Memory Bank

Dad and DOOM

I gaze in awe at the dimly-lit hanger of a space station; an empty, eerie labyrinth of grimy, gunmetal corridors and bubbling pools of sizzling green acid. Halogen lights flicker above me, as the cast-steel doors slide open at my approach with a cold, shimmering, electronic sound I can only describe even now as ‘Gloo-WEE-ow.’ I step tentatively forward towards a fork in the passageway, a shotgun cradled in my arms, level the barrel and grit my teeth as I strafe right and-

-A hideous, bloodthirsty red demon lurches into view, fangs and claws beared. With a diabolical screech it conjures a ball of hellfire out of the thin Martian air and hurls it right at me. I dodge — feeling heat and smelling brimstone as it sizzles past my cone of vision — turn, aim my weapon and-

“Shoot that one!”

I point at the 16-bit sprite on the screen in front of me, and my dad grins, hammering the keyboard of his Windows 95. The wee graphical shotgun coughs and hits the pixelated demon point-blank, gibbing it instantly. My dad and I cheer together as we blast it to bits.

Ah, simulated violence. Is there any better form of formative male bonding?

It always slightly shocks people when I tell them my one of my earliest childhood memories was of perching on my dad’s lap, watching him play ‘DOOM.’ I think a lot of this had to do with how shockingly violent this guns-blazing, death metal album, virtual world appeared at the time. Of course, nowadays those pixelated demons look pretty damn quaint; especially compared to the various simulated grotesqueries and atrocities that are commonplace in gaming today.

But when I was a little boy of three or four, I knew fine well that the nasty, horrible demons weren’t real, and couldn’t ever reach out the screen and hurt me. It never once entered my head that those same monsters might be hiding under my bed or in the attic crawlspace; because I’d already watched by dad blast them all to bits right in front of my eyes. He was keeping me safe with his Beretta and 12 gauge shells (as as a real-life gun owner, he still does IRL to this very day). It wasn’t until I was 9-years-old, and my uncle Neil got me a port of DOOM for my own games console, and suddenly I alone was the one who had to dodge and shoot and run, that the demons on the screen scared the shit out of me.

I remember giggling with glee as dad blasted the beasties to bits. I would whoop and squeal when he competed a level, and cackle when his space marine character died and sank to the ground with a howl of mortal agony. Because DOOM, violent and satanic though it may be, is really a big bright cartoon, guts, guns, and all. And my dad was having fun with it, so why wouldn’t I join in?

We would sit together in a stationary-cuboard-sized space tucked behind the staff room in hour house, a space he called ‘the computer room.’ Because remember that, back then, a bulky home computer (complete with deluxe CRT monitor, speakers, and mouse) was such an expensive and intimidating piece of technology that it deserved a room of its own. Dad would have a cup of tea, and I a bottle of warm milk. I would be the spotter, dad the sniper, and together we would cheerfully slaughter the legions of Hell.

My dad has always been a bit of geek, with an interest in computer games, wargaming, and history. So, I suppose it was inevitable that he would pass on some of those interests to me. I still love video games to this day. I still replay DOOM from time-to-time too, and feel a rush of warm and cosy nostalgia when I do that I’m sure John Romero never intended. So, I have to thank my dad for being open-minded about a hobby that was still in its infancy, and inspiring an abiding fascination with a medium which has only gotten richer and more sophisticated over time.

Happy days.