Grand Theft Dido

Who remembers the original Rayman game? If you're like me you have only fond memories of that little scarf wearing scamp, lots of bright colours and funny characters - this memory is a lie planted into our minds by Ubisoft to keep us paying for this bastard of a game nearly 20 years later.

I spent an hour last night (from 0110 - 0210 no less) trying not to smash the living room up in a fit of rage reserved for people who have just received a jumbo-steroid-enema because of the infuriating impossibility of (this is an actual level) punching a space-housewife in the face enough times to kill her whilst she used pots and pans to blow me up. It was at the point where I began to wish that the controller wasn't wireless so that I could use the chord to strangle the life out of the nearest living thing to me that I had an Epiphany.

A few years ago when people were blaming Grand Theft Auto for making people think it was acceptable in real life to pick up hookers, have sex with them in your car, pay them and then blow them up with a bazooka before casually reclaiming your cash and doing the wanted level down cheat, they were only half wrong. Grand Theft Auto is probably the least likely game to cause a murder. Personally, when I play GTA and slaughter tens of thousands of innocent bystanders whilst listening to Dido and eating Dairylea Lunchables, I feel calm. I have released my anger, much the same way as a stress ball would help with that. This does not mean I condone snipering off paramedics when they come to revive your victims in real life, that's probably not okay; what I'm saying is that I am less likely to lose my shit and pick up an Uzi after GTA than I am before.

Ray-fucking-man, however, is a completely different god-damned story. I get no satisfaction from doing the same level eleventy-thousand times before finally winging it only for some bitch-fairy godmother to grant me slightly faster running powers. Punching a housewife in the face loses its horror when it's a cute little yellow dude with floaty fists and a cheery disposition on a quest to save pink fluff-balls that's doing the punching. This game is the destroyer of worlds and as far as I can see has only 2 purposes: to create rage-infected monkeys or to make a super-Hulk. Other than that it should be avoided at all costs.

I for one will ground my children if I see them playing Rayman, taking all their games off of them apart from GTA because I will sleep easier knowing that they have exercised their anger with me by grenading a police station before getting some sleep.

Don't forget to follow me if you agree children should grow up knowing how cool a bazooka is!

Sock Maker Sex Tapes

In this past week of moving out, something terrible has happened to me. I have turned into...a socccer mom (minus the child or any interest in soccer.) So far since moving into my new flat I have baked, I have debated over what ingredients to put in my soup that has to last us the next 4 days, I have bought 2-4-1 bread and froze one of the loafs to save money, I voluntarily do the dishes, I...well, you get the picture, but worst of all - the thing that has disgusted me the most about myself so far - I looked at a set of cushions the other day and thought 'Wow, they would be lovely in the flat.' I'm being serious. That thought went through my head. No hint of a lie. What the fuckin' fuck.

When I thought about moving out, I imagined being perpetualy drunk or hungover. I thought it would be a life of little-to-no fucks given about anything, and I can live like that; there is absolutely nothing stopping me, but I don't want to. I want a clean house with good plates to bring out when we have company. I want the living room to smell of cleanliness as opposed to fag-ash and spilled cider. I want to shop at Ikea.

Does this happen to everyone? One day you're masturbating into £20 notes and the next you're making your own window-wash out of lemon juice and vinegar? I still love Die Hard and celebrity sex tapes as much as the next man, but I now have a respect for the Lakeland catlogue too, and god-damnit these things should never occuopy the same brain - ever!

As much as I love being able to come and go as I please, to saunter in drunk and convince my flat mate that yes he does have to listen to my theories on who would be better in bed, Shania Twain or Miley Cyrus, I did not forsee myself turning into this freak of responsibility.

Hopefully it will fade with time and I can get back to buying new socks when I run out of clean pairs instead of washing them, because screw you sock-makers, that's why. If not you'll find in the nearest charity shop haggling with the cashier.

Remember to follow me if you want someone in your life that makes you feel less miserable about how awful it is!