It's a curious feature of the Oasis complex these days that many businesses brand as retro that which was commonplace in my youth. Sad, sad days. Sniff.
But any sense of advancing years is offset by the sheer appeal of this place: Heavy, tall blocks of faux-wood; machines on which to practice for galactic peril. Or didn't you see The Last Starfighter? Oh, those yellow-topped knobs and, joy of joys, the ability to type your OWN NAME. But best of all, was the thrill - no, fear - that at any moment you could be transformed into electricity and sucked in Tron-style, forced to defend new friends from a bad space sod. That, or help a hungry pie chart eat some dots. Or a frog cross the road. Or a gorilla throw a barrel.
I'd love to tell you that I found an old machine here, still bearing one of my high scores from 1982. But I can't. Because it hasn't happened. And at this stuff, I was rubbish. Tron? Tron Atkinson, more like. read more