'86 - A Hell Of A Year And A Year Of Hell

 Well as I begin this latest instalment, I have 5 days left of my holiday and whilst I've been quite pleased that I've got 3 off my 4 sci-fi forces finished, I don't feel rested. Still, as this is really a 'catch-up' for holidays lost last year, I can do some proper resting when I take my Summer holiday. Such, as they say, is life :)

1986 keeps popping up in various ways, and it got me remembering that '86 was a time of big changes for me, ones which, would  lead to me meeting my wife eventually and stirring the next part of my gaming life into action.

In late 1985, I'd moved with my parents to a semi-rural area, out of the industrial suburbs of Sheffield, and I'd not reacted well, to the notion of one bus every hour, and a 45 minute journey into the city centre.

Don't get me wrong, I hiked and camped a lot, and since the age of 9 had been out and about with school and friends. But, the reality oif living so far from my beloved gaming haunts was an issue.

That said, I was not going without my gaming fix, because several of my gaming buddies from GW and the various clubs I was rolling my dice in, lived in the area, so a new set of games, based in the homes and gardens of this bunch began to unfold. 

But, it did mean that my parents tolerance for me rolling in an hour later than the strict curfew they had on me, solely because I had a two-bus journey to get home after a night at one of the games clubs, was pushed to breaking point. This was odd, because they knew who I was with and where, but it was a control thing. After all, I was regularly travelling across the country on my own (sometimes with friends) chasing the dragon so to speak.

In - I think - early 1986, just after we moved  my world started to unravel when, I was 'banned for life' from Games Workshop by a man who, is one of my gaming heroes professionally and he was a bloody good manager in the days when GW had around 6 or 7 stores, and trust me, the 'Limpets' who plagued his life, were definite cases for teenage euthanasia (although rumours that we were inspration for 'Carousel' in the Logan's Run movie are just that - look at the dates of the film and the emergence of the 'Limpets').

It went like this - but remember I only found out the whole back story some 25 years later*  when I was doing research and interviews for 'Real Life's A Bugger! A Tale Of Sex, Dragons & Rock 'n' Roll' - those of us, who were 'faces' on the local scene and 'well in' with the staff, were able to get their games cheaper, because their friends on the staff would buy them at staff discount, and hand them over in the pub or outside the pub for us youngsters, for a small commission of a beer or so.

But, it was getting out of hand in Sheffield apparently, and so a plan was made to make an example of of the best known faces (your correspondent) with a very public and if I may say, very physical  ban (on the part of a rather nasty, alcoholic, member of staff who 'got off' on picking on kids - this is not a personal opinion, this is a fact which has been confirmed, time and time again in the intervening years as their victims got together and talked about those days.)

I walked into the store one morning, was put in an armlock, and told that if I ever came back into the store, the member of staff manhandling me, would 'break my back', and believe me, I believed that sadistic bastard.

Now, let me state clearly, that the person who issued the order did not at any time indulge in any of this bullshit beyond taking what was at the time a sound decision to nip a situation in the bud - PERIOD. It was the right decision at the time, but handed off to the wrong people.

Alas, there were a couple of really nasty and predatory types on staff in the store (and, I collected written statements from female members of staff which would make you cringe) who ,as I said, got pleasure from the 'power' they had over children.

(SIDE NOTE: Sheffield store seemed to have some problems in the later 80s, long after Pete had moved on to greater things and the original staff had for the most part, had done likewise. For example, one later manager, apparently emptied the safe and did a runner. 

 I recall that in about 1993 I was in the house a former staffer from those days, and they had box upon on box of Citadel blister packs which, they plainly stated were 'liberated' - Orcs and Star Trek ships for the most part.)

At the time, I was told that a staff member had also been fired and it was my fault. In 2011, I located that staffer and found out that they had left to take up a new job, with a glowing reference (which I have seen and which, has been corroborated by third parties who were there) and that this was used as the jumping off point for the intervention.

