Mike Jennings.co.uk

News broke yesterday that, in an effort to prove to the rest of the world that they had been telling the truth, the Brazilian Government released pictures of a previously-uncontacted tribe that they'd, well, contacted.

Specifically, they'd flown a plane directly over the tribe's village a couple of times and took pictures - mainly of their various houses and huts, as well as a group of villagers brandishing spears, bows and arrows at the plane. I don't think it's a stretch to say that they had probably never seen a plane, at least one that close.

Personally, I think it's a bit of a shame that the Brazilian folk have done this just so they can massage their own ego - it's as if they've done it for their own willy-waving purposes, rather than anything else. They claim that they needed to prove that the tribe exists to protect their land - but from who?

The only people who, ultimately, are responsible for the land are the Brazilian government. If some corporation wants to wade into the forest and chop it down for burger meat or paper or something then, if the Government knows that the tribe is there, they can protect them. There's no need to release a load of pictures to help the process.

It just seems as if they've done this to show off that:

a) they have at least one plane, and
b) Brazil also has a vaguely competent photographer who can, at least, enable Auto Focus.

Of course, the real losers are the tribe. They've probably been there for thousands of years, and it's a baffling concept that, these days, an uncontacted tribe still exists - apparently there's around 100 left in the world, roughly divided between Brazil and Peru. Expect, there's now one less uncontacted tribe because the Government decided that releasing photographs like this was the best way to protect them. It's just self-centred and, for the tribe, potentially destructive.

Why would they need to prove the tribe's existence anyway? Surely they already knew that they were there -if not, fly a plane over at a far higher altitude and take satellite pictures of their settlement, a lá Google Earth - which has shown that it is doable.

It's just a little bit strange, and it seems like Brazil are just courting the international community - trying to show off their photography, as it were - with little regard for the tribe living in the jungle.

Some of the BBC's coverage also makes me laugh. They've posted a page that attempts to explain what's going on in the pictures, and it's a lesson in pointing out the blindingly obvious.

According to Fiona Watson, an expert on the region in question, the tribe's huts 'often have fires' which are used for 'cooking and heating'.

Really? I would never have guessed.

It goes on to explain that the men, shown brandishing bows and arrows at the camera, are trying to 'drive off' the plane.

Odd. I thought they were waving.

So, had a very busy weekend - well, Sunday and Monday at least.

Saturday, I did absolutely nothing. It rocked.

On Sunday me, Dad, Brother and Cousin went to the PGA Championship, at Wentworth. It's one of the bigger European golf events of the year - the winner takes home almost £600,00 - and it was an excellent day. The conclusion to the golf was pretty exciting, but the beef pie with mash was even better.

Monday was, remarkably, better than the Pie - as Beth came down to London. It was raining all day, so we got a bit wet, but we also visited the British Museum and saw lots of cool things. If she tells you that I have leprosy, then she's a dirty liar.

In the afternoon we met up with Chris and Frances to laugh at dirty books in Waterstones and then went and had some awesome food at Ed's Diner. We then bummed around Harrods looking at things we can't possibly afford and then she went home. Which sucked.

Today, though, I've been feeling the affects of the weekend: a couple of blisters from endless walking on Sunday, a bad back from ducking under a rope at an odd angle - don't ask - and a cold from tramping around London in the rain. Then there's the two armfuls of insect bites from the golf on Sunday, too. It's been proven that it's scientifically impossible to avoid scratching them, which is a bit of a double-edged sword - it feels incredibly nice until you start bleeding and pulling chunks out of your arm.

Anyway, my room needs tidying and I need to lather my arms in Eurax, a cream to stop me wanting to itch them.

So, on Tuesday I got a ticket to go to an advance press screening of Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull, so I could review it for Den of Geek.

The film's a bit special, but you'll have to go and read my review to find out.

In the meantime, I seem to have totally overloaded myself with games that I'm just aching to play.

As well as rushing around London on release day to get hold of a copy of Grand Theft Auto 4, which I've already written about and is brilliant, I ended up buying several old PS2 classics that week as well, just because I saw them in shops - both in London and Leicester - and didn't know when I'd see them again, as they're quite rare.

After playing the brilliant God of War: Chains of Olympus on PSP - which acts as a prequel to the series - I found out God of War 1 and 2, both on PS2. I've only managed to play God of War for a little bit, but first impressions are good: huge amounts of OTT action with Kratos and his Blades of Chaos.

Another game I've always fancied is Ico. It got great reviews when it was released a few years back - it's a quirky, odd adventure/platform game - and then proceeded to sell about fourteen copies. Simply because it's a little arty and high-brow compared to your average Spiderman game. So I'm excited about playing that.

