The 'SECOND' SPECTRE...

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The SPECTRE, as you're surely all aware, was created by JERRY SIEGEL and BERNARD BAILEY in 1940 for MORE FUN COMICS #52.  (Fun?  The adventures of a dead guy?  Yeah, I can't stop laughing.)  Tough policeman JIM CORRIGAN is murdered by some hoodlums, but his spirit wreaks vengeance on his killers in a grisly, supernatural fashion.  An entity known as 'The Voice' (whom the reader presumes to be GOD, though is never specifically identified as such) then charges him with the task of eliminating all evil on Earth.  That's basically all you need to know about him, if you didn't know it already.

 

However, did you know there was another Spectre, a British one, who appeared in a comic called SMASH! back in the 1960s?  If you're American, the chances are you didn't.  JIM JORDAN was a newspaper reporter for the DAILY GLOBE, who had apparently been killed whilst in pursuit of a story.  However, he survived, and, operating from a secret hideout under his memorial statue in an old cemetery (similar to WILL EISNER's The SPIRIT), he fought crime using a variety of gadgets and a bulletproof vest which helped foster the illusion that "At Night Stalks... The Spectre!"

The strip started in Smash! #144 and lasted for nineteen weekly issues, ending in #162 when the comic jettisoned its MARVEL reprints (in 1969) and was relaunched as a more 'traditional' periodical for boys in much the same mould as VALIANT, a comic which had been on the go since 1962.

******

(Something I've never understood is why Americans usually spell the word as 'specter', but, in the case of the DC COMICS character, use the British spelling.  Can anyone enlighten me?)

FINE BY THE FIRESIDE...

Calendar illustration for January

And now it's time for a deeply depressing descent into the depths of the doldrums, as I regale you all with yet another anaemic anecdote that's sure to arouse your apathy (if that's not a contradiction in terms) and have you reaching for the Diazepam to dampen your despair at my rambling reminiscences.  (Don't you just love loads of awesome alliteration?  I know I do.)

On my wall hangs a 1985 calendar, which I purchased from a bookshop in Portsmouth back in the month of January or February of that very year.  It's a The Wind In The Willows calendar, featuring the iconic illustrations of Ernest H. Shepard, and for a month or three, it hung above the tiled fireplace of the bedsit room in which I was based at the time, travelling up to London twice a week whilst freelancing for IPC.



The calendar in March 1985

That tiled fireplace was a relic of another era, conjuring up images of the '50s or '60s when such a feature was commonplace in most houses in Britain.  I could just imagine families huddled around the roaring flames, trying to heat their cold bones on dark wintry nights, whilst listening to the radio and supping cups of Bovril or Horlicks.  (Yucchh!)  Not so in my case however; the fireplace was empty, and a sheet of hardboard covered the recess where the grate should've been.

That year ('85), it snowed in Portsmouth.  Nothing more than a light fall covering the streets for two or three days, before turning to slush and then disappearing, but you'd have thought it was a calamity of immense proportions.  "The worst snow we've had since 1963!" was the common cry of complaint from the locals.  I imagined the date to be a rough 'guesstimate', chosen merely because it was the closest approximation anyone could remember.  Imagine my surprise then, when, 20-odd years later, I heard a radio weather forecaster confirm the year of 1963 as indeed one of the worst on record for that particular part of the country - and the rest of Great Britain too, as it happens.  (And what's more, I actually remember it.)

A scan of the calendar today

All I can say is that we Scots must be a hardy lot, as such a light snowfall for so short a period wouldn't have been a big deal to us.  If anything, we'd have been disappointed that it hadn't been heavier and longer-lasting.  However, let's not mock the English for being wimps - they can't help it.  (He said, in a deeply caring, affectionate and non-xenophobic way.)

Anyway, what has all this to do with anything?  Just this: As I type these words, it's snowing outside, and glancing at that calendar reminds me of when it hung on the wall of a bedsit in Fratton on a similar kind of evening nearly 30 years ago.  The fireplace gave forth no heat back then, but recalling that room today, with the self-same calendar hanging on my present wall, the embers of memory cast a warm glow that envelops me in its radiant embrace.