On being the first and how it's lasted

 

The Moor, the major shopping area in Sheffield back then (although now, a shadow of it’s former self), which sloped down gently to the Moorfoot precinct with the imposing red brick pyramid which was the Manpower Services Commission building. I worked in that building during the early 2000s when the Home Office shared the space and it was great to look out over the city, but an absolute bugger to navigate around.

   On this, our first trip into town for a month since that fateful clash with Geoff (Or ‘That Bastard’ as he had become known), Alan wanted a record from Virgin Records, which lay in the shadow of that russet monolith. Sheffield had more than its fair share of interesting architecture back then. Of particular note was ‘The Hole In The Road’ essentially pedestrian underpass that allowed several lethally busy streets to be navigated by the simple expedient of going underneath them. Built in 1967 T’ Hole In T’ Road as it became known locally was a roundabout at the junction of four main roads. The middle of the roundabout had a hole in it like the summit of a volcano, which allowed light to pass into the large pedestrian underpass below. 

This underpass contained shops, a large fish tank and even public toilets. It was a great place to skateboard or in my case imagine I was deep in the dungeons of a fell necromancer. I’ll not waffle on about it any further but make a search on the web. It’s worth it.

   Virgin Records was not the shining ‘family friendly’ store it would become in later years. It was a dark and foreboding place as I recall, where if rumours were true, a clean living lad would meet a swift and sticky end at the hands of Mods, Punks and other ne’er-do-wells. I never went in and had my parents discovered that I had frequented a shop with such a ‘sexual’ name, I’d have been grounded for a year or so. So, whenever Alan went in there, I just hung around outside and tried to look moody and mysterious, but approachable and not in the least bit dangerous. This was not easy. Well the mean and moody bit at least…

Thus it was, with Alan in search of his record, this particular afternoon found us walking past the Hagenbach’s bakery – long gone, alas, alas - when what should I see? 

   It was dear reader, the answer to my prayers and the beginning of a life of penury in the shape of a specialist gaming establishment by the name of Games Workshop the first of several dedicated game stores in Sheffield. It was back then, with its amazingly broad range, and enthusiastic, knowledgeable staff and distinct ambience, a place of almost holy reverence for my generation. It was in essence, my place of worship and weekly offerings were to the gods of games in ever-increasing amounts, a pattern that has continued ever since.

   These days, game stores seem more obsessed with ‘image’ rather than content, more about form over function if you will. In the ‘golden age’ it was more about the product, the hobby, the fun. It was all about playing games!   

   In 1982, the concept of providing the gaming public with a single ‘temple of games’ was still quite a novel one. Certainly to the uninitiated, it was unbelievable and what was more, the doors were open.

   We walked in, heads twisting, eyes swivelling, like nervous chameleons who, having fallen from their comfortably familiar treetop perch, find themselves on the back of a monitor lizard which is in the process of considering what it will be having for dinner. From all sides our senses were assaulted by literally thousands of striking box covers depicting all kinds of fantasy and science fiction theme imaginable from half naked princesses to gigantic star ships. Although we did not know back then, Sheffield based synth-pop band The Human League took their name from one of the factions in a game titled ‘Starforce: Alpha Centauri’. Just a brief aside, that shows the popularity of this type of game in even the most unexpected places.

   In the centre of sales area were wire ‘bins’ containing various special offers coinciding with the opening of the branch. My eye was taken by 4 small boxes, luridly illustrated ‘a la mode’, each containing 10 plastic figures, half a dozen acrylic paints, a terrible brush, 2 six sided dice and a set of rules. 

Each of these games presented a mini role-playing experience with all that the lucky purchaser needed. What’s more they were priced at £1.00! I picked up one called ‘The Cleric’s Quest’ and Alan, ‘The Woman Warrior’ - although the name of the other titles escapes me at the time of writing.

   Around ten years ago, I saw a set of these games on Ebay go for a three figure sum. Oh how I howled that day I can tell you, both with a sense of loss and recollection of happy times past. But once again I am wandering off at a tangent and you’ve not given me a sound nudge in the ribs.

