I am more Atari

The other day I walked past someone. Someone who, without any sense of hyperbole, is a true icon of modern civilisation. A cultural demi-god who challenged an entire generation. Challenged them to collect rings and coins in a limited amount of time. Yes, I walked past host of Gamesmaster, Dominik Diamond.

Lord - I loved Gamesmaster on TV.

When it first aired on Channel 4, the bawdy terrace rock of Oasis which made boys think they were somehow displaying emotion by caterwauling "WaunderWa-ee-aulll" in packs at thin girls drinking vodka's and coke at all parties was still 3 years away. The female TV show equivalent of Gamesmaster - Ally McBeal - was still even farther off on the horizon [history would tell eventually that TV producers would streamline all sense of the women having some sort of equal intellectual footing with men and do away with the structure of female career empowerment and independent sufficiency on Ally McBeal and call it Sex and the City instead].

Now grown fat on a diet of his own self-satisfaction, his red t-shirt emblazoned with the ATARI logo stretched round his mid-life gut, Dominik Diamond was once a fresh faced, 90's floppy hair styled, leader of men. And those men were boys. Boys who enjoyed sitting alone in bedrooms throughout the country, wildly jiggling their computer joystick and pressing seemingly random button configurations just to make a little blocky man animate a jump onto a mushroom with a face on.

Gamesmaster was the perfect programme for this group of marginalised computer gamers in playground's everywhere. It made gaming cool, exciting and a conversation topic. Suddenly all these bedroom bound loners found that maybe they could be loners, somehow, together. For a short time Dominik Diamond made the geeks believe they were inheriting the earth. Or at least let them feel less ashamed of their asthma and talk of computer diskettes.

Set on, if I can recall, a Gothic oil rig [already - brilliant] Dominik Diamond invited total non-entities of posh young teenage boys who were completely unremarkable to a fault to take up challenges on computer games in order to win the respect of their peers and lay claim to a "Golden Joystick" for completing the challenge successfully. And I was a comparable non-entity of a young teenage boy who may well have the same game that I could then also configure up for a similar challenge in my bedroom - and in this way validate myself to my peers.

The show also also featured geek-chic computer journalist blokes who would either be found wearing bandannas co-commentating on the challenge action with Dominik Diamond and getting excited about a collection of polygons gaining the invincibility token in a hidden chamber, or, reviewing the latest 5 tone graphic, slow frame-rate, poorly coded and executed game that these days you would probably struggle to find free in a cereal box, using a rating system that meant nothing and saying nonsense about like how it's "Smart. With a capital S."

Gamesmaster also had celebrity challenges where perhaps a sportsman would get to see that their lifetime of honing skills would soon be made redundant in this neo-world by playing as all the team on a computer monitor. Of course, the celebrity section also made it possible that a woman might be invited along. Women like Jet from Gladiators. [Wow - corking women playing video games. In a studio that must have been dripping off the ceiling in teenage male hormones. Jet must have been really wanting to win a Golden Joystick to put up with the smell alone, I would think]

What gave it the killer concept was that of Gamesmaster himself. Played by a seemingly perpetually bemused Patrick Moore and looking like a proto Borg, Gamesmaster would not only dish out the challenges but also condescendingly help out viewers who were "beamed in" to the virtual reality stage asking for hints and cheat modes on various platformers and shoot-'em ups.

"Gamesmaster" frail little jumper wearing, sickle-cell problem looking boys would say, "How do I defeat the boss character on level 4 of Jimmy Pockets 2?"
Gamesmaster would harrumph, "You can't get passed level 4? Oh well, if you must know, the boss character repeats his super flame punch 3 times and then rests for 2 seconds on his executive chair. Wait until he sits down and attack him. You won't have trouble after that. Until level 5. Now, be off with you!"

And I would think - like everyone else watching - on how I have that game, Jimmy Pockets 2, and that if I ever got to level 4 then that boss is toast.

All too soon, I got over my feelings for Gamesmaster. I think it was when Dominik Diamond was replaced by that overtly aggressive American bloke from Press Gang - who confusingly turned out to be a cockney. But that just was a push to an already falling man. In truth, I had already grown out of it and found the comfort of deep and meaningfulTM chats with girls... and the X-Files over on BBC2.

Of course, there is always the thought that someone of a certain vintage may revive the Gamesmaster show. They should not do this.  Dominik Diamond should be preserved as the cheeky youthful presenter giving false hope to teenage boys that being good at arcade games can get you hot women models. Times have changed. Loner gamers in bedrooms have networked games these days and are connected to 100's of other gamers simultaneously. No one knows what a joystick is. Essentially, though, Gamesmaster should never be brought back because the games themselves have changed. It is one thing asking a child to free the frogs held by General Toad without losing a life and quite another thing having Sir Patrick Moore saying to a child: "Now for this challenge I am thinking we will see how you get on in Dead Beat 3. You must a kill a pimp by any means to hand and, after, have rough sex with his hooker all within the 2 minute time limit - extra points will be awarded if you drag her to a church first and pay her from the collection plate. Oh, and you might want to keep your car running - if the police catch you the challenge is over. Good luck!"

For Dominik Diamond and all those who thought we would rule the world with Atari and Amiga home computers and a copy of The New Zealand Story game as our weapons, I dedicate this to you all.

Next time you hear the beep...

