A Public Service Announcment

I'm going to say it while it's fresh in my mind. Whatever you do, do not go to see Destino Oculto or The Adjustment Bureau as it is known to some. Yes, it's based on a Philip K. Dick short story. Yes it attempts to tackle profound questions of free will and reality. Yes, it is the most tremendous pile of bullshit in existence. There might be some forgotten movie gathering dirt at the bottom of a very deep ditch that can top the disappointment level of this film, but it's not likely. Two hours of grey paint drying to the sound of a neverending high pitched squeal might do it. Might.

If you're still reading you might be wondering why I'm being so nasty. After all, I'm usually so nice, and Matt Damon hasn't really done me any wrong. Maybe you're right, perhaps I'm being too hasty a judge. Different people have different tastes and perhaps you're the sort of person that enjoys a bit of love story tacked on to their action. There's nothing wrong with that, everyone needs an occasional whiff of sloppy romantic cheese. Even Billy Builder and Kevin the Cage Fighter. Sometimes you just want to curl up with a hot chocolate and watch two unsettlingly good looking people decide whether or not they're going to spend a prolonged chunk of their lives fucking each other. It's sweet when you think about it. Even when they're the most despicably carefree and hence hateable people in existence, blithely stumbling from dance studio to luxury restaurant to apartments built entirely from lobster bisque and pretty thoughts about the environment. Ok, I made the last one up, but the concept is basically the same. Aside from constantly legging it from the behatted manipulators of destiny that are The Bureau, Matt Damon's only real dillemma throughout the film is whether he's going to hook up with a beautiful woman he doesn't know or choose become the future president of the United States. The poor thing. You can tell that deep down he's just like you or me though, because he gets the bus and thinks that politicians are tools.

The Bureau itself is a divine collection of suits whose sole objective is upholding the divine 'plan' of the 'chairman'. They're obviously not doing a great job otherwise they wouldn't have let the film exist in the first place. It's not too surprising when you consider that their powers include briefly stopping time, wearing hats and being allergic to water. Kind of like angels, except really, really, really shit. Throughout the endless navel gazing you're never really sure whether they're being nazi or nice, one minute preaching the word of the lord, the next threatening to suck Matty boy's brains out through his ear. They've got to be good though, because love conquers all and love is God and God is good? Right? This is the kind of logic we're working with here.

Anyway, between the stilted dialogue, endless staring into each other's eyes, gut wrenching boredom and poncy monologues about the nature of authenticity, there's... Well there's not much. There's some running, some dancing, some sailing the sea. Unfortuantely it's done by someone who thinks dropping phones in coffee is a sign of a free spirit, the only black person in heaven and an American version of Nick Clegg. Avoid.

HAHAHAHA FUNNY LOL

Pouring billions into a black hole of perpetual human suffering alleviated only by an unproffessional rabble of self-important aid workers who will never change as long as people continue to inexplicably throw wads of cash at their feet. Tuning in much to the glee of innumerable monolithic organisations whose very existence relies on the poverty and inequality they apparently seek to eliminate, dancing a little jig with every image of heartbreak and misery that reels in another unsuspecting wallet courtesy of its owner's moral susceptibility. Milked dry in the name of liberty, equality and Lenny Henry. Do something pointless and/or humiliating for a good cause! Join Comic Relief!

Armageddon. With Cheetos.

Please do not panic. Upon the conclusion of this announcment please return to your homes in a calm and orderly fashion. I'm sorry to announce that we are on the verge of an epidemic. Mayan soothsayers and American film makers might try to convince you that the end of the world is kicking off in 2012, but we have to be realistic. Student protests, spiralling unemployment and an economy you wouldn't trade a dead horse for. The apocalypse is right around the corner. November to be precise. I don't know about you but a small dribble of urine is currently making its way down the inside my leg. In the time before, I might have been reluctant to admit any such weakness of the bladder, but all that has changed. I am literally pissing myself in excitment and fear.

If your own clothes aren't now drenched in an assortment of bodily fluids, I have to say I'm very dissapointed. Perhaps this will whet your fancy. Still nothing? Not even a trickle? Perhaps you don't fully understand.

Science fiction and fantasy engages with audiences through a juxtaposition of cognition and estrangement, betraying the mythical structures which construct our own society by developing new ones from scratch. At least, that's the argument that has developed over a period of millenia to disguise the fact that some people just want to dress up as elves, jedi and batmen. Awww, well everyone needs some escapism sometimes, don't they? That's probably why nine out the ten top grossing films of all time are fantasy, with the exception of the voyeuristic fuck-fest that is Titanic. Escapism only becomes sinister when you realise that the happy-go-lucky gang of convention-dwelling fancy-dressers are secretly blood-hungry psychopaths who want nothing more than to parade about with an assortment of the most inhumane weapons imaginable, wantonly murdering trolls, sith lords and Heath Ledger. All in preparation for the moment they finally turn on the school bully, unreasonable family member or local hobo. This is the true face of fantasy. A sexist, racist, homophobic and socially backwards gorefest specifically designed to exploit the most vulnerable and sexually repressed adolescents of the world.