   We had been in there for about ten minutes before being approached by a member of staff. We had been so taken by the sights and odours - yes, smells, of which I will say more later - that we had not noticed a distinct lack of other customers and indeed, staff. The man approached us and said that the shop was not open. We precociously pointed out that it most certainly was, the proof being that we were in said store, having walked through the doors, thank you very much.

How we were not slaughtered on the spot still amazes me to this day.

   ‘It opens this weekend and it’s going to be great. Do you want that?’ This said with a gesture to the box I was holding and then to Alan’s fistful of goodies.

   ‘Yes please. I’m sorry I thought you were open what with the door being open.’ I replied, my natural state of being returning, despite my indignant outburst.

   Well, we each handed over two pounds of the currency of the realm, were politely but firmly shown the door, and I was thereby ejected from that store for the first but alas, not the last time in my life.

   Alan forgot all about his record, albeit temporarily. We had something new and exciting and what was more we had an inside track to the grand opening event for this temple of temptation, this cavern of game related goodness. After all hadn’t the bloke in the shop all but given us a personal invite to attend?
   ‘Alan, we need to get back here on Saturday and save all our dinner money, no matter what…’ My eyes must have been glowing like coals at that moment. 

‘Yeah.’ Was all my fellow traveller in this newfound world could reply He was already tearing open his own purchase. 

   For my part and completely out of character, I was going to wait until I got home, savouring the exquisite torment that it produced in my teenage brain. I was so focussed on ‘being there’ on Saturday that I made sure I was not only home early that night, but, I forwent any more trips that week. A miracle!

   On reflection, I think that this was the defining moment at which I stood upon my personal crossroad. It was the point at which I believe to this day, I very consciously gave up on the mundane and truly took my first tentative but deliberate steps into the realms beyond reality, never to return for more than a brief period of rest and recuperation. 

   Once or twice I was to lose the path, but as sure as eggs are chickens I found my way back, wandering ever deeper into the metaphorical forest that was gaming.

   Reading backwards I can see that I have missed out a rather important little nugget of information. Whilst the 13 year-old inside the 53 year-old man takes that long and tortured bus ride home to Brightside, I’ll fill you in. 

   You will have seen me refer to six-sided dice previously. Maybe you have thought to yourself, ‘Why is he telling me that dice have six sides? Does this old fool not realise that everyone knows this to be true?’

   Well of course I know that but in fact there are polyhedral dice with 4, 8, 12 and 20 sides. It would be Saturday before I found this out, but you can find out on Tuesday and thereby know more than the kid who is currently salivating quietly to himself on the number 4 bus, having paid his 2p fare home. How good is that?

   Gamers have a habit of abbreviating things so rather than writing ‘roll 3 six-sided dice’ they will use ‘roll 3D6’. Like wise a twenty-sided dice is referred to as a D20 and so on. Henceforth I will use this approach and you will be indulging in one of the first pieces of mystical knowledge known only to those initiated into this most arcane of disciplines. Well, that’s how I would have put it at thirteen had I understood the meaning of arcane and in one of my more lucid moments. Now, back to the main feature.

   It’s an odd thing that I can even recall what it was which I so hurriedly ate that night. It was my Mum’s cheeseburgers and chips. These were, to a lad of thirteen with the normal appetite one would expect, manna from heaven. Although I had been brought up on a diet that a contemporary nutritional expert could only applaud, the odd sinful pleasure was there for the taking. I appreciate that most people have fond memories of their Mum’s or grandmother’s cooking, but my Mum really can cook. 

   Even a simple cheeseburger had a taste to it that I have never been able to replicate. Her roasts are sublime, her breakfasts legendary. She’ll probably never read this book, but there you are Mum, despite my strict upbringing and numerous arguments with you over the years that have left me the ‘black sheep’, your culinary prowess has been given the recognition I believe it deserves. 

