The Reluctant Geek - Superheroes, sidekicks and storytelling… What makes a superhero?

So, if you were thinking of going on some kind of Geek hunt (it’s like an Easter Egg hunt only with less chocolate) around Cheltenham, there would be some obvious locations to begin. Proud Lion itself would have to be number one port of call of course, followed by Cineworld (particularly if it’s showing sci-fi or fantasy). Otherwise, popular stereotypes would have us believe that the rest of Gloucestershire’s geek population would be found in tiny isolated pockets, playing Diablo 3 in darkened basements or painting Games Workshop models in garages.

But, as you know, we’re all about defying stereotypes over here at the Proud Lion blog. Being a geek doesn’t have to mean poor social skills and an aversion to sunlight (I think you’ll find that’s vampires).  So a trip to the Parabola Arts Centre to see an amazing new show about superheroes ticks both the ‘relevant to my interests’ box and the ‘challenging societal expectations’ box. What do you have to lose?

The Adventures of  Wound Man and Shirley is a one man show about Shirley, a teenage boy with a girl’s name, growing up in suburbia and feeling like the weirdest kid in the school. (We’ve all been there right? Although, to be fair, in my case having a girl’s name was less traumatic…)

Nothing makes much sense to Shirley and he’s under the thrall of unrequited love, but life gets infinitely more interesting when a strange new resident moves into a house on Shirley’s street — and he just so happens to have a vacancy for a teenage sidekick...

It’s fair to say that Wound Man is an unconventional kind of superhero; sprung from the pages of a medical textbook from the middle ages, with an alarming assortment of weapons sticking out from every part of his body like some kind of medieval porcupine. Shirley, by contrast, is something of a dreamer — a romantic at heart, whose obsessions are astronomy, comic books, and an array of indie music and uncool pop. Together they embark on a series of wildly unsuccessful heroic interventions, as relayed by the irrepressible and endlessly engaging Chris Goode.

So what does a character based on a medical diagram showing an array of fun and exciting ways to be injured in 16th century battles really know about being a superhero? What makes a superhero in the first place? And these days, should we perhaps be using a more politically correct term?  ‘Freelance Social Interventionists assemble!’ does have a certain ring to it after all…

Linguistic quibbles aside, superhero-dom does require certain key attributes, so does Wound Man fit the bill?

The hook…

– Wound Man. My name’s Wound Man.

Shirley stops himself from saying that’s a funny sort of name because what sort of a name for a boy is Shirley. But Wound Man sees the thought move behind Shirley’s eyes.

– It’s not my, what do you call it, my birth name. It’s my… professional name.

It is said that every superhero needs an identifying feature or hook, and for Wound Man this may literally be the case, since there’s bound to be one sticking out of him somewhere. But on a basic level, a name and a superpower/quirk are essential for the superhero looking to stand out from the crowd.

The superpower…

–  Like, do you have, superpowers?

– Well, I don’t fly, if that’s what you mean. I’m not quite as aerodynamic as I’d like to be. One’s practice is not so spectacular, anyway. It’s rather more… grass roots. The sector’s changed a lot in the last twenty years. We’re more about sustainable engagement now. We’re not just in and out. We try to apply a more dimensionalized perspective to the challenges we’re dealing with. It’s all about empowering other people really.

– Can you see through people’s clothes though? says Shirley.

– No, says Wound Man. That’s a rather more 70s vibe.

– Not even, like, women’s bras and stuff?

– No, says Wound Man.

Ah, X-ray vision. The superpower dreamed of by teenage boys everywhere. Wound Man takes a more post-modern approach, and at any rate, as he says all of those knives and axes sticking out all over the place don’t exactly make for aerodynamic efficiency. Sometimes though, we have to look beyond the literal to see the superpower which is where Wound Man comes in.

The sidekick…

– But do you need a sidekick? Possibly? You’ve probably got one already. I just thought with the move and everything…

Wound Man looks up from the sponsorship form. He looks straight at Shirley with a kind of intensity that Shirley could easily believe was a superpower anyway. For a second or two Shirley feels more naked than if Wound Man could see through his clothes to his skin and through his skin to the goo on the inside.

Wound Man blinks once, twice. It makes no sound.

Shirley realizes with a jolt that there are tears in Wound Man’s eyes. He looks away.

Being a Superhero can be a lonely business. And everyone knows that the most interesting superheroes are defined by their ability (or lack thereof) to relate to those around them. Think Batman, Robin and some homoerotic banter. No really, think about it. I know I am… Sorry, drifted off there. Often, sidekicks provide a kind of youthful, less cynical mirror for the superheroes they aid. And maybe Shirley is in some ways Wound Man before all the wounds.

The cause…

The reason that Wound Man hates the Reg Parsleys of the world is that he has to lie to them. Because they can’t hear anything complicated. They don’t understand that it’s not all black and white. So he has to talk white. And they all hear black regardless. Reg surveys the kitchen. The postcard of the boy on the fridge.

– That another one, is it?

– Another one what? says Wound Man.

– I’m sure I shouldn’t like to say, says Reg.

Every weapon in Wound Man’s body feels like it just went in.

– I take it you’ve never had a sidekick, Mr Parsley, says Wound Man. You don’t have the air of a man who’s ever had a sidekick.

Reg just smiles. Wound Man’s seen that smile so many times and every time he understands it a little bit less.

– Well I won’t hold you up any longer, says Reg. Now that we’ve had this little conversation, I’m sure you’ll have a lot that you need to get done in a short space of time.

– Indeed, says Wound Man.

Well there we are. A superhero’s work is never done.

Every superhero needs a cause. Something to rail against. Whether that’s embodied in a super villain or simply the injustice they see around them, superheroes are at odds with the world because they refuse to accept it as it is, in all of its brutal squalor.

Of course, if you’re a comic book aficionado you may well have your own criteria for superheroes which is precisely why you need to go and see Wound Man. Iron Man, The Hulk and Captain America may well have the ‘stopping invaders from space and gods with big horny helmets’ market cornered, but for some superhero action closer to home, the Parabola Arts Centre is the place to be.

Besides, Wound Man has more weapons than any of the Avengers… even if they are largely embedded in his body.

Tickets are £10 or £8 concessions from Parabola Arts Centre box office - 01242 707 338 or www.parabolaartscentre.co.uk.

Wound Man and Shirley is on Fri 1st ONLY at 7:30pm. Running time approx 60 minutes.

Kate Townsend is wondering what's happened to the cup of tea she was promised!

The Reluctant Geek - Happy endings?

