As I said last time, visits to my local arcade in Bristol were precious, meticulously planned excursions into the smoky world of electronic bliss. Being a teenager in the ‘80s was different to being a teenager now, where electronic gadgetry is commonplace. At the time, it felt like being transported into another world where everyone, regardless of their ability and social status had a role to play in the ecosystem of the arcade.

I was surprisingly observant in those days, and the arcades held a secondary interest to me: observing the people types. This often proved as entertaining as the videogames themselves:

Rich But Crap.
I could never work out where some kids got their money from. Loaded parents? Nicking? Drugs? God knows. These kids were always in there, spending money like it was going out of fashion. They always came into the arcade with notes to change up (Christ, I didn’t know what a fiver even looked like until I started work at eighteen).

”Hey, girls. Look at me! I got 7400! Credits, that is”.

They usually had a bad fruit machine habit, and very short fuses, but would stand in front of a new video machine and shovel in coin after coin, to show credits in double figures (a pose within itself). They would then proceed to demonstrate a complete lack of playing ability. At 30p a throw, Dragon’s Lair would be a particular favourite (“Look at me! I can afford to play this new game even though I’m shit”). Thumping the machine in anger would be inevitable, followed by a sheepish look around to see if anyone saw them losing their temper.

Yes, yes. We missed out ‘Porny But Pretend’.

The Game Over Boys.
When their money has run out, and their mum isn’t picking them up for another hour or so, they would wander from machine to machine, pushing the reject buttons and checking the trays for forgotten 10ps – maybe even nudging the 10p coin-pusher machines to try and knock off any overhangers. Occasionally they’d get lucky and sprint over to the Space Invaders or Xevious with their prize nugget for a short lived blast. Like a tramp finding a fag butt in the gutter… another quick fix that would end all too quickly. When that ran out, they’d always end up ‘playing’ the attract mode screens, with GAME OVER flashing angrily, screaming at them to put money in. Particular favourites for this practice would be Pacman, Missile Command, Amidar and Frogger.

TheShowboaters.
Now these guys had my respect. They were the purists, the hardcore. Okay – so they were showing off, but that didn’t stop me being fucking impressed. I’m talking about players who could get one of those big 10th Wave flags in Galaxian, clock Missile Command and walk away with it still playing (ahem!), complete Helifire and get the dancing Hawaian woman up on the screen. Players who could get their score to exactly 999,975 on Defender before clocking it back to zero and losing the opportunity to put their names up on the Hall Of Fame. Players who knew how many shots to fire off in Space Invaders so as to get maximum UFO points. And of course, the legendary players who could lurk for hours on Asteroids with one small rock floating about, picking off the mini UFOs at 1000 points a pop. Now they were real skills.

Bloody kids and family-friendly racing games. They need to be
weaned onto Defender as soon as possible.

The Parents.
Now this was funny, and a dead cert to see on a Saturday afternoon in arcades across the country: Mum and/or Dad, who had clearly promised little Johnny a trip to “the machines” after dragging him around Marks and Sparks or Ratners all afternoon. There they were, standing in the corner, looking utterly uncomfortable with the place. Fish out of water, Johnny’s coat hung over their folded arms, looking at their watches, just wanting to get the hell out. But there’s Johnny – face lit up playing Monaco Grand Prix, with a big grin on his face, oblivious to the hell his guardians were going through. Parents just absolutely did not get it in those days. I guess if there is one thing that arcades have done in recent years, its getting parents involved – games are much more accessible to the whole family, now. Dad wants to hold the big bastard gun in Crisis Zone and mum is quite happy to have a go on Daytona or Point Blanc. In those days, it was all a big, intimidating mystery.

The Open University Types.
They were usually in pairs. Again, out of place. Dressed badly, long hair. Probably mid-thirties, computer programmers from the local university, who saw arcade videogames as a step closer to Hal from 2001: A Space Odyssey. For them, the coloured vectors and sprites were the coming of the new age of technology, and they were there more from a voyeuristic point of view than anything else. They played to get a deeper technical understanding of what they were interacting with. Their interest was not beating the machines, but experiencing the practical side of what they were learning back on campus. They wanted to be the early adopters. These would be the guys who went on to program the talking software in the Austin Maestro.

An Open University professor, yesterday. Sorry. The ‘80s.

The Puffy Jackets.
Much lauded by Digitiser (Channel 4 teletext game mag) a few years ago, the puffy jacket types were actually quite commonplace even in the ‘80s. The puffy jackets may have been Harringtons, but the principle was the same. Gangs of kids who were just… there. Serving no particular purpose, it was their job to simply inhabit these places. They clearly had nothing better to do. They spent no money, and did nothing. Literally, nothing. Lost souls. Odd. And a bit scary.

The Menaces.
Of course, the unfortunate side to arcades were the bullies who would harass and sometimes smack money out of other kids. I only ever experienced this once. Some guy asking me to lend him 30 pence “to get the bus home”. Lying bastard. I replied “No. I don’t believe in lending people money”. This seemed to throw him a bit. Kids my size usually paid up without saying anything. He went away mumbling to himself, only to reappear five minutes later asking me if I wanted to fight. Now that’s logic for you. He was serious and I wasn’t much of a fighter, so I handed over my dues, and never got it back. Shortly after this, I moved into the ‘Showboaters’ category (with Missile Command) and became part of the furniture. I’d earned my stripes and didn’t get hassled again.

“Hahahaha. HA HA HA! A valiant effort, but you’re not doing it properly. Here. Let me
show you…”. “Piss off before I club you and eat your bones”.

The Know-Alls.
These people pissed me off. They’d know every reel of every fruit machine, know exactly what to do on every videogame, and they’d pile into your space to tell you where you were going wrong – as you were playing. At fourteen its very hard to tell someone to fuck off – especially when you can’t see their faces as you’re trying to concentrate on Centipede or Tempest. Bizarrely, I never saw these types playing games. They were just there to tell you how to crack the game you were playing, whatever it was. And I’d think, “If you were that good, you’d still be playing, so get out of my face”. They never did, of course. So, like the loud talkers at the cinema, I began to accept that they were all part of the experience, but just hoped they didn’t stick with me all afternoon.

And that was pretty much it. Every person in their own way, and with their own style fell into one (or more) of these categories. The coin-op food chain.

We were the stuff that made the arcades what they were.

AEROFLOTT, July 2004.

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