Sideline Cut: It would appear that one of the hottest items on the many letters that are winging their way to Lapland this Christmas is a chap - a toy, presumably - by the name of Robo Sapien. He has featured heavily on radio and television advertisements in recent weeks and I have somewhat miserably come to the conclusion that he is beyond my understanding. Modern toys and games give me the blues.Sideline Cut

Back when I was a kid, if someone called you a Robo Sapien in the schoolyard, they were asking for a kicking. You weren't sure what it meant, but you had strong suspicions it might not be complimentary so it was better to be safe than sorry.

The whole world of games and toys is one of the best ways to make an old soul feel older. I braved the many floors of a flashy London toy shop recently. And like the Longford man who paid into Stringfellow's expecting to see a Lloyd Webber musical, I wasn't the better of it for a week.

There was a 30ft giraffe in that shop. Legs on him like Liam McHale. It cost four grand. Sterling. For four big ones, I am pretty sure I could head to the dark continent, find a real giraffe, fly him home first class and hawk him around the counties as a potential midfielder. (And all so either myself or the giraffe's prospective manager could gruffly joke, 'better than the effin' donkeys we usually send out anyhow').

But in this store, the giraffe was a boon. He behaved as a stuffed animal should, standing completely still and saying nothing. Practically all of his compatriots, whether furry representatives of the animal kingdom or blinking porcelain dolls, were hammering on like it was question time in the Commons.

And not just primitive, toy-sounding words (remember the strangulated sentence good old Action Man used to cough up if you pulled his chord, so to speak?) but real sophisticated shit, as if they were auditioning for an Oscar Wilde play.

You know the old fairy-tale about how when the lights in the toy shop go out, its inhabitants would come to life? Well, these little f*****s didn't even have the manners to wait until closing time. They spoke. They walked. They flew.

In the case of a few robots, they strolled around offering customers chocolates on a silver tray, smiling, exchanging pleasantries and for all I could figure out, making plans to meet with one another for cocktails and drinks in that new place in Covent Garden.

All in all, it was a pretty unnerving experience for anybody above the age of 14. For children, the place was where they came into their own. They strode in through the front doors, shooting the poor guy assigned to blow liquid bubbles a caustic look, before moving through the fare to their specialised place of interest.

I saw one kid, no more than nine or 10, take up the remote control of what turned out to be a light aircraft and instantly guide the thing through densely packed aisles full of harassed parents. And the thing was, he was clearly bored by his own excellence, yawning as he would execute swooping dives and the like.

If I were to board an Aer Lingus flight for New York tomorrow morning to be informed that this nine-year-old was our pilot, I would advice fellow passengers: Fear not. He's a cocky little bastard, but he will get us there.

In this fast and frightening and technological world, children were in control. It was the adults that wandered around in slack-jawed silence. At one stage, walking past a row of what looked like more suave - collegiate - versions of the 1980s phenomena the Cabbage Patch kids came the enquiry, "and what is your name"?

On natural instinct, I turned to respond, but there were several dozen of the things staring back, impassive but expectant and, I was certain, laughing at me. It was an incredibly intimidating moment and, to be honest, I was tongue-tied, lost, beaten.

Desperately, I began to search for something that resembled the toys of my own childhood. And that in turn led to an increased despair, because you know your nervous system is not as it should be when you find yourself pining and nostalgic for Buckaroo.

It has been a while since I checked out the Late Late Toy Show - I never could overcome the absolute resentment I felt towards those kids that got to hang out in studio and check out the latest gizmos with Uncle Gay - but I am pretty sure toys were simpler back in the day. One year, the craze involved this guy whose arms and legs used to stretch for about half a mile and then retract again.

That was his one skill in life. He did not speak, he did not juggle or recite the complete works of Shakespeare. The poor son of a bitch just spent his lifespan having his limbs racked and distorted by pre-adolescents of the early 1980s.

The fascination with doing that lasted about an hour and a half, after which this guy - can't recall his name - was turfed behind a wardrobe or a shed and forgotten about.

But at least he was comprehensible. He was a guy you could stretch.

Same with Evel Knievel. On the adverts, you saw the slick Late Late Show TV kids winding the toy Evel up on the mechanical platform and then he would explode and successfully navigate a jump across the Niagara Falls or some place. So you would write off to the North Pole for Evel. And you weren't surprised when, unboxed, he turned out to be a poofy, rubbery kind of character who could only just be persuaded to sit on his bike.

As for stunts, forget it - the most thrilling thing he ever did was to splutter about five feet across the carpet before keeling over,

as if exhausted by the hype. But that was okay and it was a bit like the real Evel that sometimes made it on to RTÉ after busting himself out in Nevada or wherever.

I sought out Evel in that toy shop, but, sadly, to know avail. I went hunting for Action Man, the old reliable, with his scar, those moveable eyes that made him seem like he was absorbed in a tennis game only he could see, his enviably cool camouflage scarf and his sad and slightly creepy blue swim trunks, fastened with the Action-Man chastity belt.

I was assured he still exists, but I am not certain: the dude might carry sufficient hand grenades to flatten a city, but I doubt he had enough artillery to survive the modern day toy wars.

Desperate now, I stumbled on towards the Lego land section. I never liked Lego, but at least I understood it. You just built stuff with it. Rubbish stuff - multi-coloured walls mostly - but still. I could build a plastic wall. But no. Lego land was the freakiest place of all.

I toured the Lego city for all of two minutes, noting that the Lego-loving children who could construct replica space shuttles in two minutes still worked with their tongues sticking out and had a cruel look about them.

But the choice was too much, with entire compartments given over to places like Aquazone, to U.F.O, to Extreme Team.

My spirit was finally crushed when I saw a couple of brats boldly walking towards the Lego Techno Jaw-Tong Slammer section.

"To hell with building it," I thought bitterly. "I am gonna find me one of those to drink."

What the hell, it was Christmas, after all. Best wishes to all and be careful with the toys.

It's a jungle out there.