Okami is another arty game that got absolutely blistering reviews, and Dave at work assures me that it's brilliant. As is the follow-up to Okami, Shadow of the Collosus. Just Cause is another odd one: not a brilliant set of review scores when it was released, but I followed its development with interest - it's free-roaming in jungles, like Crysis but not as good or advanced - and couldn't find it anywhere when it was released.

Add that in to the fact that a new version of TrackMania Nations has been released, entitled Forever, and you can see that I'm a little preoccupied. And the group test for Computer Buyer, and three w games that are on the way from GamersInfo.net.

Hmm. The quest for a work-less day goes on!

Amidst the heat and sultry humidity of the weekend, there was a serious undertone: the last round of matches in the Premier League season.

Crucial for two reasons: the potential crowning of Manchester United as champions, and the potential relegation of Reading - my main team - to the Championship. Sadly, they both came true. It's not as if I can celebrate United winning the league when I know that Reading won't be taking part next season.

They needed to go to Derby, who were already relegated, and win on the last day to have a chance of survival. They did, 4-0, but it wasn't enough. Fulham won too, and they did. So down we go.

It didn't really sink in until this morning. In the car on the way to the train station, the normally idiotic BBC Radio Berkshire presenter, Andrew Peach, couldn't even be that upbeat about it - and he's normally upbeat about an outbreak of MRSA at the Royal Berkshire Hospital. He was talking about how he'd been chatting to some of the Reading players the night before - and was struck, especially, when goalkeeper Marcus Hahnemann said he was distraught that he couldn't call himself a 'Premier League player any more'. It's so true, sad, and struck me as well.

There's also a groundswell of support for manager Steve Coppell. John Madejski, the Chairman, has assured him that his job is safe - and so it should be, as he's the best manager we've had for decades. It's up to Coppell now, though, if he stays or walks. Dozens of people were phoning the radio station to implore him to stay, and they delivered him a CD of messages from the fans this morning.

Also impressive was the captain, Graeme Murty. He comes onto Radio Berkshire every Monday morning to talk about the previous weekend's match and general issues at the club, and no-one would have been surprised if he'd taken some time off the day after being relegated. And yet, fantastically, him and his wife, Karen, arrived. They talked about the club, the players, the future, and were incredibly candid. It's a very brave thing to do when you've just taken a huge demotion at work in the most public of arenas.

It's true that we've been lacking in some areas this year. The relentless energy, urgency and committment that defined Reading in their first Premier League season hasn't always been present this time around, and it's cost us dearly. Other teams knew about us this year, and not enough changed tactically - or with the personnel - to make a difference. Sidwell left, and Emerse Fae was bought to replace him. He's not been good enough, and was constantly rotated throughout the year with Brynjar Gunnarsson, a decent midfielder - although no Sidwell - and Khalifa Cisse, who's really a centre-back. Jimmy Kebe looks a good signing, too.

Marek Matejovsky has looked superb. He's a winger who can also play in the centre of the pitch but his future, like others, is now uncertain. He's a Czech international and may not be happy with plying his trade in the Championship in case it jeapordises his place in the national team, and could well look to leave. Defensive rock Ibrahima Sonko, possibly the most popular player at Reading, will probably leave after a much-publicised row with Coppell a couple of weeks ago. Nicky Shorey, Stephen Hunt and Leroy Lita could all be poached by Premiership clubs, the lure of the big time too big to resist after they've had a relatively brief taste of top-flight football.

There's bound to be changes in the summer, then. Our squad is much the same as the one that got us promoted, and plenty will change in the coming months. It'll certainly be interesting but, unless some money is spent and quality players attracted to the traditionally un-glamourous surroundings of Reading, I can't see us bouncing straight back - which is the question asked of every team, bar Derby, that are relegated. Time will tell.

Just got back today from one of the best weekends I can remember having - I've visited the lovely and wonderful Beth in Leicester.

Got to leave work at 5 on Friday - thanks to Tim and David's solar-powered generosity - and so was on a train before six. I would have been on an earlier one, but I had to wait for four - four! - tubes to go past before I could even get on one to St. Pancras. As I pulled out of the station I noticed the BT Tower wasn't that far away; had I known, walking would have been far quicker.

Eventually got to Leicester and was met on the platform by Beth. Except she was still in town. So I got a drink and waited, and then we headed back into town - to Pizza Express for dinner, specifically, which was all kinds of fitness. Although eating pizza with a knife and fork feels odd and strangely formal. And the waitress had luminous blue contact lenses in which just looked incredibly strange.

At least, I hope they were contacts.

After that, we headed back to Beth's by bus - woo, alliteration - and I got a tour of the house as I dumped my stuff. Peep Show was on soon after and, as usual, it was a classic episode: Mark returned to work after his disasterous almost-marriage to Sophie with hilarious, and cringe-inducingly bad, consequences. We laughed our heads off, and then watched Family Guy Season 5. I'd got that box-set for Christmas but it hadn't even been out of it's wrapping yet, so it was a good time to unleash the comedy. More hilarity ensued before we hit the hay at around 4am. I'm not sure it's a good sign if you go to bed when birds are waking up and chirping and you're still sober.

