When I was but a small nipper, I lived in the UAE. One of the more interesting things about living in the Arab countries during the 80s was how much toylines from Japan and Asia were imported, whilst other, more US -centric lines (excluding MOTU for as yet unknown reasons) took forever, if they ever actually arrived. This led to to me, as a young child gaining a unhealthy fixation on something that followed me for many, many years.
I had a fixation on transforming robots. Sometimes, I had a fixation on very large transforming robots. And once, I had a fixation on the biggest transforming robot of the time.
Metroplex.
I had a fixation on transforming robots. Sometimes, I had a fixation on very large transforming robots. And once, I had a fixation on the biggest transforming robot of the time.
Metroplex.
I begged, I cajoled, I cried and I tantrumed. I, as a six year old boy, became creative in my ways to gain a Metroplex. None of the "I shall hold my breath until I'm sick" for me. Oh no, that was small potatoes. How my parents did not just flush me down the toilet after the "I will make this noise forever" debacle I shall never know.
I tell you all this, so you understand the Christmas Day, where my parents (being much better to six year old me than he really deserved) presented me with a large box to unwrap. The paper was shredded, the cardboard destroyed, to unveil the very thing I had wished for.
Metroplex.
Once the box had been carefully opened, and the horror of the polystyrene had been navigated, I held aloft the prize. He was huge. He was imposing. He was awesome.
Then his entire waist dropped off.
Holding the torso of my once magnificent present, I cried like only a six year old can. The heavy sobs threatened to consume all of my breath and all I knew was the constant burning of disappointment that I had only experienced precious seconds with this thing I had dreamed of.
The bisected figure was taken from me, and I was calmed by my mother, which I can only assume was a difficult feat involving tranquilizer darts. Once I was calm enough to be able to experience actual thought, my Dad sat with me with his large box of tools and whilst Christmas dinner cooked, we sat and we fixed Metroplex. Now, he never had a movable waist again, but that was okay. That time imbued old 'Plexy with more than just a wanted bit of plastic. Metroplex was a show of family, and of what can be achieved with help.
I tell you all this, so you understand the Christmas Day, where my parents (being much better to six year old me than he really deserved) presented me with a large box to unwrap. The paper was shredded, the cardboard destroyed, to unveil the very thing I had wished for.
Metroplex.
Once the box had been carefully opened, and the horror of the polystyrene had been navigated, I held aloft the prize. He was huge. He was imposing. He was awesome.
Then his entire waist dropped off.
Holding the torso of my once magnificent present, I cried like only a six year old can. The heavy sobs threatened to consume all of my breath and all I knew was the constant burning of disappointment that I had only experienced precious seconds with this thing I had dreamed of.
The bisected figure was taken from me, and I was calmed by my mother, which I can only assume was a difficult feat involving tranquilizer darts. Once I was calm enough to be able to experience actual thought, my Dad sat with me with his large box of tools and whilst Christmas dinner cooked, we sat and we fixed Metroplex. Now, he never had a movable waist again, but that was okay. That time imbued old 'Plexy with more than just a wanted bit of plastic. Metroplex was a show of family, and of what can be achieved with help.
 | Adam "Gruffy" Nicol is the High Lord Protector of the Old Oilhouse, and has screamed at things not working right with it since the day it was born. His knowledge and love of 90's tat and pop culture borders on the worryingly psychotic.... |
