It was a strange Christmas in the Diamond household, because for the first time in 23 years as a parent, my family wasn’t complete. My 18-year-old son Charlie was spending it with his girlfriend and pals 3,000 miles away on the other side of Canada, so he was away for three weeks. This made me sad, for me, but also happy for him that he is mature enough to make these decisions. One of the aims of parenting is to get your kids into a position where they want to leave home and are able to do so, and my son is a man now.
So, we had a Charlie Diamond Christmas before he left. Whatever he wanted to do, we would do. This involved going out for dinner to a place where I actually wore a shirt like a proper grownup and put on trousers that weren’t sweatpants; watching whatever movie he wanted; and playing whatever video games he wanted afterwards. I will admit that I wasn’t looking forward to the last two. He likes horror movies, and I tend to go more for upbeat stuff in my middle age, owing to the unending horrors of real life. Also, he would kick my arse at any of the games he likes.
I was a bit worse for wear after the restaurant. When it comes to late nights and alcohol consumption, I generally have the energy and stamina of a geriatric panda these days. Also, we don’t eat meat in the house because one of my kids is vegan, so after making up for this by eating a hunk of meat the size of my head in the restaurant, I was heading for the meat coma to end all meat comas.
But a promise is a promise. I managed to stay awake through 80% of the movie, the terrifying, horrible, and brilliant (until the ending) Smile. But I was pooped. I was about to beg forgiveness and head to bed. Then I remembered that game. The one you can always summon up the energy to play, even if you’re knackered. The simple multiplayer game that takes very little thought and effort and always brings joy, even if you cannot be arsed. A game you can play stone cold sober, blind drunk, or as high as a kite, and still compete.
I speak, of course, of Super Bomberman, a game that holds one of my favourite professional memories (Robbie Williams triumphing over the rest of Take That on GamesMaster) and more laughs at wins and losses than any game in my life since. Most importantly, the random power-ups and lunatic speed of the game mean that an old middle-aged gaming dad can still have a chance against a son in his late teenage gaming prime.
Or so I thought.
First two games I get hosed. It’s not even close. Playing four-player with two computer-controlled Bombermen, I am the first to get killed every single time. Once again, there is too much happening on-screen for my middle-aged brain. My son, as much as I love him to bits, is an epically horrible winner. He mocks, he dabs, he humiliates me. It’s like I am back playing FIFA Ultimate Team. I pass annoyed and irked rapidly and am approaching righteous Shouty Scottish Dad Fury, a state that every Scottish person knows has ruined more Christmases than any postal strike or weather catastrophe. I MUST avoid it. I am not letting it ruin this special early Christmas for my only son before he leaves.
So, I do the only other thing I can do in this position: I think of how the hell I can beat him.
“Son, you know this isn’t a real test of gaming skill?”
“It certainly isn’t testing me, Dad,” Charlie smirks.
“It needs to just be you and I. Mano a mano.”
“I think the only chance you’d have, Dad, is if you were playing by yourself.”
Good line. But I’ve talked him into it. With just our two Bombermen on screen, the game changes. There’s half the mayhem, a third of the danger. My DadBrain is less taxed, and I can concentrate on the first rule of Super Bomberman: don’t blow yourself up.
It is amazing how much better you play if you concentrate on defence, rather than offence. Charlie ends up killing himself a few times while I play more cautiously. Now that I’ve won a couple of games I can give the loser chat right back to him. “You know you’re supposed to blow MY guy up? Not yours? Do you need to take a rest, son? Do you want me to go easy on you, like I did for the first five years we played Mario Kart?”
Now he’s the one grinding his way up the gears towards Scottish Fury. And his game goes to pieces. I come from behind. We are tied.
“Next game the winner?” I suggest.
And here I have a choice to make: do I let him win, and send him off to the other side of the country for Christmas basking in the warm comfort of his victory?
No chance. 2022 was full of utter gaming failures on my part. I needed the win more than he did. It was my Christmas, too.
I win the final game. I sing a victory song. I do a victory dance around his chair. I proclaim myself The Ghost of Christmas Whoop-Ass. My son laughs; he tells me he’s going to miss me. And the night ends with two grown men hugging each other.
