. “I ain’t exactly good company right now.”

“What’s new?” Tig snarked, but there was nothing but sympathy and concern in those sharp blue eyes as he sat down opposite his closest of brothers. “You can’t go on like this, man. Ain’t right.”

“Got a choice, do I?” Chibs demanded, the raw agony in his voice and in his brown eyes making even his battle-hardened VP flinch. “Want me to throw up a rope and have done wi’ it? Like… Like Juice.”

Tig stood up so fast his chair overturned with a crash and he jabbed a furious finger in his friend’s face. “Don’t you fucking dare,” he seethed. “Don’t you fucking dare! Tell me that’s bullshit. Tell me you wouldn’t. Tell me!”

“Aye, aye, fine,” Chibs reneged, taken aback even through his haze by the strength of the response to his flippant suggestion. “Fuck, I … I ain’t taking that way out. I ain’t, brother. Sit the fuck down.”

Still furious, Tig glared at him the whole time he was righting his chair and banging it back into place, before sitting down opposite him again. “Asshole,” he snapped, his glare only intensifying when Chibs actually managed a little laugh, wiping his hand over his face.

“Ah, Tigger,” he sighed. “Good to know ya care, brother.”

“Course I fucking care, shithead,” came the heated response. “You think I stuck around for the good of my fucking health? I said I’d always have your back and I damn well meant it. So you don’t get to punk out on me like a little bitch.”

“Your TLC could use some work…”

“Fuck you.”

Chibs chuckled humourlessly. “Love you too, Tigger. You gonna at least let me have one wee drink now me hand’s stinging like a motherfucker?”

“You’ve already had the better part of one wee bottle, by the looks of things,” Tig grimaced, before relenting and getting up to retrieve a couple of glasses and the nearly empty bottle of whiskey, pouring them both a drink and downing his swiftly. He figured he had a lot of catching up to do.

Seeing Chibs’ gaze land somewhere over his shoulder, Tig looked around to follow it back to the photos on the wall and specifically to the one that now hung behind shattered glass. And not for the first time.

“Do you still think about him?”

It was a stupid question, Tig knew that. The answer couldn’t be more obvious. But it was actually the only way he could think to even broach the subject of something deeper.

“I let that lad down,” Chibs mumbled, taking another swig of his drink. “I coulda done somethin’, stopped it ever gettin’ that far.”

“He was a rat,” Tig reminded him, although not unkindly. “That’s on him.”

“He was an easy target,” Chibs shook his head. “He tried to come to me wi’ it. I didn’t hear him out. Not properly. We were all he had and I didn’t listen, didn’t see what was goin’ on in front o’ me own bloody nose.”

For a long moment, his VP could only sit in silence, musing on all the mistakes he’d made in his own life. The hurt he’d caused, to himself and his family, to others caught in his crossfire. He knew what it was to bear that burden. He didn’t want that for Chibs.

“What’s done is done,” he said finally. “Can’t change it, any of it. Can only learn from it. But you gotta let go, brother. You gotta let go or this is gonna eat you up from the inside out.”

“Easier said than done,” Chibs said quietly, his forced smile wry. “You know that.”

“I do,” Tig nodded, after a pause. “But I had you. And you’ve got me. So don’t forget that, you prick. You’ve got me. And I fucking need you. I can’t do any of this shit without you.”

Chibs looked up at the crack in his VP’s voice to find Tig was the one with his head down now. Slowly, he reached out to let his fingers trail through those wild dark curls.

“Oi,” he said roughly. “I ain’t goin’ anywhere, you hear me?”

“Didn’t sound like that,” Tig mumbled. “Never does when you start talking like that.”

“Look at me,” Chibs demanded, finally trying to pull himself together at the realisation of what he’d done. “Look at me, Tigger. I ain’t goin’ anywhere. I promise you, my brother.”

“How do I know you ain’t just bullshitting me again?”

“When have I ever lied to you? About anything serious?” Chibs demanded, albeit with a swift amendment to account for the creative ways he had been known to get around his VP when he had to.

“You said you’d stop blaming yourself.”

The hurt beneath the accusatory tone stopped the Scotsman dead and he reached out to rest a hand on his VP’s shoulder. “I am trying, brother.”

“I know,” Tig sighed, covering the hand with his own ringed fingers. “I know.”

Chibs pulled him close. “Would a kiss help?” he murmured, already planting a firm kiss on the other man’s cheek.

“You ain’t getting off that light, asshole.”

