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I am amazed how much of SimCity 3000 I have forgotten about, or maybe my sandboxing at the time covered up the mechanics. Those petitioners look scary! I shall think of you playing russian roulette with potentially unripe bananas as you continue in this quest.

I'm so old that I can remember my college lecturer telling us that there was far to much fuss about these this new fangled modem idea, and it wouldn't get us anywhere.

The only simscity 4 youtuber I have watched extensively so far is Rob's Red Hot Spot . Unfortunately he hasn't put out a SimCity 4 video for over a year due (I think?) to work commitments. I previously watched many City Skylines videos, before I realised that I wasn't enjoying the traffic management aspects of that game, which seemed to over dominate my play time. I really like a good, clear, knowledgeable and entertaining voice over. I get distracted by the opposite (for all videos, not just game based). For short, tutorial type videos then I feel much more tolerant of any kind of presentation if the information provided is useful. It is usually the case that I am not available at the 'peak' times that streamers tend to broadcast 'let's play' style material, but I do rewind these at times, if the content is good. I will look through the links provided in this thread, it is really useful to get recommendations as anything with SimCity in the title is a little hard to search for successfully on youtube due to the AI there.

I'm glad that the citizens are cheered by the site of fire-officers clanging past in their smart vehicles. Maybe they could take a turn around Jailopolis and see if any new wave criminals might be inspired away from the path of evil by the spectacle? Your dedication to unticking astonishes me, a fascinating read thank you.