Endings. I’m a bit rubbish with them really. Present me with a goodbye or a closure or a case of people going their separate ways and you’ll find me immediately tearing up and in certain severe cases clinging limpet-like to the leg of the departing. (Luckily the exception to this impulse seems to be break-ups where I’m an awful lot better at treating ‘em mean.) This is a problem when you work in education, since every July means the inevitable goodbye to year six, the end of their particular era, and the chance for teachers like me, who should really be old enough to know better, to get all emotional about the passing of time and the inevitability of things reaching their natural conclusion.

If the reference to school life means you’re currently struggling with the image of me as an upright pillar of the community, peering sternly over my non-existant glasses and waxing lyrical about ‘riting, reading and ‘rithmetic then it may help you to learn that I only teach part time. I spend the rest of my working life locked away in my garret spewing forth words of wisdom to the masses. Or at least to the readers of some fairly niche magazines...

I've always been this way though. As a child I used to get weepy at the end of holidays, the end of term, the end of my birthday parties and the end of the box of chocolates. Aside from annoying my long-suffering mother, this has also had a knock on impact in adult life, since an obsession with stories means that you pretty much have to get used to endings, like them or not. The problem is, a really good narrative *needs* a satisfying conclusion; even the NeverEnding Story had its ending of sorts, and very often an unremitting, horror movie cavalcade of increasingly zombified sequels spells the loss of all credibility to a book or movie franchise. As unpalatable as it is to me, sometimes ‘The End’ really is the thing that makes the beginning and the middle worthwhile.

And of course, if you get endings right, they can be spectacular, life affirming and transcendent. I’ve never been a huge fan of Star Trek (it’s a shimmy too far down the slippery slope of geekery) but even I can see the worth of the Next Generation finale ‘All the Good Things.’ In it, mankind* is juxtaposed with the god-like Q-Continuum, and past, present and future are melded into cryptic crossword puzzle-esque musings on evolution and the nature of what it means to be human. “All good things must come to an end,” as Q tells Piccard, and this is an example of how an ending really can be good. (We’ll gloss over the Next Generation films that followed it...)

Similarly, although it seems to elicit a bit of a marmite response from the series’ many fans, nobody could ever accuse the Lost finale of failing to go out with a bang. It’s an ending about endings in many ways, dealing directly with our fears about the permanence of death and separation and the feelings we may never get to resolve. It’s complex, and mind twisting and ok, a little bit of a crowd pleaser perhaps, but maybe that’s ok. When I think about it carefully it’s not so much endings that I’m suspicious of, more the fact that there is never any guarantee of happy ones. We all yearn for endings that render fear and doubt and removal from our loved ones as irrelevant and impossible. The Lost finale gives us that, almost as a reward for the passion with which we wish for it.

The thing is, much as it’s a cliché, it’s also the truth to say that endings are a part of life. Miniature endings pursue us wherever we go, (as those Harry Potter fans who had to be held up as they were led weeping and wailing from cinemas this week could tell you), and this column marks another one of mine. This is my final week of The Reluctant Geek in its current format, so in some ways it seems only fitting that I should finish where I began.

If you cast your mind back through the mists of time, you may remember me talking about my first, striking contact with the idea that comic books might have something to say to me too. The Sandman series drew me in, entangled me in its world, but equally importantly, at the end of it all, it sent me on my way with the satisfying glow that you only get from a really good finale. With its usual eclecticism ‘The Wake’ parallels the death of Dream with another double layer of fiction... a man at the end of his career, Shakespeare contemplates writing The Tempest in which, famously, an ageing magician seeks to make sense of his life and provide for his daughter. This trio contemplate their own endings in their respective universes as the entirety of creation turns up to Morpheus’ wake, to pay their respects and share their memories. And in this sense, Sandman reminds us of the importance of marking our endings as the milestones they are. Endings give us the chance to make sense of it all, even when it seems as though there is very little sense to be made.

Of course, every ending also leaves an empty space. And where there is an empty space, there’s always the chance of a new beginning. Watch this empty space for a new beginning coming soon...

* Yes I used the word ‘mankind’. Ultimately I couldn’t bear to repeat ‘humanity’ more than once, and in this lone scenario my desire for the words to sound good trumped my feminist sensibilities!

This week, Kate is actually quite glad that it’s the end of term, since she might get to have a few lie-ins.

The Reluctant Geek - Model musings...

So in the spirit of revisiting unto others the crimes that have been committed against you, I asked some of the children I teach this week about their role models.

In amongst the usual cavalcade of footballers, pop stars and reality television celebrities, there were a few more interesting answers. I have a new found measure of respect for the quiet little boy who cited Leonardo Da Vinci as one of his defining influences, and a healthy dose of caution in my dealings with the Alan Sugar wannabe and the Boris Johnson admirer. (If only I were kidding…)

It all got me thinking though, I’m pretty sure that back when my teachers were tormenting me with the same questions, I generally went with the stock answer of "my Mum is my role model" (Oh come on, it was the Nineties, who else was I going to pick, one of the Spice Girls?!) Much as I love and adore my Mum though, if I’d been braver there were other options. They just all had the minor disadvantage of being, well, y’know, not real.

So this week I want to talk honestly about Role Models. Nope, not the LARP movie with Seann William Scott. (Talking honestly about that would only require the one line: “A bit rubbish, but somehow funny anyway.”) I want to talk about those figures from the worlds of science fiction and fantasy who I longed to be like throughout my teenage years, and my twenties, and the very, very small amount (barely worth counting really) of my thirties I have thus far experienced.

The only place to start with this really is the torch-wielding, redheaded skeptic herself, Agent Dana Scully. I think it’s fair to say that as a teenager I loved her. I didn’t care that Scully was a bad ass medical doctor while I got queasy at the sight of someone double jointed, or that she remained steadfast in her lack of belief even as little green men did somersaults across her living room floor. It wasn’t about the bad suits, the raised eyebrows or the ability to run in her (infinitely sensible) heels. In fact, a little bit like first love, it’s sort of hard to analyse what precisely it was about her. But some indefinable spark meant that I spent more than the occasional rainy Tuesday afternoon of double maths fantasing about capering around with Mulder (oh boy, did I fantasise about the capering with Mulder) and about being clever without having to apologise for or hide it. Maybe Scully was the first person to teach me that you could be cool without being ‘cool’ and I will always be grateful for that.

There are some schools of thought that would suggest you are supposed to grow out of the fervent adoration and identification with fictional characters that afflicts you when you’re thirteen. If this is really the case, then things aren’t looking good for me. These days, my role models are a little more eclectic: Arya Stark from a Song of Ice and Fire causes me to cheer, cry and tremble in turn despite the fact that she’s an eight year old girl at the start of the books. Age aside though, Arya is brave and I admire courage more than almost anything else.

