PICTURE SPECIAL: Game 2.0 Exhibition

I bloody love videogames, me. I love owt like that. In fact, there's a videogame renaissance going on at my house: Last Of Us play-through number two is well underway (with GTA V on the horizon), bedtime reading is The Ultimate History of Videogames and the postman will be delivering a USB N64 controller any day now.

Even Tony is in on the act with a visit to the Ontario Science Centre's Game 2.0 exhibit. The history of gaming in 150+ playable consoles, each and every controller caked in the germs of countless snotty kids. We had a smashing time, thanksverymuch, and colds that lasted more than a week. It was worth it.

What ever happened to Pong?

Master System... I was more of a Master System II type of guy

It's a-me!

Extinguish-the-candle type game. Technician won.

Game art with real photos: sadly missed

Virtua Fighter

My 100-metre time: 11 seconds

Tony's 100-metre time: 19 seconds

Five seconds into screen one. I didn't get much further.

Virtual reality hamster ball

Areet?

Parappa the Rapper

Bonus pic

Rob Ford: Eater, Family Man, Mayor

Rob Ford. Robert Bruce Ford. Multimillionaire. Food enthusiast. Mayor of the fifth-largest city in North America. Elected on a campaign promise of putting a stop to the gravy train, dear old Rob has balanced Toronto's books (or claimed to, at least) while other cities, provinces and countries have continued to wilt in an unforgiving economic climate.

Despite his vast wealth – assured by his family's gigantic label-making company, Deco Labels and Tags – he's successfully portrayed himself as John Everyman. He speaks plainly, decries waste in the public sector and previously balanced his mayoral duties with high school football coaching. You know, just a regular Joe who works hard, loves sports and likes a burger. Or eight.

Sixty Scotch eggs... Seventy pies... HIKE!

But Rob is also hilarious; a riot; a gag reel stuck on repeat. His rap sheet is extraordinary and he's always finding new and innovative ways to plunge his caricature-like public image to fresh and unexpected depths. Bring to mind an appropriate soundtrack – something blue collar and heterosexual, like Young Guns by Wham! – and turn his list of misdemeanours into a make-believe montage:

• Caught reading at the wheel while driving down the highway. His response: "I'm a busy guy." Resists suggestions that he needs a driver and fails to acknowledge the perils of distracted driving. Later careers between a stopped streetcar and the pavement, which is illegal. Apparently.
• Following a barnstorming brawl at his high school football team's game, Ford places a personal call to TTC CEO Andy Byford to have two city buses pulled off their routes and redirected to collect his players. Implication for passengers left stranded at bus stops: tough tits!
• Ford habitually refuses to attend Toronto's Gay Pride parade. His reason? He's at the family cottage being a real family man, doing real manly things. Just so happens that it clashes with the parade each and every year.
• Toronto's integrity commissioner rules that Ford abused his position by using the city letterhead to raise funds for his football foundation. Rob shows up at a later hearing and votes against a motion to hand donations back. How can he be expected to know what a conflict of interest is if he never read the handbook in the first place? Game, set and match to Ford.
• March 2008: "Those Oriental people work like dogs. They work their hearts out. They are workers non-stop. They sleep beside their machines. That's why they're successful in life. I went to Seoul, South Korea, I went to Taipei, Taiwan. I went to Tokyo, Japan. That's why these people are so hard workers (sic). I'm telling you, the Oriental people, they're slowly taking over."
• A weekly, two-hour radio show The City with Mayor Rob Ford and Councillor Doug Ford begins in February 2012. Dave Price, Ford's director of operations and logistics, is later revealed to have repeatedly called the show without revealing his connection to the mayor. Price's comments: Ford is a great mentor for young people, former Toronto mayor Miller was basically a communist and a 5-cent plastic bag charge – which Ford vehemently opposed – constituted "fascism".

Media relations, Ford-style

But what really puts good old Rob in the world's spotlight is his alleged substance abuse. No, not his 1999 conviction for DUI and marijuana possession; nor his 2006 ejection from a Maple Leafs hockey game for drunkenly berating a couple sat nearby; nor the repeated police visits to his home for reports of domestic "unrest". Rather, Mayor Ford took it to a new level in 2013 when a video surfaced allegedly showing him smoking crack (smoking... crack) with three unidentified ne'er-do-wells.

Rob deadpanned his way through the crisis, and by the time a fund had been raised to buy the tape in question, the seller "could not be reached". Another in the video turned his toes up in mysterious circumstances, but Rob eventually emerged with a comprehensive denial: "I do not use crack," he said, his obvious innocence circumventing the need for the word "never". "As for a video… I cannot comment on a video that I have never seen or does not exist."

Did the Ford family make full use of their incredible wealth to purchase the incriminating evidence and bury it? I would never, ever suggest such a thing. Besides, Rob has it in his mind to give permanent residents – not just Canadian citizens – the municipal vote in Toronto. That makes him one of the good guys – and me the newest member of Ford Nation, North America's most loltacular political entity since The Tea Party.

