THE DANDY - AN INQUEST...

Image copyright D.C. THOMSON & Co., Ltd

Every parent thinks their offspring are cherubic little darlings; gifted, talented, infant prodigies from whose @rse cheeks emanate the golden, illuminating, life-enhancing rays of the sun.  All mothers and fathers look upon each and every uttered syllable of incoherent babbling as some soul-enriching words of wisdom and enlightenment from the mouths of babes.  "Aren't they cute?", "Aren't they adorable?", "Aren't they funny?", "Aren't they marvellous?", scream mater and pater in ecstacies of delight - quite oblivious to the fact that everyone else recognizes these howling, screeching, wailing banshees of devastation and destruction for the fractious, obnoxious little brats that they are.

Which brings me neatly to The DANDY.  Let's face the truth that is obvious to most people not actively involved in siring the 2010 stillborn incarnation of the once-gloriously entertaining weekly comic from the stable of D.C. THOMSON - which is simply this: with a few honourable exceptions, most of the content was utter crap.  Inadequately written, inadequately drawn, inadequately lettered crap, created by those whose talent was far outstripped by their enthusiasm, and who still desperately required a few more years honing and polishing their craft on some self-published fanzines for the less-discriminating tastes of their friends and families.

I am amazed by the self-congratulatory nonsense currently being bandied about on the blogs of some of those who were responsible for the murder (for such it is - the fact that it was already in poor health should not blind us to the truth) of a once-great national institution.  The Dandy was poisoned from within, by a small group of well-meaning but clumsy, inexperienced novices with no grasp of the treatment required by the ailing patient, but who nevertheless persevered with any and all last-gasp, desperate, untried and untested theories whose only effect was to hasten the dying 'septuagenarian' to its doom.

"It wasn't our fault," they claim.  "We tried."  "We did our best."  "We should all be hailed as heroes for our attempt, which was brave, bold and glorious."  The fact that placing your hands around the throat of a gasping patient and squeezing even harder is hardly likely to produce positive results, never mind being anything to be congratulated for, seems to elude their comprehension.  But they're 'parents', you see.  They regard each and every 'infant' which sprang from the depths of their would-be 'creative' loins in not quite the same way as those of us anchored in a more objective and impartial reality.

'Tis they who killed the patient.  And while they may have to go without the financial benefits that the deceased's survival would've ensured, 'tis the rest of us who must mourn the loss of a childhood friend.

It was Clint Eastwood who said "A man's gotta know his limitations."  That was the problem here.  Not only did those involved not know their limitations, but in their vanity and their ignorance, it never even occurred to them that they might have any.  It still hasn't - despite the evidence (the corpse) clearly, blindly, staring them in the face.

God save us all from well-meaning quacks when qualified specialists are obviously and urgently required.