Similarly, it might be a bit weird but there are some days when I quite fancy being some kind of female version of Sherlock Holmes. Not the old school version so much as Benedict Cumberbatch’s wonderfully clear-eyed, socially dismissive, flash-minded portrayal. (It’s ok to want to be him *and* want to be with him, right?!)

I suppose one of the differences between fictional and real life is that fiction can act as a magnifying glass, enlarging and intensifying those qualities that are interesting or admirable, and providing characters with a setting which necessitates their demonstration. Ultimately, I’m of the belief that if someone moves you to try to be braver, kinder, cleverer or more determined it really doesn’t matter a single bit whether they are a real person, or the product of human imagination. We see everyone through the lens of our own perceptions anyway, and in doing so almost everyone we know is a fictitious version of themselves to a greater or lesser extent. It is, as they say, hard to know another human heart. The best thing we can hope for is the chance to develop our own hearts, and sometimes the intimacy of storytelling is one of the things that helps us to do this.

This week, Kate is wondering “Why does it always rain on me?” Answers on a postcard...

The Reluctant Geek - Experiencing technical difficulties, please standby

This week's article will be up sometime next week.

The Reluctant Geek - Preserving the blood-lines

So I love steak. Mandatorily rare. Preferably still twitching a little tiny bit as I shovel the meaty deliciousness (stop sniggering at the back) into my mouth. And much as unanchored in context, it’s kind of disgusting, it’s the moist, pink texture that you only get from still-bleeding cow that really does it for me. I mean, it’s nature own sauce isn’t it? No need for faffing around with jus or coulis or reduction or whatever. (I realise all the vegetarians in the room are fleeing, appalled at this stage but if you bear with me, there really is a point). The irony is, when it comes to blood in other situations, I’m the wuss at the back of the room who has stolen the attention by fainting while their friend has their leg chopped off. Something about the sheer sensual intensity of its redness, combined with the fact that in general blood is something we aren’t supposed to see gives it a contradictory, queasy fascination.

Of course, the symbolic significance of blood is such that we play out this simultaneous attraction and revulsion in a whole host of cultural myths. If the zombie renaissance is very much a 21st Century thing, (‘perchance sir, could you lend me your quill? I wish to pen an ode to brains…’) it is overlaid by a more long standing if less flashy obsession. Vampires never go away really, particularly not as fodder for the fantasy geek, and as they lurk at the edges of our consciousness, equally they haunt the pages and frames of the stories we choose to tell ourselves.

Most recently this blood lust has manifested itself in the True Blood TV show, entering into its fourth romping, boundry- pushing series. If every generation gets the vampires they deserve then this is one side of ours. Based on a series of novels set in Deep South, small town America, True Blood oozes languorous, claustrophobic atmosphere, linking vampirism to a whole host of modern obsessions, from addiction to abuse to religious fundamentalism. The vampires here are gorgeous, but usually deadly and often sadistic, and their glamour is juxtaposed with a messy, visceral approach to blood drinking. Don’t look for two neat little bite marks artfully arranged on some virgin’s lily white neck here (although True Blood does have its own version of a white gowned virgin for a little while.) Look for blood smeared across faces, flakes drying on kitchen floors in the sun, and graphically unforgiving murder scenes. The message of the series seems to be that despite the right-on, out and proud PR of a world where vampires have quite literally come out of their coffins, (and they play with this parallel to great effect… graffitied billboards with messages such as "God hates fangs" appear in the background of shots) none of us, vampire or human alike, can really resist the calling of the animalistic side of our nature.

Lots of people though would rather confront this rather unforgiving version of vampirism than its equally modern non-identical twin. If I ask you to imagine some sun-dappled, flower-bedecked meadow then you might be thinking we’re straying outside of traditional vampire territory. But wait! Who is this pale and beautiful creature striding through it? He appears to be… Surely he can’t be… Oh god, is he… sparkling? Well, yes, he is actually. He’s a Twilight vampire and that’s what they do. Despite the fact that the Twilight novels are something of a guilty pleasure for me I’ve got some serious issues with this updating of the vampire myth. And the shiny, shimmery sunshine thing is the least of them. For starters, although True Blood is dark, although it portrays misogyny and racism and a form of sexualized gore, it knows it is doing this. The thing that makes the Twilight world so dangerous (to an uncritical audience rather than the characters themselves) is that it has its own elements of abuse and misogyny and unthinking fetishisation of violence, all dressed up in some fluffy, sparkly treatise on purity and abstinence and the idea that True Love™ will wait forever. Poor mopey Bella and masterful protective Edward are obviously designed to appeal to the legions of teenage girls ( and should-know-better, only-just-thirty somethings) that buy the novels and see the movies. But this bloodless, simpering fairy tale has far nastier elements than anything True Blood can dream up.

And who knows what the next evolution will be for vampires? It sort of depends on what the next evolution is for humanity really. All of these mythical beings, zombies and vampires and werewolves and ghosts, are ways for us to explore the darker sides of ourselves whilst simultaneously retaining a sense of separateness from them. And at the edge of society it’s no wonder that they are a natural subject for fantasy and science fiction which themselves teeter on the very edge of the mainstream. One of the key functions of story though, is to provide a mirror for us to hold up to our faces. By their very nature, Vampires make it pretty damn tricky to see what is looking back.

This week Kate is fervently wishing for another opportunity to wear the Sookie Stackhouse costume.

The Reluctant Geek - Technophobia for Dummies…

It has come to my attention that lately, certain aspersions have been cast. There’s a change in the air, a certain atmosphere when I sashay gracefully (or stumble, or skip, depending on my mood and overall excitability level) into a room. If I listen carefully I can almost hear the whispers, the hissed insults... I’m half expecting a rock through my window any day now attached to one of those notes, where each individual letter is fastidiously snipped from The Times, or The Guardian, or What Psycho magazine.

So what heinous crime have I committed? I queue politely, maintain a blandly unobtrusive ring tone and wouldn’t dream of risking that special level of hell reserved for people who talk at the theatre. But apparently, this isn't good enough. Apparently, I’ll be hanging out with the perjurers in Dante’s Inferno, because I, ladies and gentlemen, am a liar. What with the role playing and the zombies and the chess, the word on the street is that I am not a Reluctant Geek at all...

More just one in denial.

True or not, this week I’m drawing a line in the sand between myself and the world of geekery. Except the line is more of a wire, which is probably already demonstrating how hideously out of date I am on this week’s subject. Technology. I just don’t get it.