I Was a Teenage Football Manager

Ye gads! It can be hard to remember to blog regularly once you're in your thirties. Other concerns take precedence, like eating prunes, comparing various brands of cod liver oil or complaining about young people; but it is also an age at which previous passions can return. In my case, it's cycling and Football Manager.

Cycling is canny, but Football Manager is amazing. AMAZING. It's crack-cocaine for stattos. Back in 1996 it was Championship Manager, which was far too easy. All one had to do was sign Claudio Caniggia for Newcastle and four consecutive league titles followed. Picture the scene: 13-year-old David perched in front of a computer, the stereo on the seat next to him alternating between Sash's Encore Une Fois and Ash's Goldfinger, several binders stacked nearby, each filled with printouts detailing every season played. Which of my central defenders had the highest average rating in 2018/19? Grab a binder and find out.

Never signed this no-hoper

I can't begin to imagine how many hours of my life went into that game and its subsequent editions, so it's probably for the best that my obsession ran its course within a few years. I even began to venture outside, my pale white skin bristling at the sun like a glass of milk left out in the midday heat. But now Football Manager has its claws in me again, filling the England-shaped hole in my heart with hundreds of thousands of players I've never heard of. Just as Bruce Wayne becomes Batman in the witching hour, I perform heroics for which I expect no thanks or praise - just a faint reprimand from the missus.

At night I'm the dashing, handsome and cultured manager of Brighton. The year is 2016 and I've taken the Seagulls from the mid-table mediocrity in the Championship to mid-table glory in the Premier League. Owen Hargreaves is my tactics coach. Clive Allen and Ray Wilkins are in the mix somewhere. Bryan Robson did something or other behind the scenes, but he just retired. I have an expensive Dutch striker called Anass Achahbar who thinks I'm the inept one, even though he's bagged a grand total of two goals in 25 appearances.

Achahbar reacts to my touchline shouts

After an extraordinary first season in the top flight - and a narrow defeat in the League Cup final - things have turned sour. Eleven defeats in a row? Check. Six games without a goal? Check. Dressing room revolt? Check. Yet I return to the game over and over, confident that a change of formation or a new face will see my motley crew charge up the table. Despite modest improvement, results remain mixed: back-to-back wins over both Manchester clubs are followed up by a humiliating cup exit at Leyton Orient. I storm out of a press conference only to be censured by the board for a lack of professionalism. What do those suits know about football? I'm the best manager the club has ever had - and they used to be managed by Brian bloody Clough, thankyouverymuch.

4-4-2 Diamond: a true work of art

Football Manager is the perfect poison. Even when I'm doing terribly - pouting like a child in front of the laptop - I'm having a ball, secretly hoping to be sacked so that I can take over at Whitley Bay and teach a load of part-timers how to play Total Football. Preseason training and a quick glance at the transfer list can easily turn into endless hours of careful comparison. What kind of heathen couldn't find life-affirming joy in the decision between signing the mercurial-but-unhinged Chilean striker or the woeful Irish wingback who could turn into a world-beater? The latter, perhaps, sums up my hopeless addiction: my Brighton side are comprehensively mediocre, but they're also brimming with potential.

My beautiful boys in blue may be little more than a set of slowly growing numbers on a screen, but they're the reason I'll be back after my next humbling at the hands of lower league Luddites. Apart from Achahbar, obviously. He'll rot in the reserves as long as it's my name on the door to the gaffer's office.

Raccoon Ignition (Remix)

It's the remix to Ignition, hot and fresh out the kitchen.... Something something something. Isn't it odd to think that R Kelly is real? Living. Breathing. Rapping. Learning something new about midgets every single day.

Here's something else that's both odd and real: the raccoon. In the glorious Canadian cartoon of the same name, raccoons rode bicycles, wore monogrammed sweatshirts and even owned dogs. They had pleasant picnics in the woods and only occasionally fell out with their neighbour Cyril Sneer (who was an aardvark, according to google - not a shaved bear, as I had suspected). Until last week, I had never had reason to stop and think about real raccoons; not in any meaningful sense. "Oh, that bin has been tipped over," Heather would say. "Must be the raccoons." Cue my daydreaming of Bert, Ralph and Melissa playing tennis or scrumping apples or something.

L-R: Scarf, ganzie, crop top

But raccoons are real, man. Really real. How do I know? Because we had a close encounter with one; an episode so dramatic it warranted its own 999-style commentary by Michael Burke. Allow me to set the scene: David and Heather are on the balcony to measure for patio furniture. David crouches down, tape measure in hand, and he notices a tell-tale sign in the corner of his eye...

POO. In fact, TWO POOS. Big ones. Comfortably bigger than a cat's. A frown creeps across my befuddled face. "Heather," I manage to emit, "one of our neighbours has been throwing dog shit up here." Tony says little, but I can tell that she immediately suspects the two dog-owning smokers across the way. Their house is up for sale and she's already decided what she thinks of it: not as nice as ours. Which makes them bad people.

