From Wiki - UK Role Players

In this short role-playing poem a guy simply walks down the Botley Road in Oxford to the nearby train station. Let's call this guy Pete.

Players are collectively responsible for role-playing Pete as he ambles along, chiming in with what he's seeing, what he's thinking about, and what he's hearing on his short walk. (Any number of players can play, and even solo play is possible.)

Pete commits suicide at the end of the walk, so if you ain't keen on role-playing the last 10 minutes of someone's life, then don't.

Contents 1 Starting The Game 2 Playing The Game 3 Ending The Game 4 A Solo Replay 5 Pete's Notes

Starting The Game

One player reads the following paragraph out loud to the others:

  Pete turns onto the Botley Road.
  The grit scattered on the pavement crunches beneath his boots.
  Head down, Pete picks up his feet and sets off down the Botley Road towards the train station.   

Playing The Game

Everyone then starts narrating. You can talk over each other if you like, or you can take turns talking.

Pete is thinking about whatever you narrate him thinking about; Pete is seeing whatever you narrate him seeing; and he's hearing whatever you narrate him hearing. If you like, Pete can have conversations with folk on the Botley Road: he's never talked to anyone before—he rarely makes eye contact with anyone does our Pete—but he's your character to do with as you like for the 10 minutes of the walk.

Here's a map of Pete's walk along the Botley Road. You can use Google's Street Map feature to get a bird's eye view of what the Botley Road looks like if you want, but you really don't need to do that; narrate in Starbucks, car parks, fields, schools, community centres, vacant lots, and tenement housing as it suits.

If Pete ain't thinking about anything in particular or ain't paying any real attention to his surroundings, then just sit quietly and say nothing: Pete'll continue to wend his way along the Botley Road towards the train station just fine.

There's only one thing you can't do, and that's narrate something like Pete having a change of heart, or not having the stones to go through with the deed. Pete's had a few "false starts" and "turning backs" before, but this day is not like those days. This is the day that Pete doesn't turn back.

Ending The Game

Pete's walk down the Botley Road only takes 10 minutes, so after you've played for 10 minutes the poem is over. Even if you've narrated Pete popping into the Starbucks for one last latte, the game still ends at the 10 minute mark. We all know what's gonna happen when Pete walks through the sliding doors of Oxford train station, so there's no need to go there.

A Solo Replay

What's the weather like as Pete steps out? (It's been quite nippy these past few mornings.) What does Pete do with his house keys? (He'll not be needing them again.) Pete doesn't usually wear underpants, but maybe he has put some on this morning... why? Where's Pete's mobile phone? Pete's left it in the flat: has he? (It's never charged up anyway, and besides, he'll not be needing his phone again either.)

Look Pete, look: there's that old bin lady with the greasy white hair shuffling along the Botley Road with her carrier bags of trash: tomorrow Pete'll be gone, but the old dear'll still be wending her way along the Botley Road, stopping at bins to search for drinks cans. Pete's never bought her a Dr. Peppers—maybe she's more of a Irn Bru girl?—and now he never will: or will he?

Would you look at them cold iron chains attached to the ancient trees by St. Frideswides Church? They've been absorbed into the gnarled wood over the years: Pete'd never noticed before. Those trees were there before Pete was born, and they'll be there long after he's gone. A smell of fresh pine needles wafts up from the Christmas trees for sale outside the posh deli: Pete slows his steps for a moment to suck in a great lungful of air.

It's Crimbo in a week. Pete wonders where his bits'll be come then: does the council burn the remains of suicides, bury them, or what? It's too late to find out now: really, where do you go to find out that kind of thing? Cresting Osney Bridge, Pete spies the spires of Oxford in the distance: that cute Polish bird who works in the coffee shop on George Street is probably... well, what's the point in wondering, the train station's right here.

Quick nip over the footbridge, just in time for the 10:16 to Bournemouth.

Pete's Notes

Hurling myself in front of a train is the last thing on my mind.

The contrivance that is my "fake" persona—folk in the UK RPG community know me as Pete, not my real name—affords me the distance to write myself into a poem about suicide. That said, only the "frame" of this role-playing poem is about suicide: the meat of the poem is all about a life, or at least the last 10 minutes of one.

Do write me about your experiences on the Botley Road.