Enemies of Reason Poundshop potshots at the media moral maze.

Fucking Bigtrak

And yes, I mean "fucking Bigtrak". If I wanted to say Bigtrak I'd say Bigtrak. But no. I mean fucking Bigtrak. The intensifier is important. I'd even, tmetically, go for "Big-fucking-trak" if "fucking Bigtrak" didn't sound so right. As in "What was that little robot thing on wheels that you couldn't afford?" - "Oh, that was fucking Bigtrak, thanks for dredging up all those dark memories, you utter bastard.

Yes, Bigtrak is back:

Bigtrak was one of the awesomest toys of the 1980s (actually introduced in 1979), and, like other 80s icons, Knight Rider and the A-Team, it is staging a comeback.

Like other icons of the 1980s which have been resurrected, like Knight Rider and the A-Team, it's going to be a pretty shite shadow of the former glory. (I mean, Val Kilmer doing Kitt's voice? Hello?) One reason for this is quite understandable. I'm not fucking eight years old any more. The pleasure of a fucking toy on wheels that you could program to bring you in a can of Coke - yes, it would drive a fucking can of Coke from your kitchen to your living room, through the magic of complex programming sequences all punched into its space-age 10-digit keypad, no less - is not the same when you're not a tiny child staring in wonderment at this mass of battery power and plastic struggling to power its way through the shagpile with a weighty Coke can on its robot back, and you are in fact a rather pathetic, tragic-looking old man, who was once an eight-year-old boy who marvelled at the fucking Bigtrak, but whose parents couldn't afford one; or worse, could afford one, but thought it was shit, so got you some fucking Kenny Dalglish football boots for your birthday instead, like that was any fucking kind of substitute - like it was even comparable!

Of course, I have a feeling this new Bigtrak isn't going to be aimed at the kids. It'll be aimed at those beta-male dads who never quite got around to playing with the fucking Bigtrak in the first place, but who now have the disposable income to say: "Do you know what, fuck it. The bills may be piling up and the credit cards may be right on the limit, and the kids may need clothes and lunches and all that shit, but I'm going to buy myself a fucking Bigtrak, because I want one, because I've spent all this time earning money and I want it, so there, and I'll pretend it's for the children, but secretly I'm not going to let them touch it, because it's mine, and it's going to take away all those horrible memories of having to watch the fucking Bigtrak adverts on the TV, knowing deep down that I could never have one, and there would always be a fucking Bigtrak-sized hole in my heart."

Fucking Bigtrak.

Of course, I want one. Oh, I won't lie to you. I want one, all right. I want one now. I want to have one, just because I can. I might buy it just to break it. I might drive the fucking Bigtrak off the side of a bridge, just to punish it for having taunted me throughout primary school. I might program it to drive into the bypass at rush hour, see how the little bastard enjoys that. I might just buy it, just to have it in the box. And then, at Christmas time, I'll wrap it up and stick it under the tree, then look puzzled when I see it there, then unwrap it excitedly and say "YES! Yes! At fucking last! This should have happened twenty-six fucking bastard years ago! Then I'd have fucking well turned out all right! If only I'd had the fucking Bigtrak, everything would have been OK! But no. Oh no! No. No, and now look at me. A broken man on the cusp of middle-age and desperate decline, sending presents to himself and pretending to be surprised, despite having gone to the shop and bought the wrapping paper, and wrapped it, and hidden it at the back of the wardrobe."

Or something like that.

Fucking Bigtrak. Your 'trak' wasn't even that 'big' anyway.

You still haunt me.

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