Earlier this year those party poopers at Greenpeace slammed Nintendo for using too much company toilet roll, though didn't get round to denouncing the dribbling toxic ooze of that United-Colours-of-Benetton-style ad campaign into my unwitting eye sockets. Hey Mushroom Kingdom, get those pretty people away from my hobby, get back to generating shameful e-waste, and bring me more mince pies! Since release day, the rotating island tour and high pitched squeal of the plumber has had me hypnotised; controller-hurling repeat death and mushroom-munching hilarity has left me satisfied but cross-eyed throughout the festive period.

The gamer Christmas is a very particular experience, full of pain and anguish. Back in the day, before games had the veneer of cool that now makes Wii harder to find than rocking horse shit, if you were lucky enough to get a console you were happy. It didn't matter that your caring parents might have bought you the Philips CDi, a 3D0, an Atari Jaguar. You were happy, because although owning a console certainly was about bragging rights, you were only looking to impress your equally nerdy friends with the glamour of 3D, good-for-nothing flight simulator joysticks and memorised action replay codes. You were a spotty nobody, and games were a life-raft in an ocean of uncool.

Now things are all different. It's now official that girls play games too, and the playstation has successfully moved the console out of the sweaty bedroom, down the stairs, across the corridor, and into the cable hell of the living room TV corner. With more dust in its guts than Joan Rivers, the contemporary console is a tortured piece of kit, which longs for a return to the sanctity of the broken tv stand somewhere in the upstairs of a childhood past, surrounded by posters of Bruce Lee, animé on VHS, and lugubrious friends who press its buttons too hard.

One particular fateful Yuletide we got a Saturn in the Davey household. I remember becoming hysterical at the sight of my sister leaving Sega Rally out of its brand new case, as she switched to break out the legendary Guardian Heroes. I was relatively new to CDs (yes we had electricity) and in my eyes the Saturn had to be treated like a precious explosive, the switching of one game for another acquired the gravitas of cutting the red wire or green. In my hormonal teenage haze everything in the house conspired to scratch those miraculous discs and ruin all future fun. I filled the house with tears and then stuffed my face with cake. Since I don't engage in the shadowy arts of exchanging at my local store, I now enjoy leaving naked games out on every possible surface, safe in the knowledge that the Compact Disc is sturdier than Captain America's shield.

Christmas was good this year in the UK, because the majority of people here are now officially psychiatrically unsound. The New Year Sales started yesterday, yes, Boxing Day. Since every man, woman and dog in the UK has one, the endless hours of Wii wrist-wobbling have reduced the national attention span by five days, meaning that we can now official enjoy massive reductions on beds, fridges and handbags while still pregnant with the joys of turkey and potato. Happy New Year!