 And so, at a stroke, I was cut off from much of my world. Two of my circle were given part-time jobs in the store on the understanding that they kept silent on the matter, after a staffer spoke out of turn and told them in the pub one night, what had had happened. I forgave those two, long ago, but I have never forgotten the slight.

And so, I begam a wandering minstrel phase of  my hobby. I was gaming at clubs, but it was not like it was before, when those clubs were closely connected with GW staffers. I was travelling to Leeds and Liverpool for my GW fixes, but Liverpool went out of the window when I saw that 'Back Breaker' had been posted there as a temporary manager and I truly believed this individual would indeed inflict injury.

Remember, this was the world seen through the eyes of essentially a child, and a child who had been traumatised.

The break with certain friends also meant that I was widening my circle of friends, but not with the same bonds, as parts of my world ceased to exist.

Some more recent gaming and reenacting friends started taking up more of my time, and introduced me to people they knew outside of the gaming world.

I was also painting full time for Military Miniatures, being one of two painters (both from Sheffield, oddly enough) who were used for work which was more detailed than the standard 'off the shelf' units MM supplied through Miniature Wargames. The money was 6 times per week than my first job a few months earlier when I'd left education. £200 was a lot of money in the 80s, and that was based on 'piece work'. 

I was frankly, loaded and this allowed me to start to build large armies, piles of games and travel pretty much at will for the next year or so until MM defaulted on a payment and I had to make a journey by train to East Anglia to collect my payment in person, thus ending that relationship.

At the time, I was still very much culturally a 'Rocker' but I was also being take on mystery tours by Mick Rothenburg and other members of the chequebook wargaming fraternity, so I needed to take steps to sartorially up my game from the combat jacket and Hi-Tec baseball boots to Ocean Pacific tops and Levis in suitably pastel colours.

Musically, the world was also starting to change, Miami Vice was all over the TV as were re-runs of Fame, and I was watching them both avidly. I still do...

I began collecting 28mm ECW for skirmish gaming, and developed a love of the Once Upon A Time In The West Country.

To be honest, I was doing more miniature gaming than roleplaying as a result of the ban, rather than less gaming, and I was bankrolling it easily, and having some rather 'interesting' weekends. Indeed, one weekend, I banked £250 (around £950 today) and went on a three day bender with some gaming buddies, coming home on Sunday with £50 (more than enough to pay my board and get through a week comfortably) and looking like the filthy little animal I had been for the last 72 hours.

No, I won;'t go into details but it was, I assure you a weekend of excess in every way apart from drugs which are a line I will not and did not cross, but drink, sex and food - in differing orders of priority based on the time of day - were all over indulged in.

One night, my mate Keith - who pretty much lived at our place a lot of the time and who was a favourite of my Mum's along with Roger (whom I lost touch with after I split with a short term girlfriend, and she took up with him for a while) - and I, bedecked in our sharpest Miami Vice finery, went on a memorable Monday night out in the subterranean 'Sinatra's Style Bar' which we did not realise ,was one of Sheffield's most 'interestingly dangerous' nightclubs - on a hedonistic whim.

 Let's just say that it was an 'interesting' night, which saw us leave the nightclub with a (legitimately purchased) crate of Grolsch beer, our sphincters squeaking gently, having found that the place was packed with Rastas on Monday night, who saw that place as 'theirs' for the duration.

We suavely held our own with bottles of wine and spare glasses (which obviously, never saw use). It was a successful night.

It was an omen for the rest of '86...

It was in that year that I also made it to the Nationals in the Renaissance competition, my swan song as a 'junior'. Being at the yound end off my school year, I had qualified whilst still under 18, but was 18 at the time of the finals, which meant there was much fun to be had, as I could now legally get well and truly fucking wrecked, and as such I gave it my very best.

I was part of a group  (more like a horde) of SWS members who journeyed to the National Wargames  Championships in Reading, representing the north of England in the Renaissance period. It was an all-expenses paid weekend and I was out to have me some hot dice action.

The members of SWS are notorious for their taproom prowess, and the ability to play a competitive game after a long night out and with a hangover of monumental intensity. This weekend was going to add to that notoriety.

