THE FORGOTTEN ONES...?

A former residence

A few years ago, a neighbour from hell moved in next door.  Parties at all hours of the night, people constantly coming and going accompanied by the continuous clinking of carry-outs in the early morning - along with shouting, singing, stomping, screaming, etc.  Luckily, he's now gone and a nice, respectable young couple have taken up residence.

They've now been there for around three and a half years, but it seems as if they only moved in fairly recently.  This has led me to consider the following curious concept which has recently crept into my consciousness.

There have been a couple of houses in my lifetime in which we lived for only four years, plus one we occupied for a mere 15 or 16 months, and despite it seeming to me as if we lived in each of those houses for a good long stretch, I've now started to wonder if, to our neighbours at the time, it seemed as if we were merely a temporary blip in their everyday lives.

If my new neighbours' three-and-a-half-year-occupancy seems far less to me than it is, then it stands to reason that the almost similar short periods in which my family resided in some houses may likewise have appeared to others to be terms of no consequence.  Are we remembered by name by those we lived next to, or are we dimly-recalled shadows that barely register in the histories of some of the areas we stayed?

It's strange to look back on my relatively short time in those places, and to realise that, although they're well-established, carved-in-stone 'epochs' in my life - the details of which are firmly entrenched in my memory - to those neighbours who preceded us and remained long past my family's departure, our time there may be only brief, nearly forgotten interludes in their overall recollections of events.

Makes you wonder eh?  (Nah, probably not.  It does with me though.) 

JUMP ABOARD The TV EXPRESS - FOR The HUCK & YOGI SHOW...

Copyright relevant owner

As a little Sunday treat for you all, here's a page from a 1960s issue of TV EXPRESS, featuring HUCKLEBERRY HOUND and YOGI BEAR.  It's interesting to note that Huck is the main star here, with Yogi being essentially a page-filler, as reflecting his then second-string status on the big blue dog's TV show.  Of course, Yogi soon got a show of his own, and actually eclipsed Huck in terms of popularity and longevity, becoming a far bigger draw than his canine pal.

That's Showbiz!

RETURN Of The LOOPY LAPSES In LOGIC DEPT...

Copyright DC COMICS

So, you're SUPERMAN, right?  You've got your own secret hideaway located in the Arctic.  Being the strongest man in the universe, you could have the entrance hidden by a huge boulder which you could easily move out of the way whenever the occasion requires.  Nothing would look out of the ordinary, and nobody would even think to guess that you had a private fortress to which you retreat for a little solitude from time to time.

So what do you do?  You build a bloody huge gold-coloured door in the side of a mountain which nobody can miss, then put a keyhole slap-bang in the middle of it which looks almost big enough to drive a Mini-Cooper through.  The key, supposedly disguised as an aeroplane marker (and which points straight to the door), is too large and heavy for anyone but superbeings to lift, but is utterly redundant because, with the aid of an extending ladder or a grappling hook to reach it, anyone can walk straight through the big-as-a- tunnel keyhole*.

Superman, you really can be as thick as a plank at times, don't you think?

******

*And I know that all sorts of retroactive explanations were later devised to explain (away) why it isn't quite as simple as that, but the original idea as it stood was plainly ridiculous. 

HORSES For COURSES...?

Image copyright DC COMICS

I've had the above comic for a good many years now.  I'd first seen it back in the late '60s in my primary school playground, clutched in the hands of one of my classmates, who acquiesced when I asked him for a closer look.  So, I recall the cover, but don't think I ever got to read the contents, which is why I probably bought it at a comic mart over 20 years later - to satisfy my curiosity.

Consider that cover for a moment though.  It actually represents the SUPERGIRL back-up tale rather than the main SUPERMAN story, and involves the BIZARROS - so I'm sure you can imagine how - er, 'bizarre' it is.  When one considers what MARVEL produced at the time, it's perhaps surprising that DC are still with us today.  NATIONAL PERIODICALS (as DC Comics were called back then) wrote mainly for children (wrote down to children would perhaps be a more accurate assessment), while Marvel set their sights on a wider readership.

Nowadays, the products of both companies are virtually indistinguishable, featuring murky art, tedious, seemingly never-ending storylines, and aimed at a much older audience.  Considering that the concept of superheroes is basically one of adolescent wish-fulfilment, it sometimes occurs to me that there's something unseemly about such fables being pitched exclusively at an older audience and dealing with 'adult' themes.

I'm not saying that grown ups shouldn't be reading comics, but I feel that they should be prepared to appreciate and accept them for what they are (or were, and should be again): Simple morality tales rooted in fantasy which children and teenagers can enjoy - and also adults who retain the ability to enjoy things from a more innocent and youthful perspective, without expecting everything they read to cater to their 'grown up' tastes.

So perhaps the idea of a superpowered horse is going too far the other way, but comics as they were in the '60s and '70s (as produced by Marvel) is perhaps the way to go when it comes to making comicbooks more attractive to a wider age-range - as opposed to just a bunch of ageing 'fanboys' who can't let go of the things of their youth, but demand that they reflect more 'mature' sensibilities in order to deflect any hint of criticism that they never grew up.

Observations reflecting different shades of opinion on the subject will be greatly appreciated.

PART SIX Of The DALEKS SWEET CIGARETTE CARDS By CADET...