After the late night - or early morning - we were incredibly lazy on Saturday. Not that I mind that at all. Spent the morning sleeping and then made breakfast bagels - Harrods bagels, to be precise - with sausage, bacon, eggs etc. All kinds of fitness. Watched Top Gear on Dave and flicked around the music channels before heading into town mid-afternoon. Our plan was to go to the National Space Centre. It's in a building that looks an awful lot like a mint-flavoured ribbed condom, but up the middle is a huge, rigid space rocket.

I'm sure that's a euphamism for something.

However, we got there at around 4 and last admission was 3:30. The slags. So we got the bus back into town and headed for Shake It Baby, a.k.a. the best milkshake shop in the entire world.

The wonderful Beth had shown me it on Bank Holiday Monday but, alas, it was closed. We went inside and I was immediately struck by the stunningly sweet aroma that wafted around the shop and then, soon after, by the menu: dozens of milkshake flavours made from any chocolate bar you care to imagine. Mars, Twix, Toffee Crisp, Double Decker - anything. Also present was every yummy sweet flavour ever invented and many familiar biscuits, cakes and plenty more. I want to try a Bourbon biscuit shake along with everything else on the menu.

They're made in a simple way: fill a blender with thick, luscious ice cream and your flavour, and swirl until a thick liquid. I had one made from a packet of Reese's Peanut Butter Cups, and it was stunning. Beth had Galaxy Caramel with a chocolate topping, and it was just as nice. I need to go back there. We went to a nice square in front of the City Hall to chill and drink. A large fountain is surrounded by grassy areas, benches, tress and blossom. Beth told me that, on many a drunken evening, locals fill the fountain with fairy liquid and turn it into bubbles.

Genius. I'm thinking of conducting my flat-search on the basis of a fountain being nearby just so I can do that myself.

We sat and drank our shakes and laughed/critiqued the gaggles of emo kids and herds of try-too-hard indie kids who gathered around to show off their latest skinny jeans and ludicrous hair before wandering down to Odd Bar - previously known as Oddysey - for a few drinks.

It's a great little place, but we were the only people there - so we grabbed some booze and a sofa and chatted about music, bitched about music and had a laugh. Eventually a couple more folks arrived, included a drunk middle-aged man called Frank who shook my hand. I made a friend and made a point of saying goodbye to him when we left. Then I walked up the wrong stairs.

We then wandered through town and got a bus to Beth's local, The White House. It took a while to get there but we passed the time by shuffling through her mp3 player and me skipping through the Amy Winehouse. The White House is an awesome pub with a huge beer garden and several rooms on different levels, full of chairs and tables. The food is also excellent. Beth's best friend, Jade, works there - so I met her and she's awesome, and a Fall Out Boy fan. I also met plenty more of Beth's friends and they're all brilliant too - we had a laugh even though I'd only just met them and was incredibly shy. Thank god for Whisky, that's all I can say.

Fun times, though - Leicester rocks!

I've been reading a book by Jane's Addiction and ex-RHCP guitarist, Dave Navarro and, well, it's a little odd.

Titled 'Don't Try This At Home: A Year in the Life of Dave Navarro', the book follows him, month by month, as he allows unmetered access to his life at a time when he was conducting a unique, artistic experiment. In some down-time between bands, he'd bought an antique phone-booth and made everyone - yes, everyone, including various prostitutes, drug dealers and west-coast layabouts - who entered his house to submit a strip of photos.

The pictures are interspersed in pages of the book, woven around odd little stories and everyday explaination of Navarro's chaotic life: he yo-yo's between rampant and dangerous drug use - at one point, while high, he shoots a hole in the floor with his shotgun - and concerted attempts to get clean without using the traditional routes of rehab or a talented PR person.

Some of this takes place in straight narrative, with the action being fed to us by Neil, the book's co-author. Some more is presented in scripts, written by Navarro, detailing conversations he's had. Others are abstract little pages, snippets from his life.

Even though it gets incredibly far-fetched - on a normal day, Chad Smith comes over and bums around the house in a drugged-up stupor for an entire night before leaving at daybreak - you never doubt that this happened. As well as using the photo booth to document little squares of history, Navarro taped recorders to the undersides of tables and chairs, and secreted cameras in fake clocks and ornaments. None of the visual material that emerged from those recordings is present in the book - he often alludes to an accompanying website which is always being updated. I can only assume that it's now offline. Some of the aural material would have formed the basis of the conversations in the book, certainly. Some of the stuff that isn't in the tome must be dynamite.