We were all sharing rooms for the weekend and I was teamed up with D.J who was competing in the modern warfare competition, having been coached by one of the top players in the country in addition to having an excellent grasp of Cold War tactical doctrines. There was only one drawback. There had been - allegedly – a mix up with the room bookings and rather than two single beds D.J and I had to share a double bed

 This would not bother me now, but as a youth this was just not the done thing. We begged, we pleaded and even offered bribes. The older members just grinned.

So it was, that on the first night I was awoken at 3:00 AM I was awoken by D.J talking in his sleep. I dug him in the ribs and requested in somewhat terse terms that he shut up. Alas, this did not work and D.J continued to babble. I stood up on the bed, gave D.J a smart kick and growled. Even this direct assault on my sleeping friend had no effect. In the end, I spent the night sleeping in the bath, matching the flow of hot water to the speed of drainage via the overflow pipe.

 The following morning as I sat with George another friend from the club I was literally falling asleep over my modest breakfast of steak, bacon, mushrooms, tomatoes, sausage, beans, eggs and fried potatoes. By the time I had finished and partaken of 3 cups of coffee, I was on the mend, but George was complaining about his own bacon being a little undercooked. A waiter was summoned and a complaint made. I was asked if my breakfast was acceptable, and I replied that the steak had been just a mite tough although I had choked it down.

  As I sat doing justice to a rack of toast, I was presented with another complete breakfast much to my surprise and I confess, joy. And so it was that I arrived at the show having eaten enough for two hungry builders who had just set a world brick laying record.

  I’d been reading about psychological warfare ploys and had a plan for misleading my opponent that day. I had decided that I needed a new set of rules and dice to celebrate the fact that I’d reached the finals. Accordingly I had called a trader earlier in the week and reserved the required items for collection at the show.

 But on the day of the competition before I went to collect them, I went to the playing area, located my opponent for the day and asked him if he could tell me which set of rules we were using and what else I may need other than models and a tape measure. I’ve never seen anyone since who has looked so happy. Here was a rather naïve and tired looking lad who would be easy to beat. He had fallen for my ruse and I left him smiling to himself as I went over to the trade hall to collect my order.

 I  gave the poor soul a serious pasting for nearly 3 hours and then, having secured my place in the next heat I went to register my entry for the painting competition, a rather stunning example of a Samurai general mounted on a grey horse. I’d painstakingly studied photographs of the real armour and had built up layer upon layer of red paint to create the effect of seven layers lacquer on wood, finishing the effect with a layer of gloss varnish to recreate the sheen. Judging was on Sunday, and I had high hopes.

 On Saturday night the club was upholding its reputation for destruction of alcohol. Unfortunately the chaps were using their kidneys as a disposal system as was I. Colin, a true ‘Yuppie’ and one of several members who, had ‘gone south’ to make his fortune - with some success, had joined us that night.

 The pub that we were in was a large old building with a raised balcony. We had taken the high ground and were watching Colin as he made his way to the bar with – and I kid you not – around a dozen rather attractive young ladies in his wake. He had obviously impressed them with his house brick sized cellular phone or his latest bank statement. They buzzed around him in the same way that a swarm of blowflies do around a freshly dead goat.

 He went to the bar, ordered a round of drinks, passing them to each lady in turn before returning his attention to the bar to pay the bill. The transaction complete, Colin turned around to find that his newly acquired coterie had disappeared. As if being taken to the cleaners for such a large drinks bill was not enough, he was the butt of that evening’s good-humoured leg pulling from the rest of the gang.

Sunday dawned way too early in the bathtub, and I went off to play the final game in my part of the competition and after a late finish due to a few problems with the umpiring, I was knocked out.

D.J won his competition – he’d had sleep that weekend - and as we made our way to the painting competition we were waylaid by Lloyd, Big Steve and Greg who informed me that I‘d not won anything in the competition, but they had collected my entry to save time and we were all on our way home in the minibus.

