Television critic Clive James has died, aged 80. Here, read his essay on learning to love Game of Thrones

Like anybody both adult and sane, I had no intention of watching Game of Thrones, even though the whole world was already talking about it. For one thing, it had swords.

Though I share the movie heritage of my generation in retaining a soft spot for the intricate fencing matches in the Errol Flynn Robin Hood and the Stewart Granger Scaramouche, that fondness rather depends on those lightweight swords making a little hole instead of chopping off a limb. Usually, an on-screen sword fight is just a stretch of choreography, dull even when frenzied; or else it gets you into abattoir territory, like that scene in the first season of Rome, when Titus Pullo converts seven gladiators into 10 times as many body parts.

For another thing, Game of Thrones had dragons, and I place a total embargo on dragons. I would almost prefer zombies. Bolstered by these and other relevant prejudices, I managed to ward off Game of Thrones for months. Then a DVD box set of the first series somehow got into the house.

It lay unopened while I thought of further objections. For yet another thing, Game of Thrones had Sean Bean as a hero, when everybody knows that Sean Bean is meant to be a heavy, one who flexes his teeth and grits his jaw before being eliminated by Christian Bale in Equilibrium or Harrison Ford in Patriot Games.