I'm nearing the end now, and it's been an odd journey: on one hand, Navarro is constantly unsure of himself and his future: one minute he's optomistic about getting clean and settling down with on/off girlfriend Adria, and the next he's sure that a drugged-up death is but around the corner. Then again, I couldn't help but notice that I had a fair few pages to go, and Navarro seemed to have attacked the documentation project with such a tenacity that you don't believe that something as insignificant as an overdose will stop him completing his annual of oddities.

And he's still alive today, which is something of a clue.

But, rather than giving away the (somewhat inevitable) ending, it fascinates and throws up more questions in equal measure: how on earth did someone survive this and, more importantly, how did Navarro get through it, with the state of mind he had at the time? Or, perhaps, his neurotic behaviour helped. Answers to these questions are, like the man himself for much of the book, something of a mystery.

But it's good to know that it's been unravelled slightly, at least. Maybe I'll stick a webcam on my desk and record everything as a modest tribute. But I daresay that talking about printer reviews, benchmark tests and football gossip won't be nearly as exciting as a constant parade of musicians, movie stars, freaks and dealers.

Never have I found making conversation, in certain circumstances, so easy as I have the last week. On Tuesday, the ice-breakers were the same all day: 'do you have any PS3 copies?' or 'Do you know where has any PS3 copies?' were frequently used. Zavvi did, thankfully - 4 left when I paid my money.

Come the end of the week, though, and the statements and questions have changed. This morning, as well as hearing people talking about Grand Theft Auto 4 in the street, in a cinema foyer and on the tube, I ended up striking random conversations as I hunted for a few PS2 games. Discussions broke out about the nature of SIXAXIS control in the tutorial. Conclusion: bikes and boats are easy, but helicopters are near-on impossible.

I also talked with another happy gamer about the other residents of Liberty City, as we swapped stories of car-jacking. I told him that someone had tried to steal their car back and ended up being dragged along by the handle, ending up underneath my wheels. His brilliantly entertaining tale involved an NPC literally getting a cab to chase - and successfully reclaim - his sports car. Now that's AI.

A couple of people on the Digital Spy Forums also caught my attention, claiming that they were glad to not be Rockstar's 'sheep' and that they wouldn't just buy any old game because it had the company's famous logo on it. I guess they're just missing out on one of the most important cultural events of the year - and one of the games of the decade. Once the hype has calmed down then some more reasoned evaluations will no doubt appear but, at the moment, it seems that GTA4 is a landmark title in several areas.

Graphically, there's been a mere handful of better looking next-gen games but none have done so when they're recreating the entirety of New York City. The storytelling is, again, astounding. Couple this with the brilliant cut-scene direction and it's one of the most cinematic games there is - right up there with the epic Final Fantasy titles and recent PS3 exclusive Uncharted: Drake's Fortune in terms of plot and stylish execution. Pun intended.

The characters are also fantastic. Niko is a complicated individual who has a hidden past, and his cousin Roman is a relentlessly enthusiastic - and neurotic - comic foil, and they're both voice acted to perfection. The supporting cast is just as absorbing and intriguing.

Gameplay is, as you'd expect, spot on: the Eurogamer review mentioned that each of the disciplines - the driving, missions, gunplay, minigames, and more - are so good that they could hold their own in individual games. And they're right. The driving would be a stand-out game on any platform, and the action is as good as the aforementioned Uncharted, and stands up against Call of Duty 4. Fantastic.

What keeps hitting me, though, are the numerous little details scattered throughout that really bring flesh to the bones of Liberty City. Your mobile phone ringing in the car makes your radio beep with interference. Dust-carts have a couple of workers hanging on the back of them, like they do in the movies. People will fight for their cars. You can arrange social activities with plenty of the characters, and playing pool and darts is brilliant fun. Car handling drastically changes with the weather conditions. The water is gorgeous, real. Zoom right to the bumper of your car and you can read the stickers. There's the 'Tw@' chain of Internet cafes. And a whole Internet, with hundreds of pages. Your virtual inbox gets virtual spam for virtual penis pills. Digs at the war on terror. REM, The Smashing Pumpkins and Queen on the radio, with Iggy Pop as the DJ. Juliette Lewis hosting another station. America's Next Top Hooker being advertised. Water shooting up out of a destroyed hydrant like a Yellowstone geyser.

Having a particularly nasty crash and watching, in awe, as Niko is flung through the windscreen, before landing in a pile of shattered glass and a pool of his own blood.

Then he gets back in his car, and drives on. And I'm sitting on the sofa, laughing at the lunacy - and amazing, stunning, generation-defining quality of it all.

GTA4 is a bit special. I went out and bought Just Cause and the first two God of War games, all on PS2, today - saw them in a shop and have wanted them for ages - as well as still having plenty of exploring left to do in Oblivion. I don't think they'll get much of a look-in, though. Not while there's windscreens to smash, hookers to run over and caps to pop in asses, anyway.