Eighty miles from Reading I was informed that I had won 1st place in my class but as the older members wanted to get back for a night in the pub, they had asked the organisers to post my trophy rather than having to wait for the formal prize-giving. This was delivered with the customary grins that mark this fine bunch of fellows out as complete bastards. They’re the ‘Wild Bunch’ of war games, and every one a friend for life.

Eventually, I saw the funny side and two weeks later I received my second trophy. I had proved myself sufficiently talented to take on some of the best painters in the hobby and beat them soundly. It felt great. I wasted no time in letting Andy at the Runelords know and cashing in on my ‘fame’ as people asked me to paint their figures. I cringe when I recall just how smug and immodest I must have been. Although the cringe is just a little one.

This was the last time I was conventionally happy for a long time 

I was drinking and rutting, painting and rolling dice, but still, there was a hole in the world and I was looking for something to fill it. 

I still saw my friends, but I became something of an ‘internal exile’ within the gang and less of a driving force behind organising games. 

 Around November of 1986 I was invited to join Angus at a party held by some friends he’d gone to school with. We were the same age and both shared an interest in games and rock music. Having made certain that there would be no Newcastle Brown Ale involved or certain young ‘ladies’ present, I accepted.

 I assumed that this party would be filled with like-minded souls and although not naturally one to walk into a houseful of strangers I made the effort. The party was being held at the flat of Calvin, an easy-going lad with a shock of black spiky hair and a similar taste in clothes. The rooms were filled with people dressed in black, with heavy make-up applied over white foundation – even the blokes - but as a Marillion fan, this was nothing new. The music was a bass-heavy dirge interspersed with doom-laden lyrics. It was both depressing and exciting in equal measure, and I found myself drawn to the whole scene before me, becaues there, then and even today, it eased my soul.

They referred to themselves collectively as ‘Goths’. - or rather, outsiders did. At the time, the only Goths I knew of were the ancient Germanic tribes who had invaded and sacked Rome. They were noted for favouring bright coloured clothes, not black. These misguided individuals before me obviously needed a few history lessons. Of course as is often the case I had misjudged the audience.

In fact, Goths draw inspiration from the gothic literary tradition and not from a bunch of hirsute nomadic warriors, as I was to learn during my time at that party.

 By the end of the night I was hooked. I wanted to look like these pallid children of the night. Twenty-four hours later I’d made the transition, having spent £200 (around £650 , but that was a weeks' painting earnings) on assorted black clothes, a pierced ear and sundry cosmetics, assisted by a bemused Keefe.

More parties followed, my old music was discarded for bands such as The Sisters Of Mercy, The Mission and The Cure. The sound and style suited my own somewhat dark state of mind and the people I met were different to the loyal friends I was now seeing less and less. It was a long, dark journey back to the light that lay before for me but, at the time, I didn’t know it.

In Late November 1986 I met a girl at Calvin’s flat and we started going out together. Thus began a relationship that drove me, quite literally, to the edge of insanity for nearly two years. I had several arguments with my parents culminating in a fistfight with my dad, who was a gentle and scholarly person at heart, but I must have pushed him to his limits of tolerance, as my own life spiralled like an Icarus-obsessed moth which flies too close to the 100 watt sun.

To cut to the chase, my parents threw me out one Friday night in what was probably an attempt to shock me during which I pinned my poor father to the wall with a pine bunk bed, and the Police were called. I met a guy called Marco in the Hallamshire Hotel who offered me a bed for the night and the following day, a friend of the family helped me move out, and apart from a few weeks over the intervening quarter of a century, I never went back.

I spent 4 out of five nights in the Limit, a  nightclub and almost legendary live venue on the Sheffield music scene, having seen some of the most innovative bands of the period grace its stage. Now, it was the haunt of several hundred equally dysfunctional, eccentric, black-clad denizens of the dark. But in an odd way we were happy. We all knew what it was like to be the other person, and despite the somewhat daunting appearance in public, when were all together, we laughed, joked and bonded like any other teenagers. It was all about image and anyone who tells you that to be a Goth was anything more is wrong.

