Think you'll have fun playing this game? Dream on!

Well, that's half an hour of our lives we won't get back. Last night me and the mister had a bout of ennui, and decided to play this -

We'd bought it from a charity shop in Wales a couple of months ago, but stuff kept getting in the way and we never got round to playing it. Eventually, after putting everything we own into alphabetical order, watching every episode of The Foster And Allen Show ever made, and sterilising all our cutlery, we had to face the sad truth – there was nothing else to do but play this game.

We settled down with the various bits and pieces, safe in the smug knowledge that at least we weren't out vandalizing bus stops. We clung to that thought as the game went on, because we needed to feel something good about playing this game.

According to Board Game Geek, “Dream On is an exciting new board game that answers the age old question 'What do my dreams really mean?' The game provides over 1000 dream interpretations derived from the works of the world's most prominent dream analysts."

Here is the bored, I mean the board -

Even the board looks like it's going to sleep.

Also included are a load of interpretation cards, which we'll get to in a minute. Note that someone enjoyed playing this game so much that they went to the trouble of going out and photocopying a few million of these cards. This was presumably around the time of the game's launch in 1992, so the chances of them having a photocopier at home would have been slim. That means they would have had to go out, find a shop with a photocopier, and pay 10p a copy. This game does not deserve that.

Now then – the rules!

I think the general aim of the game is to be able to read people's minds. Let's see -

First – all the players select a piece and place it on the START square. We're all over this shit so far.

Now then. The person selected to be the 'dreamer' (in this case, the mister) selects a card and reads one dream aloud from the card.

This is the card he picked -

The dreamer reads the dream out, and the other players have to write what they think is a convincing interpretation of it.

This is what I wrote -

Then all the players apart from the dreamer vote on which they think is the correct/most likely interpretation.

Hang on, wait, what? How are we supposed to do that with only two players?

Then we spotted this -

Fuck. A whole four minutes wasted. Also, the adults thing is questionable. Never mind, we are nothing if not belligerent. So we decided to continue playing, albeit with slightly tweaked rules.

Are you asleep yet? If not, well done. I am.

Then the mister hit on a bright idea. The dreamer reads a dream out, then we both write down an interpretation of it, so together with the interpretation on the card there are three different interpretations. Then the dreamer reads out all three, and the other player has to choose the correct one.

Spot the flaw in that plan.

What is the point of me writing anything down on my card? I'm going to know that's not the correct answer. Nevertheless, we played with these rules for a while, and I kept choosing my own interpretation just to piss the mister off.

After roughly half an hour, here's where we were on the board -

By now we were so bored we were actively trying to lose, just so the game would stop.

After a while we even gave up on that and just started writing down dreams we'd had (real and imagined) and what we thought they might mean. Here are some of them -

Then we had to decide whether to carry on playing or to hit ourselves over the head with a sack of bricks. Luckily, it was time to go to bed before we could decide.

The end.

Like this post? Try these -

We play the Just Seventeen Kiss Chase board game!

Playing board games as an adult

Things we never had and didn't miss part 2

I know I talked about the internet in part 1, but I'd also like to mention a few specific websites as we go along with this series. And if you think that's cheating – it's my blog, so there.

1 Kids TV channels

 

I will take you through the current listings labelled 'kids' on my Sky Plus box, right now, at 6.00pm -

Some Dreamworks shite

'Johnny Test'

Scooby Doo and the cyber chase

Sam and Cat (I know about this – it's two shrieking teenage girls having wacky japes)

iCarly (same)

NEW – Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles

Peppa Pig

Ultimate Spiderman

Hulk and the agents of SMASH (not the mashed potato brand)

Liv And Maddie

Gravity Falls

The Hive

Sofia The First

Jedward's Big Adventure

In The Night Garden

Peppa Pig

Sally Bollywood

Franklin And Friends

Scooby Doo and the cyber chase (+1)

Fireman Sam (new version)

Ben and Holly's Little Kingdom

Ultimate Spiderman

Family fun time and rhymes

In The Night Garden

Harry and his bucketful of dinosaurs

Sabrina the teenage witch (the cartoon series)

Yu-Gi-Oh! GX

The hive

The mysterious cities of gold

Peppa Pig

Jessie

Sam & Cat

Jedward's big adventure

Dreamworks shite

I think I can stop there, because I've come to the end of the kids' channels. My god.

