Tumescently macho as all this was, it was still not ultra-violent and triumphant enough for the (throbbing) members of the "Fine Gael Digital Task Force". On the occasion of a certain jolly plumber’s 30th birthday they’ve channelled their pulsating and infantile power fantasies into the creation of "Go Ireland".

Its gurning hero is Nint-Enda. He runs. He jumps.¹

He mercilessly fucks FG shurikens into the face of Joan Burton until she dies and her corpse turns into a pile of ashes. Really. “Tax This!”, he (really) yells as he does so. Die you fucking commie bitch!!

Fine Gael fetishists the land over are gleefully playing this as I type. Drooling as they lay brutal waste to their enemies.

Speeding Nint-Enda ever closer to his coronation at Hyrule Castle. Finger of the right hand feverishly pushing the “Throw Star” button. Fingers of the left hand frantically bringing themselves to climactic release. Cum and death and ashes and murder. And George Hook’s raging boner.²

Yesterday. It was one of those days for sicking oneself in the mouth.

1. Honestly. Dynamism not done justice by action-less screen grab. [back]
2. Always stiffened by exposure to “powerful men”. [back]

Occasionally, however, context-setting pre-game screens were so memorable as to overwrite recall of the games themselves. Take Irem's Vigilante. I only dimly remember the in-game action (standard, Double Dragon-esque, side-scrolling, ass-whupping fare), but have vivid memories of this.

To teenage boys in 1988 this was pretty provocative stuff. Gangs could (as was their wont) kidnap daughters and girlfriends of digital heroes as much as they liked, but not Madonna. Not Madonna in her fun, vibrant and fleshy days. Not Madonna back when she seemed (to pre-pubescent lads & lasses) the custodian of all the universe's carnal knowledge. Not Madonna before she'd met William Orbit and started sounding like a bored robot.

Gangs. Horrible, nasty gangs. They won't be happy till they've raped and burned and killed us all (while covering our nicer buildings in graffiti). They are evil (just for the sake of it). They are also (as 70s cinema has taught me) implausibly heterogeneous. A dizzying mix of ethnicities united by a mutual desire to utterly destroy society. Members are fond of (yuk!) leather waistcoats over (ugh!) bare chests. Also, bandannas. And fingerless leather gloves. And switch-blade knives. Is there one good man among us who has the guts and gumption to stand up, step up and stop them?

Well, Charles Bronson – obviously. And the Aryan beefcake, vigilante heroes of side-scrolling, 1980s beat-em-up games. Men (both fleshy and pixellated) who've had enough. Men who refuse (unlike faggy liberal peaceniks) to merely talk and to think and to legislate.¹ Men who oil up their pecs, grab the nearest rocket-launcher and start (Yeaaah!) blowing shit to fucking pieces.²

One of the more notorious articulations of such ass-whupping reactionary fantasising was Michael Winner's Death Wish 3 (1985). A "wipe the scum from the dirty streets" wank-fest it may well have been, but at least there was some pretence at narrative. Some context (gang members killed Bronson's best pal, or his auntie, or something). The C64/Amstrad/Speccy adaptations just plonked our virtual Bronson in a poorly-rendered cityscape and issued him with a stark and simple command.

The pre-game screens showed nervous old dears tottering along ravaged streets as shameless and wanton hussies hiked up their skirts.

The city, we were encouraged to infer, was fucked. An open sewer. Morally wrecked 'n' ruined by the excesses of a permissive society. Time to call forth the righteous fury of pixellated little Chuck.

Trouble was (as the above picture grimly demonstrates) it was almost impossible to blow away the gang baddies without the massed ranks of shuffling grannies getting in the way. Caught in the cross-fire, and shot with a revolver, they would fly backwards (see above) before crumpling into a piteous attitude of deadness. Here's a close-up…

She's still hanging on to her handbag. And the pension and boiled sweets within. It's horrible!

Though not as horrible as what happens when Chuck whips out his bazooka. Granny approaches…

Kablamoh!

Smoke clears to reveal…a pulped and scorched mass of dessicated granny-flesh lying oozing at Chuck's feet…

At this point, white-coated paramedics would sprint on, squat over the remains, and drag them slowly and hideously off-screen (where, presumably, they'd be reprocessed into yummy soylent green: foodstuff of choice for all urban dystopias).

Classic late-70s/early-80s stuff. Back when popular entertainments cheerily indulged the wannabe vigilante (or psychotic misogynist) in every 13-year-old boy (while shamelessly claiming a spurious moral high ground).

1. It's Your Country, Your Call motherfucker! [back]
2. The kind of men, in other words, who give weedy Daily Mail readers raging erections. [back]

Which is why we must be ever grateful to the mighty Epyx and their string of classic 8-bit waggly/bashy home gems: Summer Games I, Summer Games II, Winter Games, California Games, and (best of a glorious bunch) World Games.

For children like myself – those of us whose passion & enthusiasm for log rolling, barrel jumping, and…er…caber tossing knew no bounds – World Games (1986) was a pixellated gift from virtual heaven.

Most of the events were harmless, chuckle-inducing fun. With one exception. Cliff diving. An 8-bit rendering of a lunatic sport that managed, somehow, to be even more terrifying than the real thing. There you'd stand at the dreadful summit of the cliff that beetled o'er its base into the sea – gathering your thoughts, gauging the wind speed.

Out (into the yawning void) you'd fling your fragile body…

Headlong you'd plunge toward the dark waters below…

And…shit you'd think, I'm getting awfully close to the gnarled face of that cliff…

Garrrhhh! Layers of skin shredded and ripped rudely off. Stomach a mass of gore and peeking-out organs…(not shown due to technological limitations)…

Broken body curled pathetically into a tumbling ball (in a futile bid to ward away the terrible, terrible pain)…

Splat. Crump. Head 'n' neck pulped and driven into intestines.

The horror too much even for the normally aloof and stoic pelican (left of picture).

Mummy. While most games were happy to offer geeky (powerless) young chiddlers a sense of power, potency, and (relative) invulnerability – World Games showed (in grisly and unsettling detail) exactly what would happen if a 10-year-old you were unwise enough to leap off an enormous cliff.

