In a move that has sent shockwaves through the nation's internet cafes and caused a collective spit-take among the gin-soaked commentariat, the Philippines has banned a video game allegedly linked to a recent mass shooting. The game, a first-person shooter of the 'military realism' variety, has been scapegoated with the alacrity of a politician blaming a traffic jam on a single rogue jeepney driver. President Ferdinand Marcos Jr., perhaps smelling an opportunity to distract from the country's ongoing rice shortages and volcanic rumblings, signed an executive order that would make a Spanish Inquisitor blush: the game is now illegal, its servers to be unplugged, its players to be… well, presumably sent to bed without supper, or possibly worse, forced to play Candy Crush.
Meanwhile, across the other side of the planet, His Majesty's Government has emerged from its customary slumber to issue a statement that reads like a wet lettuce leaf in a hurricane. The UK, never one to miss an opportunity for a good committee, has called for 'global platform accountability.' This is Whitehall-speak for 'we have absolutely no idea what to do, but please don't think we're doing nothing.' One can almost see the civil servants, tweed-clad and tea-stained, nodding sagely in a windowless room, producing a report that will be roundly ignored by both Silicon Valley and the nearest Wetherspoons.
Let us be clear: the game in question, a digital ballet of bullets and blood, is about as responsible for the shooting as a spoon is for obesity. The Philippines, in its infinite wisdom, has decided that banning a virtual toy will somehow magically mend the broken souls that reach for real-world guns. It's the political equivalent of putting a plaster on a decapitation. But who needs nuanced solutions when you can have a grand gesture, eh? Marcos gets to look tough on violence, the NRA's Filipino cousins get to shrug, and the actual problem of unhinged individuals accessing firearms remains untouched, like a forgotten pork chop at a buffet.
The UK's contribution, as ever, is a masterpiece of vacuity. 'Platform accountability' is a phrase so vague it could mean anything from 'we'll have a stern word with the developers' to 'we'll form a taskforce that meets every second Tuesday to discuss the matter in meticulous, irrelevant detail.' It's the kind of language that makes one yearn for the clarity of a good old-fashioned British punch-up. But no, we must have a measured, cross-departmental response, complete with a consultation paper that will be devoured by moths in a filing cabinet.
The tragedy here is that no amount of digital prohibition will stop the next troubled individual from seeking inspiration in the dark corners of the internet. The game is merely a symptom, a convenient villain in a story where the real antagonist is the fetid swamp of online radicalisation, mental health neglect, and a culture that venerates the tool of violence above the hand that wields it. But why address that morass when you can strut about banning pixels? The Philippines has shown us that the path of least resistance is paved with photo opportunities, while the UK demonstrates that the national sport of hand-wringing is alive and well.
So here's to you, the gamers of Manila: your hobby is now a felony. And to you, the policy makers of Whitehall: your solution is a PowerPoint presentation. The rest of us can only watch, pour another gin, and wonder when the adults will finally enter the room. Probably never. They're too busy tweeting about how 'thoughts and prayers' are no longer enough, but legislation is apparently still a step too far. But I digress. My glass is empty, and the world is still on fire. Cheerio.
