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The world isn't only getting smaller, it's getting similiar. Everything is becoming standard. The wonderful diversity that we once rejoiced in is being modified, watered down, digested and absorbed. The books we read are full of the same words, the films we see are full of the same actors, and the songs we hear are full of the same sounds. There are international bodies attempting to standardise everything we eat, drink and breathe. We are becoming a generic people in a no-name world stuck in a brand-less universe.

In Japan there's a theme park, and for the price of admission you can literally have the world at your feet. Every major city, architectural feat and natural phenomenon is represented in fiberglass and paint, shrunken to a photograph friendly size. You can travel the world in four hours and see all the 'major sights' without leaving the park. More importantly you can do all this and never have to fumble with foreign currency, understand an exotic language, deal with the locals, catch a cab or dysentery.

Where the Japanese have made a little world in their backyard, the Americans have done the opposite - their backyard is our little world. You can go anywhere across the globe and get the same burger and french fries, stay in the same room of the same hotel and watch the same television shows. We all share a desire to remain within our comfort zone. We feel safe and secure surrounded by the everyday, but it also limits our experience.

Recently I overheard a tale that relates to the effect of the perpetually similar. The story concerns one Yusuhaf Islam when he was still Cat Stevens. I presme this incident occurred before Cat embraced Allah and called for the death of Salman Rushdie, and I'm not suggesting the two are connected.

In the mid-70s Cat was still a wandering minstrel, packing them in to sell out stadium shows across the states. Tired and confused by constant travel, Cat became convinced that he wasn't moving at all. He would arrive at a new town that looked exactly like the town he had just left and head straight to a new hotel, which looked exactly the same as the last hotel.

After a while the repetition got to him and he believed he was stationary and the world was being rotated around him. He convinced himself he was staying in the same hotel every day - all the travelling, the shows, the little towns, the people were part of a conspiratorial plot to drive him insane. He fought the feelings for as long as he could and then decided to test his theory. He wrote his name on a part of the wall hidden behind the bathroom mirror. When he arrived at the next town he would check behind the mirror, there would be nothing there, and his instability would evaporate.

Unfortunately for the fragile mind-set of Mr Stevens, he had been observed by one of his crew. The roadie checked to see what he had written, gauged the situation and decided to have some fun. Arriving at the next town before Cat, he copied the soon-to-be-unhinged one's child-like scrawl on to the wall covered by the mirror.

When Cat cruised into the bathroom he fully expected to rid himself of his paranoia, but instead saw his name - CAT. Worlds collided and he caught the first train to Loopyville, a crazy fruitcake fantasy land of full-steam-ahead delusional madness.

In the not to distant future we may all become like Cat (I don't mean become Muslim - although that is not a bad thing in itself), but we may find ourselves in a world devoid of difference. A place where all sound has been blended to form a hideous white noise and all colour has been combined to form a murky grey. And in this place we might begin to crave the difference and diversity we have lost. We may all, like Cat, pray that we not see the writing on the wall - behind the bathroom mirror.

I always thought the purpose of entertainment on planes was to lull you into a soporific dullness in preparation for sleep. As the meal sets like concrete in your stomach, and the cabin lights dim, the stewards administer your movie like a medication, a visual narcotic designed to knock you out. Before you know it you have become a lesser instrument in the orchestra of snoring that can deafen the roar of the jet engines.

When an aircraft shows films it is common sense for them to steer away from disaster movies. Who needs to create a panic when you're 20,000 feet up in the air? For this reason alone the 'Airport' series, 'Die Harder' and 'Death at 20,000 Feet' were never shown, and you would be hard-pressed to see informative documentaries like 'Black Box' on any Airbus. Images of planes exploding or overshooting the runway, the sight of passengers consumed by flaming fireballs or of terrorists holding guns to a pilot's head are not the best mid-air fodder.

In the relative safety of a cinema these flights of fancy are fine, but they'd be disconcerting aboard a Boeing, especially if they were jumbled up with glimpses of reality as you reel in and out of an unsettled sleep.

It came as a shock to me, then, that the most monumental disaster movie of recent years was the in-flight movie on my recent overseas trip. I am aware the film is touted as the greatest love story of the past six months, but there is something a little more to it than that. It is also based on one of the greatest tragedies of the 20th century.