And it worked. Total number of cliffs I've leapt off to date? Zero. Thanks, Epyx. Now please just make the nightmares go away…

Anyway, said decorating job put me (unsurprisingly) in a Space Invaders-y mood. So off to the internets I went in search of weird 'n' wonderful delights. I'm glad I did. Because I found this.

Like most classic arcade games, Space Invaders was not overly forthcoming with back-story or context. It gave you a ship. It showed you where to point it. And it implored you to shoot the living shit out of everything. Till you were dead.

What breakdown in galactic diplomacy had led to the invasion? We never knew. Nor did we care. We didn't even know much about our enemies' true faces – save for some crude (probably propagandic) cabinet art designed to make 'em look as monstrous as possible.

Into this breach of relative ignorance swooped (Australia's?) Player One – a band nobly determined to show young men & women just who it was they were fighting. I think…

Far from being lumbering, thuggish and fur-covered monsters, the invaders were (it would seem) intelligences of the cool, detached, and "standing around in a dark cavernous space wearing flowing cowls" variety. They may have looked freaky (blank mannequin faces and glowing LED eyes) but they seemed (otherwise) fairly harmless. Their favoured (only?) activity appeared to involve turning slowly toward camera. Hardly an intergalactic war crime.

The trouble with being a cool, detached, stand-y & stare-y type alien (of course) is that you leave yourself wide open to being strolled up to and shot at point-blank range (as happens above at 1:35). Brains are grand and all that. But being able to run away, or roll behind a barrel, is undeniably handy.

I'm assuming (though Player One's fragmented narrative never makes this entirely clear) that the assassins were part of some Earth-originating infiltration force. If so, then, y'know, this flies like totally in the face of established Space Invaders continuity. How did we get the lads aboard? Where did we get shuttle craft or transporter capabilities from? I mean, there was only one bloody giant tank defending the whole damn planet as far as I recall.

It's a conceptual nightmare. The campaign for a Director's Cut to address these (scoff!) glaring deficiencies starts here.

Though their primary purpose is, I'd imagine, to indicate to stressed and bedraggled parents that they may park their brat-packed SUVs here (or there), they have a charm of their own that transcends this simple function.

Passing along the line of cars (and trying not to look like I was obsessively photographing license plates) I noticed that the signs were becoming progressively more degraded (and hence more interesting).

Image 1. Short, dumpy, armless child is accompanied (and protected) by disturbing, pelvis-free, giant-legged adult.

Image 2. Slightly less dumpy (but still armless) child balances on a gangrened leg that is just about to fall off. From behind a lamp-post a masked figure emerges – reaching out its blade like hand to rifle through the child's pockets (for financial or deviant reasons). Isn't society gone mad altogether? 'Tis. The budget, etc.

Image 3. A falling-to-bits adult (with a shrieking, and freakish, Pac-Man head) turns to flee from a young pursuer. A small wicker speech bubble separates them, but "says" nothing. Perhaps indicating wordless pain, or unmentionable longing. The young pursuer certainly seems to find the whole situation extremely…er…stimulating. Each to their own.

Further reading:

Take my Hand and Let us Flee – Signs, Pt. 1
The Enthusiastic Worker – Signs, Pt. 2

Before the NES, the SNES, the N64, the…well you can see the pattern – there was, in the old family homestead, the Amstrad CPC 464 (affectionately known as the Arnold). Though I'd previously played the Atari 2600, various home versions of Pong, the ColecoVision etc., the idea of having a games playing machine in one's own house remained an almost impossibly thrilling one.

The genius of the 464, the Commodore 64 (etc) was, of course, that they cunningly advertised (or disguised) themselves as educational/professional tools. It was, therefore, a relatively easy job to convince sceptical parents that the object would both a) help us young 'uns with our homework (in a completely non-specified way), and, b) help them with their accounts (or whatever shit it was that we imagined adults did).

Of course, from the time the Arnold came out of its box, to the moment it got deposited (old and unloved) in the family attic, it never provided even a nano-second of educational support – which is precisely the way we wanted it. My parents had, in fairness, made a brief stab at unleashing its all-knowing power when we booted it up for the very first time. On came the familiar (eyeball-destroying) green screen which comfortingly promised that Arnold was "Ready":

After pausing for a moment or two to decide how to proceed, my father (I think it was he) suggested I "ask it a question". This, I cheerfully admit, didn't strike me as too absurd an idea. It was the mid 80s (in Ireland) remember – a time when home computers carried potent whiffs of the techno-exotic and the quasi-magical. In other words, we genuinely thought they knew stuff.

"What is the capital of Ethiopia?", typed I.

"Syntax Error", replied Arnold.

Hmmm.

Several hundred syntax errors later and a disillusioned pall began to fall over the family. TV Science Fiction had, it seemed, lied to us. Computers were not the vast, cool storehouses of knowledge we'd imagined them to be. On the plus side – it didn't look like they'd be enslaving us any time soon.

With that, my parents (no doubt feeling like they'd been had) turned their backs on the 464, never to return. The minute they did so we were popping Harrier Attack (one of the 10 bog-standard Amsoft titles given away free with the machine) into the cassette player and sitting excitedly through a 10-15 minute loading sequence.

Errrrrr Ehhhhh Errrrr Ehhhh.

Modest as it undoubtedly was, Harrier Attack did, at least, have one curious and memorable feature – it took a dim view of wanton perversity. Game players have always delighted in testing the limits of game worlds by attempting to do the unexpected – shooting passers-by in the face, stabbing a helpful elf to death (etc) – but until recently games were rarely willing (or able) to accommodate us. Obstacles to any kind of deviation from the prescribed path were routinely (and joylessly) placed in our way. Boo!

Harrier Attack, however, catered to the whims of the self-destructive. As you took off from the tiny aircraft carrier at the start of each level you could (if you were quick enough) immediately dump a load of bombs on deck. The ship would disappear. Your crew-mates would curse you as they drowned and burned to death at the same time. You'd fly off to face the enemy chuckling and high-fiving your co-pilot – the imp of the perverse.

Upon finishing the level you'd arrive at the designated landing point only to find no aircraft carrier there to greet you. Limited as the Amstrad's processing power was, it remembered what you'd done and punished you accordingly. The only option left was to fly hopelessly on before running out of fuel, sobbing and crashing into the sea. No sense of humour these navy types.

