I lived in the drift from one amusement hall t' 'nother. The old timers said it all usedta be completely different, everyone was mad fer some game with flippers and a silver ball. Sounds a bit naff t' me. Who'd go t' arcades if not fer getting laid? Picture it, because it were glorious: everythin' smells of smoke; barely any lights on over'ead, but you can make out just fine because the ladies is all kitted out in electro-mechanic whizz-bang buzzers, bells, and bulbs a-flashin'. Fer 50p a poke, you can get yer jollies off and if you 'av the right touch to rack up the score, you can catch the replay and keep on like 'hat til yer eyeballs turn t' jelly.

Some blokes what got sensibilities, and girls too (though that's understandable), 'd whine 'bout the whole thing. "'S not right for there t' be a coin-op girl open t' all comers," they says. Rumors was bandied about the arcade ladies bein' runaway strays swooped up by the gov an' stuffed full of gizmos. S'posedly it's all a big ploy to keep us docile. As if y' can look anywhere these days and miss the signs that says this factory or that closed shop; this mine shutdown. Fancy that. Any wonder then why there's 'ooligans like meself without much to live fer outside the arcades? No skin off my back either way. Alls I knows is they sure felt like the real deal, inside an' out. But how could that story be true? Would be illegal, innit?

From Soho down to Brighton, I must've had a go at 'em all. Felt like a king, I did, until I met 'im what deposed me. On the comedown I was, after the girl I'd been in-an'-out of 'd decided I was too handsy an' 'er eyes rolled back into 'er head and come back with her whites readin' TILT, which suited me fine anyhow because I was proper knackered and sweating something awful. That scoreboard should've been a thing of glory, only weren't nobody but me to 'preciate it. The circus was pulled up 'round some 'nther chap and this I had to witness meself. Never in me life 'ad I heard a girl, arcade or otherwise, make moans like that. He must've been drivin' 'er insane. I weaved my way through the crowd and what do I see? The chap at the center o' it all is just a little boy. Who let 'im in 'ere?

I could just stand like a statue as he worked 'er over as if 'e were a part of the machine, thrustin' in and out, playin' clean as I ever seen. 'E payed no mind to any o' the hootin' an' 'ollerin' goin' all 'round, same as he stared straight on at nothin' 'ticular, even as his little hips worked double-time on 'er bits. He were stone blind, deaf too, an, on account o' the incomprehensible mewling bein' the only sounds he made, dumb too, I reckoned. Fer all the handicaps, e' worked by intuition, his supple wrist 'n' crazy fingers paying 'er attention like I couldn't believe. He