Part
2
Its morning then and I’ve woken up
absolutely famished. As I wash up and put on my raid gear, (old jeans, even
older T-shirt and sturdy walking boots) my mind drifts away from raid-related
thoughts and turns to all things bacon. I push my newly purchased £16 B&Q
raid torch down the front of my pants.
“I
think I’ll have a bacon butty” I say to Raid Guy#2, whose (twin) room I’m
sharing. “Yes, why not. I’m bast*rd starving..”
As I leave the hotel room and head
downstairs I can’t stop thinking about the massive pile of crispy bacon that I’m
going to consume; it’s like being on holiday. I don’t get out much. When I get
to the bar area it’s been ‘transformed’ into the breakfast area but there is no
smell of meat to greet me. Instead there is a selection of cakes, pastries and
some cold meat on a plate. A small sign indicates that this is something called
a ‘Continental Breakfast’. There is no bacon.
“Where’s
the bacon? What’s going on? I don’t want
a Danish and a cold meat selection for my breakfast! I want bacon..”
I settle for toast and, spotting a few of
the raid crew in one corner, grab some blackcurrant jam and walk over. They
seem a little more enthusiastic about the cold meat than I do. One or two
people look hung over and there is the distinct impression that the raid party
carried on long after I hit the sack; there is coffee. Lots of coffee. It’s time for an official raid photo then and
we all gather around the various tables and chairs and try to look as if we are
about to make history. The other guests stare at us, without actually staring
at us. Perhaps they think we’re famous. Perhaps we will be. It’s hard to look
like you are about to make history with a limp piece of toast in your hand and
jam around your mouth though.
It’s worth pointing out that when we set
off convoy style to the raid location, I still have no idea where we are
actually going. This doesn’t present too much of a problem though, as I am not a
designated driver. We skirt around the morning rush hour traffic, which is surprisingly
light for 8am in the middle of Trafford Park on a week day. I begin to
recognize one or two land marks and it suddenly dawns on me that I’ve been here
before, with my father. As I try to nail down exactly when this was and what we
were doing, (note: it was about 30 years ago and we went to a stock car race)
we arrive at the raid location.
We are early. The owner has not yet arrived
and word quickly spreads that there’s been some sort of accident; he’s going to
be 15 minutes late. This gives the collected masses time to prepare. Car boots
are unloaded, tool kits are compared, gloves are put on; for a brief moment two
of the raid guys banter about who has the best drill. Packing blankets and
cardboard appear, ready to protect the cargo on its journey to its new home. A
couple of bodies, myself included, drift off to explore the edges of the
wasteland that surrounds the main building we are shortly to enter. In no
particular order, we find an old bath, a child’s table football and a fridge
(why is there always a fridge?) Somebody picks up the football game and holds
it aloft.
“Looks
like a boot!”
There are pockets of muffled laughter and
cheering. We all settle into smaller groups, hands in pockets and wait. I wish
I‘d bought a jacket, or even a jumper.
“Look
through here!” somebody shouts. “You
can see machines!”
There is a small out building attached to
the main building comprised of corrugated iron; the edges don’t quite meet,
creating a nifty little peep hole to the inside. I shine my (raid) torch inside
when it’s my turn to look and sure enough, I’m greeted by the familiar shape of
several arcade cabinets packed back to back. Worryingly, there is a lot of
pink. I don’t remember Major Havoc or I Robot coming in pink. Perhaps they are
prototypes? Still, we are here. There are cabs here. We made it.
“It’s
time to pay the seller. Wait here.” Says one of the raid leaders.
We dutifully obey. For a moment it goes
silent. This is possibly the most critical part of the raid. The seller could
decide they want more money, announce that other interested parties are now
part of the equation or simply, that they’ve changed their minds and ‘hey, sorry for your trouble but the deals
off’…..if anything is going to happen, it’s going to happen now.
When our friends emerge, it’s hard to tell
if the mood is positive or not from where we are stood. As they get closer it
becomes obvious that something has definitely been said though that has knocked
their confidence. The general consensus is ‘Oh
no…’ Incredibly, despite the massive levels of military style secrecy, it
transpires that somebody has been to the location just days before, asking about the machines and claiming they know one
of the raid team. Thankfully the seller didn’t entertain letting these
individuals into the part where the machines were stored and everything is
fine. Everyone breathes a huge sigh of relief.
“Get
the sack trolleys.”
The sound of a dozen rubber wheels bouncing
along the gravel accompanies us to the first of what will eventually become 4 different
rooms packed with arcade porn and the doors are opened.
The room is completely empty.
“Jesus.
What’s that smell?”
“I
think its piss...”