Anyhoo, the reason such memories are bouncing around my forebrain is that I've recently discovered the quite wonderful CPC Zone – a beautifully designed and lovingly maintained Amstrad fan-site. Browsing through their game archive has reminded me of just how astonishingly prolific makers of 8-bit games actually were. Slaving away in the attics of their parents' houses they churned out titles by the bucket-load – titles spanning every possible genre and every conceivable subject area. The variety was dizzying (and the quality wildly variable). Dempsey and Makepeace – The Game, anyone?

How about the isometric horrors of Nosferatu the Vampire?

One of my personal favourites was (and still is) Barry McGuigan World Championship Boxing. Not not only could one design one's own rookie pugilist (a mind-boggling innovation in 1985) – before launching him on the long, hard road to glory – but rarely has mindless aggression been so ruthlessly punished in a fighting game. Bursting out of one's corner at the bell and recklessly throwing volleys of punches saw one's "Endurance" (a critical value) plummet rapidly. One's opponent (if he was canny) would simply absorb this fury with some judicious blocking before aiming a gentle jab at one's jaw. Down you'd go like a sack of spuds – mouth agape, energy spent, hopes and dreams punctured.

I'm currently (courtesy of the CPCE emulator) working my way up the rankings with my alter-ego "Slappy O'Smacker" – a flame-haired bobber 'n' weaver who throws (on average) about 3 punches per fight.

He bores the crowd senseless but (dammit!) gets the job done – like Sugar Ray Leonard and Cliff Thorburn rolled into one unstoppable (and unwatchable) package.

10 PRINT "The End"
20 GOTO 10

Back when I was a passionate twiddler of joysticks (and joypads), a well-known "rule" stated that video games based on movies were invariably crap. The truth of this assertion was established early in the medium's history with Atari's wretched E.T tie-in (still making frequent appearances on "Worst Video Games of all Time" lists).

Here (for those who never suffered the trauma of playing it) is an unpleasant taste (skip forward to about 2:08 to see the game itself):

Some years later, when games had achieved significant cultural dominance, movie producers began reversing the direction of this trend with the release of a host of films based on popular games. These, as it turned out, were invariably shit too.

Still, this cross-pollination has left a lasting legacy – with contemporary games stuffed to the gills with interminable "cinematic" cut-scenes, as well as (fairly) detailed plots, a degree of characterisation etc.

It was not always thus. In gaming's early years a visit to the the arcade often involved more abstract, decontextualised experiences. While it's true that machines housed in their original (often beautiful) cabinets usually had rudimentary printed instructions, these tended to explain only the game's mechanics, not its back-story.

Observant and imaginative young lads and lassies could, of course, glean further clues (as to the game's universe) from the evocative cabinet art, but such art was not always present. As the 80s moved on it became (in Ireland at least) increasingly common for games to be housed in dull, plain, generic cabinets – a cost-cutting exercise I'm sure.

Given this likely dearth of visual information about the "plot" one often had to endure the cocky pronouncements of a game's self-appointed local expert. Take Bomb Jack (one of my all-time favourite single-screen efforts) for example.

When I first encountered this gem (in Lahinch I think) a conversation along these lines ensued…

Local Bore: You played it before?
Me: (lying) Yeah.
Local Bore: Y'know the story so?
Me: (lying again so as not to betray weakness or ignorance) Yeah…

Ignoring these affirmative (if hesitant) responses our friend proceeded to give me the following brief and unlikely explanation. I paraphrase of course:

"You're like Superman and you have to fly all over the world stopping these Russian robots. They want to blow up the world."

Well, it was 1984…so he could be forgiven for this Cold War spin I suppose. The actual plot (at least according to the game's Wikipedia entry) was somewhat different, but no less daft:

The player controls Jack, a superhero who can leap and glide. Someone has planted 24 bombs at famous tourist sites (the Sphinx and Great Pyramids, the Acropolis, Neuschwanstein Castle in Bavaria, and two cityscapes resembling Miami Beach and Hollywood, which appear only as screen backgrounds rather than unique game locations). Jack must fly around the screen to collect the bombs.

Who that "someone" was (and why they felt the need to blow up Neuschwanstein Castle) I never did learn. Did it matter? Not in the slightest. Jack could have been collecting cherries or…er…bags of heroin for all we cared. As with a lot of frantic single-screen classics (like Pac-Man) one was far too busy wiggling one's way out of impossible corners to give a hoot about the whys and wherefores. No time for contemplation…it was all about rapid (hand-numbing) reaction.

I should point out that the above YouTube video does not show me playing the game. The player in question is obviously (scoff!) a rank amateur, as he/she sets about collecting the bombs willy-nilly and in random order. Hardcore Bomb Jack-ites will recall that the secret was collecting all the lit bombs in sequence, thus ensuring a substantial bonus.

Actually, collecting the bonus was the only reason for seeking out the lit bombs, as the Wikipedia article confirms:

The lit fuses have no strategic purpose other than the bonus; a lit bomb left unattended does not explode.

A lit bomb left unattended does not explode?! Talk about incompetent terrorism. Perhaps the real focus of the plot was simply to lure Jack to these exotic locations in the hope that the "Russian robots" would kick the shit out of him. Given that Jack can't actually fly (he merely jumps quite high before gliding slowly to the ground) it seems an excessively ornate plan to dispose of such a modest superhero.

I blame the botched terrorist act on everyone's favourite video game villains – Kung Fu Master's "Several Unknown Guys".

P.S: For those, like me, who have recently felt a fusty lack of enthusiasm for the current dreary crop of first-person-shooters, driving games, movie tie-ins (etc) that fill Game's shelves, I strongly advise you to seek out the wonder that is Super Mario Galaxy. Like the peerless Super Mario 64 before it, it'll make even the most fogeyish among you believe again.

9.00 – Hup! Hup! Quiet down now.

Welcome dear friends, lads and lassies, boys and girls, mices and meeses, to the first ever fustar.info Manky Toy Show. We have a great live program (un)prepared for you tonight. Music, mirth, merriment and (most importantly) Manky Toys.

Unlike our Late Late cousin there'll be none of the chipper, "up-with-people-ness" of the Billy Barry Brats, and no selling out (like big corpo-whores) to "the man". Everything seen here cost 2 Euros or less and neither Mattel nor Hasbro has greased my palm with silver (even though the night is young and I remain open to offers).

