Man’s been popping pills since 1980, and it ain’t never done him no harm

Pac-Man (1980)

I hate to say it, but the day is rapidly coming for me when nightclubs will no longer be an acceptable place for me to show my face at. That said, I’m not writing off the possibility that I might win an explosion of money in my fifties, and take my suitcase of money down to the local club to shant it up with the local dollies.

Or better still, instead of spending my retirement measuring out what little money I finish up with, I could get my whole pension and go out in a drug-fuelled blaze of glory. For one night only, that might be acceptable. But until then, I can probably count my remaining nightclub appearances on two hands.

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Dominatrices, steroids, kung fu and the Terminator, and all the movie did was drag on, drag on

Double Dragon III: The Sacred Stones (1991)

I was going to take some time to lecture you in great detail about the third Double Dragon game on Nintendo. But to be honest, there isn’t much to say. After all, I could barely get past the first few screens to even see what the rest of the game had to offer.

Yes, many NES games just decided, on a whim, that they were gonna hate you. And Double Dragon III: The Sacred Stones hates you, despises you in fact. This game is almost impossibly hard, and no matter what you do, you just get the head punched off you any time you try.

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Don’t feel sorry for the plumbers, they’re well used to being knee-deep in it

Mario Bros. (1986)

It strikes me suddenly, with no reason and over 35 years later, that for a supposed plumber I’ve never actually seen Mario do anything you’d call plumbing. He’s clambered through a few pipes alright, and he undoubtedly got up to some messy waterworks while on holiday in Super Mario Sunshine. But when have you actually seen him get down on his hands and knees and fix the gunge and rubbish coming out of those nasty pipes?

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A good gaming session spoiled

Golf (1986)

Obviously, since I’m as near to 30 years old as makes no difference, the chances of me becoming any kind of pro sportsman these days are a bit remote, to say the least. That doesn’t mean I can’t drift off into some kind of fantasy world on occasion however, like we all do.

I’m talking about the kind of fantasy where I ask myself those kinds of questions that lead on into a fun, artificially constructed second life until somebody, usually the missus, notices that I’m starting off into space. I’ll be sat there, drooling and everything, all absentminded, and she’ll ask me what’s wrong. I’ll tell you what’s wrong shall I, I was just crowned Super Lazarus Sportsman Personality of the Year and you’ve put me right off my internal acceptance speech.

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