Pirates, PlayStations, and Paramilitaries
Cheap games, shady dealers, and a lesson in value
If you enjoy my work and want to support it, consider buying me a coffee. It helps keep the words flowing and the ideas brewing!
There was a time when Sundays meant one thing above all: hitting the sprawling open-air market that materialized weekly in the shadow of an abandoned World War II airfield.
Or so the legend goes.
The market seemed to exist in its own pocket universe. A gravel-strewn paradise spread across what was once a military parking apron, surrounded by nothing but windswept fields and crumbling concrete bunkers half-swallowed by brambles.
You were lucky to get up when the sun was shining, as it was typically damp out there—the kind of persistent Northern Irish drizzle that seemed to seep into your bones, the soft rain that locals would insist "wasn't really raining at all."
Getting there was half the fun—squeezing into a mate’s mum’s car at sunrise, or hopping on an early bus that crept through quiet towns where the only people awake were heading to church.
It was Sunday after all.
The journey created anticipation, each mile bringing you closer to that strange freedom that existed only in this no-man's-land between different territories.
On the way, we'd speculate about what treasures we might unearth that day—maybe a rare US import that hadn't made it to European shelves yet, or better still, some esoteric Japanese game with incomprehensible text but mesmerizing gameplay.
![FS] Unlicensed games, pirates MD, SNES, PSX, SAT](https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/$s_!-mjm!,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F1dbfb3f6-130e-4cf4-a2a6-a2dcb9f1aaba_2890x1625.jpeg "FS] Unlicensed games, pirates MD, SNES, PSX, SAT")
The thrill of possibility kept us buzzing despite the early hour. Different towns meant different loyalties, but the market existed as a neutral ground of sorts, commerce trumping divisions, at least on the surface.
Going up with the family was great, but going up with friends was better.
You'd stand munching a dodgy cheeseburger from one of the food trucks, the kind with questionable hygiene certificates but irresistible greasy appeal, while watching demo reels run on some massive CRT under a canvas tarpaulin whipping in the airfield breeze.
The smell of petrol generators mixing with fried onions and the earthy scent of wet gravel created a strange perfume that I can still conjure up decades later.
Among the endless rows of trestle tables selling knock-off aftershave and dodgy DVDs sat what we’d come for—pirated PlayStation games, £5 a pop. The vendors huddled under faded tarps and corrugated metal shelters, their wares displayed against the backdrop of distant control towers and derelict hangars.
"I'm not sure the discs should be sitting out in the sun like that," I said to one friend. But I mean, really? Quality control was surely bare minimal when you were doing business with designated terrorists.
Next to them, with practiced nonchalance, others sold boxes of illegal fireworks—rockets, Roman candles, and bangers that would be impossible to get through legitimate channels. They were sitting in the sun too.
But after several visits, the shine wore off. The abundance made each title feel ordinary. The launch of the PS2 killed trips to the market entirely—unless you wanted dodgy peripherals either fake or stolen.
In reality, cheap access came at its own cost. No instruction booklets, poorly printed game covers and then eventually just loose games with the name scribbled in permanent ink.
Getting home, we'd start them up, feel indifferent, and switch to something else. It didn’t take long to come to the conclusions that the excitement came from searching, not playing. We moved between vendors while military ghosts seemed to observe from the decaying borders.
In retrospect, it weirdly resembled an unofficial forerunner to subscription services like PlayStation Plus or Game Pass. I acquired games I would never consider at retail price.
Experiences that I look back on fondly. An extensive collection obtained at the expense of others' dedication. But would I have paid full-price for them over other games? Probably not. Money was tight for a young boy.
Then came the police raids. One Sunday, the whole market shut down—word got around fast.
We arrived to find the entrance blocked by police Land Rovers, their armored bulk unmistakable. Officers in tactical gear were sweeping stalls, grabbing boxes of games, confiscating crates of fireworks and clearing out vendors who scattered like startled birds across the old runway.
The raid was spectacular.
Tactical teams moving with practiced precision, targeting specific vendors who'd been under surveillance for months. They weren't just after the pirated games or bootleg DVDs; they were trying to disrupt the money flow to known criminal organizations.
I remember watching from behind a half-crumbled wall as they zip-tied the hands of three men I recognized as regular sellers. Sirens wailed as police vans pulled up, and rumors spread like wildfire about undercover officers who'd been posing as customers for weeks.
When all was said and done, they’d take the time to grab some grub. Crime doesn’t pay, but… someone’s has eat—preferably before the donuts go stale.
That was the final straw. We never went back. The market reopened a month later, but all the good stalls had vanished, replaced by legitimate vendors selling overpriced tat. The magic was gone.
The PlayStation 2 had launched, and we never looked back. Still, for a moment, it was class. Until it wasn't.
If you enjoy my work and want to support it, consider buying me a coffee. It helps keep the words flowing and the ideas brewing!