Let us begin and get ourselves in the mood with some music. Two unlikely neighbours. One olde Englishe castle. An absent Sir Percival.

9.04 – Is it just me or does Bowie carry this air of coiled menace ("Sir Percival let's me use his piano when he's away")?! Bing looks quite vulnerable in that cardigan. Speaking of which, that's what I'm wearing for the occasion tonight. And I've got a dog, a log fire, a pipe, and another dog (actually 2 cats).

9.06 – On to the first toy. It's a delightful slice of poor-man's Lego, simply called "Navvy". Jess (my lovely assistant) is opening the box now.

9.09 – She's busily putting it together so we'll leave her to it for a few moments. Can I draw your attention to the following disclaimer on the back of the box?

Specifications, colours and contents may vary from illustrations.

And contents?! That's not exactly confidence-inspiring. First glance suggests it appears fairly close to the depiction on the box however. By that I mean the box doesn't contain jelly babies…or coal.

9.15 – She's struggling with the wheels, which nattily have the legend "Jun Long Toys" inscribed on them. One wonders what "Lego purist" Bob Byrne would make of "Navvy". He's about 5 times the size of a conventional Lego man and rather robust (Navvy that is…not Bob).

9.19 – Toy completed. It's huge and, in Jess's words, "Not manky, though slightly delicate". The steering wheel turns, the knob to lift the shovel yoke goes up and down, Navvy's pedestal/cabin spins around. "Jun Long Toys" have come up with a winner here. A toy so not-manky it would make a genuinely generous gift. How disappointing…

Only thing that marks it as a 2 Euro special is a non-detachable baseball cap (not pictured on the box, as warned) and that Navvy's "freckles" look distinctly unhealthy. More like the pox of the chicken.

9.25 – Hoorah! We have at least one audience member. The lovely Simon McGarr, loyally joining in "from far away through the magic of N800 and phone internet connection".

9.29 – Half an hour in and time for the first word from one of our sponsors. Check it out. Toys every hip, 2007 youngster will want in his/her stocking.

9.33 – From the days when toy advertising was…surprisingly pedestrian. The Neanderthal baddie just stood there waiting for the Action Copter to grab him. And what about the "Sea Wolf"?

The action team submarine that actually dives and surfaces.

By diving it seems to mean sinking slowly to the bottom in an uncontrolled manner. It nearly crushed an innocent (and alarmed) Goldfish for Christ's sake.

"Bullet Man" is, surely, one of the worst ever additions to the Action Man universe. A "hero" with but one ability – sliding down a piece of twine until he lands head first on the ground. Go Bullet Man!!

9.39 – We're back and moving on to toy number two. And what a "number two" it is.

This one will have the kiddies excirah and delirah I'm sure. It's the "Spider-Man Telephone". Actually a stiff plastic figure that looks (in Jess's words) like a small boy wearing an ill-fitting Spider-Man outfit. The box warrants a bit of close scrutiny. In the top right corner is, for no particular reason, the "Baby face in the sun" thing from Teletubbies. Half-way down we see a picture of a prone Spidey with a light shining from a cavity in his skull. The legend proclaims:

Nighttime a bankable actor Electric torch use.

Nice and clear. Next pic shows Spidey walking and promises, "Feet can sway". We've tried, and they can't.

9.49 – I've cheated a bit with this one. He needed 2 (non-included) batteries so I had to do a bit of "one I made earlier" stuff. This included a natty video, which showcases the weird (and very loud) things that happen when you try and call your mother for a chat.

9.53 – Unlike "Navvy" (who does what he says on the tin) this is a deeply confusing and upsetting toy. Some odd singing, a dog barking, a lingo I can't make head nor tail off. Plus, as Jess notes, by using Spidey to make a phone call you can't avoid speaking into his crotch. Whether that's a plus or a minus is, I suppose, down to your own tastes and predilections. The torch is pretty nifty though. Nighttime a bankable actor indeed.

9.58 – Simon may be on to something here:

As regards the packaging- “Nighttime a bankable actor Electric torch use�?- this is the kind of secret code that would-be spidermen with buttons inset to their torsos should be able to crack in mere minutes.

That'll have me awake all night…

10.00 – One hour gone. Time to pour myself a soothing glass of Cote de Nuits-Villages (1999). If I were pushed to describe it I'd say it was robust, full-bodied, red, wet and…er…tasty. The blurb on the back of the bottle is somewhat more fanciful and flowery:

To taste our wines is like living through a dream, like listening to a poem, or perhaps a symphony.

Yup. Like I said. Red and wet.

10.10 – And now, methinks, another ad break. Prepare to enjoy the mendacity-tastic adventures of everyone's favourite recently-deceased daredevil:

10.16 – It's hard not to weep bitter tears when you see some of the impossible carry-on Evil was only ever able to achieve in ads. My Evil tended to rocket out of the blocks before veering wildly into a wall, or (simply) falling over. That said, the gruesome looking crash he suffers right at the end of the first advertisement adds an unexpectedly disturbing note to proceedings. Six months in traction at the very least I'd say.

The third segment is a bit more modest in its claims, given that one of Evil's "super abilities" is the ability to "drive straight". Wow!

10.23 – I think we could well be heading for overtime at this rate. Anyway, moving slowly on to our next offering. With a scarcity of Wiis doing the rounds this Christmas it might be time to consider the charms of "PolyBlock One" – "BSC Bloch System Controller With DFE Double Flash Effect" (as the box proudly, and unhelpfully, declares).

10.27 – Jess is ripping the box to shreds. It's out, and…there are no bloody batteries included. This despite it listing 2AA Batteries among its features. Bah! Hang on…we'll tear them out of the Spidey phone.

10.32 – Ok we're off. There are some bleeping sounds, some blocky shapes that look like antibodies, I'm trying to figure out which buttons to press. Shit! "Game Over"!

10.34 – Right. This is beginning to look like outright fraud! The "PolyBlock One" (no relation to a product from Sony) seems to be designed to bamboozle you with beeps, randomly shifting squares, and buttons that say things like "rotate" and "sound". I've been playing video games since I was a pale, short-trousered youth and I've no fucking idea what's going on! Listen to the instructions…

4. Rotate – Rotate the falling element/game select.
5. Down/Game – For each kinds of game select different number forward.
8. Move the Dragon Upward.