Our equivalent – Saturday morning tv -

Oh, it's Saturday, there's no school, yay! So do we lie in bed, scrolling through our iPads and scratching ourselves? No! Of course we don't, because it's 1990 and iPads haven't been invented yet.

We spring out of bed like an eager young lamb, and immediately head downstairs to commandeer the tv before our older sisters/parents can get to it. Because, dammit, this is the only day of the week where we get to watch shows aimed at us – viewers who haven't learned to use a knife and fork properly yet.

It's only for a couple of hours, so everyone else in the family can just shut up and find something else to do. Me, I have to dedicate these precious hours to Phillip Schofield, Roland Rat or similar, as they 'gunge' people and introduce American merchandise spin-offs that will fill my brain with colours and sounds.

BIG SHOPS -

Nowadays you can get everything everywhere. Want a battery operated spoon? Primark have some. Want some leggings? PC World has a sale on, what are you waiting for?

I must admit, as a person rapidly skidding towards middle age, it's a relief to be able to get everything I need in one converted warehouse, rather than having to trudge round so many shops that I need a 'coffee break' in between.

Ok, I guess I've never been a big fan of shopping. But even I never dreamed that one day you'd be able to go to one building and get all the things on the following shopping list -

onions

knickers

WD40

vaccuum cleaner

prescription glasses

box set of Steven Seagal movies

Korean noodles

wellies

pile cream

6” screws

You can get all this from my local TESCO EXTRA BIG FUCK OFF HYPER SUPER FUN HAPPY STORE. What you can't get is someone to come and assist you when you have an 'unexpected item in the bagging area' yet again.

Our equivalent – shopping

“Oh, I just need to pop to the butchers, then Farmfoods, then the opticians, then Topshop and Miss Selfridge and H&M and New Look and then I need to go to the chemist...”

I was not a fan of being dragged round all these shops. Even now, when everything I buy is for me, I like to have it in one handy package. Ok, maybe my life would have been improved had we had these SUPER FUN MEGA HAPPY STORES in our lives. I give up.

Blame and claim culture

 

Did you chip a fingernail at work? Or did you sit down on the loo at work and momentarily experience discomfort because the loo seat was a bit cold? Even worse, did someone wilfully injure your feelings by calling you a 'div' at work? Sue those bastards! Phone our hotline now, and we'll get you millions of pounds!

Disclaimer – we will not get you millions of pounds. We will get you up to and including five hundred new pounds, of which we will take up to a hundred percent.

Everyone everywhere is scared of everything. Even I have days where I don't want to leave the house in case a meteor falls on my head, or in case a terrorist comes up and tries to do terror at me.

But when I was growing up, getting injured was not a career. It was a vocation, at best. We did not expect to have our clumsiness rewarded with money. That's what clowns and Eddie The Eagle were for.

Now, if you're short of money and don't want to ring WONGACASHNOW4U, you can simply claim you were tripped over by a member of Al Qaeda, or that someone looked at you funny, and all your financial problems will disappear!

Our equivalent – looking where you were fucking going

 

You know what used to happen if you fell over in the street? Everyone would laugh at you. Certainly they wouldn't offer you money.

Of course, work accidents did happen, and they were generally quite serious, but back then people tried to avoid getting injured. They didn't like being injured, what with the pain and all. Getting injured was seen as a bad thing, not as an equivalent to winning the lottery.

When I was growing up, if you tripped over in the street you were unlucky, or a div. If you broke a nail or had your 'feelings injured' while at work, then you were a fucking crybaby, and didn't deserve the fucking job in the first place.

By the way, I wrote these last paragraphs on the toilet. Just thought you'd like to know.