We were kids who wore black, listened to depressing music and danced a lot. We were not vampires or damned souls, and I laugh and cringe in equal measure when I hear today’s incarnations attempt to justify themselves by claiming they are eternally damned, photo-sensitive blood drinkers, shunned by society. What rot!

I 'd met up with Stuntie, a casual friend from my school days who had been every bit the same as me.

He too, was into the Goth scene and indeed, it was he who taught me to laugh at myself. We became almost brothers as he exerted a steadying influence, and it would be 10 years before I betrayed that friendship.

 

Stuntie was also a gamer, a fact that I’d not known at school. He introduced me to Fat Bob, a fantastically witty guy who he gamed with, and together we played the occasional Napoleonic war game at Bob’s house and were served with some of the best home-cooked food I’ve ever had. He and his girlfriend Elle lived with his parents in a large Victorian house and his Mum made everyone of his odd-looking friends genuinely welcome. Her moussaka is fondly remembered as is the warmth and friendliness of Bob’s family.
   The relationship with my girlfriend began to disintegrate and I knew in my heart that this was not love. It was a charade and I was either too weak or too stupid to end it, probably both. These days I’d blame it on the fact that I was an eternally damned, photo-sensitive blood drinker, shunned by society.
   I had made a few friends in Stuntie, Bob and Calvin but only at the cost of many more who had been my confidantes for a lot longer. What had been fun at first was starting to change me, and the older gamers that I had spent so much of my youth around simply cut me dead. Only Lloyd and Big Steve saw that under the black clothes, blue hair and white face, I was the same geeky kid.
   But, there were funny moments along the way, many too sordid to recount. But here’s a little taste of that twisted sense of humour, as recounted in the previous chapter.
   A group of us were living in a shared house. We trusted each other and so unlike many such accommodations we did not lock our own rooms. It had the feel of the household portrayed in the BBC comedy series ‘The Young Ones’, a dangerous mix of sick humour, poverty and outrageous behaviour – with added mascara.

For example, a friend, who we shall refer to as Dick, was a gullible youth and we hatched a wheeze that to this day, has me giving an evil little chuckle when I recall it. Dick was asked to go to a well-known high street electrical retailer on behalf of my girlfriend who was at the time off on a visit somewhere or other.

I explained that I needed to stay at the house and wait for a package to be delivered, but asked Dick if he would mind picking up a pair of electric tampon removers that my girlfriend had seen advertised. Now, in answer to your unvoiced question, the answer is affirmative. Dick did go and ask, and another friend who ‘just happened to be going into town’ went with him.

 Here’s the real kicker. I gave him a carrier bag, which he was told contained my girlfriend’s old ‘manual’ tongues, which he, in turn, gave to the bemused salesperson. The bag contained a pair of serving tongues, common in many a household kitchen. 

Marco, who was briefly mentioned earlier in this chapter, was the Rik Mayall to my Ade Edmondson and things could get quite dangerous when we had a falling out. We could be at war for a fortnight or more. I recall that we had a falling out over the fact that Marco had helped himself to some food that was not his to take. We had a blazing row and retired to my room in the attic, where I slept on a bed with its legs removed. Marco crept up the stairs in the morning to throw water over me as I slept, but I was awake as he approached.

As the luckless Marco came around the door, he was hit in the midriff by a well-thrown boot. He retreated down the stairs to his own room and locked the door. I followed a couple of minutes later with a pair of boots on my feet, intent on kicking his door down. Instead of the door caving in, my foot went through and I fell over with my leg on the other side. Marco calmly walked over, removed by boot and thrashed the sole of my foot with a ruler.

He later stuffed the hole in the door with paper, which I set fire to. This was perfectly normal by our standards, but I am somewhat ashamed recounting it. I was starting to get somewhat out of control away from my gaming buddies.

I still bought figures and visited my old haunts, but I think that they just sort of became part of a larger whole. I recall that I still spent an awful lot of money on gaming stuff, but I think I stepped back from going to so many of the clubs and conventions for a while. I was, in effect, in total physical and emotional exile.