What element? What Dragon?? All I see are squares that fail to respond to my frantic button mashing. Then, 2 seconds later, "Game Over".

22.40 – Hold everything. Jess has just declared, "I think I'm getting the hang of this. You have to shoot things using the rotate button". My brain hurts.

10.44 – Folks, we could be looking at the mankiest toy this blog has ever come into contact with. It's reach so far exceeds its grasp that it's like a burst and leaking Stretch Armstrong. Every time I look at "Feature. 1″ on the back of the box I feel the red mist rising.

1. Lots of exciting game in it.

The disclaimer should read, "If you can find it". Jess says she "saw a Tetris-style game briefly" but that she "doesn't know what happened to it" or how she found it. "PolyBlock One", it seems, is all about the (deeply frustrating) quest.

10.52 – To lift our spirits we're dipping into the Cote de Nuits-Villages again (not much left) and giving us all a brief musical interlude. I love Judy Garland as much as any straight man ever did and Meet Me in St. Louis is a fave of mine. It has "lots of exciting song in it".

10.59 – Shortly after that song finishes Tootie (Margaret O'Brien) runs into the yard and violently destroys the snowmen in one of the best bits of wild child anger ever seen on screen. Gwan Tootie!

11.02 – Well, we're into time added on for wrist/finger typing injuries. No matter, there's still a drop or two of vino left. Plus, Jess has brought me up a luverly packet of Salt & Pepper Tuc to keep me going. Let's press on…

Time to whip out a gender-inscribed one for the girls. All pink 'n' flowery:

11.09 – Ah "Disco Diva" – a toy straight from the Bratz school of giant-eyed fashionista sassiness. A small (but important) warning on the bottom of the box reads:

Please note: CD Discs do not function or play different tunes.

Hmmm. Putting this to the test.

11.16 – The three plastic discs included read "Pop, "Rock & "Disco" but they all sound like brutal hard-core techno. Driving rhythms and hard, savage edges that call to mind moments from Lost Highway. Concerned parents should note that the "Mini CD Player" is pink and friendly with a handbag style strap – so there's a "little princess" air of softness to offset the manic doom noise of the CDs.

It should also be noted that the "buttons" (stop, play, repeat etc) are merely stickers that (like the "CDs") don't actually do anything. There is but one purple switch that makes things happen and allows nervous girls to cycle through the 3 disturbing tunes.

11.26 – Christ, look at the time. I need to empty my bladder. Cut to commercial.

11.32 – Last glass of booze. A wave of tiredness and (hic) tipsiness is beginning to wash over me. Can't neglect to mention the above though…

Simon Says come chase after me,
Repeat my lights seq-uent-iii-ally!

Time to take our hats off to what must surely be the only ever use of the word "sequentially" in a toy jingle. Actually, "Repeat my lights sequentially" sounds suspiciously like the kind of mangled English instructions one routinely finds on Manky Toy packets. It may even be on the "PolyBlock One" Box.

I was always rubbish at Simon Says. Once it really got cooking I'd start sweating and panicking and fall at the first hurdle. It was like something they'd sit around playing in Star Trek: The Next Generation. Games of the future are always bleepy, upsetting and confusing.

11.43 – And so we move on to the final toy of the evening. A truly disgusting blob of goo submitted by my darling wife. Behold "Puppy Squeezer":

11.47 – Keen eyes may notice that, in Alan Partridge's immortal words, there is "superficial damage to the box". That is to say, it's completely covered in Sellotape. As a result Jess, being mindful of her rights as a consumer, had the brazen cheek to ask for a discount. The o'erworked till operator looked at her with a mixture of weariness and disgust. No discount was forthcoming.

It's difficult to describe how horrible "Puppy Squeezer" is to the touch. It pulses, it oozes, it reminds one not only of canine putrescence but one's own inevitable descent into rot and deliquescence. It's like Stretch Armstrong's zombie dog companion.

12.00 – 3 hours in! Jays fluid! "Copernicus" has just posted a grim warning of the dangers posed by the hideous likes of "Puppy Squeezer":

I was in the two euro shop recently browsing the PS Onealike when I suddenly started back from the display at a sudden clammy, moist yet unwet sensation rapidly overwhelming my epiduris.

One of those packets of goo had come apart – or been deliberately booby-trapped by a passing child – and the hideous, ectoplasmic ooze was slathering over my flesh.

He thunked he was having "a visitation from Madame Blavatsky", she who always gifted jars of putrid ectoplasm to Yeats, Crowley et al for Christmas. Perhaps there is some occult conspiracy behind the gurning puppy. I've seen Halloween 3. I know what can happen!

12.06 – Fergal notes, "I always wondered what class of goo was used inside these things". I draw his attention to the rear of the box.

Caution! Contents may stain some fabrics.

Or…"Contents may dissolve flesh/Melt your soul".

12.10 – One final word from our insistent sponsors before we wrap up, put on our night caps, and sail for the shores of nod.

12.12 – 2 questions.

1) When did Ms. Pac Man become Bette Midler?

2) Does she actually sing (at the end) "Hey, don't ya know? I'm only Pac Man with a bow!!"

If (2) is true then it's an admirable bit of honesty from Atari. She had a beauty spot too though…so it was a markedly district sequel.

12.21 – I've squeezed my last puppy and blocked my final poly. There's an empty bottle beside me and "Navvy" looks like he's fit for the bed (after another back-breaking shift). Chatter and raiméis can continue in the comment room, but for now it's good night from me and it's good night from them.

And remember…nighttime is a bankable actor.

finis

The Manky Toy Show – A Postscript – 28/12/2007

Last night, as Jess and I were working our way through Harold Lloyd and Sopranos box-sets, our whole road was suddenly plunged into darkness. After lighting a few candles I remembered that I had a wind-up torch (somewhere) among my possessions. Finding it would, however, require another torch to light my way (I have a similar problem when I misplace my glasses). As we sat in the gloom wondering what to do Jess exclaimed "The Spider-Man Phone!"