Mayor of Guinee, Dr Thea Quinton (PhD) Myrtle, my sound recordist, seemed to have switched her purchasing obsession away from TV shopping channel tat, and transferred allegiance to the hideous range of cut-priced goods that made up the stock of Gustav’s Gewgaws and Knicknacks. The car park of this establishment served as an overflow display area for occasions when all the monstrosities could not be housed within. A battalion of life-sized gnomes stared at me. The mix of poor moulding and slapdash paintwork gave them a variety of facial expressions, none of which were friendly. Customers milled uncertainly amongst this cursed throng. I found myself cowering further into the driver’s seat to avoid the disturbing gaze of a particularly angry looking red-hatted garden novelty. It was therefore a relief to see Myrtle returning with the ‘bargain’ of the day, some sort of sealed container that was so large that she had to roll it on its side along the tarmac. ‘Catering sized Ovaltine’, she announced in triumph, ‘and two weeks left on the use-by date, I checked!’. I sighed to myself, then jumped out of the car to help my friend heave the purchase into the back. However, the bucket was far too heavy and awkward to lift over the tailgate, with its sharp plastic edges and inadequate wire handle. ‘Leave it in the car park,’ I hissed in frustration. Myrtle was adamant though, and looked around for a solution. Spotting the gnomes, she dragged one up against the rear of the car, and attempted to roll the Ovaltine container into the vehicle using the ornament as a makeshift ramp. This was a very unstable arrangement, and the bucket suddenly leapt for freedom. Thankfully we were not injured, though if possible, the plaster demon looked even more bad tempered after the adventure. ‘Ladies, let me help you.’ We were startled by this sudden onset of smarm. Neil Fairbanks is tall, irredeemably insincere, and surprisingly able to pop out of nowhere at unexpected moments. He steered us forcefully towards the front of the old faithful car, and we felt the heavy thump of our purchase being thrown into the back. ‘Show off’, Myrtle exclaimed, under her breath. We drove off, eyes forward so that we wouldn’t have to acknowledge our ‘glorious’ government leader. I managed a cursory wave in his direction as we turned onto the East road. The habit of not looking back seemed set for the whole journey. The low traffic was relaxing, and the pleasing landscape occupied our attention. In fact it was only as we entered Guinee itself that I glanced rearwards to check we hadn’t missed our turn to the Mayoral mansion. I stamped on the brakes so hard that the tractor driver behind had to divert into a ditch. ‘What the mufumph?!?!’. The last part of Myrtle’s sentence was cut off by the uninflated passenger airbag breaking free of its mount and wrapping itself around her face. ‘That complete and utter IDIOT!!’ I yelled. ‘What did you want the farmer to do, drive over us?’ responded Myrtle, stuffing the malfunctioning safety device back into its niche. ‘No’, I pointed shakily to the rear of the vehicle, ‘look what that stupid Fairbanks did.’ A familiar stony face was furiously glaring at us, pinned down by the bucket of Ovaltine. There was no time to think what to do. The Mayor was already waving us into his driveway. He ushered us into a sunny reception room, every wall of which was covered in photographs of the politician against various industrial backdrops. In pride of place, above the ornate fireplace, hung a cork board, pinned with multiple portraits of the Mayor, painted by local school children. Melissa, aged five, had made an impressive attempt to capture Dr Quinten (PhD) alongside a tall tower which appeared to be on fire. ‘These young people are the future,’ smiled the Mayor, pouring tea out of a china pot, decorated with images of power stations. ‘I only drink Ova..’, started Myrtle until she saw my expression, and got on with pretending to sip the brew in silence. Once we had finished our refreshments, or in Myrtle’s case, found a suitable potted palm to empty her cup, the technology enthusiast led us outside. Dr Quinton surprised us by suggesting that, rather than a regular tour we might like to see his domain from the air. Myrtle was quick to object. After the loose harness incident in a propeller plane during her youth, my friend was very reluctant to try flying again. Thea laughed away her objections, and unpacked an expensive looking drone camera. We stood obediently in the Mayoral car park to watch his demonstration. However, to our new friend’s utter frustration the thing would not respond properly to the controls. It would hover for a moment and then shoot repeatedly towards our parked car. ‘Must be interference’, he muttered, waving a sensing device around, ‘aha!’