I mean, don’t get me wrong. I have some vague understanding of how it all works… I haven’t thought my laptop was powered by tiny pixies for at least a year and a half now. And I get why people *use* technology. I use it myself to check the internet whilst hiking in deepest rural Somerset, or to catch up on my favourite shows, or to write this column.

What I don’t/won’t/can’t get, is how interesting the truly hardcore geek finds it - how much conversation it can generate - and the levels of frantic anxiety that seem to exist when it isn’t quite right. Linking up the laptop to the TV to play online programs strikes me as an infinitely sensible idea, but being driven to paroxsysms of despair when your girlfriend* leaves the tiny white mouse symbol still hovering around doesn’t. Likewise I love my phone. It lets me talk to my friends and family, and check Facebook on the go (which I’m sure we can all agree is the very definition of life enhancing!) but when people start talking about Android technology and apps and user interfaces I fix an interested smile on my face, and start playing the movie ‘Footloose’ in my head. I imagine this is how people feel when I start waxing lyrical about PBGV puppies, or wild swimming, or the poetry of Sylvia Plath. Which is to say, baffled but indulgent.

And I know that I’m demonstrating my true Luddite credentials when I say this, but I’m yet to be dragged over to the dark side of the Kindle. It’s a great idea and I can see the appeal intellectually, but there’s a stubborn part of me screaming "No! I need an object I can hold in my hands, with that wonderful ‘book’ smell, and the chance to trip over it and stub my toe on the way to the bathroom in the middle of the night." I have a similar attitude to SatNavs, except that rather than just being a tad resistant, I actively hate them. I dislike being told what to do at the best of times, and I’m afraid I’m just not going to take it from a box of wires and screws (or whatever you actually find inside a SatNav!) The mere presence of one is enough to turn me into something akin to the most stereotypical male driver, who despite having been lost for six hours and late for his own wedding, actively refuses to stop and ask for directions.

It’s all OK though. Despite my disinterest, I've never been anything other than happy to co-exist alongside each new innovation. There are always those voices telling us that the internet is ruining our social skills, our mobile phones are giving us cancer and HD TV is damaging our eyesight. But it’s all a bit of a cop out. I don’t want to sound like Yoda or anything, but we have to master technology and use it in the ways that are best for us (or should that be ‘ways that are best for us, we must use it’) rather than letting it make us its bitches.

On which note, perhaps I’m just not taking proper advantage of the technological possibilities with my current mobile ringtone. I’m off to download something catchy and outrageous. Or maybe it’s not a case of downloading, maybe I need to text, or hook up my iPod, or...

*She is very sorry and won’t do it again!

This week Kate is in the mood for strawberries.

The Reluctant Geek - Bite me…

I am not a morning person. I never have been. When faced with a situation where the world demands that I should be ripped untimely from my bed I tend to resort to stumbling around, wailing incoherently and snarling at anyone unfortunate enough to cross my path. Whilst in this mind fog of resentment and swooning irresistible sleepiness, driven only by the most primitive urges (primarily to go the hell back to bed) I have some sympathy for the lot of another group marked by their shuffling gait, absence of rational thought and tendency to bump into stuff. Perhaps zombies are misunderstood creatures really, only resorting to a little bit of brain snacking out of frustration and sleep deprivation when they’d much prefer just somewhere comfy to lie down and maybe have a nice cup of tea... Well I mean really. Has anyone ever stopped to ask? (This is if they get time before their brains are sucked out of their ears of course.)

What is certain is that sympathetic to their plight or not, we have never been so fascinated by this idea of the undead amongst us. I seem to come across zombies wherever I go at the moment, which makes me feel that the universe is sending me a clear if indecipherable message, (possibly to do with it being rude to bite?!). I’ve tried to trace this pattern back and I suspect that The Walking Dead has an awful lot to answer for. As a comic book with a visceral, paired down style and a body count higher than a psychiatric hospital for lemmings it is brutally engaging enough, but the recent TV series removes another level of distance between us and the heartbreakingly normal, recognisable characters that surround protagonist Rick. And really, poor Rick. As all-American as heroes come, he functions as the epicenter of Hurricane Zombie, death and carnage swirling around him. He resists, but to do so is to engage in a task as endless as that of fighting nature itself. The zombies just keep coming.

Of course, zombies aren’t natural really. One of their most terrifying aspects is the fact that they exist against the natural order of things. If death and taxes are supposed to be the only certainties then zombies cast us loose from even these constants. Not only is your loved one gone, but their corpse is trying to nibble on your shoulder-blade. I’ve talked before about how my gaming tastes tend towards the girly and the obsessive, and in keeping with the sub-conscious "zombie theme' of the present I have become more than a little pre-occupied with a rather lovely game called Plants versus Zombies. Tapping in to this idea that zombies upset the balance of nature, the game involves defending your property by means of the judicious application of a variety of plant-based guardians. Trust me, zombies lose all their terror if the face of a sweet pea shooter or two, a thoughtfully placed walnut or a wonderfully grumpy squash. It is nature’s own backlash against the zombie threat!

But if a little plant based anti-zombie therapy isn’t enough to allay your fears of a living dead invasion, you might take comfort in the idea that our current obsession means that you can look to prepare yourself for the coming apocalypse with people only considering you to be mildly eccentric rather than a total kook. The shops are full of self-help guides with tips and hints for succeeding in your continued existence where others will inevitably fail and films like 28 Days Later and Zombieland are full of good advice for staying alive. (In the case of the latter, it’s as simple as following the ‘rules’ although if you need to be told to ‘beware of bathroom’ you’re probably screwed anyway.)

(pinched from Motivated Monkey)

Finally, you might take comfort in the fact that even the authorities are starting to wake up to the zombie threat. Last week, a "concerned (this may be a euphemism for crazy) citizen" in Leicester berated the City Council there for their lack of preparation in the face of a zombie attack, which if nothing else should meant that the seed of zombie based fear has now registered on the disaster planning authorities map. Perhaps readers, we should be writing our local MP with similar questions. It’s not all about the Coalition and the NHS. Sometimes it’s about infection and reanimated corpses too.

Misunderstood or not, zombies can’t have my brain. At least not for free. There are some mornings when I’d probably swap it for a longer lie in though...

This week Kate is preparing for some cave based partying.

The Reluctant Geek - Passion Play, in all its guises

Dear readers, imagine, if you will, a darkened room bedecked with candles and roses, maybe some Barry White playing on the sound system and a half drunk bottle of wine carelessly flung on the table. Never let it be said that I don’t go all out to get you guys in the mood and the mood this week is... (said in my best, breathy seductive voice) ...passion.

