Things were a lot simpler in 1993. You could slash your skinful in a shop doorway without starring on the CCTV channel. Wanking material was sent in brown packages instead of TCP/IP packets, coming with far fewer options. Nowadays I have to choose what to toss myself silly over - whether it's haggard wrinklers, Japanese 'wedding cakes' or, when the mood takes me, reverse equestrianism (props to Banky). Back then, all I had access to were self-hating five footers who only did the Razzle gash-pile 'cos they were too short (or indeed, too ugly) to be a catwalk model. Simpler times.

Even architecture was simpler…

I was in Tech College at the time. An 8-bit teenager getting ready to make the generational leap - I had not even taken the name 'Pap'. My part-time cheese-lobbing job behind an Asda Deli wasn't bringing in the millions I'd hoped for, meaning I was skint by the time me and Hairy Stu left the Hobbit on a Friday night. Fortunately, all my mates were scumbag students and shared my state of financial oblivion. We dreamt a dream and made it happen.

The Decree

My muckers at the time were Stampy, Paymon, Jay and Stef. Korruptor was part-time back then, mainly 'cos he was wasting his life going to parties and shagging birds. Loser. The remaining 'real deal' quintet decreed that every Tuesday would be Gentleman's Gaming Evening.

Course you can bring your friends round. Will they bring their own electricity?

The venue was always going to be my mum's house. Stampy lived in a perforated shack on the edge of the New Forest with a corrugated tin roof. His brother Elias (really) had turned the grounds into an unlicensed scrapyard and his lovely old dear just would not shut yapping once engaged in conversation. Paymon's mum and dad were Chinese, spoke little English and shouted it when they did. To this day, I don't think they actually know my name - they just called me 'the short fat one'. Jay had a nice gaff, but it had been infested by an ugly wife and bawling babies. Finally, Stef's place was out because I'd accidentally infested one of his Dad's flats with cat fleas. My house was the only option.

Weeks passed, our rhythm settled and shining games started to emerge from the final fling of the 16-bit era. Hired Guns was fun and frustrating in equal measure. Microprose Golf (a.k.a. David Leadbetter's Golf) was fantastic - and became the ultimate fusion of videogames and really shit puns. The real star though, was Sensi.

Introducing the players:

No, you’re alright love, I’ll get this one myself…

stampy

All you need to know: My mum was hoovering my bedroom once and Stampy said "Do you want a hand?". She says "No, you're alright, Stampy". So he says "How about a couple of fingers?". Unsurprisingly, my Obi-Wan Kenobi for all things wrong.
Style of play: largely inept, but good-natured. Good mid-table prospect,

paymon

All you need to know: Spiky little Chinese fella with a disturbing affection for caged vermin and duct-tape.
Style of play: Cheeky bastard - knows all the sweetspots and not afraid to use them. Likely to say "Haha - crap goals count". Contender.

stef

All you need to know: Write-off in waiting due to questionable pilotage of his banana-hued Vauxhall Chevette. Greek heritage meant he exists in two states - unreasonably late or entirely absent.
Style of play: Solid, if unspectacular. Second from bottom.

jay

All you need to know: Alpha-male heterosexual inexplicably sporting the gayest moustache you've ever seen. Nicknamed 'Donkey Dong' on account of a trough-cracking trouser snake. Ex-forces and prone to sudden rage.
Style of play: Apart from control problems, slow reflexes and lack of fundamental Association Football knowledge, pretty shit really. Goal-fodder.

me

All you need to know: Nah, I’m too modest…
Style of play: Silky passer, aftertouch maestro. Dangerous in set plays. Contender.

I really don’t want to know what those two are up to…

Thing with footy though, is that you never know when you've got a sleeping giant in your midst, and you never know just how pissed off they'll be when they wake up. Stef had been making up the numbers, unremarkable performances produced in an environment of cutting juvenile jibes. Turns out he was tired of having defeat for din-dins and piss-take for pudding. He analysed our games, created his own style of play and silently plotted our destruction. They say it's the quiet ones you've got to watch.

Stef turns up one night with a transparent'n'green Competition Pro. It wasn't unusual for people to bring their own joysticks - Paymon flicked his bogeys from the top of a Konix Speedking and Jay swore by those torque-adjustable Cruisers (not that it seemed to help). I already had two Competition Pros in the house, so why had he brought his own? More importantly, why wasn't the fucker late?

They take away Olympic Medals for less.

Two games in, we found out why. Stef had just obliterated Paymon's Juventus. He beat me in the very next game - all with this mystery joystick. Its green buttons seemed to glow. We speculated, briefly, that the stick may have been bitten by a radioactive footballer. It transpires that Stef had been involved in a week-long series of heuristic tests and Stanley knife surgery. He'd taken the game apart, sussed the shots he needed to win, and hacked away at the joysticks rubber insulator to facilitate those shots. Bastard!

The matches went on and on. Every game finished with accelerated heart-rates and sweat-salted microswitches. Paymon and I were hanging in there, but Stef was mostly carving people to bits. At the start of the final fixture, I've got a tenuous toe-hold on top due to goal difference. Paymon and Stef are right behind me, equal on points. Last fixture? The fiercest sniper in the game versus the easiest target on the range. Stef Utd vs Jay City.

Oh fuck.

Any resemblance to persons living or undead is entirely coincidental.

Right at the start of the game, Jay's sausage-sized fingers slipped across his stick and he accidentally scores a 35-yard curler. It was a fucking miracle. For the first time in the entire evening, Stef was behind - it was time to shout from the touchline.

Every man has a weakness. Stef had two. He was a particularly protective big brother to two fifteen-year old twin sisters. We didn't actually know them that well - I'd never even laid eyes on them. As if that mattered...

Don’t fancy yours much.

"Settle an argument for us, Stef. Paymon and I can't decide which of your sisters is a better kisser".

Scuff! Stef's audacious halfway line loft is caught by Jay's keeper

"I got a letter from the Royal South Hants VD clinic today. Tell Anna I'm clean, but she still needs to get down there herself".

Toink! Ball hits post. Jay shepherds the ball out of danger area in straight-line fashion. Many of Stef's players seem to slide tackle all at once

"Oh don't worry, mate. I'll tell her myself. She'll be here in a minute anyway - I left a pair of cacks in your mum's bedroom and she's bringing them back."

Spoing. Last ditch equaliser attempt rolls inertly over dead-ball line

Pheep!!

Fear me!

At the final whistle, Stef had been handed a 1-0 defeat by a man with a moustache. A moustache, for fuck's sake! White with rage, he had to put up with a chorus of curled-up cackles, Jay's first ever victory lap and Stampy's follow-on enquiries about a potential jailbait jackpot.

The moral of this story? If you can't beat the game, beat the man. It might not improve your skill, but it'll still give you a fucking good laugh a decade later.

PS. Love to all the dudes in this story. You're still the boys

Links : Thanks to our friends at the mighty Tash Wednesday

PAP, August 2004.

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