. The Mayor dragged our plaster stowaway from the vehicle. Dr Quinton was surprised how easily we were persuaded to allow him to drill a hole in the garden menace, ‘just to check something’. A series of drills were produced, each larger than the last and finally a mammoth ore testing drill had to be brought down from Quinton’s workshop. ‘Surprisingly hard material,’ he muttered, pressing his knee against the glowering statue's chest. Wearing a protective mask, and asking us to stand well back, the engineer positioned a foot-long drill bit into the uncooperative patient’s mouth. Later, trying to piece together the sequence of events, Myrtle thought she remembered a gas escaping noise, just before the explosion. We dragged the dazed scientist out of his flower border. Thankfully Dr Quinton had been mostly protected by his industrial strength day wear and visor, though a few stray areas of skin had been punctured when he landed in the rose bush. This seemed like an apposite moment to bring our visit to a close. Chunks of the dismembered plaster figure littered the drive, and it was challenging to navigate our way onto the main street without risk of puncturing the tyres. We waved goodbye to the dazed, and white powder coated Mayor, then slowed down to pass a group of pedestrians who were staring into a roadside gully. There we saw the farmer who had avoided colliding with us earlier. He was sitting beside an upturned tractor, pulling desperately at a gnome's head, which had somehow replaced his own. Being aware of our own contribution to the agriculturalist’s predicament, and noticing the increasing size of the crowd, we thought it expedient to leave the scene as rapidly as possible, so I accelerated away up the hill. This was when we realised that Dr Quinton had not clicked our car’s tail-gate home properly. Up shot the rear hatch door, out popped the mega bucket of Ovaltine, and started back down the hill with a slow roll, which accelerated into a series of increasingly high bounces. The locals who had gathered to watch the entertainment in the ditch now realised that they had been promoted from bystanders in the scene to active participants by the rapidly approaching, powder spewing projectile. We noticed the Mayor running towards this crowd, still holding the large drill and waving his arms while shouting helpful things, such as ‘Move out of the way!’ to the gathered electorate. By this time we were already almost out of sight, and had no intention of turning back. In fact we drove with our rear door open for several miles before daring to stop and close it in a quiet layby. As I willed my still shaking knees to keep walking back to the driver’s seat, I could see by her facial expression that Myrtle was working herself up to some sort of pronouncement, but she seemed to decide against sharing it at the last minute, and instead sucked on a cough sweet that had been ejected onto the carpet by the failed safety device earlier. The countryside which felt so peaceful on the trip out took on a menacing atmosphere for our return. I couldn’t shake the feeling that eyes were watching from empty windows. As we opened the portacabin door, it was hard to pin down the reason why, but my stomach felt a little queasy to see our answer machine light blinking red. Dr Quinton’s voice began ‘You won’t believe what I found in the..’ ‘Five messages,’ said Myrtle, ‘four, three, two, ..’. All were deleted, then the seldom used instruction manual fished out of our ‘bits’ drawer. ‘Every number from Guinee blocked, just in case he keeps trying,' my colleague stated emphatically. The mood lightened a little as we sank our third Ovaltine. ‘All I’m saying,’ offered my friend, ‘is that there’s investigating, and then there’s sticking your nose in where it might get bitten off, and we are the first kind.’ ‘Oh definitely,’ I replied. 'Whereas that Quinton fellah, clever as he is, doesn't know which side his bread's buttered.' Myrtle concluded. Despite the fact that my colleague’s words made no real sense, I found myself relaxing properly for the first time in weeks.