Wikipedia/IMDB/Yahoo Answers (especially Yahoo Answers)

Killer of pub conversations about... well, anything really. But especially about “Oh, who's that guy from that thing, you know, he was in Morse that one time...)

Nowadays, one self important fuck in the group will casually tap away on his iPhone, and declare -

“Richard Fucknuts, born 1968, was best known for his work in 1990 drama series Impotence Clinic. He went on to be a spokesman for...”

At which point everyone punches him.

Our equivalent – finding things out

If you're like me, you have a mental list of 'oh, I must Google that when I remember.' These things never get looked up, because we're too busy doing important things like looking at porn or playing Candy Crush when we're on the internet.

Before the days when you could Google anything, you had to put some work into finding things out. You had to read books, visit the library, even (shock horror) talk to other people and ask them. This was a good way to acquire knowledge. Certainly better than just going on Wikipedia, and here's why.

As for Yahoo Answers, I refer you to this.

Things we never had and didn't miss part 1

This is not going to be one of those annoying 'OMG THIS STUFF WILL MAKE YOU FEEL SOOOO OLD!!!!1111' posts. No. This was just a discussion between me and the mister, over things we couldn't live without, but somehow managed perfectly well without when we were growing up. Which makes us feel, like, sooo old!!1

I am basing this on a British childhood really, because my American readers will have had some of these things around since they can remember. Then America decided that they wanted to inflict their crap on other countries, and slowly the rest of the world caught up.

Because I have a list longer than my arm, I'm going to split this post into several parts, because I do need some me-time you know, to sit there drinking red bull and watching Antiques Roadshow.

1. The internet 

This is maybe not such a given, because a lot of you young scallywags assume the internet has been around since 1798. No. I didn't have my first glimpse of online until 1995, with the help of Netscape Navigator -

Ok, hands up if you remember any of the following things – getting 3000 free AOL CDs in the post/whenever you buy anything ever, the dial up music, Geocities, waiting ten minutes for half a picture to load (and not just because of all the advertising), your sister buggering up your conversation with 'manicsfan83' because she selfishly decided to make a phone call. No? Then you lose!

Our equivalent – Teletext

Shut up, this had all the features of your so called internet; we were quite happy with it back in the day. It had endless loading times, celebrity gossip, and fake psychics. Ok, it didn't have porn, but sometimes you could squint and pretend that Bamber Boozler, host of the Channel 4 Sunday Teletext quiz Bamboozle, was a nudey lady. Not that I ever did that, but I'm sure you could if you wanted.

2. Mobile phones

 

My god, the day I got my first mobile phone I felt like such a badass, and an important badass at that. It was a big Motorola brick, but still quite modern because it had texting on it. Much like a word processor of old, you couldn't see the entire text in one go; you had to scroll through each word from left to right. So if you realised you'd made a mistake at the beginning, you generally couldn't be arsed to go back.

No one ever phoned me as I had no friends, but it didn't matter. I would still have a fine old time choosing my ringtones just in case I got a wrong number or something. And then I upgraded to this bad boy -

Allow me to play you the song of my people -

Unless, of course, you could work the 'composer' feature, and then the world was your lobster. I got really good at using the composer, and ended up being able to make any tune on request. But my favourite thing to do was to bash the buttons on the composer for ten seconds, then have whatever godawful noise came out as my ringtone.

Our equivalent – The phone -

You know, the phone? The actual phone that households have? That has an area code? Where, if you ring and there's no answer, you just assume they're not in, not that they hate you? That.

Also, BT phone boxes. Great for making prank calls (like when you phone someone's house and just blow a raspberry down the phone), useless for making actual calls as they were all crackly and cost about a pound a go.

3. The Lottery -

It could be you! Tip – it won't be. But when The National Lottery started in 1994, every single person in Britain was convinced it would be them. So we went mad buying tickets, in a frenzy akin to something out of Willy Wonka And The Chocolate Factory. And all workplace/pub/playground discussions were immediately wiped out and replaced by 'what we'd spend our winnings on'.

