In Praise Of The Past, Ruminations On A Possibly Wasted Youth (or possbly not) And 'The Gaming Circle'

 

Recently, I've been somewhat deep in thought, as to just how deeply my hobby has intertwined with my life thus far. 45 out of 57 years is a long time for anything, let alone, playing let's pretend with little lead dollies.

On the day of my marriage, I kept a promise, made some years before to go into Games Workshop on my wedding day, alas, by then it was not the wondrous store of my 80s youth, but still, it was personally symbolic. On that same day, I purchased my first 'Paper Tiger' art book, 'Lightship' by Jim Burns, which to this day is on my shelves.

As my daughter spent the first few days of her life being poked, checked and generally approved by midwives, I played a blinder of a game (15th Century Japanese vs Knights Of St John - My K.O.St.J won, hands down) with Andy Mackay, a stalwart of the early days of Games Workshop.

A few years ago, as  my Grandson made his early appearance, I sat painting at my desk for 26 hours straight.

The first gift I gave my wife, was a 28mm ghost model and our first outing together, was a trip to Liverpool, cuddled up on a National Express coach, in the heady, pheromone-packed throes of what was to become an enduring and deep relationship. Why Liverpool? I was taking her to see 'Games Of Liverpool' a long lost but legendary 'temple' of gaming.

But, gaming has not always  brought good memories...

In the mid-90s I was chosen as manager of Dungeons & Starships, the retail arm of Chris Harvey Games. Not long after we opened the store, my Grandfather passed away. I remember that the weekend preceding, Kayte and I had been at the Mailed Fist convention and on the Sunday my Father visited, making accusations that we had not bothered with my Grandfather as he faded away in hospital, a shadow of the vibrant man I had loved, still love. An indescribably (even by my anger standards which as those close to me will tell you, set a high bar to beat) blazing row ensued, words harsh and never forgotten found an outlet in a tirade of rage, forged in the impotent despair that accompanies the realisation that there is nothing you can do for a loved one.

But you see, we had visited the hospital, where the tiny figure, who lay seemingly oblivious in a private ward. We had visited when nobody else from my estranged and dysfunctional family was there to witness and approve - approval was essential in my family. Indeed, the very night before this explosion of emotion, I had held my Grandfather's hand, quietly said my farewells and pleaded - yes pleaded - with him, to let go and find peace and freedom from pain.

I did not attend the funeral, such was the venom in my blood, at the time. I was at work, the need for me to be there, forming the armour of my excuse, as if by being absent from my post would tumble the whole house of cards, so recently completed. In the end, it collapsed anyway indifferent to it's human inhabitants, so reliant on the income it gave. Games were my refuge from the real, the sugar-pill placebo cure for a soul in torment and pain.

That was a long time ago.

But now, I am going to pay my tribute to my grandfather, Arthur Barson, who encouraged me whenever I painted a new figure in the kitchen of my grandparent's home. The time that he sat there and nodded and listened, even if he did not understand the dragon-obsessed outpourings of his first and favoured grandchild. I hope that I will be half the grandfather he was, but I fear that it's one challenge to which I, nor any other could be equal.

I miss him, although I never really speak of it, but one thing is for certain, I will never forget him, nor the passive yet important part he played in the gaming history of my life.

I used to say that I would trade one year of my life for one day back in the Games Workshop of my youth. I still would; but now I'd want to share that experience with my Granddad too.

 

It's funny isn't it, how as you age, you become less tolerant of bullshit, yet more reflective and understanding of those you yourself gave a hard time to in your youth?

 

Back in those hellish years of adolescence, we gamers and geeks and general social misfits not only had to put up with being bullied, shunned and ignored by our peers, but also had to face something with far more terror potential than all the rest put together...

Parents!

Those devils! They stopped us being out late, disapproved of the girls we brought home and assured us that the only way to a thick head of hair was to get it cut regularly.

And now, despite all that I would like to pay my most sincere respects to all of those parents who had their treasured homes filled by hordes of fantasy obsessed, denim-clad yobs for so many years as we descended at regular weekly intervals (daily in some cases) like a Mongol horde to fill dining rooms, bedrooms and living rooms, rapaciously devouring any food in our path.

And so...

Peter & Sheila Ashmore:

Peter was wise to us. I have rarely been as scared of anyone's Dad, as I was of Peter. Mr Ashmore frankly took no bullshit from any of us. One memorable weekend it snowed whilst we were gaming at Darren's home and it snowed. It had been cold, but as was the norm we were all dressed in the uniform of thin combat jackets, T-shirts , denim jackets and a few pairs of gloves. It was snowing, we were young and so we all dropped the dice and made off into the winter darkness to pelt each other with snow. Upon returning sodden and frozen, to the Ashmore residence we were all right royally bollocked by Mr Ashmore and we skulked upstairs somewhat shame faced and cowed.

But (and here is the mark of a top bloke) about half an hour later, Peter appeared at the bedroom door with a tray of steaming mugs of tea.

