Hair of the witch. It all started when I was very young. The first witch I met was a woman who I don’t know the name of. It was a brief meeting but she left with my virginity. She was even hairier than Bayonetta and wore deep lush furs. I was only six. But I don’t blame her; she made me a man at a young age and prepared me a world full of cunts and swearing. Her name was Hagatha, or at least that’s what her social service card said, but I imagine she could have been an imposter; the photo on the card was of a face with no moles and less hair.

Now here I am many years later with Bayonetta sitting in front of me. I’m not sure if I should play it—I’m not sure if I have played it, but I know that it’s like Devil may Cry. I first played Devil my Cry in my Aunt’s caravan on a black and white TV that kept flicking on and off. And my aunt kept unplugging it, the spiteful witch. It was a time that I cried a lot and the emo homoeroticism helped me through that time and helped me forget about Hagatha. So now you see my problem. As a man with an inherent fear of witches should I play it? Femme Fatales are not given moniker of fatal for no reason. Hagatha was later arrested for killing my cat with her broomstick that she’d impaled a young Welshman on in a vile illegal sex act. She was not convicted as she aroused the judge with her hair. He could not stand up to pronounce the sentence.

Hagatha’s still out there somewhere, and I imagine that she’s in the game waiting for me. But of course she isn’t. No, Bayonetta wears glasses and she did not. Her hair can be used as guns, Hagatha’s only for manual stimulation. At a Simon and Garfunkel concert I saw the first casting of a magical spell I had ever seen; before that I had only seen the results of a spell first hand. With a mixture of hair-like guitar strings and Rosemary and Thyme they flew the entire audience to the moon where the sun had a DJing battle with crater face. It was a tie. The journey back down was not as smooth as floating upwards. Propelled with the force of an atomic explosion we were turned into anti-matter as we hurtled into the earth’s atmosphere at light speed.

Luckily we landed on a trampoline of hair and though we bounced up and down for the next fifteen years, we survived. After this religious experience I decided my life was meaningless. I joined a monastery of nuns. But surrounded by virginal and sacred women I spent many hours hidden underneath the pews of the monastery looking up their skirts. Nuns never wear underwear. But then father Azazel arrived and said that the statues had seen all the sinning I had done, and now I see them in the game—coming at me like stone phalluses and bringing this sinner to justice.

Still I am not sure if I should play Bayonetta. It could be a therapy to help me get passed my fear of statues and witches, or it could cause me a relapse and I could be spending the next fifty years until I die jumping on a metaphorical trampoline in my head that is really the soft padded walls of a mental asylum. Maybe I am already here. If we do not question reality, what are we? Just a statue that looks like a penis. And that is something none of us want to be, though I imagine if a certain part of you was as hard as that it could come in useful. Then again, witches love long hard things like broomsticks and nobody wants a hairy witch when you could have a Brazilian.

What happened to Mrs. Peel and Cat Woman? Was their sole purpose really to wonder women into becoming nothing but a sexual death for oh-so lucky henchman choking blissfully in a groinal neck lock? Now all we have is a hairy stripper flying on a wooden dildo. And it brings back horrible memories.

Still, I feel as a journalist—as a thinker—as an artist—as a human being I must play Bayonetta. I owe it not just to myself, but to all you faithful readers who have supported me through all the times that witches have raped me. I understand the difference between a real and a virtual witch—it’s as big a difference as card tricks and Houdini—but I wonder: does my mind understand the distance? Psychological if I’m holding up five fingers, and I see four, does that mean I am a fascist?

No, to prove that I am not in the slightest a fascist I must start a personal protest. I’ll paint a sign in my mind that says: I have played Bayonetta and then I will review it and then I will be vindicated. The witches will melt away into mysticism and the swearing cunts and fiends will become nothing but mist on the sea; vanquished by leafy greens. Mist: as confusing as pubescent sexual discovery, but still nothing but mist.

Choking, blinding mist! Okay I never even liked action games anyway: too traumatic. I’m sorry, but I won’t play Bayonetta. I may be a fascist, but I’m not an idiot. Still, I’ll review it:

Bayonetta looks great. The graphics are in high definition. It plays great too—didn’t Devil May Cry? Admittedly it’s derivative, but it’s got lots of pop culture references so instead of being Darksiders it’s hip and post-modern. And the sound is fantastic. It has a soundtrack and sound effects. On top of that, and perhaps most importantly, it stars a sex object that doesn’t have big breasts and wears glasses. This and not the playmates in other video games is what nerds are really lusting after. The ultimate nerd fantasy: the librarian. They still might not have a chance, but at least they can quietly observe her in the library and fantasise that they do.

P.S.

Yeah yeah, I know that's a review and should be in the review section. But that seems like cheating given that I've not played Bayonetta. :P

8/10