Sony PS3

It happens at midnight tonight (or 12am tomorrow morning) - the European launch of the Sony Playstation 3 games console. Uncharacteristically, this time I will not be buying a new console on launch day. Here are the reasons why:

• Price. Regardless of it’s online capabilities, Blu-Ray drive and ability to cure cancer, £425 is an unrealistic price for a brand new unestablished games console. With features that only benefit those with high-definition displays and an online service that is a mere shadow of Xbox Live, the PS3 would only appeal to me if they knocked at least a third off of the price.
• Poor backwards-compatibility. The PS3’s software PS2 emulator is said only to run 72% of existing Playstation 2 games. Considering that my chipped PS2 is 100% compatible with all PS2 games from any part of the world the PS3 will not be replacing my PS2 just yet.
• Price. See 1)
• Looks. Superficial maybe, but the PS3 is a really ugly machine. It kind of resembles a glossy George Forman grill. It is also very very HUGE.
• Price. See 1) and 3)
• I’m buying an Xbox 360. I have friends already enjoying multiplayer games with Xbox live who are practically begging me to join their number. I know nobody who’s planning on getting a PS3.

The thing is, I really really want a PS3. I really want to be there now queuing outside the Virgin Megastore in Oxford Street, I really want get my grubby hands on what is possibly the most powerful games console yet, I really want to play F1 2007 and Motorstorm, but at £425 a throw it really is too much to pay, even for the most hardened of early adopters like myself.

It is estimated that it’ll be over a year until the PS3 is subject to any reduction in price. That’s okay, with the Nintendo Wii, Playstation 2 and Sega Dreamcast sat under my television, I have enough gaming technology to keep me going for a long while yet.

A foot, yesterday

In some strange way, I am sort of glad that I have managed to procure myself an evil case of athlete’s foot. You see, it’s probably the only sporting ‘accolade’ I will ever receive.

A natural born loser, having been the child who always came last at school sports day, the person who always potted the black at the wrong time in a game of pool, the card player who can never complete a game of patience, I have always consigned myself to never owning, let alone filling a trophy cabinet. To me, this case of athlete’s foot is my bronze medal, my engraved tankard, it is my ironic prize for being inept at competition; a sports-based ailment.

Of course, if there was such a thing as swimmer’s wind or jogger’s sinuses, I’d be a gold medallist by now!