I was fascinated by the video describing Magnasanti which said that even defunded libraries increase the education level of the citizens. This is a very intricate knot to untangle, and a wonderful way to discover the underlying mechanics!

@TheMurderousCricket I wasn't very plugged in internet-wise when I played simscity 3, so it is only on rediscovering my love of this genre that my son directed me towards Magnasanti, and I must admit to being fascinated with it. This journal feels like a fitting tribute and novel way of re-exploring the city.

This sounds like a case of a 'compost fire' brought on by vegetative matter breaking down in large quanities! Your dedication to 'unhistory' is admirable. How did I miss this project...onwards..

This is really clearly written, thank you! In the area we live there is an ongoing controversy about bus stops, those which are functional but don't look it because they have no signage or timetable, those which have been completely removed, and are defunct but still apear on the web timetables, and those 'ghost bus stops' which are neither functional, nor appear on the timetable but are fully present, complete with a fictional timetable and non existent bus number. So life follows art!

You might find it helpful to read the previous entry first, if you haven't already.

Are those invisible bus stops a mod? The layout you created looks really interesting, especially that last one.

The citizens are tired of dirty industry and want office jobs, how ungrateful. Sack the teachers, they are spreading revolution!! Thank you for sharing your city Mr Jay, so much fun to see what you are doing.

Thank you for your comment, it is lovely to know that you enjoyed it!

