“The game release
schedule
that in Autumn rots
with fail and sin
in the summer ripens
with sex and win”
~ Sir Francis Bacon
(Sonnet to Halo 3)
Far be it from me to
disagree with anything that Sir Francis Bacon ever said or wrote, but
fuck him. Seriously.
As a gamer I love the
Autumn.
I love waking up to find
my Xbox buried underneath a pile of freshly fallen leaves.
I like nothing more than
to marvel at a dewy sheet of spider web, clinging to the thumb-sticks
of my games controller, like an exotic, gauzy fabric, woven from
diamonds.
Who doesn't enjoy
travelling backwards in time to the Autumn of 1990 to play Conker Champion 2000 on an Atari Lynx handheld, with three of their best
mates?
I love the smell of
defective Xbox 360s that, around this time of year, seem to stain the
air with the odour of acrid bonfire smoke.
I yearn to play the
limited, polonium-infused, edition of Fallout 4, swaddled in my red
woollen gloves, thick winter coat, and hand-knitted scarf, while an
Ella Fitzgerald Christmas album plays quietly in the background.
I want to gaze upon the
Master Chief's armour as it slowly turns from green, to flaming
orange, to dull matt brown, before falling off in pieces.
Under the darkening shadows of Mordor, I long to playfully push
the biggest orc I can find up against the nearest tree trunk. Then
repeatedly press 'X' to passionately make out with the orc, our hot breath condensing in the cold air around our gently interlocking
mouths.
I hunger for the dark
evenings when the orc and I will toast marshmallows around an over-clocking PC
with a broken fan.
I love watching as the
fervent decay of Autumn gives way to the stillness of winter; the
trees shedding the last of their summer foliage, as inevitable as
Assassin's Creed: Syndicate losing its graphical textures.
It is November and,
regardless of what Sir Francis Bacon might say, there is no better
time to be a gamer.
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