The shit blog of Paul Chris Jones

Dear Diary. Today I'm in York for a Sonic the Comic Convention.

Not a Sonic convention. A Sonic the Comic Convention. I'm glad we've got that sorted out.

I've never been to York before. I've never even been this far north before. The furthest north I've ever been is to Lincoln. I'm 36 years old I've never even been to Manchester. I've never been to Liverpool. Or Scotland.

All I know about the North is that's it a grim place where men spend their entire lives working in coal mines, every woman has at least ten children, and all the children run about barefoot in the street.

That and children call their moms "mams". Not mum. Not mom. "Mam". I learned that watching Ant and Dec.

The first thing I see when I walk out of the train station is a medieval wall. A medieval wall just outside the train station. Oh my god. It's even worse than I thought. The people in York are still in the Middle Ages. They're still living in castles. I bet witches are frequently burned here and medicine is based on pure superstition. I bet York is full of mud-caked peasants trying to trade cow pats for magic beans. I'd better keep my phone out of sight or they'll think my technology is witchcraft and burn me at a stake.

I knew the North was bad, but I didn't know it was this bad.

I'm walking to the convention when I see a guy dressed as Tails. Tails! Tails from Sonic the Hedgehog! I'm basing this solely on the fact his costume is orange. His costume has no tails so maybe it isn't Tails after all.

Ah right: his mates are all wearing aprons so it must be a stag party. Then they all go off down a street full of pubs, confirming this is a stag party and not a group of Sonic fans. Maybe the fact that the man dressed in orange didn't have any tails on his costume could have been a clue.

I get to the convention. I can already hear the "bling" sound of Sonic collecting rings. This is not my imagination. I really can hear this.

I turn the corner and see where the sound is coming from: a bunch of people playing Sonic games on Mega Drives, Master Systems and other old consoles. The convention is filled with "bling" sounds of Sonic collecting rings, the sound of Sonic revving up for a spin attack, and the "sproing" sound of Sonic launching off of springs.

When I get to the front of the queue, I say "I don't have a ticket," to the middle-aged woman working there.

"Oh dear. You don't have a ticket?"

"No, I thought I could just buy one here," I say.

"Oh dear. We only sold the tickets online."

This is unexpected.

"Can you just go stand over there for a minute while I call someone over," she says.

So I stand in a corner while the woman checks people's tickets.

A man comes over. He's short with long greasy hair.

"Can I help you?" he says.

"Yeah, I don't have a ticket?" I say. "I didn't buy one online. I thought I could just turn up and buy one here."

"Okay, well we don't sell tickets at the door, unfortunately."

"Oh."

"Did you come far to get here?" he asks.

"Spain," I say.

"What? You came all the way from Spain just to be here?"

"Pretty much, yeah."

It's true. I live in Spain and I came all the way here just to come to this convention.

"Wow," he says. "You must really like Sonic then."

"Not really."

"Then why did you come?"

"I've come to see Dave Bulmer and Chris McFeely." Dave Bulmer and Chris McFeely are hosts of Sonic the Comic Podcast, a podcast I listen to. I think they're great.

"Wait," he says. "You've come all the way here from Spain to see Dave Bulmer and Chris McFeely?"

"Yeah, that's right."

"Didn't you hear? They cancelled. They announced it like two months ago. They're not coming."

Fuck. So I've flown all the way here for nothing.

"Oh well," I say, turning to leave. "At least I can go see York or something."

"Wait," says the man. "Look, I'll make an exception. You can still come in if you want. I'll just need you to fill out a form."

"Ok, great."

"What's your email address?"

I give him my email address. He sends me an email.

I check my phone. There's a new email. The FROM box of the email says "Megadroid". Megadroid was the fictional editor of Sonic the Comic.

"You're Megadroid?" I ask, with a smile.

"Yeah, I guess," he says, smiling and shrugging his shoulders. "Just for today."

Wow. I've already met MegaDroid.

Three more people arrive wanting to buy tickets: a mom and her two teenage sons. The youngest son has cerebral palsy. He has a wheelchair with stickers of Mario on it. Mario? At a Sonic convention? He should be kicked out of here, not welcomed in.

Megadroid tells them the same thing: they can come in if they fill in the online form.

So me and the oldest teenage son are trying to fill in this Google form on our phones. But Megadroid has sent us the wrong link. He's sent us the link which lets us edit the form instead of fill it in. And it takes us both a while to realise this. By the time I've figured it out, we've managed to change most of the questions.