Off I trudged upstairs, thinking that even the mankiest toy has its day to (literally) shine. Down I bring Spidey, take 2 AAs out of the DVD remote, crank him up and…his arm snapped straight off…his head gave out no light.

Nighttime, I'm afraid to say, was no bankable actor.

Even by the modest standards set by previous entries in the Manky Toy archives, last week's featured object (Super Pedestal Ball) represented something of a new low – failing (as it did) on almost every imaginable level. In sharp contrast, today's offering amounts – at a mere 2 Euro – to very good value for money indeed.

It may not even be all that manky.

While the toy's name (Invader) and its format (shooting waves of aliens that swoop ever closer) unambiguously indicate its chief influence – it differs from that arcade classic in a number of fairly (in)significant ways.

Instead of Space Invaders' chunky green tank/cannon, the defence of our besieged planet lies with a sleek rocket/fighter hybrid, while the invading force is comprised not of relentless (vaguely insectoid) alien creatures but a fleet of classic flying saucers. In a further thrilling addition (or omission) there are no protective bunkers. In the space of Invader, there is (it seems) no place to hide.

In this it eschews the ambiguous imagery of its inspirational parent – opting instead for an iconography instantly recognisable to fans of science fiction. Saucers are always "them", while rockets (or planes) are traditionally "us".

As the below video might indicate if it was of better quality (or didn't feature as many distracted pan-aways to cats), there are a couple of other features that could cause gaming enthusiasts some confusion.

1) Instead of the predictable side to side (gradually increasing in intensity) motion familiar to fans of Space Invaders, the invaders of Invader seem to phase randomly into view before teleporting themselves (again randomly) to other parts of the view screen. Perplexing for the gamer, but undoubtedly an effective strategy for the invaders.

2) Rather more irritatingly, the projectiles fired by the defending "rocket" are identical to the ones issuing from the invading saucers. In other words, incoming projectiles look indistinguishable from outgoing ones (they are even oriented the same way) – leading the earth defender to mistake a hostile missile coming toward him/her for a defensive one going in the opposite direction.

As (1) and (2) demonstrate, the alien horde has obviously learned much in the 19 years that have elapsed since the debacle of their (attempted) Space Invaders invasion. That fact, coupled with the budgetary cutbacks that are (presumably) responsible for the absence of defensive bunkers, spells almost certain doom for this planet we like to call Earth.

He was known as"Mad Carew" by the subs at Khatmandu,
He was hotter than they felt inclined to tell;
But for all his foolish pranks, he was worshipped in the ranks,
And the Colonel’s daughter smiled on him as well.

If you recognise the Kipling-esque lines above you may be one of the following: a) Over 100 years old, b) A fan of Codemasters' excellent Dizzy series of games (The poem featured heavily in the original Dizzy), or, c) A friend/acquaintance of my late grandmother (see 'a').

For those unfamiliar with the fevered poesy allow me to introduce J. Milton Hayes's "The Green Eye of the Little Yellow God" (1911, full version here). Like many women of her vintage my granny had (according to the style of the 1920s) been given a flower-based nickname (Violet) and she carried it with her to the end of her days. She also had, as was customary in dem days, a party-piece, and "The Green Eye of the Little Yellow God" was it.

I only heard it in her later years, when frustrated memory lapses made the delivery halting, but its breathless melodrama, exotic setting, and pulsating narrative of ill-advised derring-do certainly affected my youthful sensibilities. Later, during my Amstrad CPC 464 playing days, I was taken aback to find the exploits of Mad Carew given pride of place in the aforementioned Dizzy (a game with a boxing glove-wearing, egg protagonist). I tried explaining this exciting find to my grandmother but, while she expressed delighted amazement, I'm sure half of what I said sounded like so much gobbledygook.

While no-one would seriously claim that "The Green Eye of the Little Yellow God" is great poetry, it is an above average and entertaining example of a kind of popular verse that has (perhaps) no direct equivalent today. When vaudeville, music hall and elocution were all the rage, stirring, "ripping yarn" type stuff like this put bums on seats. In fairness to J. Milton Hayes, he was realistic about the function and appeal of such works:

I wrote The Green Eye of the Little Yellow God in five hours, but I had it all planned out. It isn't poetry and it does not pretend to be, but it does what it sets out to do. It appeals to the imagination from the start: those colours, green and yellow, create an atmosphere. Then India, everyone has his own idea of India. Don't tell the public too much. Strike chords. It is no use describing a house; the reader will fix the scene in some spot he knows himself. All you've got to say is 'India' and a man sees something. Then play on his susceptibilities.

My grandmother was a voracious reader (I never remember her without a library book on the bedside cabinet) and quite a fan of just the kind of hopelessly exotic (and doomed) romanticism that Hayes managed to capture. Not only that, but she was a prolific maker-upper of games and odd songs/verse. One of her most peculiar, but most popular, compositions was a two verse song that may have been (as I think about it now) loosely based on Puss in Boots. It was frequently sung when walking the floor with bawling grandchildren and always (perhaps surprisingly) had a soothing effect. Here it is in its entirety (or as entirely as I can remember it).

Poor little pussy cat,
Had no home at all-ee-tall,
He had no home,
He had no friends,
He had no one at all-ee-tall.

Poor little pussy cat,
Went to see the big bold giant,
The big, bold, old giant,
Wanted to eat him up-ee-up.

As you'll no doubt have noticed, the whole thing is drenched in melancholy. The accompanying (dirge-like) air took this melancholy, and cranked it up (or down) to the level of outright tragedy. What became of the pussy cat after his visit to the big and bold giant was left unsaid. Perhaps he was eaten. Perhaps they reconciled their differences and became friends. Perhaps he managed (a la Puss in Boots) to convince the giant to turn into a mouse before devouring him. The abrupt ending tended to make you suspect that the first outcome was the most likely…

Like most children though, my siblings and I were pretty comfortable with this dark and sad undercurrent. In many ways, we actually liked it. Whether through the misadventures of Mad Carew, or the dangerous, lonely, unresolved exploits of a poor pussy cat, we were, I suppose, confronting/exploring our feelings about (and fears of) death, abandonment, cruelty etc. All of this took place in a secure bubble, however, as the voice telling the tales and singing the songs was one we loved and trusted.