Still, don't knock it until you've tried it. Like cheap alcohol, it may be rotting the very foundations of our society, but it's also affordable and far less boring than real life.

A good place to begin your magical journey into brain numbing addiction is a book, or series of books. Choose one that's got lots of pages, so that even if you spend every nanosecond of the remaining years of your waking life flicking from page to page in a desperate hurry to reach the end, you'll still never pass the halfway mark. Nobody really knows why they bothered to publish Robert Jordan's fifty-millionth The Wheel of Time novel, since nobody will ever get the chance to read it. Unless you're still a quick off the mark fetus who has nothing better to do in those nine long months in the womb. Even if you're a fast reader and reach the grand old age of four hundred, you'll never reach the end. You'd have to be reincarnated. Twice. At which point you'll have forgotten what has happened in the first book and have to start over. That's why they call it The Wheel of Time.

Thankfully you needn't do that, since the wonders of modern technology have rendered the need to use actual words obselete. I'm not just talking about written words, or even the speaky ones. While we're sat slap bang in the center of the greatest technological gaming revolution of all time, we no longer need simple thoughts and basic instructions such as: 'time to eat now' or 'better make sure the baby isn't dead'. Why bother when we have an efficient and eloquent new language that consists solely of swording wild boar to death and kitting out characters with as much overweight sexy gear as possible. There's no need to worry about completing anything either, as content is developed at a faster rate than it can ever be played. Authors are mortal, meaning that The Wheel of Time is technically finite. The end of an MMO on the other hand is a receding speck on the horizon, an experience bar that expands faster than you can level up. One trip to the fridge for that final slice of decaying pizza and you've fallen behind in the rat race forever.

You'll only realise that things have gotten out of hand when you can't physically drag your eyes from the game, even when people start to insert random objects into you for laughs. If you want to kick the habit, it's too late, you've invested too much time and too much soul to give up now. Five more hours and you might even reach level 34! There is no cold turkey, and if there was you'd probably skin it to make a Tribal Headdress of Agility. This is what the Elder Scrolls series does to people. If we don't act fast, Skyrim will be an unsurpassed sucess and we'll all be reduced to drinking tins of cold beans through a straw. Cos that's what Dragonslayers do.

And as if one world shattering shot of electronic morphine wasn't enough, the final installment of the hit series Mass Effect is being released at around the same time.

We've already been given a teaser trailer which closely resembles a mashed together selection of Eastenders soundbites and failed Jason Statham impressions. For some obscure reason, give a cheeky Londener a gun and he'll instantaneously transform from a mischeivous shoeshine boy to a battle hardened Cockney guerilla, taking down enemy after enemy from the comfortable confides of Big Ben. Of course, Bioware are taking some necessary liberties translating the original dialect. The unedited script just read: 'Shepard you slaaaag, get the shooters, it's them bloody Reapers innit.'

While we're on the topic of things I'm not qualified to talk about and as of yet don't even exist, it would be wrong not to mention the new adaptation of George RR Martin's A Game of Thrones, soon to be transported to the new fangled medium of television. Being completely untrue to the original text, they've renamed it Game of Thrones. Is nothing sacred?

Since honesty is the best policy, it's probably best to admit that I haven't actually read the book. It's one of those things which has been rotting away on my bookshelf since the dawn of time, pleading to be read in exchange for sexual favours. I don't take bribes though, even from books. My interest remains fully piqued however, for two reasons:

1. According to everyone who has read it, the book is supposed to be incredible. Inspired by Shakespeare's Plantagenet plays, which in turn went on to inspire the real life events of the War of the Roses, Martin's book is filled with enough romance, sex, political intrigue and fighting to satisfy even the most jaded of fantasy readers. Apparently.

2. It's not a film. Since Lord of the Rings first graced our screens back in 2001, attempts to crowbar high-fantasy onto blockbuster screens have been hitty-missy. Generally, missy. I'm looking at you, Eragon. Attempting to jam so much worldbuilding into the space of an hour or two is a risky business, especially when a large portion of that time is devoted to making things seem as visually and aesthetically 'awesome' as possible. A fully fledged series on the other hand, gives epic fantasy some room to breathe, meaning that all the subtelties and subtexts that make books so rich and rewarding are less likely to be lost amongst the dross.

3. I know I didn't mention a third reason, but it really needs mentioning. HBO. The series is being done by HBO. Creators of The Sopranos. Dexter. True Blood. The Wire. Deadwood. Six Feet Under. They can do no wrong. If HBO pulls this off it could potentially spark a renaissance of quality fantasy filmmaking geared towards actual content rather than flashy effects and repeated use of the word 'thee.'

Kiss your social lives goodbye my friends, we don't stand a chance.