The Ready-Up Rambo Relay

I want to share a dream. A dream first dreamt by three mildly drunk gamers on an eventful day in history: February 21st, 2009. It was the evening portion of the first Ready-Up gathering of the year and three men stood around a darts board, among a mass of fellow Ready-Up members, reflecting on a hard days gaming in London’s Trocadero. These three men: Duncan ‘The Nerd’ Aird, Mark ‘The Boss’… Boss, and Giles ‘ThatGiloFella’ Armstrong were innocently discussing their favourite arcade machine discovery of that day – Rambo.

Earlier that day we had fallen in love with that machine, it happened from the moment we lay our game-ruined eyes upon it. You could tell we were not the only admirers, it was in the face of every man who walked past it. Everybody was digging deep into the very pit of their soul to grip their own self-control as tightly as they could. They were doing everything their will power could muster to stop themselves from tearing their Trocadero-sweat ridden shirts off, grabbing both barrels, and screaming until the the Heavens shook and the Angels rained.

In layman’s terms, the three of us would have been unlikely to bat an eyelid to adopt the cabinet in a three-way joint custody agreement had the option become available. We had spent a vast amount of the day bickering over who got the next turn to take on the beast, but eventually, inevitably, one-by-one we fell to the unbeatable tyrant that was the game’s only stealth mission. Each of tried different tactics, we tried screaming louder, attempted to aim more Rambo-like (meaning not aiming at all), tried giving it the finger – but nothing worked. We had been beaten by action gaming’s worst trait – the forced stealth mission (and lack of pound coins).

Leading us nicely in full circle to the dream. As we sat licking our wounds and chugging some pub-brewed suds Giles had what most may describe as a drunken dream. The kind of revelation that were you stone cold sober you’d shrug off as impossible, unfeasible, or just plain dumb. “Let’s complete Rambo.” Madness, Mark and I scoffed. We were defeated, and broke, none of us can get through it. “Ah,” Giles replied in that merry drunken way that most great ideas originate, “We do a Rambo-a-thon. £20, maybe £30 each and we could do it. The three of us. Seriously.” Glasses collided, hands were shaken, head nods were exchanged. The plan was now set for the next Ready-Up meet!

*Flash Forward* – it’s November 28th, 2009. Another Ready-Up gathering is in full force in The Troc, and everyone is re-grouping at the sports bar for a breather. Giles comes over and pats Mark and I on the shoulder. “We ready to do this guys?” As if the answer were no. “Oh, by the way, there are a few other guys interested so we’re getting them in on it as well. Should be great!” A few other people? Excellent. More pound coins to go around. Who were we to complain? “There’s just one rule.” Giles added. As I resisted the urge to add: Everyone fights, nobody quits. You don’t do your job I’ll shoot you (again, +1 Nerd point if you know it). “If you have a scarf. You have a bandanna. It’s the rule for the few others involved too.”

The reality though, turned out to be something a little bit more like this…

What Mark, Giles, and myself had once imagined to be a Rambo-a-thon between the three of us, had quickly been re-dubbed the Ready-Up Rambo Relay. Everyone wanting to put their pound of flesh and coin into the challenge, and be a part of something the likes of which the Trocadero had never seen before.

By tapping into the sheer manly awesomeness which is automatically imprinted into any person who has ever seen Rambo (be they male or female), it took only a mere £2 each to reach the explosive ending. Granted those £2 each would probably have worked out to a number roughly equal to the value of 400 packs of Space Raiders, but everyone knows you can’t put a price tag on team building. I’d never felt closer to my Ready-Up brothers and sisters than when we were cheering a video game on, in public, with a scarf wrapped around our heads in what felt like 30 degree heat.

We had sprayed our way to victory (bullets! Perv). It took every ounce of RAGE we could muster to make it to the climactic finale. Every drip of sweat was another bead of manliness we had been forced to sacrifice to make it there. The stealth mission had been thwarted, more helicopters lay dead than there were bodies, and we had fired a grand total of more than 500,000 bullets! Roars of celebration erupted, some from random passers-by who just couldn’t help themselves getting caught up in the moment, and some of the biggest grins you’ve ever seen on a gamers face. The question was… now what?

I’m proud of what we accomplished, and none of it would have been possible were it not for the Ready-Up community. Neither Giles, Mark, or I had ever dared hope that our dream would become an event of this magnitude. I think we can all agree we won’t make that mistake again. So to the community, Sylvester Stallone, and to all the gamers of the world – those who are about to Rambo, we salute you!