Previous Next

'Ere, yer mightn't think its much of a job, being a dustman in Virgin-on-the-Ridiclus, but it 'as its moments. Joe, well, 'e drives the dustcart, but 'e's never awake, know wot I mean? 'E leaves it in one place, yer have to walk bleedin' miles to get there, reading 'is Sun ('e reckons 'es in love with that Sam Fox. Plays strip poker with 'er on 'is Spectrum).

'E sits behind that wheel, staring into space (or the Sun, there aint that much difference) until yer've just got a bin ready, and then 'e wakes up and moves the bleedin' thing half a mile up the road. Loses yer hours on the clock, and we're all paid by time these days. Makes yer sick. And then there's them dogs. Vicious things, dogs. They bounce around yer ankles like I don't know wot, an' if yer try an' take a short-cut over the lawn or somewhere then wham! I've got that many teethmarks, they wanted me as an extra in Jaws.

So yer get bitten by one of the dogs, and yer limp. Stands to reason, really. And if yer limp, it slows yer down worse than walking through wet concrete, and there goes yer bonus. Joe had a nasty accident with wet concrete just the other day. He was reading Page Three, well, more like looking at it really, and he fell flat on 'is face into a fresh lot of pavement. 'E was lying there for 'alf an 'our, 'is fissog only inches away from Sam Fox. Never seen a man so 'appy.

But if the dogs don't knobble yer kneecaps, then those young tearaways on those BMXs run straight into yer. Dangerous, that's wot I call it, downright dangerous. Get one of those run over yer, and yer talking minutes off yer time, and pounds off yer pay. Still, there's always those little jobs that the folks in the 'ouses want yer to do. Useful, the extra cash, and it's all real money. Wot the taxman don't know about won't 'urt me, that's wot I say. On our route, there's always the cafe, and if we're on an evening run, the Rod and Whippet. Makes the round that bit nicer, don't yer think.

Joe, well 'e doesn't think. Get 'itn in the pub, and four pints of heavy later it's Sam this, Sam that, and 'es useless for the rest of the round. I soon found out that too much of Vera's fried bread or Old Peculiar knocks yer fer six, and there goes yer bonus. The bosses ain't so bad, mind. Yer mess it up once and they give yer a second chance. Mess that up, and yer on yer second public, know wot I mean?

Third time yer don't get the job done, and yer out on yer ear. Some of us don't make it that far, the traffic's that bad. Fred, nah, you wouldn't know Fred, 'e got hit by some editor of some computer paper, in 'is flash little red Jap sports car. 'Ere, is that the time? I gotta go. Five bins, Montague Road. JOE! Get yer nose out from between that young lass and start the motor. I dunno...

No, Trashman isn't slang for a word processor company. It's the latest from New Generation, now in the Virgin stable. Appropriate really, what with Richard 'Rich' Branson cleaning up for Maggie when he's not detoxifying pop stars or playing in his Batboat. But I hope he makes a better job of it than New Generation.

The game is sluggish, the sprites are trite, the graphics sub-Spectrum, and the overall effect is, er, rubbish. After half an hour's industrious gamesplaying, the feeling was one of frustration, somewhat tempered by a complete lack of interest in the game. The stated aim, that of emptying five bins, seemed impossible, not because the puzzles (hah!) were fiendish but because the design and layout was so bad. This will do Virgin's - until now - enviable Amstrad reputation no good at all. But, to be fair, the game is an effective simulation of a dustbin.

Trashman was a hit on the Spectrum two years ago. Looking at it today shows how much games have progressed over that period. Six months ago it would have been atypical budget game, in August 1986 it looks like the kind of thing you find on a compilation. Trashman is mildly absorbing but is not really fun, Perhaps it would make an interesting introduction to computer games, but then that is just being charitable.

Computer games give you the chance to escape into a fantasy world, and if your choice of fantasy is to be a dustman now it can be done. The simulation is not complete, there is no option to scatter litter all over the owner's garden and you don't have the interesting bit of looking through other people's rubbish. The road makes Trashman a bit like a sideways on Frogger but somehow without its appeal.