Of course, passion is also a bit of an abstract concept at heart, rather than a palpable object like a comic book or a DVD so it might be an equally effective scene setter if you were to imagine some kind of clinically minimalist modern art installation and a bunch of people using words like ‘post-modern’ and ‘deconstructivist’. Whichever works for you.

The point is that passion and geekery are pretty inseparable, although we may not use the words together terribly often. It may not be very sexy to refer to the Warhammer enthusiast who spends painstaking hours painting tiny figurines as the victim of an all-consuming passion, but that’s what he is none-the-less. So is the Star Trek convention attendee in the Klingon costume, and the Role Player who writes reams and reams of background that the other players may never see. As much as we might prefer to imagine those in the throes of passion as young and beautiful and tastefully dressed, the truth is that passion is found in strange places. (And maybe the prolific role player is young and beautiful anyway...)

But that’s OK, because it’s this invisible sheen of passion that actually makes geeky pastimes almost, well, cool. In my eyes, at any rate. Bear with me while I briefly channel the spirit of a grumpy 82 year old, but why are we so quick to dismiss people who care about stuff as kooks? Since when did apathy rule OK? I’ve said before that I don’t watch a lot of TV, and that’s because when I do watch I want to be viscerally involved, drawn into a storyline to the temporary exclusion of the world around me, and heart thumpingly invested in the characters I’m watching. I can barely cope with even thinking about what’s coming in Game Of Thrones, and that’s the way I like it.

Similarly, at a LARP Gathering this weekend I was struck by the incredible effort that goes into every event. A tiny, bustling medieval camp is created complete with hangings and thrones and gates. Players shiver through rain and mud, and run around wearing plate armour in the blistering sunshine. And after 48 hours it all gets packed away and taken down again. (On this occasion, with added scrubbing and disinfecting after an outbreak of some kind of horrific plant disease on site.)

Whilst the rest of the world would perhaps label this evidence of mental deficiency and skewed priorities I’m actually kind of proud to be part of a community that will make this much effort for their hobby. It requires a darn site more commitment than watching Britain’s Got Talent at any rate, and is considerably less painful.

And you know what? I love it that my friends can talk with conviction and enthusiasm about their favorite board games, or the series of novels they are currently devouring, or the latest obscenity they are crafting from their subversive cross stitch manual. To live without passion is to sleepwalk through your life, and we may as well extend it to every area we can rather than letting it remain purely in the domain of romantic love and all of its associated ephemera.

Which is why I’m going to talk about passion and geekery in the same breath more often, in the hope of starting my own modest little revolution. One that changes the mentality that perpetuates the fiction that the more you care about something, the less cool it is. It isn’t nerdy that there are people out there who speak Elvish. It’s amazing! (Well, OK, it’s a little nerdy, but it’s mainly amazing.) And I’m glad that my world involves people who cry at the end of Doctor Who. (Not every episode though, that would be crazy!)

I think what I’m ultimately trying to say is this: light the candles, prep the wine, turn on the music. Because tonight, we’re playing Risk!

This week Kate is overexcited about potatoes.

The Reluctant Geek - A blog of Scones, Sarcasm, Webcomics and Interactivity

For the second time in as many weeks, I find myself writing this blog from a strange land beyond the internet. Other hints that this is life, but not as we know it, include a proliferation of scones, jam and cream and people who pronounce the word pixie, ‘piskie’ (don’t ask how it came up). Yes, I’m currently enjoying the delights of Cornwall, but even this sand and sea fest can’t keep me from my geeky duties. In fact - in a transparent effort to re-establish my credentials - this week’s offering is going to focus on a hardcore zone of geekdom. We’re talking internet secrecy and people who wear T-shirts with code on to the office. We’re talking webcomics.

Yes, webcomics are for people who don’t feel that an encyclopedic knowledge of the internet, or an all-consuming passion for comics are sufficiently geeky in isolation. They must be combined! If you’re concerned that these days everyone is cashing in on the fact that it’s become vaguely cool to be a nerd and the girl with the short skirt and the perfectly manicured nails was quoting Star Trek at you this morning (Sexist! Why shouldn’t she?!) then webcomics provide a perfect chance to get back to basics.

I’ve talked before about how often traditionally ‘geeky’ areas function as a kind of secret society for the initiated and webcomics fall squarely within this remit. Despite my wishy washy arts graduate background, I’ve read XKCD for several years now, a fact that has not entirely ceased to astound my more scientifically minded contemporaries. (A dear, but not always subtle friend once expressed his skepticism that I could possibly comprehend more than half of it. Lies! I may not always understand the maths, but I am invariably down with the sarcasm)

The truth is that checking XKCD has become one of a plethora of daily (or at least thrice weekly) routines that serve to comfort, reassure and break up the nine til five monotony for me. In fact, I would even go so far as to argue that XKCD and its ilk serve as a kind of modern day philosophy for the time rich and attention poor, serving up easily digestible nuggets of observational wisdom.

In a more predictable vein, Hark A Vagrant makes history fun (No, really!) and reading it gives me that warm, fuzzy glow that comes with combining the fun of a comic, with the sense of smug self–satisfaction provided by its vaguely intellectual credentials. It also makes me feel better about the fact that my introduction to web comics came in an altogether less highbrow package. Technically a cartoon rather than a comic, Homestar Runner blighted my university years, and thanks to it, I am better acquainted than I would ideally wish to be with Strong Bad, Strong Sad and the Burninator. Still, at least Marzipan was a feminist...

Regardless of my rather mixed history with them, there is ultimately something rather special about web comics. They teeter precariously on the edge of the main-stream which means they can ultimately disregard it and court controversy on a whim. The internet is an unregulated, labyrinthine space which isn't always a good thing, but it does make it a perfect home for the surreal, transgressive and niche. And on occasion, web comics have taken this mandate to push the boundaries to its natural conclusion. There's as much bad taste, politically incorrect and shocking stuff out there as there is of the clever, life enhancing variety. And sometimes the two are one and the same.

So this week, the Reluctant Geek is about to get interactive. (Hang on, that may have come out wrong…) In the name of sharing the love, why not leave a comment below bigging up your favourite web comics. Which are the ones that get you through your working day? Or make you feel that you are somewhat less alone in your appreciation of the depressing nihilism/breath-taking hypocrisy/wondrous beauty (delete as applicable) of everyday life?