Sheila, was the water to Peter's fire (but we were not going to wind her up because we were pretty sure that Mrs Ashmore would not put up with B.S either) and never seemed phased when half a dozen kids arrived without invitation just about lunchtime on Saturday. The wonderful Mrs Ashmore filled the table with viands and even if she was put out by our arrival, she was sweet and funny and never for one moment showed inhospitality.

Peter & Sheila... You put up with a lot from us - red dye in the toilet cistern when we played 'Killer', wet gloves and jackets  all over the place and probably the food bill of a small European country - and I always felt as your home was mine when I visited.

Thank you both...

Kitty Rhodes, Mother of Keith (where did he disappear to) was another totally unflappable mom. She had two sons, so what difference would ten more make? Kitty fed us and berated us when we went a bit to far. Kitty had very few house rules, but I once transgressed and had to wear my backside in a sling for a month or so afterwards, such was the ferocity  (albeit quietly) that my friends mom unleashed upon me. I deserved it...

Keith and I were pretty much joined at the hip in our youth and whenever our parents went on holiday  we would live at the home of the ones who were away at the time, clearing out the fridges and living like barbarian night owls for weeks at a time.

Kitty also cooked the best red cabbage with apple, I'd ever had.

Kitty, thank you...

Mr & Mrs Blackburn, parents of Simon, put up with all of the usual antics with the added stress of having us swinging round swords and halberds in their garden. We were all heavily involved in reenactment in our later youth and so, when we found a garden large enough to practice - we did. And we did it with gusto to the point of what could have been construed, attempted manslaughter.

Many is the hour that games of Warhammer were fought out with 1000+ models on the Blackburn family dining table.

Mr & Mrs Blackburn, thank you.

Margaret & Dave Bishop, parents of David and Daryl unfortunately had a very large dining room AND garden. And so as was to be expected  they suffered from the human locust swarm probably more than was reasonable and fair.

Mr Bishop would be part of what was a parental car pool, collecting groups of young gamers from the assorted clubs we attended. It was as a passenger in one of these 'air lifts' that I first met Mr B. I don't think I impressed him.

Mrs B.. what can I say? Mrs B was always there when I was having trouble with my own parents at a difficult time in my life. She fed me, listened to my woes and gave me somewhere where I could feel I was wanted. When Kayte and I became parents, Mrs B was one of the first people outside of our immediate families to see our daughter, Ceridwen.

Mr and Mrs Bishop... Thank you from the bottom of my heart.

Mrs Smith, Roger's Mum did not interact with us much but she still happy for us to invade her flat regularly and subscribed to the 'gaming circle' - more of which later.

Mrs Smith, thank you.

Mrs Needham, Andrew's Mum, was hardcore. She put up not only with my visits to wargame or just visit Andy, but moreover she never batted an eyelid to my black clad form during my Goth years. True, Andy was a Goth as was his girlfriend who both lived in the attic, but 1 Goth is company, three's a mass suicide!

Special mention must go to Mrs Needham's moussaka which even 30 years or so later has a very, very firm and fond place in my stomach's heart. That wonderful dish, warm and welcoming kitchen and the friendliness of Mrs Needham towards a pretty screwed up youth, did me the world of good.

And last but not least ...

Mum & Dad, my parents. You put up with a lot from me and let me be honest here, I treated you like crap sometimes. You made all of my mates welcome, even during times when you disliked me. You fed them, let them sleep over whenever they visited and maybe gave some of them the same feelings of support that their parents gave to me.

 

Youre not here to read or hear this from me now...

But, thank you!

 

Now, to lighten things a little...

You will recall that I made mention earlier of the 'Gaming Circle'?

Well it went like this. 'Somebody' had a great idea hat we should each host a game pretty much every day of the school holidays, taking it in turns by rotation. Of course Mums would be expected to feed us all. And because all of our Mums were pretty amazing women, feed us they did, whilst we did our best to make a mess of their treasured homes. I played some of the best games in my life whilst the circle lasted, and none of us went hungry.

Dads made rounds of drinks (alas, these tended to be non-alcoholic apart from at Christmas, but I seem to recall that Pete Ashmore did make some lager that we got to try) and drove us home at sometimes unreasonable hours.

What's more it was also not uncommon for a group of us, having lived for several days in tents at this or that reenactment event, to spend a day or so when we all returned, at the first family home we came to, collectively breaking the ties of comradeship, before reporting to our own homes. I can only imagine the effect that a group of bruised, hoarse and hung over youths who had not washed for 3 days must have had on our long suffering parents. Trust me a mix of sweat, gunpowder and rampant youth is not one that will be bottled for re-sale.

 

We truly lived in the greatest of times, and I will defend that to my last breath, and no, we were certainly not 'Latch Key Kids'. We all came from traditional, well run homes (we probably thought we were hard done by, but rest assured we were not) but our parents knew that we were more interested in our shared interests than running wild in the streets - usually, and they would know something was awry if we were not talking about how our Oakey's Dragoons or Orcish hordes the second we woke up, or walked through the door.

On behalf of all of us who were there, thank you!

TTFN