Chibs could only laugh at that despite himself, his lips grazing skin again. “Ah, Tigger, last two standing… Never thought it would be us.”

“As long as it ain’t just me,” came the quiet, yet fervent response.

It was a sentiment that both warmed and broke Chibs’ heart.

[spiceukonline]

Georgia Meets "Dark Pop" Duo City Conga

THE first thing I notice about City Conga before the interview has even started is how accommodating they are.

A few days before the interview is due to take place, I confess to one-half of the music duo that as hard as I may try, I am not a London girl and cannot think of a “cool” enough interview location. Taking pity on my country ways, they email me a location and we sit down to chat in The Troubadour in Earls Court, which is possibly the most indie bar I’ve ever stepped foot in.

In typical “me” fashion, I walk straight past them to the other end of the bar, looking hopelessly lost, until one of them taps me on the shoulder. This is 22-year-old James-Eden Hutchinson, who I will come to learn likes to refer to himself in the third person. He’s dressed like an advert for Urban Outfitters, and I will spend the whole interview trying to match up his aesthetic against his well-spoken demeanour.

He embraces me and tells me it’s “lovely” to see me again, and introduces himself to my photographer, before pointing over to where his other half, 23-year-old Dan Choppen, is sitting. Dan does not get up when we approach him and watches us cautiously, and I instantly notice he appears a lot more reserved than James, who seems eager to please. Dan’s aesthetic is what I call “effortless,” dressed in a simple T-shirt featuring a scene from a movie I am nowhere near cool enough to have seen.

By this point, I’m confused about a lot of things. I’m confused about how these two found each other, confused about what genre of music they belong to and furthermore, still confused about how to operate the Circle and District line.

Firstly though, I want to address where in the world they got the name “City Conga,” and whether they are aware it has the potential to sound like the next dance craze or a strip club in Soho.

James (left) and Dan (right).

Dan admits that they went through a lot of potential names, but the penny finally dropped for him after spending a weekend back home. ‘I thought about the massive contradiction between the city, the business people doing the 9-5 type thing, and students like us stressing about not having a job after uni,’ says Dan, ‘and then I just got this image of all the business boys in like a conga dancing to work. I came back and said to James and he was like “that sounds cool.”’

Cool indeed, and that’s the vibe they seem so keen to give off, so much so that I feel artsier just breathing the same air as them.

James and Dan met when they were both students at The University of Westminster, studying mixed media arts. I nod when they mention this last part, even though I have no idea what such a degree entails. Initially working on their own “soundscapes,” they eventually “jumped in” on each other’s solo work and began writing together. Not only are they now one another’s bandmate, but they also live together and are best friends.  How do they work together when they’re always in each other’s space?

Dan explains the creative collaboration process in possibly one of the best-worst analogy I’ve ever heard. ‘It’s kind of like that game you played as a kid called “hot potato,”’ he says, (it should be noted that I never played this game as a child), ‘I’ll have the potato and then I’ll chuck it on to James, and then he’ll add something and then I’ll add something and then the potato is perfectly cooked at the end.’

They admit that their “sound” is difficult to describe, and having seen them perform live, I would also agree. Experimental, angsty and synth heavy, their vibe is reminiscent of The 1975 or The Neighbourhood, without the poppy overtones and the floppy-haired poster boy. I recall being at a recent gig of theirs not being sure whether to sway thoughtfully, whoop like a teenage girl or start forming a mosh pit.

So how would they describe their sound to someone who was approaching it for the first time?

They look at each other as if they’re sharing some kind of inside joke that I’m not allowed to be privy to.

‘We’ve come up with a one liner,’ says Dan finally.

After a prolonged and slightly awkward hesitation, James pipes up: ‘I want to say Dark Renaissance.’

‘Dark Renaissance?’ I repeat uneasily, which perhaps gives the impression that I’m challenging his creative authority because in a moment of insecurity he backpedals and says “I’m not quite sure that fits.

Dan tries to save James from the hole he has dug himself, but that doesn’t go to plan either. “We say dark pop duo because influences range from…it’s weird really because one minute we’re listening to the Clash and the next minute we’re listening to Biggie.”

Biggie? I didn’t see that one coming.

“Yeah, I guess I’m slightly more hip-hop, broken beat more like actually DJing and producing music,” says James.

Who would be their dream collaboration?

‘I mean Kanye West would be class,’ James declares. I didn’t see that one coming either.

‘I just find him so intriguing and interesting,’ he elaborates, ‘and even if you try not to like him, I think his ability to instigate and play around with his image and music and everything that he’s pioneered is just very, very interesting. I’d just love to see how his brain works.’

