When I was a kid, I was only allowed to play video games on Fridays and Saturdays – an attempt by my parents to keep my gaming passion under control. (Narrator: it did not keep it under control.) For the rest of the week, I was happy doing other things and reading my Nintendo magazines, but come Friday evening, I was ready to pick up a controller. I would stock up on Haribo and fizzy juice on the way home from school in preparation for an evening in front of the TV. My parents, presumably grateful for a few hours of peace, would throw a Pizza Hut delivery through the door of the spare room where our games consoles lived and leave my brother and I to it.
We would sit and play Zelda or Diddy Kong Racing or another parent-approved, non-violent obsession of the day until we were commanded to go to bed. Once my mum pulled the cord out of the wall while we were in the middle of the final Bowser boss battle of Super Mario 64, causing a meltdown still spoken about in our family. I still think my behaviour was justified; pulling the plug is the equivalent of blowing the whistle moments before you’re about to score a winning goal.