It doesn't seem a great jump to me to envisage the jumbo as the Titanic - on a rudimentary level, even the names seem to be linked. It's not a dissimilar situation: a large vessel carrying hundreds of people from different walks of life to a destination half a world away, with a stoic, sexually repressed first class and an economy section dominated by pagan lust and Irish dancing.

The previous film I endured on an international flight was 'The Edge'. In the in-flight version of the film a light aircraft crash, which I would consider pivotal to the plot, was carefully omitted. When the intrepid explorers, previously sparring in the cabin of the plane, found themselves alive and in water it was left up to the viewer to piece together what had occurred. We were aided slightly by the debris of the aircraft floating around the survivors as they paddled for shore. Later in the story, these same explorers violently fought a grizzly bear, a scene we were allowed to see. In 'The Edge' it is understandable that we might make the connection that we are also in a plane and therefore in danger of falling from the sky, whereas a bear is less likely to wander out of the galley in search of food with the scent of blood scorching its nostrils.

And I assumed with 'Titanic', as in 'The Edge', at the first sight of the iceberg the film would sensibly conclude. We would be spared the horror of the catastrophe, the loss of life and equally the accompanying thoughts of our own mortality. It was not to be. The boat went down. People died. Bodies were skewered, severed or dismembered, or they fell into the freezing water and drowned. Sadly they possessed no life jackets with little whistles and lights to attract attention. We were infinitely better off, but in the case of disaster weren't we all in the same boat? Even armed with the knowledge that "in the event of an emergency masks will drop from the ceiling", I could sense a growing disquiet in economy - the only survivors of the Titanic disaster were rich. These flimsy curtains would not hold us back from those scoundrels in first class, and had the majority of us not been snoring there could have been a riot.

I wondered as I left the flight if 'Titanic' was being shown with such abandon on any ocean cruises. You could combine it with the German classic 'Das Boot' for a double header of claustrophobic-watery-hell action. I'm sure they'd tell you, as they rearranged the deck chairs on the Sea Princess, it could never happen here.

I've had the symptoms for years: stomach cramps, lethargy, questionable moral judgement, but it was gratifying to be able to finally point the finger and blame something - Sydney water.

Without the TV bulletins, newspapers and radios constantly warning us, I wouldn't have realised the water was toxic. Even after being repeatedly warned, I still woke up the next morning, rolled out of bed, and poured a bacteria-laden glass of tap water down my throat.

As the crisis subsided I was conscious that in any other age I probably wouldn't have survived. I wouldn't have lasted two minutes in the bush, the jungle, the desert or any other natural environment. I'm at the bottom of the top of the evolutionary rung, a creature designed for sofas, a human beanbag: I couldn't run if my life depended on it. Thankfully, the late 20th century protects people like me, it nurtures us and provides an environment where we may flourish - any other age would have flushed us down the toilet.

Darwin's theory of evolution, which incorporates the notion of 'survival of the fittest' has given way to the 'durability of the dumb' and the 'endurance of the awkward'. Our predators are few and far between, but we are beset by other dangers. So what if our water hole is poisoned? It is a sad indication of our times: our greatest threat is decay. Here's an example. The other morning I decided I'd have crumpets for breakfast. It was a decadent thing to do in the current climate of financial uncertainty, but I threw caution to the wind. I was moderately proud of the spread, a simple banquet: the crumpets were hot, straight from the toaster, and I managed to time it so the tea wasn't tepid.

A friend arrived unexpectedly and I invited him to share my breakfast and hoed in. But it all went horribly wrong when he declined the other crumpet. His refusal, unerringly polite, still managed to annoy me. Was he allergic to crumpet? Not hungry? Had he eaten already? I had to know.

He told me he found the pale-blue mould off-putting. I hadn't noticed the mould. He drew my attention to the discolored patches covering the remaining crumpet, and if I concentrated hard enough I could actually see some - a little hairy forest of fungus filling every hole of the crumpet. I am not a very observant person - nothing to be alarmed at, but occasionally I miss subtle things like mould. This said, I had noticed my friend hadn't touched his tea: the milk had curdled and great creamy curds floated on top of the Irish Breakfast.

I hadn't noticed the fluffy, pale blue mould, however this didn't trouble me as much as the fact that I hadn't tasted it. So not only am I color deficient, but I also have a very unrefined palate - a peasant's palate. The sort of gob that could devour mountains of rancid 'taties and nips' washed down with a bucket of fermented orange juice. I'd die hours later of a burst intestine or ruptured spleen and never know why, but probably enjoy the feast while it lasted. In the animal kingdom nature warns the unaware when something is dangerous to eat - mould on a carcass is an obvious one. You'd have to be one dumb carnivore not to see it.