There's a one-eyed yellow idol to the north of Khatmandu,
There's a little marble cross below the town;
There's a broken-hearted woman tends the grave of Mad Carew,
And the Yellow God forever gazes down.

The End.

Recent talk of prizes and awards has put me to thinking. Though I come from a reasonably competitive family (competitive in the "I want to beat you at Scrabble" sense), we have precious little that's concrete to show for our competitive efforts.

For despite having a keen(ish) will to win (as kids), our chances of glory tended to be scuppered by a collective tendency toward indolence, coupled with an aimless lack of focus. As any self-respecting motivational guru would no doubt tell you, it can be hard to develop a truly winning mentality when you're still in bed at 3 o'clock in the afternoon.

Probably our greatest triumph came in the late 80s, down in the Kerry caravan park where we used to spend our holidays. Perhaps it was just a particularly wet August. Perhaps we simply tapped into reserves of determination hitherto unutilised. Whatever the reason, the result was impressive: my younger brother, younger sister and I simultaneously held the top scores in all three of the caravan park's arcade games. Like many such triumphant moments, the glory was fleeting…but the experience was a heady and thrilling one while it lasted.

The games (and record-holders) in question were: Centipede (the sister), Wonderboy in Monster Land (the brother), and Kung Fu Master (myself).

Centipede was notable for a) already being several years old at the time (it was produced in 1980), and, b) having a "trackball" instead of a joystick. Actually, the trackball was, in this instance, a grubby old pool ball but it may as well have been a tomato for all the good it did me. Despite being fairly competent and comfortable with most video game controls, the trackball remained a system I found frustratingly impossible to master. The sister had no such trouble, having developed a devastatingly effective technique half-way between a slap and a wave. I used to look on enviously. It was poetry in motion (and also quite loud).

What I didn’t realise at the time was that Centipede was (apparently) "the first arcade coin-operated game to have a significant female player base". Not only that, but it is thought to be "the first arcade game created by a woman". All over the world, then, sisters were probably making brothers jealous with their prodigious trackballing skills, heroically (or heroinically) keeping virtual gardens safe from virtual pests.

Wonderboy in Monsterland was of more recent vintage, having been released in 1987 as a sequel to gaming mega-hit, Wonderboy. The brother's love of it was total, and I don't recall him being more than 20 feet away from the machine for the entirety of the summer (he may even have taken his meals beside it). Unlike its predecessor, this Wonderboy incarnation boasted a reasonably sophisticated narrative – allowing inter-character chatting, the purchase of potions/weapons (etc), and the pleasant opportunity to amble and ramble through a colourful, medieval fantasy world. A marked shift toward "realism" from Wonderboy 1 – where skateboarding onto clouds and bopping squid with stone axes was (somewhat improbably) the order of the day.

Its Wikipedia entry confirms that my memories of the brother's epic sessions are right on the money:

Wonder Boy in Monster Land is by far the hardest title in the Wonder Boy series due to the fact that there is no continue mode or password system; meaning that the player must finish the entire game without dying once.

No time for eating, sleeping, or playing outside in the sun/rain when faced with such a challenge. Nothing to do but gird up your nappy and get busy.

And then there was Kung Fu Master – the arcade game that remains (with the possible exception of Donkey Kong Jr.) the one for which I retain the most affection. It was probably the first ever "Beat 'em up" – opening the door for such urban, side-scrolling slobberknockers as Double Dragon and Final Fight – and took its "five-floor pagoda with five bosses" idea from the Bruce Lee film Game of Death (the one with the iconic yellow tracksuit). The reason our hero (bearer of the rather unheroic handle "Thomas") has to kick and punch his way up five floors is (of course) to rescue his beloved "Silvia". As anyone familiar with such games will be aware, the hero's girlfriend excelled at but one thing: getting kidnapped and demanding to be rescued. This was a Pre-Buffy (PB) world remember, where popular culture's damsels still tended to spend most of their time in varying states of distress.

The less than intriguing back-story to Silvia's kidnapping is told (in hilariously quirky English) by the pre-game screens:

I'd happily bet that anyone who played the game (back in the day) found the words "several unknown guys" impossible to forget. Not an expression you'd commonly hear on Crimewatch or Garda Patrol: "The victim was leaving the premises, shortly after 1.00 a.m., when he was suddenly attacked by several unknown guys". 'Twould be hard to take the victim's plight entirely seriously.

Anyway, despite Thomas opening cans of whupass on several of the unknown guys they still manage to make off with the lovely Silvia. When Thomas heads home to freshen-up (after his hard day's Kung-Fu-ing) he finds the following disturbing note:

Off to the temple he dutifully goes and – after much kicking henchmen/midgets/giant wasps in the face – he's reunited with his love. Thank Christ for that, says you. Surely now the happy couple can live out their lives in peace – putting stronger locks on the door and avoiding the company of "unknown guys". It's not to be I'm afraid, as the final screens confirm…

The "camera" fades out, fades back in, and Thomas finds himself (maddeningly) back on the ground floor…with Silvia nowhere to be seen. As it dawns on him that he now has to fight his way up five flights of stairs once more, he's presumably toying with the idea of just giving up and checking in to a Kung-Fu convalescent home. Even Sisyphus was not so cursed by fate. While he did, annoyingly, have to roll a rock up a hill over and over again; he could at least take comfort from the fact that nobody was throwing knives at him, or dropping jars full of snakes on his head. Every cloud and all that…

This ramble has gone on long enough. I'm off to try and download Kung Fu Master for Jess's mobile phone (it must, surely, be available). Silvia's not (even in these more enlightened times) going to save herself.¹

P.S: My new Manky Toy Monday entry will probably not be up before tomorrow evening (at the earliest…it could spill into Tuesday). Until then I direct your attention to Simon McGarr's mighty parody/spoof/tribute.

[tags]Kung Fu Master, Centipede, Wonder Boy, Kerry, Bruce Lee, Garda Patrol[/tags]

1. I've abandoned that idea and am currently playing it on MAME. After several attempts I still can't get past the 4th floor's diabolical hunchback magician. Like Rocky Balboa, I'm just a tad rusty after all these years. [back]

Due to popular demand (or at least the absence of popular opposition) I’m dipping into my Letts Boy's Diary 1986 once more to pull out another absorbing extract.