“Dark pop” aside, they seem to be quite positive individuals. There is a sense of charming awkwardness about Dan and a sense that he would happily give you his undivided attention for hours on end. James is careful with his words and avoids eye contact, so much so that multiple times I wasn’t sure if he was talking to himself or not.

But they are fun and interesting, and to all intents and purposes, just like us regular young folk. They enjoy nights out (Peckham’s infamous “Soultrain” is a joint favourite night of theirs), are partial to a bit of laddish debauchery and despite seeming to have it all figured out, come across as being a bit lost post-graduation.

  “Having a diverse range of musical influences is really important. There’s so much stuff out there now.”

  Listening to the one song available on their Soundcloud called “Family Feud,” I’m surprised such dark lyrics could’ve been created inside the minds of the two charismatic lads in front of me. Are their lyrics always so dark and damning?

Dan laughs, aware that they’re never going to be asked to debut on a Disney soundtrack anytime soon. ‘I think our lyrics do often take quite dark turns, maybe because of our course. The lecturers were always like “you’re never going to be able to buy your own house,” “you’re always going to be struggling for money,” “you’re going to die alone,” and we’re like “fucking hell.” And then as the course developed, we realised that there’s a lot of shit wrong with the media industry, and I think that’s where a lot of dystopian or apocalyptic blues all stems from.’

The mood shifts and I suddenly want to order an entire bottle of wine to myself. ‘I mean, “Family Feud” is probably the most depressing song we’ve got,’ Dan clarifies.

What’s so wrong with the media industry then, I ask, aware that the answer is most likely “everything.” 

‘Fake news’ says Dan, and I subconsciously clutch my notebook tighter to my chest, aware that as a journalist, I’m the creative industry’s public enemy #1.

‘The thing that really winds me up, I see it on my Facebook all the time, is that people believe anything they’re given. People say “oh my God, so-and-so did this,” but I’m like yeah but where did that come from? Billybob’snews.org.biz.za or something saying shit and everyone’s like “oh, it must be real.”’

This is the most animated I’ve seen Dan thus far, and I’m slightly taken aback but also want to hear more of what he has to say about the very industry he’s trying to break into.

James fails to outdo Dan on this one, telling me that we’ve “slightly been sold a lie” by the media, and I think reading too much George Orwell can sometimes be a bad thing in situations such as these.

Despite their differences in just about everything, it is that difference, at its very core, that seems to make City Conga what it is and has acted as a help, rather than a hindrance to their collective project.

‘I’d never think to do some of the stuff [Dan] says,’ James confesses, ‘but then [he] does it and I’m like “wow, I was wrong, that was quite good!” And same with me, I’ll be like what about some bongos here and he’s like “really?” and then we do it. Diversity is important, there’s so much stuff out there now.’

They both seem to realise that they have chosen an ever-saturated market to break into. Are they worried that they’ll never “make it?”

James disappears off into his own world again and seems hopeful. ‘ I guess sometimes it’s a challenge to make any noise at all because so many people are doing it,’ he ponders, ‘it’s wicked now that with like £20 you can buy a little sim thing and you can write an album on it and upload it and two million people can hear it. But I guess sometimes it’s like, you wonder…’

Dan finishes his sentence as it becomes clear James is about to venture off into his own personal monologue. ‘How are we going to get ourselves heard?’

On Saturday night, where they play a live set at The Water Rats in King’s Cross, they appear to answer their own question. Playing to a larger audience and their sound significantly more fine-tuned than the last time I saw them, they seem to be actually enjoying themselves this time, even if James’s interpretation of dancing was a bit dodgy, but 10/10 for comedic value.

Dan clocks me after the gig and admires my “dedication” since I have to make it back home to Kent from here. I joke about being eligible for a free T-shirt, and he says I’m like their “no. 1 fan,” by which he means to say “crazed groupie.” I’m not sure whether now is the appropriate time to tell him that my attendance was a personal challenge to see how much I would need to drink to approach edgy indie boys who play the guitar. I wouldn’t say no to a free T-shirt, though.

Nonetheless, with promises of “plenty” more music and a lit music video to come, the conga line is only just getting started.

 City Conga’s EP “For Our Friends” is available on Soundcloud and Spotify 

You can also stay updated on all things City Conga via their Facebook, Instagram and YouTube (yay, new fans) 

WORDS by Georgia Chambers (@Just_GeorgiaSD)

PHOTOS by Robert Bruce (@RobBruceK)