6. R&R-Games
R&R-Games by Andrew Guthrie-Dow
Games are strange things. If you were an extraterrestrial civilization trying to fathom the complexities of our little planet, where would games fit-in? Initial thoughts from our green-friends might be that they currently didn’t quite understand these, but with more time and study, a reason or set-of-reasons would emerge to explain why games exist on planet earth, and why humans play them. As the decades of study continues and no such reason or reasons emerged, a stark truth might emerge – humans are weird, very weird.
Actually, the real reason I’m writing this piece is to help-out two new friends of mine, Squeaker and Squawker. They’re from the planet Corvid-3, somewhere in our galaxy but astronomy is not their strong point (I try to help them out with this alongside some basic maths), No, they’re two anthropology students doing their thesis on human games, toys and sports, none of which apparently exist on Corvid-3. They were trying to be selected for a research project on planet Erotica-5, but this was oversubscribed and they were sent here instead.
Under strict instructions not to contact the locals in any way, they immediately emailed me after reading my website, and we met-up. They’re approximately two metres tall, black, and look spookily like two giant crows (beaks, wings, feathers, claws – that sort of thing). The atmosphere here on Earth is a bit thin for them, so they often supplement their breathing with bottles of “oxygen-mix” strapped to their backs. Again, as neither of them are very technical they get the flow rates all wrong and end up on their backs cackling at the sky, which I assume to be the terrestrial equivalent of giggling (I’m beginning to think they’re doing this on purpose). I’ve decided not to tell Miss-Mary-McNuggets (my psychotherapist) about them as she tends to get all anxious about these things.
Anyway, I agreed to help them with their thesis so we all signed-up for the Hibs-Casuals (the ultra-fans) to begin the understanding of Earth based games. For those few of you who are not familiar with the Hibs-Casuals, they are the hard-core supporters of the Edinburgh based Hibernian football club. They/we hang-out behind the goal towards the Famous-Five-Stand where the Casuals are well known for their witty and vocal chanting (e.g. “Lizzie’s in a Box” during the minute’s silence following Queen-Elizabeth’s sad passing).
We were soon accepted amongst the rank-and-file, and Squeaker and Squawker quickly joined in the chanting. I asked them once if they understood what “the referee’s a wanker” meant (both figuratively and literally), but I don’t think they “got” my explanation. No bother, they seemed quite content jumping up-and-down as the tackles came-in. After a few home-games I asked them if they now understood the rules, and they answered confidently in their increasingly strong Edinburgh accents “yes, you can only attack a player when they have the ball”. It was close enough, so I thought I’d leave all that technical stuff about goals for later.
In pursuit of their thesis I suggested we drop by the Hibs-Supporters favourite pub, the “Trainspotters”, for a game of pool or darts or something. They were mystified by these, and when it came to cribbage, I could sense their total disbelief. “Why would anybody do any of this – what’s the point?”. The more I thought about it the less able I was to answer – I didn’t get-it either. Not that I didn’t enjoy these games (I do), but I have no reason to give as to why. However, Squeaker and Squawker quickly found a liking for Guinness and would drink whole pints of it in one go. At the beginning of a session, they would deftly hold the glass in their beaks, tilt their heads backwards, and swallow the lot. At session end there would be increasing amounts of broken glass. Eventually the landlord (Mental-Mickey) would pour a bucket of Guinness for each of them as soon as they came through the door to minimize breakages; top-man!
So, pub games were a mystery to them, and now probably, to me also. What next? Board-games, obviously. We’d start with monopoly. Work through drafts/checkers, and then land on chess. Surely emissaries from Corvid-3 with all their advanced science-and-technology would appreciate games based on intelligence and strategy? No. Back in my flat I opened the top-end monopoly board, outlined the rules, and off we went. Squeaker with his racing-car sped-away, followed by me with the iron, followed by Squawker in the rear with his top-hat.
