The Parade

The parade made its way down George St, moving toward Circular Quay. There were streamers. Huge helium balloons. A giant floating Master Chief in repose, tethered to the earth by dozens of nylon ropes. A marching band played an oompa-oompa version of the theme to Devil May Cry 4. People were smiling, cheering, throwing confetti and ticker-tape. It was a glorious and happy day.

Some of us though, some of us stood in the shadows and glowered.

“This is bullshit,” said the Guerrilla Gamer to me as we skulked behind the eternal scaffolding that flanked the street just down from Martin Place. “What do they think they’re celebrating anyway?”

A young boy borne aloft on a gold-painted papier-mâché throne, carried by half a dozen oiled beauties in tiny silver bikinis, passed by. The boy looked understandably delighted with himself, and rode clutching an Xbox 360 to his scrawny chest.

“Him,” I said. “He’s Australia’s three millionth console gamer. They’re celebrating. They’re celebrating their final victory over PC.”

“What a load of crap,” spat the Guerrilla Gamer. “Final victory. Death of the platform. What a huge heap of steaming rhinoceros dung.”

We paced the parade, moving from shadow to shadow, safe behind the cheering crowds, the streaming confetti, the waving flags with Mario’s face on them.

“They have sort of a point though,” I suggested. “I mean, they can afford this parade. Closed off the whole CBD, free cheeseburgers for everyone who comes along. You can’t deny the console sector has a lot of money. Especially compared to us. Remember the 30th Anniversary dinner for PC gaming?”

The Guerrilla Gamer scrunched up his face in that really alarming way he does whenever he’s trying to remember something. He was clearly thinking of the dingy basement venue with that long streak of a barman standing behind that long streak of a bar, the entire place empty but for us and William Liability of Blind Drunk sitting on a barstool sobbing into a beermat and occasionally wailing: “Why won’t someone make me another Syncromesh Slaughter?”

“My problem with this whole console propaganda,” began the Guerrilla Gamer, clearly warming to his topic, “is that it presents console gaming as this unified community of self-congratulatory morons. As if all console gamers are together in some kind of brotherhood. That’s not reality.”

“What’s reality?”

“I’ll tell you what reality is. Reality is kids beating each other up in the schoolyard because one of them is wearing a Devil May Cry 4 T-shirt with a small Xbox 360 logo on it, while the other is wearing a Devil May Cry 4 T-shirt with a small PlayStation 3 logo on it, while PC gamers stand by swapping DivX movies on thumbdrives and chatting about how the latest mod just made STALKER even more brilliant.”

The parade suddenly ground to a halt. I looked around and realised our reminiscing and bitter vitriol had brought us all the way down to Circular Quay, and out along to the step of the Opera House, where so many Australian Idols had flared briefly before sinking forever into obscurity, especially if they happened to be female.

A huge and pretty tasteless stage had been erected, encrusted with exactly the kind of lighting rig that said “here’s $10 million to make a light show, make it awesome and also it has to be up by tomorrow morning”.

The giant helium-filled Master Chief bobbed over the expectant crowd. There was a hush.

“Seems to be some kind of delay,” mused the Guerrilla Gamer. We peered at the stage. Two men in suits were wrestling each other in the wings. I tuned my famous radar ears.

“We won the HD war, we should get to speak first,” the first man was saying.

“No chance, Halo 3 accounted for 63% of all next-gen sales in its launch week, plus we have Gears of War,” grunted the other.

The crowd seemed to pick up the vibe, and first there was a muttering, then a chattering, and then a general breakdown of civil relations as PS3 and Xbox 360 fans started laying into each other with umbrellas, handbags, wireless controllers and even confetti. Cheeseburgers were thrown. The small but vocal Nintendo contingent went positively medieval when they saw the flags with Mario’s face on them being trampled underfoot.

Suddenly there came a series of “sproing” noises, as if high-tension nylon cables were being cut. The giant helium-filled Master Chief tilted crazily, made a low groaning noise, and then slipped its earthly bonds and lifted off.

“Success!” screamed Victor Ninox my crazy ex-third flatmate, appearing as if by magic to stand four-square on the base of the float, box-cutters held aloft.

“I didn’t even know he was out of bed today,” I said, genuinely shocked.

The Master Chief sailed off into the late afternoon sky, the prevailing winds carrying it toward Botany Bay. It was vast, green, and even a little beautiful. Everyone just stared.

“Oh God,” said the Guerrilla Gamer. “I guess we’d better call Air Traffic Control.”