Megadroid comes back.

"How are you getting on?"

"I think you've sent us the wrong link," I say.

"Oh. Sorry about that. Let me send it again."

This time he emails us the right link. Now we can fill in the form. But now the questions are messed up. One of the questions now just says:

JOE

And there's a red asterisk next to the question which means I have to put an answer. I can't skip it.

"Are you Joe?" I ask the teenage boy next to me.

He laughs. "Yeah, that's right."

"Well what did you put for this question?"

I show him the question that just says "JOE".

He laughs again. "I just put Joe."

"Okay."

So I type "Joe" as the answer to "JOE".

Then I take screenshots of the form and email them to Megadroid.

The middle-aged woman comes over. "Did you fill in the form?"

"Yes. I filled it in, screenshotted it and sent it to Megadroid." I'm enjoying saying referring to Megadroid as if he's real instead of fictional.

"Well okay, you can go in. We'll come and collect payment from you later."

They never do come find me. I've saved 15 pounds.

Well, I'm at the convention. It's in a giant sports hall. There's a life-size statue of Sonic. People are learning how to draw Sonic on tables in the middle of the sports hall. Famous writers and artists are signing autographs.

In front of some red gym mats and dart boards a man with a microphone says, "Sorry we've started late, but now we're here for the Sonic the Comic Convention!"

I spend a few minutes reading pages of Sonic the Comic stuck to the walls. There are all the characters I remember from my childhood. Dr Robotnik, Tails, Amy Rose, and Sonic himself.

Next I go to the place where you can play video games. There's a Dreamcast, Mega Drive. Master System, GameCube, PlayStation, and more. Jesus mother of God. I haven't seen these consoles for years. And you can play any game you want. Any game that was made for any of these consoles. They've got them all, on these special cartridges. I feel like a kid in a sweet shop.

I didn't know were so many Sonic games. There's Sonic 1, 2 and 3 of course, but then there's also Sonic CD, Sonic 3D, Sonic and Knuckles, Sonic Adventure, Team Sonic Races, Sonic Mania, Sonic Jam, Sonic Chaos, Sonic Spinball, Sonic Drift, Sonic the Hedgehog Triple Trouble, Sonic Labyrinth, Sonic Blast. It goes on and on. But the one I really want to play is Sonic 3 & Knuckles. It's the game I wanted as a kid but never got. I can't see it here though.

So I sit down at a Dreamcast and play Crazy Taxi for a bit. I used to have loads of fun playing Crazy Taxi, trying to run people over and smashing into other cars. But after five minutes of playing it now, I get bored. Crazy Taxi's outdated. It's just mindlessly repetitive.

Then I play Sonic Adventure. It was released in 1998 and was the first proper 3D Sonic game. And Christ, it's unforgiving. You have to complete the first course in under two minutes. The course involves running around loops and getting chased by a whale. The best I can do is 2 minutes and 53 seconds. Back in the day, I would have been able to do it. I'm too old now. I've lost my touch.

Then I see Sonic 3 & Knuckles. OH MY GOD. I've always wanted to play Sonic 3 & Knuckles. I've waited my whole life to play this game. I never had it as a kid and it was the one game I really wanted. You play as Knuckles instead of Sonic and you get to climb walls and glide around and break rocks with Knuckles's knuckles.

So I sit down, start the game, and there he is, Knuckles in the Angel Island Zone. I get goosebumps. This is amazing.

I play for about half an hour and I'm really getting into it - I've reached the Marble Garden Zone without dying once and maybe I'll even get to the end of the game - when a kid standing next to me says, "Dad, I'm booored."

"Come on," says his dad. "Let's go see if there's anything else."

I turn to look. It's a ten-year-old kid and his dad. His dad has a beard and geeky glasses. The kid's wearing a Sonic t-shirt. He reminds me of me when I was his age.

They turn to go when I say, "Wait!"

The kid turns around. I hand him the Mega Drive controller.

"Here," I say. "Do you want to play?"

The kid's face lights up. He sits down and starts playing. He's not very good but he learns fast, and soon he's collecting rings and spin-attacking badniks like a pro. His dad watches over his shoulder, smiling.

I've passed Sonic on to the next generation.

"Take care of that little echidna," I say, as I leave. "He means a lot to me." I don't really say that of course, I just walk away.

I play Theme Park for the Mega Drive for a bit. It's another game I had as a kid. actually quite fun, apart from the annoying repetitive music. You put down rides and people come and pay to go on them.

