From Every Grogpod Episode, A Little Nostalgia Blooms...

 

 

 

I was listening this morning to the latest Grognard Files podcast, and apropos of being asked by a listener about the games the presenters wished they'd played back in the door, they stated that they were limited by only having Games Workshop.

 

Well, that was a poor excuse, because with few exceptions, at the time they were claiming to be victims of this mono-store culture, Games Workshop stocked pretty much everything.

 

Here in Sheffield, we did admittedly have 5 sources of games, with Beatties being the best place for Grenadier box sets and Standard Games products, a few fun bits at HopkinksonsToys and for some early AD&D stuff that even GW could not get (because, if Iam being honest I think they had never known what the whole RPG thing was about) you went to Redgates, the emporium of childhood discernment which frankly pissed all over the branch of Hamleys which came, saw, destroyed and then vanished up it's own arse, taking it's London souveneirs with it). Sheffield Space Centre on Heeley Bottom was a place where you did not find much in terms of games, but they did stock some pretty outre figure sets from the U.S.

But, GW was the definitive source. Here you needed to remember that the stuff on the shelves was only the icing on a rather large cake. You needed to look in the plastic boxes, under them wherein you could find stuff such as Swordbearer, Fantasy Trip, Thieves Guild and the Arduin Grimoire range as well as all of the Hero Games and FGU product lines.

 

I guess at the time there were two kinds of gamer in there, the first read White Dwarf and paid more attention to the licensed products produced by GW, and those who (and I think most of my own peer circle were of this type) who delved into corners, like an infestation of literate bookworms. Indeed, no mater which group of fellow gamers I was with on a given journey into the city centre, we roamed as far and wide as our drive to find our next buzz required. 

 

We peered into dark recesses, sometimes narrowly avoiding one of the many marauding youth gangs who seemed like an inner city equivalent of the wandering monster. If only we had realised that in many case we outnumbered them, and probably caused a few squeaky sphincters ourselves, with our long hair, metal studs and denim battledress, or would have, had we not been more interested in laughing and animatedly discussing this or that gaming or pop culture topic, instead of trying to look 'well 'ard'. 

 

I'm glad my friends were like that, with the exception of one friend of a gaming buddy, who was an absolute fucking nightmare if he tagged along. Admittedly, he did have his 'moments' and 'the great chase; and 'eaw meat trem; incidents are now folk legends. But, he was a non-gamer and mercurial, which meant possible misunderstandings and the chance of a beating.

 

I tell you, those of us who had not grown up with him were rather intimidated by him. But, he was a long standing friend of our gaming friend and so, because we were all brought up correctly, we gritted our teeth and put up with the ordeal. To this day, he is discussed with amazement - even by his friend.

 

Once we had seen everything that the fleshpots of Sheffield had to offer, we started travelling to far away places such as Rotherham, Doncaster, Leeds (always causing parents to worry as this was not long after the days of the Yorkshire Ripper, who did not as far as we know prey on pint sized Hippies, but nevertheless a murder had been on the loose in Leeds and it was to coin a parent of our party 'a right dump') Manchester and Liverpool. 

 

Oddly, I only ever had problems in Manchester, where as I have mentioned before I was chased through the Arndale Centre by skinheads. Those Doc Marten shod Orcs were never going to catch a Hi-Tec equipped Humakt Lay Member...

 

Whilst my ancestral home when it comes to gaming is GW, I have to say that for sheer gaming perfection, Games Of Liverpool is the place I miss the most. It was brilliant.

 

In the early 80s, Dad was a stock controller for a home furnishing company in those days, and he was regularly required to travel to the various branches to sort out sundry issues with missing stock or suchlike. During the school holidays, I’d often go with him. It was an adventure that maybe seems somewhat dull to an adult, but to me, getting up at 4:00AM to travel with my Dad in his company car, - a Ford Popular for those interested - stopping at motorway services for a bite to eat whilst watching the sun rise over a city I’d only ever seen on television or on a map was magical.