Now, I’ve never really worked in an office for more than a few months at a time and even more shockingly, I’ve never worked in IT at all. But as I understand it, a certain amount of time wasting on the internet is practically mandatory. Perhaps we can help each other out by ensuring that said time wasting is spent on the highest quality material the net has to offer. (No! Not porn!!)

And that is a rather beautiful thing, wouldn't you agree?

This week, Kate is playing board games with her family. And it isn't even ironic.

The Reluctant Geek - Girl on girl action

So obviously usually my Saturday nights involve sex, drugs and rock and roll (OK, maybe not the middle one). But they say a change is as good as a rest, so a few weeks ago I decided to stay in on a Saturday and watch TV. Well sort of... the TV in question was the Eurovision Song Contest (that covers the rock and roll element right?) and since one of my weird but wonderful friends is an inexplicably huge fan of aforementioned competition we all gathered at her house for some spangle-covered, sequin-encrusted, good old fashioned Euro-cheese. (There was actual cheese too in the form of some achingly retro cheese and pineapple on sticks!)

I’ll be honest – the music wasn’t grabbing me and whilst I appreciate a bit of good old fashioned randomness as much as the next person (unicycles and angel costumes anyone?), I suspect my attention might still have wandered. Wandered that is, were it not for the fact that the atmosphere in the room changed as soon as the Slovenian entry sashayed on stage. As it turned out, the gathering’s verdict on Slovenia was pretty much focused around the fact that the female singer was 'hot", "fine" and walking around on a pair of "legs up to most people’s head height." (Surely this would just be kind of inconvenient?!)

Now don’t get me wrong. I know my friends so this jovial objectification was no particular surprise... however when it evolved into detailed imaginings of some kind of love tryst between Slovenian leg woman and befrocked Swiss cute girl, I couldn’t help but ponder the question of how many living rooms up and down the country were engaged in similar discussions.

Probably the majority if we’re being realistic about it, but I suspect ours was one of the few that could have applied the correct term to this blatant fantasising. Yes ladies and gentlemen, we were inadvertently fem-slashing the Eurovision Song Contest.

Faithful readers might remember that a month or so back I talked about the ‘regular’ form of slash fiction, if such a term isn’t a misnomer. This process of imagining (often through fan fiction) heterosexual male characters from films and TV into complex, intense romantic and/or sexual relationships with one another is still pretty much hidden from the casual viewer. And femslash is a sub-genre of this already most niche of genres. As the name suggests, it requires taking two straight female characters and coupling them. Think Willow and Buffy before Willow came out, or the reams and reams of literature that would have Xena: Warrior Princess pair off with her erstwhile companion Gabrielle for some mythological fun.

Ironically though, despite its comparatively tiny corner in the slash community, this idea of lesbian subtext between ostensibly straight female characters seems to be far closer to ‘making it mainstream’ than male slash ever has. Which is even stranger when you consider that slash fiction frequently arises when an already complex on screen relationship is taken by fans to its next logical step. As The Bechdel Test has taught us, there just aren’t that many storylines where women are portrayed as having meaningful same sex friendships, so theoretically the pool of material for fem-slashing it up is pretty small. From Danerys’ ‘close’ relationship with her handmaid in Game of Thrones to Xena and Gabby - when it *does* happen, producers and writers seem fairly willing to nod towards the girl on girl subtext that their fans are so keen to will into existence. I mean, honestly, when every fan fiction writer and their dog were busy slashing Willow up, Wheddon eventually made her gay in response!

So what is this all about? Are we already back to the homophobic notion that two women together are somehow more palatable than two men? Do we still somehow see fem-slash as softer, more romantic and therefore more suitable for pre-watershed hints than the alternative? Whilst I wish that male slash were afforded the same courtesies (rather than the abject horror that greets it in some quarters) I’m glad that TV shows are increasingly willing to portray strong female relationships, with all of the implied complexity these might involve.

And actually, fem-slash can be a really fun way of re-examining some of the fantasy and sci-fi canon that has written women into bit parts in the past. Arwen/Eowyn slash throws Lord of the Rings into a whole new light, while Alice/Bella Twilight (sorry) re-imagining takes steps towards combatting some of the misogyny and sadism of the original.

Really, the potential for those illicit and therefore deliciously naughty pairings is everywhere. But when you’re finding them on Eurovision, it might be time to back off a bit...

This week Kate will be pretending to be a mermaid down in Cornwall. (Or alternatively, shivering miserably in the freezing British weather!)

The Reluctant Geek - A life less ordinary

When I was in my mid-teens, I developed a deep and abiding resentment towards my parents for not being American. It was totally unreasonable, not to mention somewhat uninformed, but at that age I hadn’t yet learned to associate the states with fast food, draconian attitudes towards abortion and Fox News. Instead, television had taught me that in order for anything truly thrilling, meaningful, exciting or dramatic to happen, it had to happen in America.

To be fair, based on the evidence of my limited experience, it wasn’t entirely surprising that I had catapulted towards this conclusion. While British TV was best known for Coronation Street and Eastenders, where people with inexplicable regional accents yelled at each other, had tawdry affairs and got run over; the States had Buffy and The X-Files. Week after week witty and committed protagonists with whom I could identify engaged in a spot of saving the world with a side of smouldering sexual tension. There was no contest really. I didn’t want to be a whinging Northerner in the rain. I wanted to be a glamorous, kick-ass heroine whose life had significance and purpose. And on some level, that meant I wanted to be in the good ‘ol USA.

That’s why I will always be grateful to the newer incarnations of Doctor Who. OK, he came along a little too late to save my teenage years, but it was the first show that taught me that the UK could be a setting for danger, excitement and narrative with meaning, just as much as anywhere else.

(I know what you’re thinking… Obviously I don’t *really* believe in time travel, aliens and magic phone boxes. It’s just nice to know that if a TARDIS did suddenly spring into existence, it might just as easily be in say, Montpellier, as the Arizona Desert!)

The early series of the modern Doctor Who massively played on this desire that humans have had to a greater or lesser extent since the days when we were living in trees and riding on pterodactyls.* We all want to be rescued from the humdrum of our daily nine ‘til five, of doing the ironing and going to the pub, just as Rose is when Christopher Eccleston’s Doctor first breezes into her life. More than any other show I’ve come across, Doctor Who taps into our craving for adventure and significance. A string of companions face the ultimate ‘intervention’ and the perfect escape, whether it’s from the wedding from hell, the family from hell, or just the soul smashing tedium of normality.