We still have the Lottery, but recently the ticket price has doubled to £2, and hardly anyone plays it any more. Sometimes we have a flutter though, because quite often you do get three numbers up, which these days will net you a cool £25 – not to be sniffed at.

Our equivalent – The football pools

Typically run by Vernons or Littlewoods, the idea was to correctly predict the scores of all the upcoming football matches of the week. My childhood was filled with my parents talking mysteriously about something called a 'score draw', or a 'no score draw', and putting ticks in little boxes, which a man in a hat would then come round and collect. I can't remember how much you could win on the pools, but it definitely wasn't millions. It might have been enough to retire on, if you just ate tins of beans and never got your hair cut, I don't know.

4. Netflix, Love Film etc -

Bored of everything on TV? Can't find anything to watch? Then I suggest you stop taking those drugs you're on, since they've clearly turned you into a mental. There is always something good to watch since TV on demand was invented. For a mere fiver a month, a household can watch almost any film or TV show ever made with the touch of a button. Very Jetsons. Especially now that Youtube on your TV has been thrown into the mix. Now it seems inconceivable that you might have to flick through the channels to 'see if there's anything good on', and hope you haven't missed the start of it.

Our equivalent – going to the video shop

This was a big thing, generally undertaken when the family was all together on a Friday or Saturday evening. As our family consisted of my parents, my two teenage sisters, and a fat, whining me, numerous rows over what to rent were guaranteed.

The proceedings would start with my parents casually saying, “Oh, there's nothing on TV tonight, let's get a video.” Magic words to me. Immediately my young mind would be filled with thoughts of the entire Hanna Barbera collection, or perhaps The Little Mermaid. Naturally, the video would be my choice; those peasants I lived with wouldn't be given a say.

It hardly ever turned out like this. I wanted something with no more than two dimensions, my sisters invariably wanted either a horror movie or Road House, my mum wanted anything to do with Coronation Street or Brookside, and my dad wanted something about a war. Any war. Or about Hank Marvin. Because of this inability to agree, the family generally ended up renting something nobody wanted to watch, probably not even the people who starred in it.

Then there were those times where, when I'd been really good, I won a trip to the video shop just for me, where I could pick out a video of my choice. This was where I got silly, and all thoughts of Hanna Barbera went out of the window. I would choose something like The Fly, and my parents would get all pissy and make me choose something like The Happy Unicorn.

Well, that's it for part one. I'll probably write part two over the weekend, just so you know and aren't endlessly pacing up and down crying “But when will she write it? When?” Now you can relax. 

Cans of lager and packets of lard - four people's memories of Santa

You're standing in the queue, about to pee yourself with excitement. Just three more kids and then it's your turn! At that point you cannot think of anything greater than the honour of being able to sit on an old man's knee and convince him you've done absolutely nothing wrong this year. No, make that ever, just to be on the safe side. After all, you absolutely have to be sure of getting that A La Carte Kitchen or that Barbie Dream House, otherwise you will actually die.

Two more kids before you. You start to panic – maybe Santa will run out of time or run out of presents before he sees you? Quietly you start to think about ways you could get the other kids out of the way. Maybe shout really loudly to Santa that the two kids in front of you robbed a bank this Spring, so they definitely shouldn't get anything.

Luckily, by the time your stupid four year old brain has hatched this plan, the two kids in front have been and gone, and there you are, standing in front of a wonderland that contains all your hopes and dreams -

Now it's time for you to meet the big man -

Holy hell, could this get any more exciting? Now's not the time to get stagefright and be a wuss. Mentally you go over your Christmas list one more time, just to make sure there's nothing you've forgotten. Then you're ushered in by an elf, and the greatest meeting since the Frost/Nixon interview can begin.

Now, because my coffee and beer fuddled mind cannot come up with more than one memory of going to see Santa, I've invited some of my esteemed colleagues to write about their memories of the big guy.