Jodo2015-03-20 21:50:28
2
Its morning then and I’ve woken up
absolutely famished. As I wash up and put on my raid gear, (old jeans, even
older T-shirt and sturdy walking boots) my mind drifts away from raid-related
thoughts and turns to all things bacon. I push my newly purchased £16 B&Q
raid torch down the front of my pants.
“I
think I’ll have a bacon butty” I say to Raid Guy#2, whose (twin) room I’m
sharing. “Yes, why not. I’m bast*rd starving..”
As I leave the hotel room and head
downstairs I can’t stop thinking about the massive pile of crispy bacon that I’m
going to consume; it’s like being on holiday. I don’t get out much. When I get
to the bar area it’s been ‘transformed’ into the breakfast area but there is no
smell of meat to greet me. Instead there is a selection of cakes, pastries and
some cold meat on a plate. A small sign indicates that this is something called
a ‘Continental Breakfast’. There is no bacon.
“Where’s
the bacon? What’s going on? I don’t want
a Danish and a cold meat selection for my breakfast! I want bacon..”
I settle for toast and, spotting a few of
the raid crew in one corner, grab some blackcurrant jam and walk over. They
seem a little more enthusiastic about the cold meat than I do. One or two
people look hung over and there is the distinct impression that the raid party
carried on long after I hit the sack; there is coffee. Lots of coffee. It’s time for an official raid photo then and
we all gather around the various tables and chairs and try to look as if we are
about to make history. The other guests stare at us, without actually staring
at us. Perhaps they think we’re famous. Perhaps we will be. It’s hard to look
like you are about to make history with a limp piece of toast in your hand and
jam around your mouth though.
It’s worth pointing out that when we set
off convoy style to the raid location, I still have no idea where we are
actually going. This doesn’t present too much of a problem though, as I am not a
designated driver. We skirt around the morning rush hour traffic, which is surprisingly
light for 8am in the middle of Trafford Park on a week day. I begin to
recognize one or two land marks and it suddenly dawns on me that I’ve been here
before, with my father. As I try to nail down exactly when this was and what we
were doing, (note: it was about 30 years ago and we went to a stock car race)
we arrive at the raid location.
We are early. The owner has not yet arrived
and word quickly spreads that there’s been some sort of accident; he’s going to
be 15 minutes late. This gives the collected masses time to prepare. Car boots
are unloaded, tool kits are compared, gloves are put on; for a brief moment two
of the raid guys banter about who has the best drill. Packing blankets and
cardboard appear, ready to protect the cargo on its journey to its new home. A
couple of bodies, myself included, drift off to explore the edges of the
wasteland that surrounds the main building we are shortly to enter. In no
particular order, we find an old bath, a child’s table football and a fridge
(why is there always a fridge?) Somebody picks up the football game and holds
it aloft.
“Looks
like a boot!”
There are pockets of muffled laughter and
cheering. We all settle into smaller groups, hands in pockets and wait. I wish
I‘d bought a jacket, or even a jumper.
“Look
through here!” somebody shouts. “You
can see machines!”
There is a small out building attached to
the main building comprised of corrugated iron; the edges don’t quite meet,
creating a nifty little peep hole to the inside. I shine my (raid) torch inside
when it’s my turn to look and sure enough, I’m greeted by the familiar shape of
several arcade cabinets packed back to back. Worryingly, there is a lot of
pink. I don’t remember Major Havoc or I Robot coming in pink. Perhaps they are
prototypes? Still, we are here. There are cabs here. We made it.
“It’s
time to pay the seller. Wait here.” Says one of the raid leaders.
We dutifully obey. For a moment it goes
silent. This is possibly the most critical part of the raid. The seller could
decide they want more money, announce that other interested parties are now
part of the equation or simply, that they’ve changed their minds and ‘hey, sorry for your trouble but the deals
off’…..if anything is going to happen, it’s going to happen now.
When our friends emerge, it’s hard to tell
if the mood is positive or not from where we are stood. As they get closer it
becomes obvious that something has definitely been said though that has knocked
their confidence. The general consensus is ‘Oh
no…’ Incredibly, despite the massive levels of military style secrecy, it
transpires that somebody has been to the location just days before, asking about the machines and claiming they know one
of the raid team. Thankfully the seller didn’t entertain letting these
individuals into the part where the machines were stored and everything is
fine. Everyone breathes a huge sigh of relief.
“Get
the sack trolleys.”
The sound of a dozen rubber wheels bouncing
along the gravel accompanies us to the first of what will eventually become 4 different
rooms packed with arcade porn and the doors are opened.
The room is completely empty.
“Jesus.
What’s that smell?”
“I
think its piss...”
Jodo2015-03-20 21:50:28