Then I watch a panel of artists and writers from Sonic the Comic. It's quite funny, interesting, and touching. At times I actually have tears in my eyes. Maybe it's because I'm meeting heroes from my childhood. Or maybe it's because of the testosterone I injected yesterday, which is converting into oestrogen and turning me into a woman.

2 pm

I've been at this Sonic convention for five hours now. I'm started to forget what the outside world looks like. Was there an outside world? It's hard to remember among all cacophony of blings, revs, and sproings coming from the Sonic games.

I decide to leave. If I leave now, I'll still have a few hours to look around York.

When I step outside, I have to shield my eyes from the bright sunlight. I don't remember the sun being that bright.

I feel tired and bewildered, as though I've spent the day inside a bunker. I rub my eyes.

A group of guys walks past. One of them says, "You can walk along the walls of York." That sounds good. I think I need to get something to eat and drink first though.

I walk down what looks like a high street. I'm feeling thirsty and light-headed. Ideally, I'd eat at a McDonald's or Greggs but all I see are small independent shops. I can't go in those; those shops scare me.

Instead of a Greggs I find an Oxfam. I go inside and buy the 1997 Dandy annual, Bill Bryson's A Walk in the Woods, and Green Eggs and Ham by Dr Seuss.

I walk out, clutching my new books under my arm. I still haven't found a Greggs.

Then I remember this is the year 2023 and I have a phone that can tell me where Greggs is. So I put Greggs into Google Maps. Then my phone tells me there's a Greggs just a ten-minute walk away.

As I'm walking, I realise there are no Asian people in York. It's almost 100% white people. It's quite different to Birmingham, which has a huge Indian and Pakistani population.

As I think this, three Asian people walk past.

I come across a castle on a hill. A sign that says WELCOME TO CASTLE as if "Castle" is the castle's name. I don't know how to get up to the castle. It's on top of a steep hill and I don't see any stairs. I don't think a Greggs is up there either. I do see a sign that says "Do not climb up the bank" so I guess climbing the hill's out of the question. I walk around the back of the hill and there are some stairs. Well, there you go then. You have to walk up the stairs, I also learn from another sign that the castle's actual name is Clifford's Tower and that it costs 10 pounds to enter, and that price is steeper than the hill, so I leave.

York's a lovely place. It's a small city. People seem happy. The sun is out and shining. There's no litter. The buildings are beautiful, made of brick. There are none of the concrete monstrosities of Birmingham.

I reach Greggs and buy a chicken tikka sandwich and a bottle of water. The thing I like most about England — even more than the rain, the confectionary, and the tolerance of diversity — is the Greggs meal deal. For £4 you get a sandwich and a drink. And the sandwiches are really nice.

As I sit in Greggs and eat my sandwich, I look on the internet to see what there is to do in York. It seems there are three main things to do in York: a cathedral, the walls, and something called The Shambles.

So I go outside Greggs and look for The Shambles. And there it is, right next to Greggs. It's literally ten steps away from where I was eating my sandwich, which is handy.

So I walk down The Shambles. It's a narrow, cobble-stoned street like Diagon Alley from Harry Potter. There's even a Harry Potter Shop which sells wands, spell books, and Bertie Botts Every Flavour Beans.

There's a huge line for something. A man in jeans and a t-shirt walks past, stops, and stares at the line. Then he asks the woman at the front of the line, "Excuse me, what are you queueing for?"

"The ghost shop."

"Ghost shop? What do you buy there?"

"Handmade ghosts."

"Oh right. And how long have you been queueing for?"

"About an hour."

"Oh crikey. Well," he says, "buy five ghosts." And then he walks off. I don't know why five ghosts instead of four or six.

I'm not standing in the queue for an hour so I'm not going inside. The best I can do is peer through the window like a street urchin. With my hands cupped to the window, I can see hundreds of little porcelain ghosts. Each ghost is about four inches high. It's the bed-sheet variety of ghost: a white sheet with two holes for eyes. And there are shelves and shelves of them. Shelves and shelves of ghosts. The ghosts are all different styles. There are ghosts with blood stains, ghosts with tentacles, and ghosts with flowers drawn on them. There are black ghosts, green ghosts, blue ghosts, tie dye ghosts. There's even a ghost wearing a little red beret. And one wearing the Sorting Hat from Harry Potter.

I stand back and read a sign outside the shop. It says, "Licenced to make and sell the original York ghost. Members of the Sorrowful Guild of Master Ghost Makers."