Firstly, the mister's memories of Santa -

"All kids know that dodgy garden centre Santa isn't really Santa but one of his “helpers” (editor's note – I thought it was really Santa, but I was an idiot). When I was a child I wondered about the inner workings of this arrangement. Did these toys come from the North Pole, or were they actually the ones next to the weird green stuff you put dried flowers in? Did Santa have a standardised training policy to maintain his brand image? Did they have a union? Did they report back to Santa daily with gift givings to make sure that if someone was actually a dick they could have the present forcibly removed? And if so, how did the elves sort through all those letters AND the ones sent by kids? Did their pay come through the same distribution channel? Where does Postman Pat get off having a van if Santa can use magic? Stupid Pat.

All of this was moot though, because I never received presents from Santa when I was a kid.

This wasn't because I was some sort of social leper (I was but that's not the point), but for two other, more boring reasons. One - you would never hear the “S” word uttered in my house unless it was coming from Dudley Moore or bellowed over the top of a Coca-Cola advert, he was definitely Father Christmas in my day. Two - present giving in my family was apparently non-standard. You see I never actually received presents from the bearded one, all my presents were from actually real life people. People like my sister, and odd family members who weren't actually related but were suspiciously close to my mother that we called Uncle Steve. And of course from my parents. But never Father Christmas.

They explained this by saying that Father Christmas didn't know how to make things like Gameboys and graphics calculators because he only did woodwork at school. So, they bought the presents, and then sent them to Father Christmas for later delivery. Being a moron (and 7) I never questioned that my parents had reduced Father Christmas down to some sort of 80s Ebay, and instead held my head high, since I had been trusted with knowledge of the inner workings of the North Pole's empire. Later I realised it was all a sham, but carried on pretending, because it got me more presents.

Things nowadays are completely different. Instead of the 80s Ebay where my dad bought everything, I now have the actual Ebay. Which I use to buy what I actually want, and not a sodding graphics calculator."

Alex is 30 and a half.

Now some thoughts from my alcoholic friend Ginny – his blog can be found HERE

"My dad used to run a working men’s club, a British Legion to be precise. Every year on Christmas Eve he’d organise a big party for all the local kids, get the big function room all decorated with tinsel and stuff and a huge tree (well I was only a little kid, it looked bloody gigantic to me).

When the music was blaring out and all the games were in full flow, we’d turn around and there would be Santa. He’d be stood at the bar, pint glass in hand and now that I look back on it, he never looked that impressed to be there.

He’d be all jolly to us all, say “ho, ho, ho” and everything that you’d expect him to say, sit us all on his lap (not all at the same time obviously), give us some cheap tat for a present and promise to bring the rest later.

The party would end quite a bit before midnight; the parents would take all the kids home. I’d stay on a bit, waiting for my mother to finish cleaning up behind the bar so she could run me and my siblings home. When we got home we’d leave the usual carrot and saucer of milk for Rudolph and for the main man himself there would be a couple of cans of lager (Editor's note – in the North of England you were supposed to leave a packet of lard out for Santa.) and some chocolate bars.

I did used to wonder though; if Santa drank at every house and party he was at, how did he manage to deliver presents all over the world?"

I also phoned my dad up and asked him for his memories of the big red dude. He got sidetracked and started talking about firemen wearing bras, but in the middle of that we have some fine 1950s Santa memories -

“We went every year to see Santa at the local fire brigade Christmas party, held at the fire station (I should explain that my dad's dad was a fireman). The firemen who were not currently putting out fires put on various bits of entertainment for the kids. This involved firemen dressed in fairy wings and bras, singing well known easy listening standards. One fireman's bra fell up and somehow ended up in the audience. A little girl brought it back, holding it over her own non-existent boobs on the way to the stage.

When Santa (one of the firemen) finally made his appearance, wouldn't you know it – I was the last in line. I was so worried he'd run out of presents, I didn't know what to do. I didn't realise that “Santa's” presents had been supplied by our own parents. I became more and more anxious, cursing myself for not fighting my way to the front. However, this story has a happy ending – I got a cowboy fort! Made by my Dad, who made a lot of toys for me.