The two-lads immediately bought everything they landed on while I picked-and-choose. By the time we had circled the board three times they had ran-out of money, were mortgaged up-to-the-hilt, and faced the inevitable. When it came Squawker’s reaction was not good. He picked-up the board in his beak, whacked me on the head with it, and accused me of cheating. I decided board-games were out, video games would be far too dangerous, so what instead?
Then a brilliant thought drifted into my mind. Let’s leave games and explore toys. They had read a little about toys, but had never seen one, so I dug-out my old lava-lamp, plugged-it-in, and set the lights-low. They cracked-open a new bottle of “oxygen-mix” which we shared, and all three of us were in no time staring at the coloured-blobs projected on the ceiling, slowly milling-around. Success at last. Something they could rally relate to. “What other toys do you have?” they asked. As I could think of none, I suggested we go to a toy-shop the next morning, and they agreed.
After our hangovers subsided (about eleven in the morning), we set-off for the shopping-mall at the St. James-Quarter. Everybody loves Lego I thought, and I was not wrong. Once inside the shop Squeaker and Squawker started attacking the display pieces. Captain-Hook was soon hookless, followed by his hat, head legs and arms. As they ripped through his body parts they cackled loudly as pieces of Lego ricochet off the walls and ceilings. After the captain followed Bambi, the fairy-queen, R2D2, C3PO and the whole millennial-falcon.
They were having the time of their lives. When all the display pieces had been atomized in this way they asked “what next?”. I replied “and now you rebuild them”. This really floored them – “how? we can’t do that”, and nor could I. So, we slunk out of the shop as if nothing had happened. I can only assume the staff assumed it was a publicity programme head-office had not told them about, at least I hoped this was true. In these situations, walk slowly and never look back - onwards to the model-shop.
Before we entered, I laid-out my terms-and-conditions to avoid a repeat of our shameful previous “experience”. Just look, no touching, no cackling – respect everyone or were not going in. They reluctantly nodded. The model-shop was full of miniature racing cars, boats, airplanes etc, but its pride-and-joy was an alpine large-scale train layout (for you technical nerds it was a G-scale). The train consisting of power-unit with cantilever pulling three carriages. It would accelerate away from rest at a little station at the base of a hill, wind round-and-round the hill through tunnels and over bridges, before temporarily stopping at a station near the summit. It would then continue its journey corkscrewing down the hill in the opposite direction before temporarily coming to rest at the base-station. The whole process would then repeat every two minutes.
I could tell they were impressed. Well sort-of. Thet spent minutes intensively inspecting the track, the moving-train, the stations, and even the papier-mâché hill, taking pictures on their I-pads. Then it dawned-on-me. They were expecting something else to happen, but of course it didn’t. After ten minutes Squeaker came-over to me and whispered “it’s just like the trains that take you humans from one-place-to-another, but smaller”. After a few more seconds Squawker chimed-in with “but its too small to fit in!”. I pondered this realization, then added meekly “you’re right, it is too small”, and that-was-that.
As we left the shop I thought I’d try one last approach. Up alongside Princes-Street was the winter fun-fair, so I took them there. I don’t mind walking through fun-fairs, but not to participate. I have a very low fear-threshold, so I let others do that sort-of-thing. Squeaker and Squawker were mesmerized by the flashing lights and the music, and soon we were at the base of the most frightening ride of them all; the flying/whirling chair thingy (you can tell I’m an expert on this). No queue, a little adjustment as the operator strapped them in, and away they went, spiralling into the sky, both screeching as they ascended into the heavens. After five minutes they were down, but it wasn’t enough for them.
As they were students with little money I had to pay for five consecutive flights before I’d had enough; they’d be doing it all afternoon otherwise. A hit, a game-changer, something they could understand, enjoy, and write-up about for their thesis. I’d done my bit. As they landed for the last time, we looked at each other as if to fathom what to do next. “The Train-Spotters” for a quick couple of buckets of Guinness?” I suggested. A good choice, and down Easter-Road we went to the pub. Happy times.