WHAT'S IN A NAME? ARE YOU KIDDING? A LIKELY STORY...

"Why are you called 'Kid'?  Is it because you act like one?"

If I had a pound for every time I've been asked that, I'd have - well, I'd have a pound actually, so I don't suppose there's really too much interest in the topic.  However, I have to fill this blog with something, so - assuming you'll bear with me in yet another act of shameless self-indulgence - I shall address the issue in the forlorn hope that anybody even remotely cares.

There was a period during my early teenage years when I called everyone "kid".  It was short, snappy, and it meant never having to worry about remembering people's names.  One day, I ran into a pal of mine in the company of a group of his friends.  Anticipating my familiar, well-worn greeting, he thought he'd get in first in a daring act of mockery at my little peccadillo.  (Feel free to supply your own amusing rejoinder to that last sentence.)  "Hi Kid!" he said with a cheeky grin upon his smug countenance, immensely satisfied with himself for - in his mind - 'beating me to the punch'.

His pals were unaware of his intended 'irony' however, and merely assumed it to be my nickname. But ours is a drama decreed by the fates to be acted out (always loved that line by LARRY LIEBER); I subsequently became friendly with that little group, who - in their innocence - always referred to me by that appellation.  And so the name stuck and I've been known as "Kid" - to them and to others - ever since.

But whence came the habit which led to me effectively naming myself?  Why did I call people "kid" to begin with?  I'm glad I pretended you asked.  You see, back in the early 1970s, there was a brilliant comedy show called WHATEVER HAPPENED TO THE LIKELY LADS, starring JAMES BOLAM and RODNEY BEWES.  In fact, as their names had alternating billing from week to week, if you re-read that last sentence, reverse the order of their names so that I don't hear from their agents or solicitors.

Although the programme was a comedy, it also had pathos, poignancy and profundity - otherwise known as the three Ps.  During the course of their frequent nostalgia-laden soliloquies, the characters often addressed each other as "kid" or "kidda".  In my devotion to the programme and my desire to emulate the two main characters, I soon adopted the practice of referring to everyone I knew (and even some I didn't) as "kidda", which resulted in some fairly puzzled looks.  That's because the words "kidda" and "kidder" sound pretty similar when pronounced with a lazy Glaswegian accent, and this made folks think I was accusing them of pulling my leg in some way.

"Kidder?" they'd say in a slightly bewildered manner (likewise mispronouncing it as "kidda") - "Kiddin' about what?"  Well, it didn't take me too long to realize that adopting the shorter option - "kid" - would avoid any unnecessary confusion amongst my sturdy band of companions and free me from having to endlessly explain myself.  It could've been far worse, as I'd once been in the habit of exclaiming "Jings, man!" in response to anything of even a vaguely interesting or surprising nature.

This inevitably led to all my friends and acquaintances calling me "Jings-Man" every time I appeared on the horizon.  Fortunately, I soon dropped the use of this 'oath' (doubtless acquired from reading too many BROONS and OOR WULLIE strips in The SUNDAY POST) and thus escaped any longterm association with the name which could've resulted in lasting damage to my delicate sensibilities.  I much prefer being called "Kid" - or "Sir", even.  (In fact, now that I come to think about it, "Master" is good as well.)

And there you have it!  The hitherto secret origin of how I gained my teenage nickname which has remained with me to this day.  And you also have an object lesson in the art of writing something about nothing - but you should only ever do so if your very life depends on it, so I have absolutely no excuse.

A HINT OF A GLINT THROUGH THE WINDOW...

Images copyright respective owners

I love this time of year.  Autumn has its own scents and hues, and, as it starts to give way to Winter, assumes a magical, hybrid quality of the two seasons peculiar unto itself.  When any last faint remnants of lingering Summer have finally disappeared and been replaced with the preliminary signs of Jack Frost's rapidly oncoming kingdom, I can't help but think back to what an enchanted time it seemed to be when I was a kid.

Arising on dark mornings, streetlights a-twinkle; the first spidery glints of frost on the windows and pavements outside; warm milk on cornflakes to fortify me for my trek to school; sitting before the electric fire, hypnotized by shadows of dancing, flickering simulated flames; the fresh, biting chill of the air - all those memories - or any combination of them - embody that particular period of my personal history.  Even today, the alluring nature of the season is as much to do with the warm glow of memory as enjoying it for its own sake.

The walk to school, the chatter of friends, the sheer exuberance of childhood - how it all comes rushing back to me in torrents.  A large part of those memories is shaped by whatever comics I was buying at the time: TV CENTURY 21, WHAM!, SMASH!, FANTASTIC, WHIZZER & CHIPS, The MIGHTY WORLD Of MARVEL, SPIDER-MAN COMICS WEEKLY and many more - all those publications seem to blend into one big memory (regardless of whether they were actually available or I was buying them concurrently or not), and span a goodly number of years from primary to secondary school.  (I often smuggled a newly purchased comic into the classroom in my schoolbag and then had to suffer an agony of waiting 'til I could peruse it during the interval.)

And just think what we had to look forward to at that time of the year; Hallowe'en, Guy Fawkes' Night, Christmas - and I had the added bonus of having my birthday fall at around the same time.  No wonder I tend to look back on those events with such fondness - I was just the right age to appreciate them in all their spectacular, multi-coloured, atmospheric glory.  I'm sure it's the same for most people.   

So, in an unseemly fit of sentimentality and nostalgia, I've dug through my files and unearthed some comic covers which would've been on sale towards the end of the year back in the 1960s & 1970s, in an attempt to crystalize not only my happy recollections of days gone by, but - if you're around the same age as myself - perhaps also your own.  Hope you enjoy them.

See?  You can go home again - even if it's only for a short visit.   

SPOT The DIFFERENCE...

Copyright MARVEL COMICS

Above is the cover from the second THOR KING-SIZE SPECIAL from 1966, below is a reprint from 1994 - which still carries the original indicia, but with the words 'second printing' appended to it.  Sharp-eyed readers will notice that ol' Goldilocks' right arm is different on the two versions, the first having been amended before printing, the second presumably featuring the cover as KING KIRBY originally drew it.  (Though there's a hint of JOHN ROMITA about it.)

The reason for this is pretty obvious: Marvel's file copies of artwork were usually photocopied before any alterations were made, hence many reprints down through the years sported pages as they'd originally been drawn, not published.  Thankfully, in recent years, Marvel has addressed this issue and striven to ensure that reprints are as close to archival quality as possible.

Thought you might enjoy seeing Kirby's original version.

But hold!  There's even more to the story!  Take a good look at this third version of the cover, below.

While thumbing through my hardbacked volume of THOR MASTERWORKS Vol 5 recently, I espied this amazing oversight.  Either the patch covering Thor's original arm has fallen off (which would mean that Marvel had access to the original art), or an art restorer re-created the new arm on a file photostat, but then simply forgot to delete the original Kirby limb it was intended to replace.  Who knows the truth behind this Marvel mystery?  Answers in the comments section if it happens to be you.