However, as is the way of things my old gaming friends and new acquaintances in the Goth subculture were to collide – literally – one winter morning.

I’d been into Beatties with Dean - one of the friends I’d made since deciding that wearing black and sporting white makeup was de rigeur - looking at the various games and model kits on offer. As we left, I made a snide comment to Dean as friends are wont to do and set off at run, crossing the road in a gap in the seemingly incessant traffic that runs along Pinstone Street in the heart of Sheffield, This slowed Dean’s pursuit somewhat and gave me an edge.

 Onwards I ran, around the back of Sheffield Town Hall and towards the Crucible Theatre, the café of which was a popular haunt – no pun intended – of the Goths at that time. There had been some snowfall that had begun to thaw out to that lethally misleading slush state that can have you sitting on your backside in short order if you make one false step. I raced towards the crucible about 40 meters ahead of Dean and saw Jerv, clad in his trademark German military greatcoat and woolly hat walking in the opposite direction, hailing him as I passed ‘Sorry Jerv, can’t stop - being chased mate.’ Jerv obviously thought that I was being pursued by someone intent on doing something unpleasant to me and acted accordingly. 

As Dean levelled with Jerv, my friend of old simply held his arm straight out to the side of him and delivered what wrestlers refer to a ‘clothes line’ felling my pursuer in his tracks. I intervened before Jerv did any more damage and introduced him to his victim, who was trying to stand up on the treacherous pavement. For the rest of the day Dean was holding his aching chest whilst I was held my sides as they ached with laughter. Well who wouldn’t?

Then, in February 1988 Cupid called. I was returning some borrowed boots to Calvin. I had a key to his flat at the time, and thought that I would quietly let myself in, and creep upstairs with the intention of giving him the fright of his life and a rude awakening as was the fashion amongst our group at the time. I quietly turned the key, closed the door, rapidly cleared the stairs, turned right into the bedroom and leapt onto the bed. Calvin - was not in it. Instead, I found a rather lithe and comely young thing with long dark hair and fully dressed a la mode, where Calvin would normally be found taking his repose.   

The young lady in question was somewhat put out by my sudden appearance, particularly because against the precedent set by television advertisers, this particular man in black was not carrying a box of chocolates, but rather a pair of clogs, which the fashion amongst a certain sub-group of goths. She was all quite understanding about it, and explained that she had stayed over at Calvin’s place after a night of clubbing, with Calvin, ever the gallant black knight, taking the sofa in the next room.
Many friends have heard me say this over the years, but it really is true. I fell in love with that woman immediately and have still haven’t stopped rolling.

An hour or so later after I had given Calvin some money to leave us alone, we’d got a pretty good rapport going. Kayte had been in the Limit pretty much as much as I had, but had gravitated to a different area. We shared similar senses of humour and, as she teased me, I uttered the phrase that began it all and what was in my opinion one of history’s finest chat-up lines.

‘If you do that again, I will be forced to kiss you.’ Needless to say I am a man of my word and carried out the devilish threat with gusto. Angels chorused, cherubim scattered flower petals at my feet and I felt that heady rush that marks true love, inadvertently casting ‘turn flesh to stone’ along the way. Oh dear, I think I need to go and lie down for a while in a dark room.

For the record, I demanded and indeed got the money back from Calvin later in the day. After all back then five pounds could buy you 10 good quality figures!

And that was how I met Kayte, the woman who has been my best friend, lover and wife for over half my life. It was not an easy road to that state of being however. I could not get out of the relationship I was in because I was too damned stupid to just walk away. I was an idiot, and it could have cost me more than any king’s ransom.

Kayte and I spent as much time as we could together. We took trips to Leeds and Liverpool and I was fortunate that she was sympathetic to my addiction to toy soldiers, because that’s why I chose those cities. I even gave her a model of a ghost that I’d painted – a totally unheard of gesture as no gamer gives a figure away. Yes, Kayte was very special to me.