That’s why it’s really rather wonderful to have The Doctor back, as enigmatically brilliant as he always is. Matt Smith’s Doctor plays out the dichotomy of saviour versus utterly unknowable alien incredibly well and Stephen Moffat has thus far proved pretty keen to point out that all of this racing around the universe, engaging in daring escapades and seeing things that humans just weren’t meant to see, comes at a price.

Of course, where Doctor Who leads, other shows frequently follow. The Who universe spin-off Torchwood makes Cardiff look every bit as cool as any brooding American city and turns detective work into a shiny, slick, technological indulgence to rival CSI or 24 or any of the big American shows. I’m not ashamed to admit to a massive fan-girl rush standing on the Plaza, following in Jack’s footsteps (although to be honest, I’d happily follow Jack pretty much anywhere) and in this sense really exciting British TV does the UK Tourist Board a massive favour. In fact, Wales is where all of the cool kids are hanging out these days, after Being Human’s relocation, although I still feel a certain fondness for the gritty, decaying glamour of Bristol, entirely appropriate for a show about vampires and werewolves, let’s face it.

The opening scene of one of my favourite episodes of Doctor Who begins with the words, "For the first nineteen years of my life nothing happened. Nothing at all. Not ever.' When I was a teenager myself I could hardly imagine anything worse than a life where nothing happened, so perhaps this is why the next line of this soliloquy will always send shivers down my spine: "And then I met a man called The Doctor." Thank goodness then, that he’s back for the Spring and the Autumn. Not to mention, Christmas!

This week, Kate is looking for her mojo. It’s probably under the couch again...

*Please don’t send me hate mail, I know we didn’t ever really ride on pterodactyls!

The Reluctant Geek - Spoiled rotten

Since moving house and turning thirty, I’ve discovered a previously unknown love of gardening. I know what you’re thinking. Next stop radio four and the shipping forecast and before you know it, I’m holed up in the corner of some godforsaken nursing home rambling about the good old days when the Tenth Doctor was in charge of the TARDIS. But far from this being further evidence of some kind of unstoppable slide into the realms of the elderly, I’d quite like to make the argument that gardening can be, in its way, a bit rock and roll. All of that rubbing the earth between your fingers, pulling up enormous vegetables and spreading your seed all over the place. It’s practically a porn movie waiting to happen.

Unfortunately, it has also brought about a new manifestation of one of my absolute worst habits. I can be a tad impatient you see. Thumbing a tiny mottled seed into the earth and waiting for it to grow is all very well and good, but once it’s down there it’s kind of hard to see what’s going on. And that moment when the first sign of a shiny green shoot thrusts its way out of the ground is so utterly, childishly thrilling that sometimes I just can’t wait for it. So I’ve taken to, um, peeking. Raking the soil over in the hope of uncovering what’s going on beneath just a tiny bit early.

Really, this should be no surprise. I’ve always lacked fundamental self-control when it comes to spoilers. (Or should that be, "Spoilers, sweetie.") And for a geek - reluctant or otherwise - this is a bit of a character flaw. In my mid-teens, mad for Buffy and vampires and the end of the world, I took to loitering about a website called Spoilerslayer, where rumours, hints and tidbits about forthcoming plot lines were posted daily. Like a crack addict in denial I would then watch episodes with my friends, gasping along at the latest death/romantic entanglement/big bad, whilst guilt and smugness gave battle for my soul.

I wish I could dismiss this as the folly of youth, but since then the same pattern has repeated itself. If I love a TV show, or a series of comics or books sufficiently passionately, then I care about the characters. And if I care about the characters then I want to know what’s going to happen to them. Who *is* River Song? What will come of Daenerys’ desire to come home? You could almost dress it up as altruism with the right PR.

There is a darker side though, and it’s the side that knows that knowledge is power, and acts accordingly. Whenever I begin to doubt the idea that I am in any way geeky, I run up against the brick wall of my recent romantic history. The GM of truly brilliant roleplaying game called Orpheus Gaze, the first in command of my LARP faction, and most recently and wonderfully, a referee from the same LARP system. (There are one or two ‘normal’ boys in there as well, honest). When faced with not just a game where I don’t know what will happen, but a close relationship with a person who *does*, it’s very hard not to seek out some real life spoilers. Luckily all three boys have been upstanding and virtuous enough to resist the pleas of my weaker moments, and I sometimes think I know less than a regular player rather than more in an over-compensatory insistence on spoiler silence. The point is, left to my own devices, or entangled with lesser men, I’m not sure that my desire to ‘know’ things could be kept in check.

And actually, this would be a real shame. Because as much as I crave spoilers, as much as I’ll chase an internet forum thread all over the place in pursuit of them, I kind of know they aren’t really good for me. To know what was going to happen would ruin my role-playing experience utterly, and in LARP as in life, it’s usually more fun when it’s unscripted. Even with TV shows, there is nothing really quite like the unexpected punch in the stomach that comes with an unexpected character death, or the adrenalin rush of a plot twist that leaves you breathless and squealing incoherently at the screen. Almost all fictional experiences, whether books or films or games, seek to emulate a version of real life with a greater concentration of intensity, and in real life, the next step is always uncertain. The pavement could be there just as we expect, the ground could give way and crumble beneath our feet leaving us freefalling through space, or we could walk ourselves right into the path of that handsome stranger. Therein lies the beauty, and the horror, of the whole thing.

And as someone pointed out to me recently, if I’m not careful, the impatient raking of my seedlings might just stop them from growing at all. Sometimes the magic only happens when you let it.

This week Kate is checking for imaginary burglars.

The Reluctant Geek - Incest, prostitution and dragons' eggs

As it turns out, moving house can be a bit of a faff. All of that putting things in boxes, and taking things out of boxes. It just isn’t fun, unless you’re using the boxes in some elaborate game of ‘Hide the shoe’. And no-one wants to play that with me after last time...

This somewhat off topic pre-amble readers, is partially my attempt to illicit your sympathy (‘Oh that poor Reluctant Geek! Bravely soldiering on with her column while chaos reigns around her!’) and partially because the other unfortunate thing about moving is that you find yourself temporarily lacking access to life’s essentials.

Several hours into actually hanging out at the new house I was practically rocking and twitching with the strain of internet withdrawal symptoms. How could I catch up with news as it happened? What if some crucial email was awaiting my attention? Even worse, what if someone had posted what they’d had for lunch on Facebook and I’d missed it? Clearly social death loomed. I had become the weird kid at school whose parents believe that hours of TV might not be the best thing for a developing mind, and who can’t therefore discuss the finer points of Neighbours versus Home and Away.