   You still need to teach me how to make a decent pastry though. It’s my right as firstborn! Whoops… rambling again.

And so as you may have guessed, I was hooked, and the barbs had bitten deep into youthful flesh. I read and re-read the slim 10 page rule book which explained that this was a simplified adaptation of Dungeons & Dragons (so it claimed) using only normal 6-sided dice rather than the assorted dice familiar to the players of its far more detailed progenitor. 

   As I recall, it suggested that the player use hex paper to mark the locations of various things in the adventure, but apart from that, everything needed was in the compact package I held in - my by now - water-wrinkled hands. Hmm, I would have to visit Games Workshop again to enquire about the mysterious hex paper. Today you could simply stop reading, mark your page and type ‘hex paper’ into your chosen search engine. However I will save you the effort and tell you that hex paper was A4 or A3 sized sheets of paper which was similar to graph paper with the exception of having a hexagonal grid of between 5 and 25mm in size as opposed to the traditional squares. Additionally, each hexagon (at least on the 25mm grid) contained a number for various reasons to do with making maps and plotting complex moves. I may perhaps, have lost you with that last sentence. 

Allow me to elucidate…

   Board games depicting famous battles and the like had been around for some years with U.S based company ‘Avalon Hill’ being the star player at that time. It was noted early on that using square grid superimposed over a map to regulate movement of playing pieces was somewhat limited. However, the simple expedient of using a hexagonal grid opened up a lot more. Additionally, by numbering each space differently, players could plot the movement of counters representing units moving under cover of darkness or smoke etc by simply listing the numbers of the spaces they were moving through.
   There you go. By allowing me to waffle away for a few moments you have learned another little gem of information. If we carry on like this, you’ll be an expert on the minutiae of this hobby in no time at all. Beyond that point, any interest you may have is entirely your own problem!
   How I kept myself sane as Saturday approached confounds me, even today – maybe I didn’t – and the last 30 years have been part of a dream from which I will awake to find it’s still 1982 and I have a few more years of ‘good kickings’ to endure. 

   I suppose that painting the ten plastic figures that came in the box, using the water based acrylic paints which were also thoughtfully included, must have gone some way to keeping me in check.
   By this time I was able to paint clean yet simple miniatures. The brush supplied with the paints was thrown away. Even at thirteen years old, I was reasonably skilled at art and had a number of professional grade brushes. What really amazed me was that whereas I had previously spent ages waiting for the enamel paints to dry, the acrylics dried in minutes and what was more (alas, alas) there were no mind-altering fumes. There were some new learning curves that I approached like a rider on a fairground ‘wall of death’ – recklessly. 

   Similarly, some lessons were learned the hard way, such as not leaving a brush with paint on whilst I nipped into the kitchen for a snack. In just a few minutes it dried to a rock solid mass, requiring a long cleaning process or the replacement of valuable tools.

Meanwhile, Alan’s brother, Dave had seen him struggling over his own plastic models and this was when he - who made his living with a paintbrush - painted a few for his sibling and showed us both what was possible. We were amazed, because David would paint let’s say a red tunic and then mix a slightly lighter shade of the same colour applying it to the raised areas thereby creating the effect of light and adding a depth and added dimension that was to our eyes simply astounding. It sounds simple but seeing it for the first time was to witness real magic.

   Eventually Saturday came, and pulling on my drainpipe-straight jeans, long blue mohair jumper - knitted of course, by my Mum - and my purple canvas baseball boots, I set off into town. I think that the last sentence pretty much sums up the sartorial sensibilities of that decade, but let us move on before I die of shame or Beau Brummel starts to spin in his grave so fast, that electricity is generated. I can already feel the colour rising in my aging cheeks, even as I type this. Mind you, those same fashions appear to have cropped up again in the last couple of years, with none of the flair of the ‘good old days’.
Despite such meticulous personal grooming and the need to travel by bus, we were outside Games Workshop by 9.00AM and, to our horror, were not the first. A line of denim and long hair, with the odd anorak and many an unkempt piece of facial topiary, wound its way down The Moor. 