That reminds me Jenny, did I tell you about the last episode of Homes Under The Hammer I saw?...”

This was my cue to politely make my excuses and disconnect the call.

Personally, my best memory of Santa is getting some pots and pans. I was so overjoyed with this; I probably had the A La Carte kitchen to use them in by this time. This year I am expecting the following things from Santa -

A bottle of alcoholic booze

A copy of Viz

20 things from the pound shop

A hangover

Fewer pots n pans than I have had in previous years

Finally, just a reminder – don't forget to leave a can of lager and a packet of lard out for the big guy.

My big TV occasions

I've just read a forum discussion on people's favourite TV moments, which has inspired me to write this list. I think compared to many people, I've had relatively few massive TV events in my life – programmes that you sit down to watch with other people, and hand round nibbles, and everyone is on their best behaviour. But I can think of a few, and now I'm going to bore you for ten minutes by telling you about them.

William and Kate's wedding -

I'm not entirely sure why I went so insane over K-Willz's wedding, apart from it just seemed like the thing to do - everyone was going nuts making plans for TV parties. Since I was at university and didn't have a TV, I went over to a guy friend's house and commandeered his for the day. He didn't mind because he wasn't asked.

The wedding should have made me run a mile, because I was getting over a bad break up at the time. Normally, the last thing I wanted to do was sit there watching two people squish over each other and have lots of money. But something in me thought that I shouldn't let that stop me being party to this occasion. Most generations have a royal wedding, and this was mine. I wasn't going to let some philandering git spoil it for me.

Naturally, we were all a bit pissed by lunchtime so don't ask me about the ins and outs of the coverage. But we did all agree on one thing, which I'm sure you've seen many times before -

Reality show finals -

Aw, you beat a disabled lad. Well done.

Mostly Britain's Got Talent, Stars In Their Eyes and The Apprentice. I'm not much of a one for reality shows, but I do watch Britain's Got Talent religiously. Which lucky act will win some money and then never get mentioned ever again? Will it be Charlie the cheese juggling monkey? The amazing three-nippled Terence? Or will it be one of the plucky young pop singers that didn't fancy their chances on The X Factor?

I love TV talent shows, but I'm indifferent about pure singing shows (Stars in their eyes doesn't count in my opinion – it's still enough of a freak show to make it interesting).

When there's a half decent reality show final scheduled, me and whoever can stand my company for the evening will stock up on crisps and nuts and beer, smugly convinced that our favourite is going to win with 200% of the phone vote. This hardly ever turns out to be the case, and our champion will usually come about seventh, even when there are only five acts on the show.

The Brookside body under the patio -

I bloody loved Brookside. When I was a kid I used to sit and watch it with my parents, and to my childish mind, drama couldn't possibly get any more dramatic. This was because Brookside was known for having forward thinking and edgy storylines that other soaps wouldn't touch.

I recently bought this DVD which brought back memories of me being glued to the screen as a child, not entirely sure what was going on, but feeling full of peril nonetheless.

By far the most terror inducing plot my young mind witnessed was the Mandy and Trevor Jordache 'Body under the patio' story. For those of who who never saw Brookside, this should explain it. See, the body under the patio story even has it's own entry on Brookside's Wikipedia page. So there.

Being about nine, I never fully understood what was going on during the domestic abuse storyline, but I knew Trevor was a bad man. So I rooted for Mandy and Beth, and rejoiced (sort of) when they finally managed to kill him. Then I witnessed them desperately shoving his body under the patio. Even though I knew it was Trevor under there, still I recoiled and yelped in horror when Eddie the neighbour came across his rotting hand -

This led to the Jordaches being arrested, and subsequently to the 'Free the Jordache two' campaign across British media. Me being nine and stupid, I thought they were really in prison, and that it was up to the British public to get them out. Although my little self ranted and raved, it didn't do any good, and ultimately I had to rely on the producers of the show to release them from prison. Well, one of them – Beth Jordache sadly died, rendering her ineligible for parole. Sob, cry. 


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