Round where I live there is a local, well organised and commendably mobile campaign group against a recently proposed un-named large supermarket operative building one of their large supermarket operations on some wasteground nearby.

I, too, am against a supermarket being installed. Not that I am for having a large wasteground either. Each summer, travelling amusements come and set up there, not looking out of place on an episode of Scooby-Do. I went to it a few summer's ago and, having fully wandered around the site, got on the ride that looked the most health and safety certified [that basically boiled down to not one being controlled by a man wearing a lumberjack shirt]. The very next day the local press reported that someone had died on it. They were thrown from the cup and saucer into the central pivot shaped like a teapot. Such was the velocity, they were killed instantly. What a way to go. That is a true story.

Although a supermarket would turn the wasteground into something that does not attract funfairs, I am against one being put on it. Because the less reasons to have old people in supermarkets the better.

I was in a supermarket this week. I only had a couple of items in the basket: processed ham, 4 rolls and that. Enough to keep me going for a day but really - looking down at the basket - it was giving me a feeling that, having gone to all the effort of going to the Supermarket in the first place, I should have got more, you know? Having that idea, waiting in the queue, that I should have made a list - and that idea was tinged with the feeling of regret. Anyway, that was the point where I was at - waiting in the queue at the checkout.

"Please put the item in the bag"

As I say, I only had a few items. Up to this point, I had scouted a few checkout queues. Many had trolley-fulls to get through and the "10 items or less" kiosk was way off at the far end with a queue for it well up the refrigerated aisle. As luck would have it, I settled on standing behind a little old lady, who had just unloaded her basket of tinned fruit, half-pint of milk, a couple of long vegetables and a half-loaf of bread on the conveyor belt. I stood behind her as she watched the checkout girl put through her shopping. And I stood behind her as she started to tell the checkout girl about how she bought a scarf for the winter the other day. Oh, what a lovely scarf it is too. Really thick and warm. It is sort of blue and green. The only problem with it is it is made of that hairy type of wool and it caught on a necklace and broke the chain. Anyway it was really lucky because someone saw it fall off, they were sitting behind at another table, otherwise the necklace would have...

Sorry, excuse me, apologies for interrupting. I am not one for using foul and abusive language. Especially so when talking to an older person but JEEZUS F**K! If you want to talk about "things" then go to your local grocer! Some of us just want to have the briefest of faceless transactions of money for goods - that's why we are here, now, in the Supermarket - all this, all this around you is the future and the future doesn't want to hear a meandering tale about buying a winter garment and if you can't cope then it's time for you to shop at various "mongers".

I know, I know. If I wanted a truly inhuman supermarket experience then I could have gone to one of those "self-checkouts". But I don't trust them. I am pretty certain that is how the cylons started on Caprica.

And then we got to the crux. I saw her give a wrinkly grin to the girl at the checkout when she said, "That is £4.45, please" and we both knew just what was coming next. "I"ll see if I have the exact money for you, love". 3 minutes later, having rummaged through the penny purse (twice) - "I don't have the 5p. I'll have to give you a fiver".

Three words: Chip and Pin! You are not at Sandra's Fish Van anymore! The supermarket, literally, has bags of change.

Having got through the adventure story of the hairy scarf, the Orwellian drama of the change purse the little old person then started to pack her carrier bag. Taking another age to open it as her fingers were so old that her fingerprints had completely smoothed out. She was totally frictionless. "I am sorry for holding you up, son" she offered up while the plastic bag slipped out between her palms.

"It's absolutely fine, I'm in no hurry. And I hope you won't need that scarf too much this winter!" I waspishly retorted through a warm smile of frustrated incredulity.

Of course, not all old people should be tarred by the same brush. Other old souls distrust the supermarket even while in it [which makes you think they got lost, you know, because they are so terribly old], complaining about the problem they are simultaneously compounding. They talk of the supermarket killing the old fashioned, small and friendly shops on the main street, while pushing a trolley full of multi-pack Seabrook Sea-salt crisps and frozen pies.

I have heard a china cabinet of old people [for that is the collective noun] in the cleaning and detergents aisle, as I have gone by, stating their disgusted at there being too many cleaning products on the shelf. I have heard one of them, as I mosey on through, insist on getting bread from the storeroom because he knows "for a fact, the fresh stuff is kept off the shelves so customers can't buy it". Yes, because that is basically what supermarket economics is, keeping a whole load of fresh produce out of sight until it goes a bit stale and then put it out onto the shelf. And then they laugh at you buying it. Oh how the supermarket laughs. You lunatic.

Don't get me wrong, I am not saying, particularly, a ban on old folk from supermarket shopping is the direction to take. I am just suggesting that supermarkets are established up a mild gradient. As a deterent. So, I believe, the case made is clear. No to more supermarkets. Yes to the local market. That way, the older generation can be happy getting soap measured out on scales and meat from jars sealed in petroleum jelly [or however these local shops work] and chatting about the time of day to a lady who doesn't have a name badge - while I am able to purchase my processed ham, 4 rolls and that, relatively hassle free.

One may argue that I could simply adopt an online supermarket delivery shopping habit. This would mean I would have needed no vested opinion about old people in supermarkets in first place. And that would be a valid comment. But I know for a fact that supermarkets regularly substitute the bottle of fizzy juice you clicked on with a bottle of carbonated juice that is going flat, then leave the crate, ring your doorbell and run away.