“We need to talk… I think we’d be better just as Friend Codes”

Mario Kart DS (2005)

Every man out there who’s managed to convince a woman to stay in his companny for more than three days will have experienced that blood-curdling, spine-tingling text message that reads: “We need to talk”. I’m certain it’s taught as part of the curriculum in all-girls’ schools.

You know, a quick module they do just before they learn how to show indecisiveness about what they’d like to eat, and how to get the last word in arguments. Well, if you’re a male and you’re reading this, fear not because I have struck a blow for our whole gender – I have subjected a woman to the “We need to talk” routine.

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Save the world from scaldy monsters? I will in me hole

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Dragon Quest IV: Chapters of the Chosen (1990)

Accents are a weird and wonderful thing. What I can never get over is how you only need to book it down the road before your own homely accent becomes strange and foreign – I’ve read before that in the UK, there’s an entirely different accent every 25km. So you’ll be going on your usual Sunday morning half-marathon, and then suddenly you find yourself surrounded by people speaking in this alien creole. And it’s a linguistic rule, perhaps written on an Ogham stone somewhere, that says “where there be accents, there be slang”.

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Has a mal-attended Pictochat room ever downed a plane?

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Nintendo DS (2005)

I’m not going to start going at you about whatever the deal is with airline food, but if we’re ever gonna be allowed back on planes again without crowds of curtain-twitchers judging us and denouncing us as Satan, then we’ll have to think like travellers again. It’ll be back to sniffing out the best last minute deals, making that dicey decision about whether or not you really need to spend a tenner on travel insurance. And above all else, you need to make sure you have the right entertainment for the plane journeys themselves.

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It looks like Toon Link’s gone the same way as penmanship

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Legend of Zelda, The: Phantom Hourglass (2007)

I’m often described as being “differently abled”, something I always take umbrage with. After all, I do apply for the Special Olympics every four years, but I get snubbed every time. And I can’t join the regular circuit of the Olympics either, because my 100-metre times don’t especially measure up and Ireland is, unfortunately, a member of the drugs governing body WADA. But I know that I do have one physical ailment that sets my life back considerably, and that’s the fact that I’m left-handed.

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I will be forever glad that I didn’t study Medicine in college

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Trauma Center: Under the Knife (2006)

So the latest dope is in – bacon and other forms of processed pork are carcinogenic. Bacon (hereafter to be referred to as rashers, I’m not very comfortable with Americanisms as you surely know) seems to have now been termed a big fat health risk by what the tabloids would call “boffins”. Is this some sort of WHO backlash? Have the morbidly obese of the world – and I mean the stop-and-stare fatties, the circus sideshows – been indulging in rashers just a little bit too much? I now heavily suspect that a memo of some sort was passed to Reuters and the Associated Press: “Look guys, we’ve done a survey among 1,000  fat messes asking them what on earth they actually eat, how they manage to give themselves a gravitational pull, and bacon is showing up way too often. It’s time we killed it for good”.

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