But, Kayte left Sheffield and went to live in Leeds a few months later. I could have gone with her but, like the total wanker I was back then, I didn’t. Oh no, I  got rolling drunk and intimated that I was marrying another. I was left with only the memory of someone who I really loved.  I’d lost a fellow ‘art tart’ who was - and is still - brilliantly intelligent, great company, a fine cook but most importantly, my best friend and fiercest critic, all in one sultry package. What’s more she had one of my figures – damn!   

I became increasingly reclusive, in the true sense. My gaming activities outside of my own home were non-existent. A small group of us converted the attic of the rented house into a gaming room and played WW2 games using Airfix plastic figures and tanks from various plastic model manufacturers. These games could last for as long as three days when we had the time, but three days in an attic with same faces can never compare to the experience of getting out with a group of blokes and playing games at a club or convention. I saw maybe 3 or 4 people compared with several dozen or so with whom I’d previously spent my time. I was in a sad way.   

As my so-called relationship with the girlfriend I was with, spiralled on its inevitable terminal trajectory, I went to a war games convention in Harrogate. On the way back the train stopped in Headingley, the suburb of Leeds where I had heard that Kayte lived. On a whim I got off the train and walked the streets calling out her nickname – ‘Bat’ - hoping against all odds, that she would hear me. She didn’t…

But by another one of those freak chances that seem to feature heavily in my life, Calvin was visiting some friends who shared a house with Kayte and heard my banshee-like wail. And thus on a warm Sunday in August of 1988, I was told that Kayte was in Greece with her family topping up her tan. I was crushed, but at the same time somewhat brighter than I had been in a while.

By following a seemingly random impulse, and then making a fool of myself, I had found where the woman I truly loved was living. Calvin and other friends had never given me anything other than the name of the suburb in an attempt to spare Kayte from any further heartache that I may cause her, drunk or otherwise.

 To cut a long story short a few weeks later, my two year relationship was over for good, Kayte came back to Sheffield and my journey back into the land of love, light and war games began. If you know of a better love story than that, I’d love to hear it.

Whoops, I almost forgot until my dear wife reminded me of a promise that I had made when we first settled down together. I had declared that on my wedding day, I would be in the Games Workshop*. So I suppose that I ought to tell this tale of just how big a fantasy geek I am.

On Saturday August the 28th 1993, Kayte agreed in front of a few close acquaintances, to be my wife. During the ceremony, Lloyd tried to raise his hand when the registrar asked if anyone knew of a reason that we could not be joined. Unfortunately for Lloyd - but fortunately for the bride and groom - he was prevented from doing so by his girlfriend Anne, who gave his arm a sharp twist, causing him to yelp out in shock. Anne, if you happened before you passed away to read this, I am forever in your debt. 

A mere 30 minutes after tying the matrimonial knot, I was with my closest friends in what has been termed my ‘second home’, keeping the solemn oath that I had sworn to the gods of gaming. I am also reminded, that as preparations were made for the night’s festivities a group of us played a board game named Apocalypse rather than doing anything more constructive.

Therefore, let the record show that even on my wedding day I wore my gaming credentials with geeky pride and discharged my duties solemnly.

So, '86 was a an end and beginning of sorts... 

 

TTFN

 

*: Even after the GW management changed my ban was enforced. An older friend, Daz worked at the store for a while and had to throw me out, apologizing quietly as I was once again shown to the door, albeit with no malice or physicality being employed because he was a human and not a bastard. 

Once, when I attempted to make my side of the story known, the assistant manager lifted me by the collar and out of the door, no mean feat, as he was shorter than me by a good few inches. 

It was early 1988 before my exile ended. Paul C, a former trainee, who had risen to become manager, told me that all I had to do was ask. Paranoid as I was, I suspected that this was some cruel joke at my expense, but like any addict, I played the game and prepared to give the staff their bit of fun. 

I went ahead and asked. True to his word my ban was lifted and with it a little of the cloud which had descended on my life. 

Wherever you are now Paul, if you read this book – Thank you!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 (*more of the effects of this can be found in my book)