By Fraser McMillan

Woah, it’s all going a bit hazy. Fuggit, let’s take another swig.

I can’t see my home.

Ah, there it be, right across the street. More alcohol. I don’t have a clue what I’m drinking, it could be boot polish for… that cat. Anyway, I’ve lost my train of…

Just need to keep going. What’s that over there? Another Strip Club. How depressing. This place is so grey and dull and oppressive and fucking disgusting and filthy and hellish and putrid and it’s full of scummy bars and sons of bitches and sons of sons of bitches.

And I’m one of them. Glug.

My box. I have to reach my box. It has become the singular focus of my life in this moment. My box is a safe haven, to protect me from the world outside, from myself. And from that cat. And there’s a bottle right beside it.

Bottle.

Drink.

Another hearty chug and I’m staggering all over the shop. The box. I have to stay focussed on the box. I need more alcohol to keep my reflexes pin sharp. Oh God, I think I’m-HHHUUUEGH. Ughhhh, that sick went everywhere. It’s all over my sleeve. Fluorescent green, that must have been… Not ag-BLLLEEEGH!

It splishes and splashes and sploshes onto the road. Or maybe it’s the pavement. Chunks of whatever spray everywhere. This is truly pathetic. I’ve gone off track. Where’s the box? Where’s the box?

Oh, it’s there. Right there, near the fence. Just cross the road and get to the box.

This has been my routine for as long as I can remember. Which is probably about fifteen minutes. Finally, I’ve reached the box. My vision is blurring and the world appears to be swaying violently from side to side. I jus-PLEGH!

Another wave of sickness, but here we go, right beside the box. I finally collapse into the fresh puddle of puke and reach for the new bottle before I…

//Such is life in The Gutter…
Jan Willem Nijman’s snippet of the horrendous life of a pixellated man is at once disturbing and, in some ways, touching. Blocky visuals, a flickering camera, solemn violin background music and minimal control – everything that constitutes an art game. At first, I was close to moved. A concerned frown played across my face, indicating the poor guy had my sympathies. Initially, confusion was the primary emotion. Why does the man collapse every time I stop?

Upon restarting two, perhaps three, times, it clicked. Don’t stop, keep holding forward and get to the end of the road. He was violently ill once or twice before finally arriving at the box, and that was it. The credits rolled. And rolled. And rolled. The same two names covered every one of the dozens of duties that blatantly bore no relation to The Gutter, and I was… laughing.

[Continues...]