THE BLUE POOTLE – OCTOBER 2007

By Aliya Whiteley

On Someone Else’s Lips

The Blue Pootle has been knobbled by a geek.

I’m sure I’m using the wrong expressions here, and yes, I do surf the web too so I should be a cooler person about cyber stuff, but I’ve just used the word ‘cool’ so obviously I’m not, but I am feeling a little frazzled about being used and abused in such a fashion on the internet.

This is not going to be as interesting as you’re now hoping it will be.

Okay, this is what happened: I was busy googling myself – as we all do, admit it, come on, don’t leave me hanging out here looking like the only self-interested prat in a group of noble writers – and I came across a picture of me on a forum for an online gaming community.

Dodgy, I thought. Very dodgy.

It turned out to be a large community of role-players, and this was their general chat forum, covering such topics as ‘How Do You Get Past The Troll Next To The Agbar Gate?’ and ‘What’s Your Favourite Dwarven Musical Instrument?’. I featured on a particularly long thread entitled, ‘What Do You Get When You Google Your Online Name?’ So you see, I’m not the only Googler. Hah.

So, yes, anyway, amongst the usual names such as Dirk Sword and Grolsch and Hepsibah was my own. My real name. Not the whole thing, obviously, just the forename, and I’m not talking about ‘blue’. I don’t know what kind of creature I was sharing a name with. I’m hoping it was a slinky assassiness in black leather with myriad daggers hidden in her uncomfortable underwear, but it was probably a short grumpy thing with facial warts and a constitution score of 28 and a charisma of 3.

People had googled images that matched their game names and made comments about said images. My virtual namesake had put up my piccie and written next to it, ‘Not too bad.’

Not too bad.

It could obviously have been much worse, but still my pride has been wounded. I spent hours photo-shopping that picture, only to be pronounced, ‘Not too bad’. In terms of pricked vanity, the only thing worse was that time when some guy approached me in a nightclub during a particularly dreary hen night and told me that he’d get off with me if I liked ‘because you’re not that much of a munter’. Ugly twit. And he was a crap kisser, too.

Not really.

I considered rolling up my own character and joining the game at the bargain price of £3000 a year just to say something witty and cutting on the forum, but then I decided it would be cheaper to do it here instead. But you know what? I’m not really put out. It was quite a pleasant experience to revisit the world of role playing games, for I used to be a keen gamer too, in my teenage years. Oh yes. And it got me thinking about the names I gave my characters, back when I was an impressionable David Eddings Fan, and how it reflects on my psyche.

My main guy was a Paladin called Valiant. He was beefcake, basically, with a golden suit of armour, a code of honour that would shame the pope, and the longest two-handed sword you’d ever seen in your life. God, I fancied him. I even fancied the little metal figurine of him, all striding forth and smiting bogwoppits. He would have saved me from my boring existence and my bad glasses. He would have whisked them off my nose, thrown them over his shoulder, and taken over any part of my life that required the ability to see.

I think I might dig him out of the cupboard.

My other creation was a seven foot tall bald wizard with an eye patch called Rufus Carnus. I don’t really like to think about what this says about me.

So I’m trying hard not to judge the community that stole my name and made a three word judgement on me. I was like them too, once. I didn’t think about how my virtual pals impacted upon how I viewed the real world, and if there were any guys out there actually called Rufus Carnus who would object to me purloining their identity and turning them into a very tall one-eyed sorcerer with a bad attitude. So, sorry if you are called Rufus Carnus. Sorry that you are called it, too.

I forgive you, misguided person who stole my name and pronounced me ‘Not Too Bad’. And I have one piece of advice for you. You need to put your eye patch over your bad eye, you dickhead.

Word of the Day: Kazachoc. Slavic dance in which the dancer kicks out his legs and squats alternately.

Go here to provide the Pootle with feedback, reassurance about her googling and general comeliness, to discuss gaming, talk about her new novel, Three Things About Me, or simply to say hi.