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Raindrops keep falling... on poor little Wallie. And for once I don't care if he drowns. You said it, Interceptor. Wot a Wallie!

To get right up my nose, just hand me a game that makes you suffer through a long, daft and supposedly 'cute' routine every time you want to restart.

Naff slogans too, will get you up there. "Prepare to die" kind of rubs you up the wrong way after you've just been senselessly annihilated for the 987th time. And I really don't understand why games are still made to do this. Those first tentative efforts at a new game are so vital. It's then you decide either: a) Aha, what scotnig game! I shall do until I die, or b) Aha! A load of codswallop! I shall grind it into past with my stiletto!

Thus driven into a frenzy, I was not fully receptive to Wallie's plight of being chased by odd-bods and hailed on with lethal pink rain. Anyway, he was an all-too self-consciously 'zany' little tyke who had already put my back up just by existing. Add to this the landscape - one of those from the Neolithic period of vid games - when the sky was one colour and the mountains stuck out crudely like a row of sore thumbs in colour b. Wallie lopes along with a simple right-to-left scroll. Redolent of the earlier castigated Troopa Truck, fleeing relies not so much on skilful manipulation but on memorising where the pratfalls and assailants are. Give me Frankie Goes To Hollywood any day!