No, I’ve not played it again, but I’ve written something I think begins to sum up how bad it is -

Imagine you get into work to find your boss at the door with a cardboard box of your belongings telling you to go home. Forever. So you walk home in the rain, stepping on dogshit twice on the way. On your doormat is a letter from the bank saying they’ve discovered errors in your account dating back twelve years and you owe them $57,583.10, payable immediately. Annoyed, you kick the cat, which lands at an awkward ankle and breaks its neck. It’s yelping in pain and confusion, trying the drag itself across the floor by its chin, so you put it out of its misery with a heavy book. Just then the doorbell rings and it’s your wife’s parents come to collect the book they lent you. Which you’re holding in your hands. Covered in cat brains. And an eyeball. With a dead cat lying on the hallway carpet behind you. They turn in disgust and leave, their Volvo running over your prize-winning flowers in their haste to exit your driveway. Then you go upstairs to find your wife to tell her about your day and find she’s been brutally murdered. Her brains – looking not unlike the cat’s – are spread all over your bed. You call the police and they arrest you and beat you in the cells and feed you food they’ve all pissed in, but by mid-evening come to the conclusion that you’re not a murderer and it was all the work of a gang of seventeen men she had been sleeping with every day for several months while you were at work. The police therefore simply charge you with animal cruelty and release you on bail. You get home to find you’ve been burgled because the police investigators left your front door open. All that’s left is your TV and Xbox 360. And a tightly coiled turd in the middle of your living room floor. So you sit down on the floor, away from the turd, download the Sonic demo and play it and it’s the worst thing that’s happened to you all day. That’s how bad it is.