Over the years the world has become a safer place for people who are hazardous to their own health, those of us who, left to our own devices, would clumsily stumble off this mortal coil and blunder into oblivion.

We have survived through sheer force of numbers - there are more of us than them. We form a protective coating around each other and propagate. We admire the fit from the distance and mock their calorie-controlled lives, their obsessive nature, their determination. As we hobble along with walking sticks, short-sighted, color-blind, deaf, with dry, damaged hair and an endless supply of mood-altering pills, it's becoming increasingly apparent its not only the fittest who survive. Even the weakest are doing very well.

I have thought about it for some time and there is no easy way to say it. I have tried euphemisms and analogies, but all these pleasantries do is distract from the importance of the information. It is best to be brief and blunt, so please, do not be shocked at what I am about to say. My message is simply this: empty your bladder before you see Titanic. Especially the very young or elderly. You may be offended by my brutality now, but you will thank me for it later. I made this mistake of seeing the film on a full tank. I thought I had an unburstable bladder of steel. I thought I could defy this film.

When it ran for over three hours I was worried. But the duration of the film was not the real problem. The problem was the water. A digitally enhanced ocean in luminous 70-millimetre crashing all around me. Every time it lapped against the hull it called to its aquatic doppelganger, its discolored sibling resting in my bladder, to come join it. There is so much water in this film it deserves its own credit. When its not streaming through shattered cabin doors or bursting through stained glass, it's steaming windows, moistening cheeks, disguised as champagne or summoned as spit. Not a scene goes by without some poor relation of H2O making a guest appearance.

Every time the sea burst through a pipe, eddied in a stairwell or careered through the corridors, I understood the shallow meaning of water torture. When the captain stood on the deck of his sinking ship and twin jets sprayed in arc across his chest, my bladder cried out in sympathy. It, like the waters of the Atlantic, needs to express its nature. Even when there was no water in shot, I heard it about to enter like an over-eager actor, shuffling his feet outside the door. It burbled, sprinkled, dripped and announced its wetness without being seen. It was always there and it was always calling, calling, calling...

And as water forced its way into the body of the Titanic, it was trying to force its way out of mine.

I thought, I'll be damned if I let this rebel organ dictate my actions. Why should I let one part of my body defeat the others? If I leave, I'll lose the plot. I made a financial investment in this feature and a little internal pressure as not going to waste my hard-earned cash. I decided to grit my teeth, gird my loins, bear down and stay seated. I was going to brave it out! I crossed my legs, I hunched forward, I loosened my trousers. I settled back and relaxed (but I didn't relax too much).

I then noticed the entire cinema sat cross-legged, hunched forward and slightly distracted. With this awareness, my panic dissipated. I felt a connection, a unity with my straining comrades.

Seconds later I was also aware that I wouldn't be the only one heading to the toilet at the end of the film. My new comrades instantly became the enemy and I eyed them with contempt. Images flooded my mind of overcrowded urinals and columns of misery stretching from each cubicle. I saw damp fathers pointing their exploding sons at the trough, rolls of wet toilet paper and so much acrid spray the lavatory became a steamroom.

I lost the battle with the bloat minutes before Titanic ended. I rushed out a street exit, knowing everyone else would be heading to the foyer. I found myself in a poorly lit uninhabited back alley. I opened the flood gates. Every muscle sighed with relief, even my mind seemed clearer.

Clear enough to realise that what I had taken as a back alley was, in fact, a major pedestrian thoroughfare. Those members of the audience with stronger constitutions then I was now using this handy walkway to get to their cars. Sadly, the sight of disgusted families was not enough to stem the tide. They scurried by, shielding the eyes of their children. I clamped down, but I couldn't stop. I was a liquid blimp, a urine geyser, a four-litre wine cask being squeezed dry by the hand of God.

Hours passed, as did half the population of Sydney, before it slowed and finally stopped. I crept off into the night, noticing I was not the only one affected by the movie. The city was drenched.

The true magic of this epic will not be seen in the streams of people with satisfied faces leaving the cinema, but in the streams of people with satisfied faces behind the cinema.