WARNING: May contain spoilers. But then, may not. Who cares?!
It seems you can't go anywhere these day without some mug invading your personal space and playing the whole "Have you seen..." game.
Yes, yes, yes I would reactively answer before questioning whether in fact I had seen Game Of Thrones after all; turns out, I hadn't. So imagine my delight when stumbling through SkyGo I notice the first three series (or 'seasons' if you've progressed to Americanisms) of none other than Game Of Thrones. The browser informs me I only have 49 days to watch 30 hour-long episodes. Sounds like a challenge to me; a challenge that would leave me with a higher degree of pointless TV knowledge and new sense of procrastination. Done; I'm in.
For those who don't know: Game Of Thrones is a HBO fantasy drama based on a series of novels from American writer George RR Martin who fundamentally gives an insight as to what all Americans think British history was like during the middle ages. The characters find themselves in a lush a wood-filled land that is remarkably similar to the British Isles, except, it's definitely not the British Isles; it's 'Westoros', a made-up place in a galaxy far, far away a long, long time ago. And it's definitely not the British Isles, ok? Got it? Good.
There are Royal families fighting for power, big scary pet Dragons, a little bit of magic, and lots of naked women. And swords. And peasants. And beards. And Castles. And people saying "Squire". And naked women. And naked women. And naked women. And women who are naked alongside naked women. And Sean Bean; because lets face it, if you choose to make something with swords and beards, then the law states that Sean Bean must be cast. And who else better to play the Sean Bean role - a naïve but noble northerner - than Sean Bean?
It's quite a feast. And our Sean does his best to lead his fellow brave and gritty like-to-work-hard-moralistic-but-ultimately-really-fucking-gullible Northerners in their stand-off against the sly-dishonourable-meddling-selfish-manipulating-and-constantly-looking-down-ones-nose-at-outsiders Southerners. But, despite his big heart, honourable ways, long hair and beard, our Sean inevitably fails - defeated by those clever southern tactics of 'lying'. But all is not lost as his son, Robb - also naïve, noble and northern - takes the reigns and wages war against those sodding Southerners, only to lose due to an overwhelming and spectacular display of gullibility. Damn those evil Southerners with their meddling brains. But hath no fear, for coming to take over and liberate the world is a little blond chick by the name of Khaleesi who can command armies with her vagina. She's got about fifteen names, one facial expression and three dragons (which is the equivalent of having nuclear warheads whilst everyone else is threatening you with bad language). And on her way to the capital, old Dragon Tits is going along the coast of Europe - sorry, I mean 'Essos' - setting slaves free. I suppose really, she's a bit like Kim Jong-il, but sexier.
Now of course, I'm officially a 'Thronie' and I even find myself talking weird: "Yes, your grace"; or "Certainly my lord"; or "Bastard son", is how I've started addressing people at the supermarket. Staff recoil as I catch myself requesting whores, drinking copious volumes of wine out of horns, and remaining unwashed, shit clinging to the backs of my clothes - although I'm not sure whether that's anything new. Sometimes my mind drifts away, imagining what my role would be if I was involved in this fantasy world. Who would my mates be? I'm not a big fan of hearty, naïve types - they always lose. That king-slayer Jamie Lannister character has got a dark sense of humour, he seems like he'd be fun. Trouble is, he fucks his own sister - a tad too dark for my liking. No matter how well we got on, I could never really be mates with someone who fucks their own sister. Besides, the Lannisters lost their appeal when I discovered that their power does not, as first thought, reach all the way to a hotel near Ramsay Street. Apparently that hotel is called 'Lassisters', and is no way connected to the power hungry family dynasty from Westoros; despite what Harold Bishop might tell you.
So after a week, a lot of sleepless nights, and watching the same Natwest advert over and over again (the one with a little girl so adorable she makes me want to claw out my own heart just to stop myself from crying - seriously I can't cope), I am finally up to speed with the Game Of Thrones bandwagon. My watching marathon is now over of course, instead I'll have to make do with series 4 being drip-fed to me on a weekly basis. Quite honestly though, I suppose I enjoy those box-set marathons. At least I think I do. I mean, who knows whether you actually enjoy these programmes or not. Sometimes I feel I'm going through each episode more as an addict than a spectator. And, like all these box sets, it kind of reminds me of having a slow wank; quite pleasurable, but predictably, my impatience causes me to rush through to the end just so I can get on with the rest of my life. Which is, of course, another box set.