Mayor of Birma, Norah Christabel The ferry ticket website flashed red, all pre-booked places had been taken. Myrtle was right, I do leave things to the last minute, especially when I’m not looking forward to something. An appointment with Norah Christabel was not a situation I liked to contemplate. As a cub reporter on the now defunct Houston Herald, the fiery redhead had made me feel inches high on numerous occasions while reporting from government house. I framed the words of my apology to my colleague as I wedged the portacabin door closed behind me, but the thoughts evaporated when I saw her in the front yard. Myrtle was standing on one leg, with both arms raised. She then pivoted around, at the same time performing a body roll, before grabbing at the car roof for stability. Muttering to herself, she then opened the passenger door, and attempted to enter the vehicle. Pausing for thought, she leaned in an awkward sideways manner, and adjusted the seat until it was as far back as the runners allowed. Throwing herself inside face down, she tilted the seat back until it was nearly horizontal. This seeming to satisfy her purpose, Myrtle then swivelled to face upwards, grabbed at the seat belt, and hissed ‘Hurry Up, or we’ll miss the ferry’. It was unsettling to drive with my colleague stretched out besides me staring at the car roof. I said nothing though. The traffic was as bad as always, and I was fretting about what to do about the ferry when a shout made me nearly jump out of my seat. ‘Black spots!! Can’t breathe, stop the car, STOP THE CAR!!!’ Worrying she was having some sort of seizure, I performed a screeching ninety degree turn off the road and into the closest available parking space, outside a retail outlet. Myrtle kicked open the car door, and part ran, but mostly staggered towards a sign marked ‘Toilets / Restroom, customer use only’. I followed her as quickly as I could, and caught up with my friend in the Ladies’ facilities, clutching at her clothing desperately. ‘Get it off, GET IT OFF!!’. The source of the trouble turned out to be a very tight elasticated corset. It was lucky that I had some nail scissors in my coat pocket. Once I’d made a few small snips the strained garment gave up, and tore itself free. Myrtle gasped in relief and threw the torn corset into a waste bin. ‘Stupid home shopping cr*pola’, drop a dress size my ****’. She carried on like this for a while. As we had used the facilities we felt obliged to buy something in the shop, so as not to feel awkward. It wasn’t easy. Gustav's Knicknacks and Gewgaws is full to the rafters with plastic tat and the kind of simulated marble ornaments you wouldn’t inflict on your worst enemy. ‘We’ll get this, it’s got food in it’. Myrtle grabbed at a box, and conscious of the time, I fished a handful of coins from my bag and threw them down at an empty cashier station, there being no staff visible. We left the car park in a hurry, trying to dodge the noisy freight trucks which habitually clogged the roads. ‘These Princess Fairycake cookies are not bad’, mumbled Myrtle, through a mouthful of crumbs. The pink cardboard had been torn open, to reveal a luminous selection of iced treats, each one coated in iridescent glitter. The car seat refused to return to its normal position, so Myrtle lay back like a roman emperor, ingesting the snacks as if she had been starving herself all week. A fine sparkly cloud began to envelop both herself, and various parts of the car interior. The queue for the ferry was long, and slow moving. By the time we approached the boarding gate my colleague’s face, hands and clothing had adopted a blueish reptilian sheen, and all the cookies were gone. At last we reached the ticket booth. Lacking the necessary paperwork, and not sure what to do next I wound down the car window to speak to the attendant. ‘You can’t go on, boat’s already overloaded’. Myrtle must have misunderstood. She is a little sensitive about her weight. I won’t trouble any delicate readers with the details of what happened next. Let’s just say that the wrath of a glittery, crumb spitting woman rising unexpectedly from the depths of the hidden passenger seat caused the ticket booth employee to review his options. I threw some money into the stunned official’s hand and soon we found ourselves squeezed behind a Llama Ag manure truck, on the deck of an overcrowded ferry, sailing for Birma. Making the most of the break from driving, I fished into my bag to try and find something to wipe up the worst of the twinkling pollution which was rapidly turning the interior of the car into a lurex upholstery nightmare. The three dried out sanitising hand-wipes I had found in the glove-box were definitely not up to the job. Meanwhile Myrtle was singing a happy little tune while reciting the long list of complicated ingredients that adorned the reverse of the empty cardboard container. ‘Oh dear’, her tone changed, ‘No wonder I feel peculiar, these cookies are three years past their sell-by date’. That news hit me just at the moment I’d worked out the reason why I couldn’t find the usual set of emergency cleaning supplies in my bag. The business-like leatherette briefcase, complete with pre-interview notes, and money wallet that I thought I was holding had been inexplicably replaced with the child’s straw basket that we kept under the office desk to store small assorted items that we couldn’t quite throw away because they might, some day, become ‘useful’. The sudden panic that I’d become unknowingly senile, was replaced by an even worse realisation that we had been paying our way on the journey using mostly tap washers, and dead circular batteries. A docking siren howled, and I sank down low into the driver’s seat in terror, fearing immediate capture by law enforcement agencies. Increasing my anxiety further, I spotted the familiar form of Norah Christabel, arms crossed in fury, glaring in our direction from the port-side. I needn’t have worried about security checks though. The impatient Mayor pulled us from the disembarkation line, shoving aside the officious man in a uniform who was threatening to delay our passage with his travel bureaucracy. There was no time to celebrate this deliverance though. Norah’s rant started as soon as we exited the car. I’d planned to ask about her policies, the controversial bust-ups with near-by districts. I’d imagined probing queries about the relationship with her controversial father, ‘comrade’ Joe, then working my way expertly towards the well known and long standing feud between the Christabels and the long serving Mayoral Saige family of Farnham. However, in my disturbed state of mind, I was unable to thrust any of these carefully rehearsed questions against the forceful torrent of verbiage pouring from the irate Mayor. I must admit to tuning out most of the diatribe. Neil Fairbanks and his perceived deficiencies were the main focus, but she covered all the main government advisors in her wide ranging criticisms. As far as I could gather, the central cause of her current consternation concerned the fifteen families of refugees now living in the basement of her Mayoral home, after she had been guaranteed funding and temporary housing by the authorities. Of course, neither of these commitments had been fulfilled. Mayor Christabel’s Home, allegedly housing refugees in the basement. Myrtle, who had been spinning around absently on one foot until now, suddenly remembered her usual function in this situation, and lurched towards Norah, holding out a microphone. The sight of my colleague, shimmering bluely in the low autumn sun seemed to startle the Mayor out of her single minded focus, and the continuous flow of complaint slowed to an uncertain trickle. This interruption created an excellent chance to escape. I dragged my bewildered friend back into the car, and drove briskly away from Birma’s main port , checking continually to see if we had been followed. The fuel tank was still half full, and with my emergency cans in the boot I calculated that, with careful driving, we could just about make it home the long way round. This would avoid the river police, and any awkward queries about fare dodging, or indeed, shop-lifting. In the small hours of the night we finally pulled into the front yard of our portacabin. I threw a blanket over Myrtle, who was snoring in her glittery, reclined passenger seat, and fell into our office, tripping over the leatherette briefcase I’d left behind the door. I sat for a moment on our small sofa to think, and found myself waking up fully eight hours later, with numb legs from having slept with my limbs inadvertently propped up against the portacabin wall. It was already mid-morning, and Myrtle, who seemed fully recovered from her stale cookie induced delirium, walked in carrying a box of doughnuts. She informed me that we'd had a phone call. From a man with a Scottish accent. How intriguing this seemed, but no work was allowed before breakfast doughnuts and our morning mug of Ovaltine.

