The Bloke: The joys of PlayStation

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In a worrying development, as I’m not sure what it says about my state of mind or level of maturity, I’ve rediscovered the joys of my PlayStation.

It took me a couple of hours of rooting around in various drawers and cupboards to find all the necessary cables and accessories (the Missus was out with the children, giving me time off for good behaviour) and there were what felt like two hours’ of updates to perform once I’d fired it up, but the black beast is up and running again.

To be honest, I haven’t really missed it. Actually, let me rephrase that, I haven’t had time to miss it.

The arrival of the children (two-and-a-half years ago now, time flies when you’re permanently knackered) meant that “spare time” was something you had a vague recollection of once having but couldn’t exactly remember what on earth you did with it.

Not that I particularly have any free time now, but I’ve reached the point where to fend off madness I’ve decided that I’m just going to have to make some.

Unfortunately, the only way to do this is to stay up late and do things I enjoy (within reason) once the Missus has gone to bed.

Unfortunately, the lack of things to do or places to go at 10.30 on a weeknight leave me a little short of options. Hence the dusting down of the PlayStation.

To be honest, there weren’t many games I was particularly into first time round. This means the only one I play now is Call of Duty.

The trouble is that it’s one of the old ones from a few years ago, in other words when I was still playing PlayStation rather than changing nappies.

This is good in one sense because at least it means I’m familiar with the maps when I go online and play against other nerds who like nothing better than to shoot other (computer-generated) people.

The drawback is that while I’ve been away doing other things, the nerds (and most of them are about 15 with the razor-sharp reflexes of youth) have all played this game so much that they are incredibly good at it. And I was never that brilliant to start with.

So although running round and shooting people when I should be in bed is a decent release, I can’t help thinking that it would be far better if I wasn’t getting shot at least three times for every person I manage to shoot.

Certainly the Missus would rather she didn’t keep getting woken up by the sound of loud swearing emanating from the living room, a noise that usually means I’ve just been sniped by another 12-year-old hiding behind some rocks that I didn’t even knew were there.

More to the point, what is the said 12-year-old doing up at this time? My kids are certainly not going to be allowed to play Call of Duty when they’re that age.

Unless they’re willing to share some tips with their dad, anyway.


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