‘Virtual’ disaster as gamer event goes wrong for the Lads

This is not what this column was meant to be about. I wasn’t meant to be here complaining about an event in Dublin at the weekend to which I brought the Lads. What I was meant to be writing about the geeks and quare ones that I met at GamerCon at the National Convention Centre on Saturday, when, in my bid to be crowned Mother of the Year 2017, I organised since Christmas to take the kids to this.

But it was not to be. Having roped in the Little Brother, who rarely gets a mention in this parish because he’s as elusive as the Posh Sister’s cash- mere cardigan, he too was looking forward to rooting around at an event that promised to bring the latest and greatest in video game technology. I brushed up on what VR is (virtual reality), what cosplay is (essentially people dressing up as characters from computer games) and what YouTube stars were going to be there.

Anyway, the GamerCon tickets were provided by the Santa Claus chap for the Christmas and I have milked them to their capacity - using them as the carrot AND the stick for the last ten weeks, telling the Wee Lad that he would not be going if he was not good and also telling him that he would be going to ‘GamCon’ instead of GamerCon if he didn’t behave. Gam, of course, is a reference to my Ma, his beloved GamGam.

By the time Saturday rolled around, the Lads were very excited and were especially happy to see their Uncle Buck(s) - a reference of course to the fact that Little Brother has a good job and no kids so therefore has plenty of dough. His coffers were boosted, he told me, by ‘a good Cheltenham’.

We went over to the National Convention Centre at around 10.40am and were stunned to see thousands of people snaked around the buildings at Spencer Dock. It took nearly 15 minutes to get to the end of the line. There were hundreds more parents and kids, getting in the queue behind us.

I genuinely thought that, as the queue was initially moving, we would get there eventually, but after less than an hour of stopping and starting, everything ground to a halt. It was raining and my hair, which had started the day reasonably straight, now looked like a hairy arse that was sticking out of a hedge. The kids, and even the usually zen calm Uncle Bucks, were losing their patience.

After an hour and a half, the queue suddenly started moving again and around a corner, we could see the front of the centre. But all was not well. The reason the queue was moving was because people were walking away. By the time Uncle Buck got to the door to see what was happening, he was told no-one else was getting in as the place was completely jammers inside.

I made the decision to leave because there was around 300 people in the queue in front and there was no guarantee that if we waited any longer we would get inside at all. People were being told to go home. The news was broken to the Lads. The Big Lad looked so sad and disappointed, but held it together very well. Meanwhile, the Wee Lad got down on his actually knees and cried large, hot, balloon-like tears, shouting, in front of a decent-sized crowd: ‘I hate GamerCon!’ I have no doubt a number of people captured this disgraceful behaviour on their phones.

I had to drag him to his feet, while Uncle Buck, who possesses horse-whispering qualities, managed to calm him down. We adjourned to a nearby pizza place where I started the process of getting a refund. It’s 48 hours later and I still have not received a response from anyone about it. The Lads, their initial disappointment lessened somewhat by pizza and two minerals each, were sent back to Dundalk happy thanks to the generosity of Uncle Buck and a trip to a gamer store. But I wasn’t the only one - there were thousands who endured this and this is not what this column was meant to be about.