MooseyRates

Released as pay-what-you-want, which was frankly an insult: it's worth a kidney. 'Reckoner' alone should be prescribed to anyone who thinks they've felt things.

Icelandic for 'thanks', and the only word on it I understood. Didn't matter. 'Hoppípolla' is what a glacier sounds like when it's happy.

Josh Homme nearly died on an operating table and came back with this, which seems a fair trade. Wounded, swaggering, and far sexier than desert rock has any right to be.

IDLES stop shouting long enough to say something devastating, then go back to shouting. A car crash of an album, literally and as a compliment.

Bass lines so smooth they need a lifeguard. The audio equivalent of a linen shirt on a warm evening. 'Pelota' is compulsory.

Leeds art-rock that won the Mercury and deserved it. Wry, wonky and cleverer than you, but it buys the next round so you let it off.

Bristol jazz that's been left out in the rain and come back stranger. Saxophone drifting through fog. Put it on at 1am and let it do the rest.

My Morning Jacket's frontman goes full cosmic soul and quietly leaves orbit. Lush, political, unhurried. Best heard horizontal.

They retreated to a Welsh cottage with no electricity and came back plugged in anyway. 'Immigrant Song' is half Viking war cry, half air-raid siren. All hair.

A man exorcising every demon he owns through a fuzz pedal. Raw, slightly unhinged, and with choruses you'll hum in the shower against your will.

The most divisive film of the decade, and I'm on the correct side of the divide. A biblical fever dream in one house. People walked out. Their loss.

Frances McDormand with a grudge and a lot of plywood. Furious, filthy and very funny, right up until it very much isn't.

Understood about forty per cent of it, enjoyed all of it. The film's own advice applies: don't try to understand it. Feel it.

Every action film since has been paying rent to this one. Leather coats, bullet time, and the red pill before the internet ruined it.

A dad, a wormhole and a bookshelf, scored on an organ the size of a cathedral. The docking scene did things to my blood pressure that my GP should know about.

Every frame is a painting. Roger Deakins should be legally required to light everything. Slow as a glacier and twice as beautiful.

Two and a half hours of rain, dread and Jake Gyllenhaal blinking. Hugh Jackman has never been angrier and I have never been more stressed.

Gosling says about nine words, wears a scorpion jacket, plays Kavinsky. Then the lift scene. Cooler than you and fully aware of it.

Ledger's Joker is the only agent of chaos whose logic is airtight. Not really a superhero film. A crime epic that happens to own a cape.

Starts as a cheeky comedy, ends somewhere in the basement of your soul. You will never look at a peach the same way again.

McConaughey philosophising in a car for eight hours, and I'd happily have watched eighty. Time is a flat circle. So is my rewatch habit.

A chemistry teacher becomes the worst man in New Mexico and you cheer him on. Says more about you than him, frankly.

Five episodes of quiet, radioactive dread. Not great, not terrible. Actually, it's flawless.

Billy Bob Thornton as a wolf in a parka. Minnesota nice, Minnesota murderous. The Coens' world, somehow improved.

Ragnar with a smirk and an axe, sailing west because why not. Seasons one to four are a proper saga. We don't talk about after.

Easy Company, from Normandy to the Eagle's Nest, and a lump in your throat the whole way. The real veterans' interviews finish you off.

Horrible people, superb insults, four seasons of a family failing upwards. Kendall deserved better. Actually, no, he didn't.

Office work, but you split your brain in half to survive it. Relatable. Also the most stylish corporate horror on telly.

Yes, the British one came first. Yes, I've picked the American one. Michael Scott is a tragic genius and I won't be taking questions.

Seasons one to four are some of the best telly ever made. Season eight happened. The average lands here, bruised but proud.

Seduce a vampire, interrogate a squirrel, beat a boss by shoving him off a ledge. Two hundred hours in and still finding things. The peak.

Yes, the ending. I know. But the hundred hours before it are the finest farewell tour in gaming. Tuchanka still gets me. Shepard out.

Kratos becomes a dad, which turns out to be scarier than any god. One unbroken shot, an axe that comes when called. BOY.

Robot dinosaurs versus a bow and arrow: the premise of a ten-year-old, the story of a philosopher. Aloy deserves a statue.

Old Snake, nanomachines, and cutscenes long enough to do your tax return during. A glorious, unhinged farewell. Kojima-san, you madman.

You will die. A lot. Then you'll spot a castle on the horizon and ride straight at it anyway. Try finger, but hole.

Press X to Jason. Ignore the memes: a properly tense noir that made button prompts feel like life or death.

Androids, choices, and a flowchart that silently judges you after every chapter. Never felt so guilty about a branching path.

The golden age of lobbies, killstreaks and twelve-year-olds questioning my parentage. Ghost wore the balaclava best.

Gothic Victorian horror where the cure is worse than the disease and the bosses worse than both. Still waiting on that 60fps patch. Still.