When last we looked in on my younger self I was waxing lyrical about the excellence of the Burgerland milkshake (and the "brill-ness" of Back to the Future) while bemoaning the continued non-appearance of Halley's comet and voicing concern about my brother's burgeoning jam sandwich addiction.

All of that just in January too. What a month.

5 days after the Burgerland adventure, I had this to say:

Thursday, January 30th, 1986

Learned about sets in school. Magnum was good. Cats had a tour of the house. Played Hyper Sports.

A particularly full day I'm sure you'll agree. Let's take the various sentences in turn (leaving out the bit about sets…of which I remember nothing):

1) Magnum was good

Recipe: Take one 'tache, one Ferrari, one strict (but dryly witty) English estate manager, one never-seen millionaire author, plenty of Hawaiian shirts (well it was Hawaii), countless Film Noir-ish interior monologues (etc) and bake for 60 minutes.

Result: The marvellous (fústar family favourite) Magnum P.I.

According to tv.com, the episode aired on the night in question (in the US at least) was "All Thieves on Deck" (Season 6). The synopsis reads as follows:

Magnum is to spend a week aboard a luxury cruise ship guarding an Amakua, a valuable wooden Hawaiian statuette recently purchased by Robin Masters, to be displayed on the liner while en route to the Hilo Museum. But Magnum and Higgins find that Apollo has been shot and seriously wounded after thieves attempted to steal the artefact from the Estate. Expecting the would-be robbers to try again during the cruise, Magnum secures Rick and T.C.'s additional help in guarding the artefact, but they find themselves on-board with a ship load of suspects, all potential thieves of the Amakua.

Ho ho. Sounds like the Magnum episode Agatha Christie would have written if she hadn’t (inconveniently) died 10 years previously. I'm sure the luxury cruise setting was duly exploited to allow Higgins many snide remarks RE: Magnum's uncouthness: "Do I really need to explain why you can't wear sneakers to the baccarat table, Thomas?"

Great stuff entirely.

2) Cats had a tour of the house
The cats in question were Nelson and Felix – two utterly mouldy, manky (yet strangely loveable) strays. Nelson looked like the result of a (Fly-like) teleporter accident that had fused the worst elements of a cat and a rat. Not only that but he was – like his famous namesake – minus an eye (and even the existing eye was nothing to write home about). Felix – while affectionate and fond of leaping onto the nearest available lap – was also not without fault. His enjoyment of physical contact was somewhat regrettable since any attempt to stroke him tended to result in a cloud of dead skin, dandruff and general filth being released. Why we saw fit to grant them a tour of the house is anyone’s guess.

21 years on and, once again, 2 cats roam our house,¹ though these 2007 versions are far cuter and less prone to falling apart than their 1980s counterparts. Pet name enthusiasts might be interested to learn that Cat A is called Buster (after Mr. Keaton, one of my heroes) and Cat B (following a vintage comedy theme) was due to be called Harpo.

For the first 2 weeks after we got them home, however, 'Harpo' would dart (terrified) under the bed as soon as one of us came anywhere near him. This practice reminded us both of the peculiar habits of "Fragile" Frankie Merman of Seinfeld fame. Fans of that great show may recall that when suffering emotional strain or anxiety the young Frankie would run off into the woods, dig a hole, and sit in it till the mood had passed. Thus it was that "Harpo" became "Frankie".

3) Played Hyper Sports

Hyper Sports (for those not in the know) was the rather lame² sequel to the seminal arcade game Hyper Olympic (1983). In their home computer incarnations – we had an Amstrad CPC 464 – these games required the user to perform a lot of frantic joystick waggling to make the onscreen athletes do their thing (and this at an age when that other form of "joystick waggling" was becoming an all-consuming leisure activity among my school mates and I). The average lifespan of a joystick exposed to the ferocious battering of Hyper Sports/Olympic³ was approximately 8 seconds. After that your pixilated athlete friend would stand immobile and forlorn while you – with tears of anger and frustration welling in your eyes – waggled with increasingly desperate and futile ferocity.

The joystick, of course, was a wholly unsuitable instrument for such games. Any arcade junkie worth his/her salt would have told you that "button bashing" was the only way to go. The most effective technique was to put your head down, tense your fingers and shoulders, and try to perfect a sort of ferociously intense tremble. When performed most effectively this method appeared (to the untrained eye) to involve little obvious movement. In reality, of course, the movement was so rapid that the eye simply couldn’t keep up.

Flamboyant, over-animated button smashing immediately pegged you as a rank amateur: someone who’d tragically failed to realise that the key to athletic success lay in making the interval between left button and right button taps as brief as humanly possible. Failure to adhere to this basic maxim inevitably resulted in a catastrophic (and competitively disastrous) loss of speed at crucial moments.

One alarming aspect of the "ferocious tremble" technique was that the player could occasionally appear to be exhibiting all the signs of cardiac arrest: purple complexion, extremely tense and rigid limbs, chronic shortness of breath etc. The last time I witnessed this worrying sight was one evening (not so many years ago) in my parents' house. In attendance were yours truly, my brother Brian (Mr. Jam Sandwiches) and Copernicus (Mr. Midnight Court).

The game was the passably entertaining International Track & Field 2: a more sophisticated (but less fun) version of Hyper Olympic. As the evening wore on it became apparent that Copernicus was developing a technique of such prodigious intensity that we could no longer make out the distinctive individual click-clack sounds of alternate keys being pressed. All that could be heard was a deafening and incessant drone as Copernicus' onscreen representative crossed the line for a record obliterating 5.3 second 100 metres.

As the brother and I turned to congratulate him we were greeted with the sight of a young(ish) man utterly spent and possibly in need of urgent medical attention. I actually thought he was going to die there and then before our eyes – snatched away at a moment of minor triumph. Fortunately the palpitations subsided and (after a sit-down and a restorative glass of something or other) his heart resisted the urge to explode.

The shock of it profoundly affected Brian and I though and we never went near the game again – thus ensuring that the record still stands to this day, a testament to Copernicus' willingness to push himself to the trembling limits of human endurance.

More from the diary at a later date.

1. Not the same house mentioned in the diary of course. [back]
2. Gymnastics? Skeet Shooting? [back]
3. Yes I know it sounds odd, but it really was called Hyper Olympic not Hyper Olympics [back]