The Research Roadtrip - Day 1, 6:25 AM

Ugh. I have been awake since 5:15. That’s an unholy time that shouldn’t be seen by man, animal or wildfowl, unless they’re unduly healthy or insomniac.

Hugh - “Oh, god. This is an extreme situation. It’s time to invoke the spirit of gonzo journalism. “

Johnnie - “You don’t mean - “

Hugh - “Yes. I’m putting sugar in my tea. No more dental health for me. I’m on the hard stuff. “

<> powdery sounds <>

Hugh - “Oh, god. That’s not sugar. That’s low-calorie sweetener

Yes, we’re off the Ethernet leash. We’re unleashed. We’re on some kind of Machinima rampage.

For those of you who don’t know, which at this point is, ooh, everyone, we’re leaving our not-so-native Scotland and descending into the soft, decadent South in pursuit of raw nuggets of Machinima knowledge. Firstly, we’ll be hitting the Machinima cauldron of Short Fuze in Cambridge like a small, unshaved whirlwind.

Then, we’re putting on our pith helmets and concealing ourselves in a movable hide made of copies of the Daily Mail as we forge deep into the terrifying Heart of Southern Darkness. I refer, of course, to Sussex, and to the hip geezas of Creative Assembly, whose brains we will be sucking dry of all useful knowledge with long, flexible straws.

Straws, in my case, with an Apple logo on them.

Along the way, we’ll also be doing a podcast with the inimitable Phil Rice of The Overcast, dropping in on any portion of the London Machinima Massive we can, and generally wreaking a trail of destruction comparable only to the occasion when Celtic were beaten at an away game by unlikely contenders Caledonian Thistle.

In which case, it may be noted that the headline next day was “SuperCallieGoBalisticCelticAreAtrocious!” Try saying it out loud.

The nice train attendant with the free coffee approaches. Like a tiger, I sink back into the long grass of the luggage rack, preparing to leap out, all muscles engaged like a single human Superball, and politely ask her if I can have a refill.

Out.

UPDATE: We have just informed the train attendant that she has been immortialised in print. She now believes us to be mildly deranged stalkers. Whilst not overly offended by this after all reasonable belief, I am mildly irked that she thinks this of me. After all, “deranged stalker” is in Johnnie’s job description.

I have also just attempted to eat the paper sugar packet. This would have been more understandable had I not poured the sugar out of it first.