Of course, I still had the Blackberry, which went some way towards calming my addled mind. But no amount of shiny mobile technology could compensate for the sudden and alarming lack of access to a squillion or so TV channels. Regular readers will know that I’m not a ‘watch the Antiques roadshow just cos it’s on kind of girl’ but I do tend to devote myself to certain shows with all the passionate devotion of a novitiate nun. And there was one particular show that I was unreconcilled to missing.

I’ve raved about the Song of Ice and Fire series here before, so it may not surprise you to learn that I have been anticipating the Game of Thrones TV show with a fair amount of high pitched enthusiasm. And LARP/moving/work complications meant that in the end I was forced to throw myself upon the mercy of a friend, watching all of the first three episodes in some kind of orgiastic frenzy of fantasy TV appreciation.

And as it turns out, ‘orgiastic’ is a strangely apposite adjective, since one of Game of Thrones defining features is its ‘adult’ content. I was worried that they might have been tempted to go with the fantasy TV = kids TV precedent and just cut out vast swathes of the sex and violence. But then, there wouldn’t be much of a show left. So even if I was slightly alarmed by the fact that ‘boob count’ had made it into double figures by the end of episode one, I was vaguely relieved as well.

Naked ladies aside, did I like Game of Thrones? Do LARPers like plastic weapons?! The answer is yes, yes, a thousand times yes.

For starters, it’s gorgeous to look at. The Wall is awe inspiring, and the gritty Northern vistas of Winterfell strike perfect chords of melancholy beauty. The books are epic in scale, and the TV show is really managing to capture some of that dynastic immensity, particularly in the jumps from location to location, Winterfell to Kings Landing to the Free Cities.

More than this though, Game of Thrones also encapsulates that dichotomy of ‘real’ fantasy that the books handle so well. Yes there are dragons, and Dire wolves, but there are also petty squabbles, characters with their own unique insecurities, and the practical minutiae of life to be contended with. This immediacy is striking and compelling. The misery of Catelyn’s haggard bedside vigil, in a cold and cheerless room, as wolves howl at her door is difficult and thus brilliant, to watch.

It helps that for the most part the characterisation is spot on. Dwarf or not, Tyrion Lannister is so witty and clever that he may just count as my new ‘weird crush’ (I’m really sorry Noel Fielding). Cersei is brilliantly, languorously resentful, with a sense of entitlement that is practically palpable. And Daenerys has all of the regal vulnerability that you could hope for.

With any luck, Game of Thrones will turn out to be a bit of a landmark for television, proving that there really is a market for ‘grown up’ fantasy. I want to watch TV that transports me to a different world, without any patronizingly pesky moral message getting in the way of the story. The bottom line is, it doesn’t always have to be about talking lions and magic boxes. Sometimes it’s about incest, prostitution and dragons' eggs too.

This week, Kate is off to stay in a Mongolian Yurt for a few days. Just call me Genghis.

The Reluctant Geek - Happy Easter!

This week Kate is spending her time in a field with nerds but will be back to her normal loquacious self next time.

The Reluctant Geek - What’s that big shiny thing in the sky?

This week readers, things are going to be a little bit more surreal than usual. Imagine a David Lynch film, only with less nudity and girl on girl kissing. Probably.

Because rather than basements and bedsits and airless offices alive with the hum of a thousand computers, I have a different setting in mind for this session’s mandatory geeking out.

You may or may not have noticed that something a little bit odd has been happening lately. Maybe, when you try to play Fallout: New Vegas your vision is being obstructed by some kind of glare on the screen. Perhaps recent early evening D&D sessions have been interrupted by a high-pitched twittering sound (and it’s not even that annoying wannabe elf player who you hate). It’s possible even that your usual World of WarCrack buddies have started making excuses about how they don’t really have the time to come with you and kill that dragon/find that important object/pillage that particular village.

It’s ok though... there’s no real cause for alarm. What’s happening is something that happens quite often around this time. It’s the insidious creep of outside and summer and those crazy, nature loving freaks who don’t consider that the luminescent glow of your laptop screen is really going to deliver your requisite dose of vitamin D for the year.

Speaking as an aforementioned crazy, nature loving freak, I’m here to remind you that geekery and outside don’t have to be two mutually exclusive concepts. In the name of which cause, here are some of the best ways of combining your outer geek and inner hippy into one leet-speaking, kaftan wearing orgy of awesomeness.

Geocaching

As far as I understand it (and I’m willing to accept that there may be limitations here!) geocaching is basically a form of grown up treasure hunting with added tech. You can indulge your desire to play with shiny buttons and clever little wires, using GPS to help locate hidden containers and then romp all over the countryside tracking them down in real time. Fresh air, a massively niche hobby and the opportunity to come up with your very own code name. (Having located a box, you sign the logbook within with your unique ‘handle’). What’s not to like?! If you need the geek factor upping a little, you may be reassured to know that boxes found and sabotaged by the uninitiated are said to have been ‘muggled’. Just don’t forget to BYOP, and TFTH. (Acronyms are geeky, right?!)

Stargazing

It’s nearly summer. OK this is Britain, but chances are we still might have the odd gloriously sunny, cloudless day at some point. And if we do, it might just be followed by the occasional unobscuredly beautiful starry night. Stargazing has all of the essential qualities of geekery; ideally it requires equipment in the form of a telescope and superior enough knowledge to be able to use it and hopefully know what you’re looking at. But it also necessitates some communing with nature, gazing into the unknown and contemplating your place in the universe (Or particle physics, or that girl/boy you like, or tomorrow’s breakfast. Whatever works).

LARP

Whenever people produce or share those self-defeating pyramids of geekiness (honestly, if you’re creating/modifying/appreciating some kind of hierarchy of nerdery, chances are you’re at the bottom of it) LARP almost always occupies the lower layers. But despite this it’s one of the best ways of combining some wholesome outdoorsyness with your desire to be a wizard and go on quests. And anyone who thinks that geeky activities can’t be physically demanding just needs to watch a bevy of fat men run up a hill wearing chainmail. It’s pretty much an endurance sport under these circumstances! If you LARP you can spend all summer running around woods and fields, without ever once having to suggest anything so prosaic as a country walk or picnic, so it’s the no compromise option for the truly hardcore geek.

In the end, the reluctant part of my geekery quite often occurs because to be a geek is to be a stereotype and no-one likes to be put in a box. There is no reason why you can’t sit in the sunshine reading comics, or run a marathon dressed as a Klingon, or even hold your weekly RPG session in the garden. Not to mention the fact that some slash fic, ice cream and a park make for a truly inspired mix. Anyway, there’s always next winter for holing up with take away pizza and the world’s most addictive computer games…

This week Kate Townshend is channeling Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz.