In the '90s, when I was about 10 years old, there was this old shop that sold household appliances in my city. The shop was kind of run down and honestly a little off-putting, so I had never visited it.

But my friend had heard that they sold Amiga games. Cheap Amiga games.

Now, this was the era of casual software piracy. Even more casual than the torrenting scene of the 00's.

I sometimes bought new videogames but the vast majority of my 100 or so floppies were copied from friends.

If a friend or a friend of a friend had a new game, we all popped over with a box of floppies and copied it for ourselves. Or a friend would bring a copy of a game as a gift, sort of like what we did with mixtapes as teenagers.

I would sometimes buy games legally, of course, but buying games as a kid was by no means easy. Information about new games was scarce and my small city had no shops that carried Amiga games. Buying Amiga games meant I had to go to a bigger city or orded via mail. Neither of which was possible without money and help from my parents.

But now - now there was this decrepit mom and pop store that allegedly sold Amiga games. What a treasure trove!

So me and my friend gathered our savings and went to the store. It was run by an old married couple [erroneus memory warning: maybe not a couple, maybe there just were two adult shopkeepers when I visited] I would years later learn to associate with the BBC comedy horror sitcom The League of Gentlemen's shopkeepers Tubbs and Edward. A very Royston-Vasey-ass local shop for local people.

Surprisingly, there were no games. Only old washing machines, stereo equipment, and VCRs. When my friend asked about the games, the owners took us to a back room. An office, I guess. I was a kid but I'd watched enough TV to suspect the implications of a literal backroom deal.

The owners produced a floppy storage box full of disks that were obviously copied. Handwritten labels, no price tags. They told us the price would depend on how many we bought.

I remember being amazed at how the container box was almost identical to the one I had at home. You know – my stash of illicit software. My friend began to browse the games but I started to get cold feet. If this were Miami Vice we’d be the bad guys! And also: I loved authentic games for their colourful boxes, manuals, and disks that weren't so prone to data corruption. If I was going to buy a game, I expected it to come with all that extra glam!

I was disappointed. Why would I pay for something the shopkeepers probably hadn't paid for themselves? It felt unfair in a very schoolyard sort of a way. Like, Tubbs and Edward were trying to crank out a profit from what was essentially our grassroots hobby. Illegal hobby, yes, but at least we kept it free.

I had enough decorum and timidness not to ask directly whether they were actually selling pirated games. Instead I asked if they'd also give us the box and manual if we bought a game from them. I remember them suddenly being very cross with me. Like I'd done something wrong.

One of them escorted me to the front of the shop and told me they wouldn't sell games to me. My friend bought a few games and I must've waited for him outside the store, feeling like I'd ruined something or broken a rule. I was so mortified by the experience that I have no memory of how I actually got out of the shop.

I felt bad for missing out on some new videogames but also morally proud in a way I didn't have words for back then.

Also, my FOMO about new videogames was somewhat lessened by the fact that at least one of the games my friend bought was corrupted beyond repair before he could load it up once.

I never went back to the store and I have no idea how long they kept doing their Amiga side hustle. But to this day I sometimes think back on the old couple in their backroom selling corrupted warez for pocket change.

What a time!