Before we can speculate any further ("Turkey vultures?") there is a rustling; a growing sense of dread; a noise from a corner that ought to be silent. The barbecue is alive, breathing, sneaking.

We stand still and slowly turn our heads in the direction of the disturbance. A bandit's face slowly, very slowly, emerges from the canvas barbecue cover. I do what real men do: hazard a wild guess as to what it is and what it wants. "Heather... IT'S A FOX!" I cry, momentarily forgetting that foxes are physically unable to scale the sides of buildings and drop onto balconies. The face's creepy, sinewy, human-like hands slide into view and the game is up: it's a raccoon, and we're facing certain death.

Our stares meet - its evil shrimp eyes and my nice blue ones - and its expression speaks a thousands words, a thousand sentiments, but mostly this: "I shat on your balcony and slept in your barbecue. And now I'm leaving." With that, the Bastard of the Woods (TM David Welsh) slunk over the neighbour's wall, presumably to curl out a Cleveland Steamer on her spotless Muskoka chairs.

Dirty Bertie

Fast-forward 10 days: we've just about recovered from our ordeal, and Tony - at long bloody last - has bothered herself to pick up the poo using a plastic bag as a glove. Judging from her face as she was doing it, I made the right decision to delegate that particular task. But there's a sting in the tail as we notice a gassy smell outside. Not a big deal, we think; not after our indoor gas leak last month (another story entirely). It transpires that the raccoon didn't just relieve his bowels on our woodwork and snooze where we prepare food: it also took it upon itself to release the gas valve and turn one of the burner controls. The upshot is a gas leak we knew nothing about for the best part of a fortnight.

That absolute BASTARD had better watch himself when our gas bill arrives.

House!

What a difference a year makes. In October 2011, I had just left my part-time job in Newcastle in preparation to move to Toronto. Fast-forward a few months and I had a canny job; fast forward a few more and I'm a homeowner. Officially.

I've had houses before, of course – they just haven't been mine as such. They ranged from grubby to grand, but my new gaff trumps them all in the sense that it's actually insulated. It's also slug-free, non-leaking and devoid of noisy neighbours. So far.

Much to my surprise, my first house isn't a Money Pit

I haven't had much time to think, never mind write – hence the recent blog blackout – with the purchase, then the moving, and a Christmas trip home in-between. My world-class patter has certainly taken a hit with the added weight of responsibility on my broad, muscular shoulders, but I'll soon adjust to the idea that so much of my wealth – and my debt – is invested in the bricks and mortar I now call home.

Besides, I can no longer afford to go anywhere, so I'm sure I'll be posting here more often to report on house-based hilarity, sports-based misery and the latest cat videos on YouTube (note to self: finish that 15,000-word piece on your all-time favourite videogames: "From Alex Kidd to Nathan Drake: Living Vicariously Through Pixels").

After my first two weeks as a cripplingly-indebted first-time owner, I have been able to make some observations worth sharing.

• Master the thermostat and you rule the world. "Is the heat up?" asks Tony. "Oh, yes," I reply, "Two degrees higher than yesterday." Little does she know that I'm conducting experiments as to how low I can set the temperature before frost develops on the carpets.
• Dishwashers are canny. In the last house, ours was off-limits in favour of hand-washing. After all, we never had enough dishes to justify setting the bugger off. But now we're footloose and fancy-free, using the dishwasher whenever and however we please. As long as it's only once every four days.
• Know your area. The street's bank of mailboxes is in the shared playground. Ergo, volunteering to collect the mail means a free go on the slide. I think that's why Tony insists on going every night when we get home from work.
• A living room is only as good as its sofa. Our furniture still hasn't arrived, so our living room is less about relaxing, more about perching uncomfortably and trying to fill the awkward silence.
• Cable TV is dreadful. Don't bother. And if they try to charge you $20 a month for the one channel that shows Premier League football, don't be daft. Unless you really want it. Like I did.
• Don't expect anything to work as it should. Internet radio. The landline. HDMI adapter. Another internet radio. Maintenance fee payments. Address updates. It'll all go wrong. Just accept it and get on with your life.
• Good neighbours become good friends. We've so far exchanged a few sentences with a nice Italian-looking lady. She knocked on the door to tell me I'd left the garage open. I introduced myself. She didn't give her name.

Further wisdom will occur to me as and when, and I'll be sure to share my pearls with you all. The long-term plan is to have my own property show on public access TV, like Carole Smiley, Lawrence Llewellyn-Bowen or Craig from Big Brother. After all, if Colin and Justin  made it big in Canada, anybody can.

PS. If you'd care to visit, you're more than welcome. We have two spare rooms. No spare beds, like, but the upstairs carpet isn't quite as itchy and abrasive as it looks.