Dear Future Gamer,

You can tell it's Christmas.

Electronics Arts pull apart their collective corporate arse-cheeks and deposit fresh, steaming lumps of FIFA 2000 upon the games chart. Farmer Eidos wanders down to the paddock, hands oiled and gleaming, ready to take Lara the Cash-Cow and squeeze spurting jets of money-milk from her distended bovine teats. Yuletide church bells are drowned out by the chiming cacophany of cash registers, which slowly gives way to the fingernails-down-blackboard drone of gentlemen starting their engines and pulling slowly away from the starting grid of the latest Formula One game. And gargoyles in Armani suits rub their hands in glee and laugh at the little people wandering down to the store to pay for the privelige of having new players, updated teams, more recent statistics, safe in the knowledge that we'll keep haemoragging money at them, time after time.

And creativity? They killed it. They battered it to death with rolled-up banknotes, dismembered it with sharpened leaflets and buried it under billboards and posters to the sound of the latest Robbie Williams track.
And we paid them to do it.

Merry Christmas, everyone.

Chris Spicer

FG: What more can we say?