I got outbid on that PS3 in the end. Rather a good thing to be honest; I didn't really want one. No, what I really wanted was an X-Box 360, so on Sunday I shod the Peugeot and cantered into Oxford to buy a sexy black Elite. I have no shame in admitting that, moulded from Satan's turds as he may be, I would gladly lick Bill Gates' vinegary nerd balls for having birthed this miracle of modern engineering (yes, I can say that with a straight face, and will continue to until lassooed by the Red Ring of Death). An unholy love has been consummated this week between man and machine, mostly to the thumping, trance-like strains of RezHD.
I love X-Box Arcade. I love how it's made Symphony of the Night available for a paltry £6.80. I love the spruced-up Prince of Persia Classic. I love being able to download HD movie rentals (okay it's not true HD: it's got the pixels but lacks the bit-rate, but it's still a whole lotta lovin better looking than a DVD).
I adore that with a tiny £10 app I can stream photos, music and videos off my iMac straight onto my telly, and that torrented TV shows look ace, upscaled and post-processed.
I haven't yet jumped into the waters of X-Box Live, but my Gamertag is Marston1604, should I ever take the plunge and you're hanging around, looking for a n00b's ass to kick.
I'm happy enough offline though. In fact, with Burnout, I am in Paradise.