Okay then.

The shop looks ancient as if it's from Victorian times, but according to an article at gazettelive.co.uk, the shop opened only four years ago, in 2019. One of the workers has explained the shop's popularity:

"A couple of people came into the shop, made some TikToks about their experiences going around the shop and picking their own little unique ghost and from there we just became so viral that we basically get two-hour queues most days. It's pure chaos."

Walking around the street is a man with a top hat, a cape and a cane. He's going around handing out flyers for ghost tours. He looks like a ghost himself. He's tall and gaunt and has a pale face and white hair. He looks to be about nine hundred years old. Maybe he's a ghost that's escaped from the ghost shop.

There's a shop called The Potions Cauldron. They sell potions. Okay then.

There's a Christmas shop. A sign on the window says "Only 219 sleeps until Christmas". I go inside. There are robins, baubles, snowmen, mistletoe, and tinsel. The song "Sleigh Ride" by The Ronettes is playing on the store's stereo system: "It's lovely weather for a sleigh ride together for two". I don't agree with that. It feels like summer outside.

A man pays for some baubles. As he turns to leave. the woman at the counter says, "Merry Christmas!"

"Thanks!" he says. Then he adds, brightly: "Only 291 sleeps to go!"

Have I accidentally stepped through a portal to another dimension.

I leave the Christmas shop. Next, I find myself walking down something called the Merchants District. It's all pubs, at which sit bald men and women with blonde highlighted hair. They're sitting and drinking pints of beer in the sun. It looks like a nice life. They're all smiling and laughing. I wish I could live like that. It looks like a simple happy life.

I find myself singing Sleigh Ride by The Ronettes. It's stuck in my head.

"It's lovely weather for a sleigh ride together for two".

I can't get it out of my head now.

I go to a Tesco Express and take a 1-year-old and Jerry's chocolate ice cream out of the freezer. As I'm paying for the ice cream at the self-service till, a man in his fifties asks me, "What Stephen King are you reading?"

For a moment I wonder what he's talking about. Then I remember I have a Stephen King book tucked into my back pocket. I don't remember what it's called so I take it out and look at the title.

"Different Seasons," I say.

"Oh, that's a good one that is!" he says.

"Oh. Well, I've just finished reading Apt Pupil." Apt Pupil's one of the four short stories in the book.

"Oh well that's a good one that is! And you've got to read The Body as well. And the Shawshank Redemption."

He then spends fifteen minutes talking to me outside the Tesco Express while I eat my ice cream. The ice cream comes with a plastic spoon. The spoon is glued to the bottom of the lid.

He says he used to work in a night security job in London watching CCTV cameras. Before his shift, he'd go to the library and take out five books, then he'd read the five books during this shift. He says that after fifteen years he managed to read all the books in the library, which was 27,500 books.

I don't point out that during that entire time, he should have been looking at the screens, not books. I wonder how many burglaries happened on his shift because he was reading books instead of paying attention to the CCTV cameras.

Then I show him the 1997 Dandy Annual I bought from Oxfam.

"Oh yeah, the Dandy! I remember that."

At first I'm sceptical that he really has read all these books. Maybe he's just making it up to impress me. But then he starts listing the characters from The Dandy, from the top of his head: "There's Desperate Dan with his cow pie, Dennis the Menace, Minnie the Minx."

I show him Green Eggs and Ham by Dr Seuss.

"Oh yeah, read that one too."

Next I show him Bill Bryson's A Walk in the Woods.

He frowns. "Haven't read that one. Bill Bryson? Never heard of him."

Wait, he's read 27,500 books and he's never heard of Bill Bryson? Maybe he's not a fan of travel books.

Then he starts telling me about a friend who made a satellite dish out of a dustbin lid in the 1990s. He stuck it on the roof of his house, pointed it in the right direction, hooked it up to his TV, and got channels from all over the world.

Then I realise what time it is. "I've got to go," I say. "I've got a train to catch."

"Oh yeah, of course. Don't want you to be late for your train."

So I say goodbye to him and walk to the train station. I get to the train station twenty minutes before the train is due to leave.

I've got just enough time to have a little walk on York's famous medieval wall. It'd be a shame to have come all the way to York and to have missed the famous medieval wall. The famous medieval wall that I only found out about today.

But there are two geese on the wall. They're pecking away at pebbles and bits of moss. And they're standing in my way.

"That's not something you see every day," I remark to a man standing next to me.

He laughs.