 

I’d pack a bag with a selection of ‘White Dwarf’ magazines, always making sure that one of them had the address of a shop in the city we were heading for, my hair brush, a note pad, pen and whatever else I thought essential. In my mind I was setting off on an adventure from which I may not return, and that if I was going to die at the hands of an orc (for this read; ‘local lout') then I’d at least have good hair. Maybe I could backcomb an attacker to death or leave them in the gutter with a terrible sideparting. 

 

Even today, if you were to meet me in the street and look in the backpack that I habitually carry, you would be certain to find a brush in there. Old habits die hard I guess. Come to think of it, you’d find pretty much the same things now as in 1983.

 

On this particular overcast, day in early autumn I was in Liverpool. After a journey which had taken us past a pub named ‘The Hobbit Inn’ in Sowerby Bridge, West Yorkshire - the simple sight of which had sent my fantasy-obsessed brain into overdrive - I’d left my Dad at the doors to his temporary workplace and was making my way down the main thoroughfare. 

 I remember back then, that nearly every news broadcast carried an item relating the Irish Republican Army or other similar paramilitary organisation engaged in the bitter conflict that divided Ireland for so many years. Liverpool with its large Irish population was a hub of opinion and as I walked down the street a piece of graffiti caught my eye which not only illustrated the passion for the various Irish causes but also the famed Liverpudlian wit. In red spray paint was scrawled ‘Free Gerard Kelly!’ to which some Oscar Wilde of the Wirral had added ‘With every 5 gallons.

 

But, despite the risks, Games Of Liverpool, a regular full-page advertiser in White Dwarf who each month listed hundreds of items in almost microscopic print: Fireball poly dice, Bushido, Grenadier Miniatures the list went on, and beckoned to the desires and pockets of teenagers everywhere. It was typographical cocaine for game junkies and here I was on my way to score a ‘hit’ right on the doorstep.

 I was not disappointed that’s for sure. ‘Games’ occupied the corner of a possibly Victorian street. The frontage on just one face of the corner location, covered at least twice that of my beloved local haunts and its darkened doorway looked to me for the entire world like the entrance to the long-forgotten dungeon so beloved of popular fantasy novels and most fantasy role-playing games. When I tell you that it was packed to the rafters with games, it is no exaggeration. I have never seen a shop with so much stock. 

 

 If you’ve ever seen the film Ghostbusters, in particular the scene in the basement of the library, right at the beginning, then I can assure you that the tightly packed shelves which the intrepid trio navigate via labyrinthine walkways don’t even begin to get close to the ones I found myself in this day.

 

Every conceivable board game from Bingo to the Avalon Hill war games filled the shop. To the left a dark wooden counter was similarly flanked with boxes. It was as if the gods had built a temple around the entire universe’s game collection and then said to the appointed guardians – the staff – ‘Here you go, make yourself some space and start preaching the gospel!’

 

My eyes simply couldn’t take in the volume and variety, but, where were the role-playing games, where were the miniatures? Had I misread my magazine?

Recovering somewhat from my initial shock and awe - I think that had the Coalition forces dropped photographs of Games Of Liverpool on Iraq instead of bombs, the outcome would have been the same without the senseless loss of life - I approached the counter.

 

‘Excuse me, but I’ve seen your advert in White Dwarf and it says you stock…’ And here I reeled off a long list of products, lovingly consigned to memory.

 

‘You’re not from Liverpool are you? And I can tell you’re not from Manchester.’ The man behind the counter asked.

 

‘Err, no, I’m from Sheffield. It’s in Yorkshire. You may have heard of it?’ Of course he had heard of it but I was young and - let’s be frank here - ignorant.

The man chuckled, but not in an unpleasant way. No, he actually seemed pleased to see me. He made me feel that, all he was waiting for that damp and dreary day, in that dark, dusty shop was a denim-clad, naïve pillock from Yorkshire.

 ‘Down the stairs to the left, mind your head and don’t trip over the Troll.’ The last bit said with another chuckle.