   Up and down the line we saw men and women – yes adults – dressed in outlandish science fiction outfits, chatting to the queuing masses and handing out flyers. As we approached, the line started to move and within 20 minutes we were inside. As I crossed the threshold for the second time that week I thought to myself : ‘Yes, I beat you all here. I am a veteran of this place you pitiful mortal fools.’
   Reviewing the above statement some 30 years down the line, my present day self thought: ‘Wanker…’ 

   But there you go, I had been the first customer in Games Workshop and I was going to revel in the sense of power that it gave me. I may be useless at sports or in a fight, but I had discovered something special - even if only to me - and nobody could take that away from me – yet.
Games Workshop in the early years was just that, and - to us - the staff, were, obviously high priests of the gaming hobby sent forth from their great temple to bring word of a wondrous new faith and show us the true way. 

   As we wandered around, browsing wide-eyed, we heard a whole new kind of banter, an enthusiasm for the products mixed with wit and sarcasm in equal measure. It was clear that they knew something we did not. They were already on first name terms with people who we had first seen half an hour ago standing in line outside. Quite clearly there was a secret group, who met in some darkened basement to summon forth, imaginary demons, slay monsters which only existed in the mind and sharpen their wicked wits on the unwary. 

   As it happened, I was correct about the sharpening of wits but it would be 2 years before I got one over on these people. Until then I was to be part of the collective stone on which they honed their metaphorical blades. Even amongst geeks I was to be a bigger geek.
That day I found out what hex paper was and purchased two sheets, a badge which read ‘Dungeon delving is bad for your elf’, another of the series of games I had purchased during my advanced reconnaissance, and my first D20. Total cost £1.95, which meant that with 4 pence on bus fares, I was still within my meagre budget and could afford a chip butty and a soft drink. Alan settled for the other mini-game and forwent any chips. 

   As you will recall, on the day we discovered Games Workshop, Alan had originally walked down to the far end of town intent on buying a record, and today he made good by the purchasing of ‘Love Potion Number Nine’ by the curiously named ‘Tygers Of Pan-Tang’ a poodle-haired rock ensemble - I believe they’re still on the go today and I shudder to think of it - with whom he was besotted and whom apparently had trouble with spelling. It was a ‘picture disc’ depicting a gigantic feline climbing the Empire State building. I remember he played it pretty much continuously whilst we spent the afternoon reading our newest acquisitions over and over, infusing ourselves with the forbidden knowledge therein.
This was the year that Adam and The Ants, the peacocks of the post-punk scene had thrown in the towel and despite being an avid fan I had found the likes of Iron Maiden, AC/DC and - please don’t laugh - Status Quo under the discerning guidance of Alan and his two brothers Ade and David. David was in our eyes ‘hard core’, with his long hair, leather and Honda 125cc bike that he had lovingly customised with blue metal flake paintwork and a stunning rendition of the cover from an album by Barnsley rockers ‘Saxon’. 

   Such was the craftsmanship and artistry that David lavished upon his bike, that he was able to sell it for the large part of the cost of a Yamaha 250 RD a few months later. I believe -not being a bike aficionado - that this was something of a coup.

   It has always amazed me just how many of the ‘Heavy Metal’ bands came from the industrial heart of England. Maybe it’s something in the water, or perhaps it was the only kind of music that could be made over the sound of steel rolling mills and Bessemer converters. Of course Sheffield was home to the – allegedly - legendary band Def Leppard. I can say hand on heart that even back then I had a degree of musical taste and discernment that ensured I would never own a Def Leppard record. On the matter of ‘Status Quo’ I humbly submit that I have no excuse or reasonable defence.

 To this day, those first steps and where they have led me, remain fresh, and bright (but 80s 'easy on the eyes' bright) and I genuinely don't think that a modern store with the orderly shelves and too-willing-to-help staff, wouldn't have that same sense of wonder, of finding a new and secret world, of being part of a secret brotherhood. That's a shame...