"Maybe we could just kick them off," I say.

He laughs again. This man's easily amused.

I gingerly walk past the geese. Instead of attacking me and breaking my arm, the geese just watch me with suspicion.

I make it past the geese. Then I walk along the medieval wall for a couple of minutes. Then I have to turn around and head back because I've got a train to catch.

On the way back I have to pass the man again.

"Don't tell me it's a dead end!" he says, jokingly.

I can't think of any more witty remarks, so I just say, "Yeah".

And then I have to pass the geese again. One of the geese is standing on the wall itself now, above everyone. Tourists are laughing and taking photos.

I now have only thirteen minutes before the train leaves. The other goose is standing in my way. Maybe I really will have to kick it off.

But then thankfully the goose jumps off of its own accord and lands safely on the grass below.

I start walking fast to the train station. On the way there, I pass a sign that says "Railway Museum". What if I accidentally went there instead? And I'd be sitting on an 18th-century steam train in the middle of the museum and I'm wondering why the train hasn't left yet as tourists take photos of me thinking I'm part of the exhibit.

Anyway, I make it to the train on time. I get on.

***

Three hours later, the train pulls into Birmingham New Street station.

"There's a bag here. Who's bag is this?"

There's a guy, about eighteen years old, holding a black satchel in the air.

He comes over to me.

"Who's bag is this?"

"I don't know," I say. "It's not my bag."

"I found a bag."

Finding an unattended bag on a train used to be terrifying. Ten years ago, any suspicious bag found on a train would have led to an emergency evacuation of all the passengers and then a controlled explosion by a bomb squad. Nowadays no one cares.

He goes off to find someone to give the bag to.

I go stand by the train doors. The guy comes back, without the bag.

We're both waiting for the doors to open.

"This is fucking ridiculous, utterly ridiculous."

He's really anxious about getting off the train.

Then he says, "I need a piss. I'm gonna take a piss."

So he goes into the train's toilet, which is right next to where I'm standing.

I can hear him shouting to himself in there. Then I hear him burp and say, "Pardon." Who's he apologising to? He's the only one in there!

When the guy comes out of the toilet, the train doors still haven't opened.

"I need to get off, I need to get off!" he says to himself.

We get off. I have a look at the train times board. It says three of the trains have been cancelled, I guess due to strikes. I decide the bus might be faster, so I start walking to the bus stop.

I overhear a middle-aged woman say, "I didn't have any money on me. I wasn't wearing a bra." I have no idea what situation she could be talking about.

I get the bus back to Erdington. From there, it's a mile walk back to my dad's house.

I walked past big houses. One of these houses belonged to a school friend of mine called Jack Joyce. I went to his house a couple of times to play video games. It was at his house I played The Ocarina of Time for the first time. Yes, Jack took my Zelda virginity that day, right there in his family's living room. I've been a changed man since. And I've played every Zelda game since then. Up until Skyward Sword, which I never played because I sold my Wii and went to Canada instead.

That was also the day Jack and I eavesdropped on his sister making a phone call to her friend. I remember she used the "boob tube" during the phone ball. I wasn't sure what a boob tube was but I knew it had something to do with breasts. Overhearing that word felt slightly titillating.

I wonder if Jack still lives there now. I can't check because I can't remember what house he lives in.

I'm feeling lonely. I would pay money for someone to talk to. Anyone. Though preferably an attractive young woman with interests similar to my own. I can imagine her now: young, early twenties, with long dark hair and big brown eyes, We'd talk about my book project, TV programmes, 90s chocolates, and the futility of existence. By Christ. it's a brilliant business idea. It could be called WeTalk, and you hire people to talk to you. You'd make a fortune from lonely old people alone.

Dad said he'd take me for a curry tonight. I wonder if he'll hold up to his promise.

I arrive home. Dad says he's feeling ill. He says he's too ill to take me for a curry. So I cook some of the food from the freezer instead. But it's all vegetarian food. The whole freezer is packed with vegetarian food. Vegetarian burgers, vegetarian fish fingers, vegetarian sausages, vegetarian crispy fillets, vegetarian stir-fries.

I take a vegetarian stir-fry and two vegetarian burgers out of the freezer and cook them in a frying pan with some oil. But the food has been frozen for so long that ice has formed around it. So I'm frying food and chunks of ice. The ice is making hot oil spit out the pan and onto my arms.

I sit down and eat. Dad's watching a film called The Tomorrow War on TV. The vegetarian food's actually quite nice.