 ‘Thanks’ and with that, forward I went, down a spiral stone staircase, almost as dark as the shop above into… 

 A brightly lit room packed floor to ceiling with games, my games. A referee describing this may have done so thus:

   Referee: ‘You’re descending a dark, dank stairway. The Troll that you were warned of by the Gatekeeper above is not there. Ahead of you is the hint of light, maybe from a torch. What are you going to do?’

You: ‘I approach carefully, looking for the Troll. I reach in my back pack and take out my hair brush, and neaten my centre parting for the coming battle’
    

Referee: ‘As you reach the foot of the staircase you step into a brilliantly lit doorway… (He consults his rulebook and rolls a D20) The light is bright but you are not dazzled.’

You: ‘I check for traps around the door, and brush my hair.’

 

At this point there’s more consultation of the rulebook and a couple of secret dice rolls and the referee continues.

 Referee: ‘No traps… And the centre-parting is fine. A sense of wellbeing envelops you drawing you inwards.’

You: ‘I slide my hairbrush back into my backpack and step through the doorway, casually flicking my fringe.'

Referee: ‘In the bright light of the room you see treasure… All around you, as far as the eye can see are games of every type. To your left behind a dark counter, two men stand looking at you. On the counter are trays containing what look like rare and precious stones. The men smile at you - something you have not yet encountered in a games store.’

You: ‘I cautiously say hello. What about these stones? Can I see what they are?’ You briefly refer to your character sheet to see if you have any skills that help in trying to identify the stones.

Referee: ‘As you draw nearer the counter, the men return your greeting. The stones are actually dice. These are dice unlike any you have seen before.’

You: ‘Can I see miniatures? Is there lead booty to be had?’ Here, the referee consults his notes again, but rolls no dice.

Referee: ‘Alas, no, but to your left is a doorway and a hint of light somewhat dimmer than that which illuminates this first chamber.’

You: ‘I hail the men and ask if they know the whereabouts of any miniatures.’

Referee: ‘The man on the right directs you to the doorway to the left.’ He indicates to a sketch map that he’s drawn on a sheet of hex paper.

You: ‘I thank him and pass through the door.’ 

 
And so, I had made it to the great Games Of Liverpool.

 

In the basement, just like the upstairs section, you could hardly move for games and there is no hyperbole in that statement. To the left as you already know was a doorway, which led to two further rooms, created from what were formerly cellars, but which now held glass display cases which I recall reached up to the ceiling, filled with miniature figures.

 In the ‘good old days’ figures were normally sold without any packaging. There were exceptions of course, but in the emporia of choice such as Games Workshop and Games Of Liverpool you would usually find a series of glass display cases containing one of every miniature stocked, with a label normally giving a catalogue code. You wrote down the codes of the models that you wanted together with the quantity and presented it at the counter. The staff would then rummage in various boxes or plastic trays for the models in question, popped them in a bag and took your money. This was the way the gods meant things to be.

 

These days with the mass popularity of games and ‘I want it now.’ mentality, sees the majority of manufacturers using plastic blister packaging so that figures can be put out on racks and customers serve themselves. 

 

It may indeed be a more efficient way of shopping, but the old way had a charm of its own as you stood there hoping that the shop keeper wouldn’t rummage around in the trays and have to tell you that they had sold out of the figures you wanted and that a re-stock would take a couple of weeks depending on the post. 

 

In Sheffield, many of the display models in their cabinets, had been exquisitely painted by the late Pete 'Greblord' Armstrong, the closest thing I believe the company had to a full time, dedicated miniature painter back then and one of the staff who manned the ‘figure bar’ in the Sheffield branch, and who could along with Chris Gilbride, his co-conspirator, piss-take a teenager to death in 7.45 seconds from a cold start. 

 
If tPete and Chris were having a bad day, the staff at the ‘figure bar’ would generally make you feel like shit, by taking the piss. It was a very toilet orientated experience at times.

 

That day in Liverpool, I spent half my hard-earned cash on dice, figures and games. The other half was spent on a jacket with large bat-winged sleeves, made from crinkled parachute material. It was grey, baggy and as was also the fashion back then had two massive cargo pockets. It was perfect for holding the booty I had purchased earlier and was my first clumsy attempt at embracing fashion…