Red is the colour of hatred, anger, power, aggression, adrenaline, worry, jealousy, murder, blood; faux-love, hearts, strawberries, stress, lust; and Mario.
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I lift high my trusty old, cushioned Logitech G Pro X Gaming-headset, stretch wide the supple cups to straddle my massive cranium, and immerse myself in a symphonic choir of strutting saw waves, and synthetic in utero basal…warmth.
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Then the PlayStation 2 landed. An obsidian black boxy monolith, evoking the opposite of fun. No more gonzo journalism, bat shit crazy curves, and see-through peekaboo. This was the dawn of a new era. Of seriousness. Striving for photorealism in textures, lighting technology, and enough polygons to realise the cancelled lad mags advertised promise: A simulacrum of nature’s finest soft protrusions. Why then, did it fail to embrace my attention?
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Quentin Tarantino liked to chop up his movies in the ’90s, and shuffle the scenes so they weren’t in chronological order. We all thought it was very clever, and I’ve just done that here now. Impressed?
Well, neither was I when I slipped into my dirty white Gi and tried to summon a fireball from my palms, solely with willpower and chi.
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143 games. Well, forty years ago, that would be a giant collection. More than a lifetime of enjoyment. Today, with our smoother and faster brains, that’s at least an afternoon’s delight.
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When I became a man again, I set aside childish incremental upgrades and revelled in having a long-lasting relationship with a phone.
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