@TheMurderousCricket thank you, I use gimp already but I hadn't considered using it for region maps. @Lucario Boricua Wow, that's a lot of stuff to try and play around with, thank you for your excellent notes too!

@Lucario Boricua I love how integrated your regional designs look, very impressive. Trying to make these realistic style connections feels like an exciitng challenge to me as a fairly new player. Do you recommend a particular mod or application for creating a clean image of your whole map?

All the effort that you have put in really shows. This build is an example of taking the original game beyond its usual parameters and making something new. You have a wonderful eye for detail, thank you for sharing your images.

This looks like fun to do, watch out for the tigers!

That sacred glyph of reconcilliation, I fear it greatly. In my world it always seem to be accompanied by the avenging demon of 'unexpected demolishment'. I am impressed by your ability to transport your populations safely, and the humour with which you describe the process. Your journal is always an interesting and fun read, and I learn and get new ideas, what more could I ask? I look forward to seeing what the tribes accomplish in their new surroundings.

I really appreciate you taking the time to give feedback, I'm enjoying sharing these stories and it is reassuring when I know that people 'get it'.

Gary Korey (or Corey as we have seen sometimes) first found fame as a world class athlete. He then left his country of origin under a political cloud, and made a new home here in Ballina, planning to share his experience, and inspire young hopefuls to compete in sporting events, both locally and wider afield. You may have seen the Finska Mayor making regular appearances selling the Korey range of fitness equipment on a well known TV shopping channel. He also runs popular motivational workshops, and has written a number of favourably reviewed books, including his best seller ‘The 73 Hour day, How to Succeed At Everything.’ Needless to say, we were keen to meet this local legend, but things didn't go exactly to plan! First, we wasted forty five minutes trying to disentangle the “Korey Patented Jaw Strengthener” which had been used to replace a broken hinge on the Ballina Files portacabin door. Myrtle was insisting that we take the device to Finska and have it signed by the man himself. In the end we had to leave the contraption behind, but my sound recordist wasn’t happy about the decision. The compromise agreed was that we would ask the Mayor to sign the ‘Walk Your Butt Younger With Gary Korey’ VHS tape, which had been wedged under our rattly office mini-fridge for several years. ‘I’m not even sure if it’s authentic,’ Myrtle wailed, ‘I don’t want to upset him with an illegal bootleg’. Due to this distraction, we were already very late when we reached the turnoff to Finska, located at the newly built main road junction. There we met another unwelcome obstacle. ROAD CLOSED The orange blinker lights around the sign seemed to taunt us. We could see a dusty group of construction vehicles in the far distance, but no evidence of any work being carried out. The diversionary route indicated turned out to be very congested, and by the time we finally reached Finska we were both desperate for a cup of something, but instead we pressed on to our agreed meeting venue, by now a full two hours behind schedule. The sports complex in the centre of the new town was well used, but none of the crowd present knew where our interviewee might be. The phone signal was very intermittent, as it had been on the journey, and we were contemplating walking to the Mayor’s office on the other side of town, to see if anyone there could help us. Just then, we were hailed by a very large man wearing a tracksuit, outside of which every inch of flesh was covered in multi-coloured tattoos. ‘Ballina Files?’ He asked, in a pronounced eastern European accent. We nodded, and he indicated we should follow him. We were both somewhat wary of this strange looking character. ‘What if he is scheming to drag us off to be, you know, one of those working girls?’ , my colleague whispered anxiously. I had my doubts if Myrtle and I were obvious candidates for this option, and besides, as we struggled to keep up with the extremely fit resident, he maintained a non-stop commentary on all the wonderful things achieved by his beloved Mayor, which knowledge would have required excessive research from someone with nefarious purposes. After the very brisk walk which left us both panting, we spotted Gary Korey, perched half-way down a road embankment, staring into a coned off underpass. ‘It iss Kaputttt, yarr’, our tour guide pointed to broken tiles which had obviously fallen from the tunnel roof. It was at this point that Myrtle panicked, realising that we had left the celebrity endorsed, butt lifting video back in the car, and she tried to drag me back to go and get it. ‘I’ve got nothing for him to autograph,’ she pleaded. Mayor Korey must have thought we had changed our minds about the meeting, because at this point he shot out of his hole to greet us. So Myrtle had to stay to tape the interview, although she was quite agitated at this development. We found the man to be charming, positive and full of enthusiasm in his plans for the town, and its inhabitants. It was only when topics of a more practical nature cropped up, such as newly built roads which had to be immediately closed for repair work, that he lost his trademark smile, and adopted a more distant, troubled look. ‘It will all be worth it,’ he said, ‘when we get youngsters, like Karl’s son here, into the national teams. He’s the best soccer player I have ever seen.’ Our newfound tattooed friend swelled with pride. ‘Best Mayor ever!’. He patted Korey so hard on the back that the politician nearly slid back down the road embankment. At the end of an already long day, we endured another wearisome journey back to the office, reflecting that despite this, the Finska trip had been, overall, a good experience. ‘Sometimes it is ok to meet your heroes’, said Myrtle, getting out of the car rather stiffly after the extended drive, but still beaming with pleasure. ‘He sells a good hinge anyway’, she laughed, slamming shut the portacabin door with a satisfying rubbery twang, before grabbing the mugs to brew two long overdue cups of Ovaltine. My colleague gazed down fondly at Korey’s signature, emblazoned on her forearm in green marker pen. ‘That will wipe off if you’re not careful,’ I suggested. ‘Oh no, I’m having it tattooed on permanently in the morning, as a souvenir,’ Myrtle smiled, ‘That Karl gave me the idea, he recommended the best places to go.’ I knew better than to argue with her. If Myrtle was about to do something foolish no amount of logic would dissuade her from her ambition, and if she was secretly winding me up, then I didn’t want to give my old friend the satisfaction of rising to the bait.

@TheMurderousCricket thank you so much for your comment, it is much appreciated, and reassuring to hear that you found the humour appealing. It can be hard to judge at times! It has been an interesting process for me, to discover the characters of these Mayors, through 'helping' them create the towns, and also taking inspiration from their portrait images which I created semi-randomly in 'avatar maker' (I just kept pressing the random button until a distinct character emerged).

Wow, those interchanges are mind boggling, well done!

"[low guttural voice]" Sends cough sweets. Using railways to spread the crime, sounds like a plan!! I love your street labelling. I really am not that familiar with Gotham, but this is still fascinating to me.

So beautiful and appealing, it feels like you could just pop down and walk around smelling the autumn scents.