When Geri Halliwell sang about men precipitating from the heavens above, Call of Duty: Modern Warfare II had clearly not been released on the same weekend. A mere two weeks ago the majority of men vanished temporarily, not to be contacted or seen until they’ve obliterated mankind, or whoever and whatever the hell it is that they’re supposed to be shooting at.
A friend of mine queued up at midnight to get his pre-ordered copy. Sweet jesus man, it’s not the new bloody Harry Potter, you’re not a 12 year old girl, and no sex-goddess from the game is going to jump out of the box and play with your game console.
By the way, players of either gender, it’s well creepy. You could be enjoying time spent in the company of alluring members of the other sex, or with friends, or at the absolute very least people you’ve actually sodding met. Instead, you’re on your sofa talking to Max_the_destroyer37 from Canada about the imminent threat of the zombiepiratewerewolfafghan warriors coming over the hills. It’s just never going to be cool in my eyes. Although, the graphics are amazing man.
Why do people hide behind the foil of appreciating the art of a computer game? That’s clearly not why you’re playing. You want to like, shoot stuff and shit. Cut the crap and admit it, so that I can streamline my piss-takery. Of course, gamers are not drawn exclusively to the mind-bending violence that corrupts our children and leads to terrorism and that. Never underestimate the power of football games.
I am convinced that Pro-Evolution Soccer is the devil’s curse on womankind. I could walk into a room naked but for a whip and lace up boots, and prance around in front of the screen whilst pro-evo is being played and men will not so much as blink.
Once, my friend James introduced me to his two best friends, who were playing pro-evo at the time. ‘Guys, this is my good friend Alex. Alex, Tom and Max’. ‘Alright’, Tom yaps inbetween players names. Is he saying ‘hi’ to me or to the pixelated Thierry Henry? I just can’t tell. Max though, oh irritatingly attractive Max, takes it to a whole new level: ‘James, is she cute? Describe her to me’, says he without taking his eyes off the screen. Are you bloody kidding me? I’m sitting right fucking here, and you can’t even have the human decency to flick your eyes over to perv on me? I demand to be objectified properly, damnit.
This I fully attribute to the latent evil of PES. Poor, good looking, but misguided Max was but a foot soldier in the war against women waged by Playstation. Not just women though. Oh no, the devil makes work for idle thumbs, allegedly. Men with dexterous and slimline thumbs, but great big beer guts are rife in our modern society. Love up the football, if you want, but if that’s the case then get the hell out and actually play it. Even if you’re no good. I promise, you’re still substantially more likely to trick someone into bed. Me, maybe.
It’s not even that I don’t like video games. A cheeky little bit of Diddy Kong Racing? Cracking. Any game on the Wii, I’m loving it like the advertising campaign is loving MacDonalds. I’ve even been known to rock out to a bit of Dungeons and Dragons.
That last one was a lie. I totally haven’t.
Escapism I understand. Taking out your aggression on computer coding that look like enemies isn’t the worst idea in the world, and the wish-fulfillment enabled by some games is grand too. But bugger me if there’s any need to lock yourself in for a week, following a month of anticipation at the release of a new game. That must be the absolute physical antithesis of escapism.
So it is that I have come, twenty years into my life, to despise our postmodern condition: a wealth of game manufacturers have taken the joy of living in a peaceful and prosperous time, and sold the thrill of war. War and football. They’ve pretty much sold Christmas 1914 in the Trenches.
Call me a grinch, but I’m not buying into it. But really I’m just jealous.
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