Turns out Cortanas big dramatic death scene in the last game wasnt for — Zero Punctuation

"You see, while it is true that people enjoy being a dick in games, it stops being fun when the game actually wants you to be a dick. Its less about dickishness itself and more about defying the rules. Thats why its more fun to be a dick in, say, Half Life 2 because the game is desperately trying to make you out as the hero even while youre jumping on someones head throwing broken bottles into peoples eyes."

"Ride to Hell is the kind of bad that leaves me with a smile on my face. Its a little retarded child with its head stuck in a cereal box and a massive great dump in its big-boy pants going, "Im a real game now!" Of course you are, Ride to Hell. And thats why I think everyone should buy it, just to fuck with some heads! This could be our Plan 9 from Outer Space! We should have mass screenings of it, get everyone to dress up, put upside down pedal bins on their heads and then beat their wives!"

"[on final end credits card:] Remember to spay and neuter your giant cryptofauna."

"Theres nothing particularly wrong with Kena: Brigadier Lethbridge-Stewart, which is probably why the couple of things I do find irksome stand out all the stronger like choking hazards in my morning porridge. And the biggest, most notable fishhook in the oatmeal for me – and I stress this might just be a me thing – is the character design. Theyve gone for a Disney/Pixar inspired look so everyones got that Elsa from Frozen face, with the manipulative doe-eyes so gigantic that if you intend to get lost in them you should probably pack at least twelve days worth of provisions, and the chubby cheeks and tiny noses and slightly unsettlingly realistic hair and constant lopsided condescending expression like theyre expecting the photo for the movie poster to be taken at any moment and the general look like theyve just been through Jeff Goldblums wonky teleporter with a gerbil, who in turn had just gone through Jeff Goldblums wonky teleporter with a balloon animal. This is an art style that suits goofy family musicals about friendship, not the humourless po-faced psychopomp shit going on here. You look at their feet and slowly track upwards and your brain goes "Normal proportions, normal proportions, normal proportions, JESUS FUCKING CHRIST THE GERBIL GOT INTO THE HELIUM CUPBOARD!"

"But, I felt like Id seen enough of Babylons Fall, I was so bored and sick of it already and both of my middle fingers had reflexively extended so far theyd started to mess with the ceiling fan. Fuck you, Babylons Fall. I only reviewed you cos the alternative was Shadow Warrior 3 and that was too short to say much about. "How short is it, Yahtz?" Well, put it like this: it was- *outro music*"

"The first problem we ran into was that no one wanted to sing! This is less a problem with World Tour specifically, and more an inherent problem with the original concept, and possibly with the people I hang around with. You see, people who like pretend guitar are introverted nerds who picture themselves as the aloof, crazy-skilled lead guitarist whose hands rattle away at the strings like nervous little crabs while he stares into the middle distance pretending to have forgotten hes holding it. Whereas people who like pretend singing are either screechy center-of-attention types or a normal person who has rendered themselves massively drunk and stumbled upon a jukebox full of 80s power ballads."

"Dave Foley: I once shot a man just to watch him die, then I got distracted and missed it. Oh my friends tried to describe it to me, but it just isnt the same."

"I did not go to join Kurtz there and then. I did not. I remained to dream the nightmare out to the end, and to show my loyalty to Kurtz once more. Destiny. My destiny! Droll thing life is — that mysterious arrangement of merciless logic for a futile purpose. The most you can hope from it is some knowledge of yourself — that comes too late — a crop of unextinguishable regrets. I have wrestled with death. It is the most unexciting contest you can imagine. It takes place in an impalpable grayness, with nothing underfoot, with nothing around, without spectators, without clamor, without glory, without the great desire of victory, without the great fear of defeat, in a sickly atmosphere of tepid skepticism, without much belief in your own right, and still less in that of your adversary. If such is the form of ultimate wisdom, then life is a greater riddle than some of us think it to be. I was within a hairs-breadth of the last opportunity for pronouncement, and I found with humiliation that probably I would have nothing to say. This is the reason why I affirm that Kurtz was a remarkable man. He had something to say. He said it. Since I had peeped over the edge myself, I understand better the meaning of his stare, that could not see the flame of the candle, but was wide enough to embrace the whole universe, piercing enough to penetrate all the hearts that beat in the darkness. He had summed up — he had judged. The horror! He was a remarkable man. After all, this was the expression of some sort of belief; it had candor, it had conviction, it had a vibrating note of revolt in its whisper, it had the appalling face of a glimpsed truth — the strange commingling of desire and hate."

"I spoke up about the importance of sex and have been paying the price ever since. I was transphobic, I was a cunt, a bitch, a TERF, I deserved cancelling, punching and death."

"Oh Rama, here I go again! Listen to you, sounding like Death Vader. You people need cigarettes as much as this country needs another C-average President. Plus you look like a human Pez dispenser! Here are your cigarettes, and here is some gum so you can blow bubbles for that WEIRD-ASS HOLE YOU HAVE IN YOUR NECK. And here are some batteries, for your creeping-me-out machine. Now get the park out of my store! I hope I am reincarnated as a turtleneck... I like to tank you for getting that joke!"

"I also know that the shock of Annabels death consolidated the frustration of that nightmare summer, made of it a permanent obstacle to any further romance throughout the cold years of my youth. The spiritual and the physical had been blended in us with a perfection that must remain incomprehensible to the matter-of-fact, crude, standard-brained youngsters of today. Long after her death I felt her thoughts floating through mine. Long before we met we had had the same dreams. We compared notes. We found strange affinities. The same June of the same year (1919) a stray canary had fluttered into her house and mine, in two widely separated countries. Oh, Lolita, had you loved me thus!"

"The groans of the dying and the blanched set faces of the dead ... were enough to drive away all unwholesome feelings of exultation, and to remind one of the grim reality that war is. And even though these were the faces and the sufferings of our enemy, one had ... a deeper sense of the common humanity which knows no racial distinctions."