So, I’m thirteen. Volcanic hormones, unholy sproutings… I don’t really do girls, yet, but there’s definitely a growing interest in the shower pages of the Kay’s catalogue. On Saturdays, I head into town to worship at a twinkly little cathedral called Pleasure Island. It’s the early ‘80s and the coin-op is king. The slot machines are sidelined – and for over-18’s only. Sad, sullen over-18’s. Slumped, surly over-18’s, swiping at the buttons – always gambling, never collecting.

I remember the tacky carpet, the plastic pillars, the sealed change-booth, the ladies with the money trays who grudgingly offered tea to the over-18’s. Smoking allowed, pound notes, “Ten tens, please”.

I remember the stomach-flip on seeing a freshly felt-tipped sign on the entry door – ‘New Machine!’. And the word ‘LOOK’, with two little eyes for O’s. And, amazingly, a picture of the game itself – with an accurate, magnified version of the logo. Back then, these things mattered.

I remember the noise and sweat and tears of laughter during a four-player game of Track & Field… the crowd that developed around a promising-looking game of Super Punch-Out – and the little cheer that went up when Super Macho Man was finally KO’d.

I remember the aloof allure of the Discs Of Tron cubicle… the gung-ho kid in a parka who played nothing but Defender… the corner comfort-zone of Galaxian, Moon Patrol and Mr Do… the patchouli-reeking metallers who cranked up silly scores by playing tag Robotron – occasionally letting me step in to take a 'man' or two.

I remember a chubby, older kid who attracted big crowds around the Joust machine. I watched him play – sucking an hour or two from one 10p. I picked up a few of his tricks and developed my own party-piece – taking out the pterodactyl in mid-air. The all-time high-score table was topped by five of his scores – signed as ‘GSM’. I remember the day I beat his highest, drawing a crowd of my own – including him.

Most of all, I remember Star Wars – the sit-down cubicle with its luminous vectors, film samples, piercing volume… It was total immersion - like ‘playing’ the movie itself. I remember the euphoria of ducking and diving through the impossibly hostile trench level – not taking a single hit and without firing a shot until the final killer blast down the exhaust port. I remember the faces pressed against the perspex at the back of the machine. It was more of a performance than a game.

One day, I trotted into Pleasure Island and a jarring chord rang in my head. Star Wars had been replaced by two or three lesser machines – taking up too much space, obviously… less potential revenue. I remember asking the owner where it had gone. He said: “Endon”. A posh suburb of Stoke - too far on my pocket money - and painfully appropriate. Lest we forget…

February 14th, 2003

You can add your thoughts on this story in the forum