Copyright BBC TV and the Estate of TERRY NATION

Well, what more can be said about CADET's DALEKS sweet cigarette cards that you don't already know?  Nothing I can think of, but if you have something to add, feel free to do so in the comments section.  Go on - share your knowledge with the rest of us.

Only another 20 cards to go for a complete set, so don't forget to be here when the next five appear in part seven.

TEENAGE TALES: PREDATORS, PERVERTS & PENTHOUSE...

This is going to be a long one, so you might want to pour a cup of tea and grab a biscuit or three before you begin.  Though, truth to tell, it might not be entirely comfortable reading.  I'm now about to relate a personal anecdote of a situation from which I was fortunate enough to escape unscathed.  Physically unscathed that is, but the incident left its psychological mark on me for many years afterwards and still affects me to this day.

It all began in the upstairs cafeteria of my local Co-op store back around 1973, possibly '74.  I had just washed down a plate of beans with a Coke (hardly a good mix) and suddenly found myself in need of a visit to the toilet.  While perched on the porcelain, I noticed that the previous patron had amused himself by singeing the edges of the loo roll attached to the cubicle wall.  I'd guess it was more out of boredom than a wanton act of arson, by someone having a fly puff in the loo - probably a shop worker, in fact.

It really wasn't worth mentioning to the staff, but, on my way out, I did so anyway - more to demonstrate what a conscientious customer I was than because it was deserving of their attention.  (Or perhaps it was merely a simpering, shameless example of ingratiation in the best Cyril Swot tradition.)  Cut to a fortnight later when I was back in the cafe, and I was suddenly detained by two members of staff while the police were called.  When they arrived, I was questioned over the events of two weeks before, taken 'round to the local nick and kept in a detention room for an hour or so, then let go.  I wasn't charged with anything, but was told that officers would be calling 'round to my house later to chat with my father.

This presented a bit of a problem for me, because my father actually worked behind the desk in that very station.  ('Twas his day off that day.)  Even though I hadn't actually done anything, I was mortified by the professional embarrassment this could cause him, so decided to side-step the situation by doing a 'runner'.  Not being a smoker I didn't carry matches, but was concerned that the mere act of being suspected of 'fire-raising' might be presumed by my father as an indication of my culpability in the matter.

So I hopped on a bus to Glasgow and took refuge in another cafeteria - this time in the basement of a cinema.  It was quite a large cafe, so I sat in a far corner and, being weary from the events of the day, I put my arms on the table and rested my head on them.  I must have dozed off for a bit, for when I lifted my head, a man was sitting opposite me (at my table), stirring a cup of tea.

Believe it or not, back in the early '70s, most kids weren't anywhere near as 'street smart' as they seem to be today - and I was probably even more innocent and naive than my contemporaries.  I wasn't at all comfortable with this stranger's presence, but it was well beyond my ability or experience to conceive, never mind articulate, exactly what his motives might be - and I had been brought up to always be respectful to adults.

Mindful of the fact that I was a 'runaway', and eager to avoid arousing his suspicions and thus betray myself, I politely answered his questions as to my name and where I lived.  I lied, of course, telling him that I stayed somewhere behind the Barrowland market and that I was killing time until my father came home from work because I didn't have a front door key.  "Glasgow's not a safe place for a youngster to hang around in.  Come back to my place for a cup of tea and you can wait there until he's home - it's not far!" he said.

What was I to do?  In my over-active, 14 year old imagination, I feared that if I declined, he might divine my status as a fleeing fugitive and hand me over to the 'fuzz'.  Although my 'spider-sense' was tingling, my youthful innocence and ignorance meant that I was ill-equipped to determine any specific threat - certainly nothing of a sexual nature - that should've prevented me from accepting this apparently kindly-intentioned stranger's invitation.  And so it was that, not too long after, I found myself sipping tea in the bed-sit apartment of this 'good Samaritan'.  At least it would get me off the streets for an hour or two, I thought.

Well, you can see where this is leading, can't you?  (If only I had been so smart.)  Laying on a table beside me were some 'soft-porn' mags like Mayfair, Club, and Penthouse, which he invited me to peruse if I so wished.  I self-consciously thumbed through one or two, thinking that it wasn't normally an activity in which teenage boys indulged in the company of adults.  Surely such pursuits were meant to be solitary, furtive and guilty pleasures?  Truth to tell, I found myself more interested in the comic strips, recognising Stingray and Captain Scarlet artist Ron Embleton's distinctive style on a strip called Oh, Wicked Wanda.

And then reality finally, inevitably, intruded.  "How often do you see to yourself?" he suddenly enquired - though that wasn't exactly how he phrased it, instead using the 'w' word.  I was shocked and stunned.  Remaining as civil as possible under the circumstances, I told him it was time for me to go, and before too long, I was on a bus home, prepared to face the music from the earlier episode that day.  It was preferable to dancing to the different kind of tune that my 'host' no doubt intended to play.

So why didn't he try to prevent me leaving?  It's obvious what his intentions were, but perhaps he salved his conscience by only exploiting youngsters who could be led, perhaps in their confusion or fear, down the route which he tried to steer them.  Then, if caught, he could claim that they were 'up for it'.  Had he mistaken my acceptance of his invitation as a sign that I was aware of what his 'game' was, and curious to discover what was involved?  Had my obvious shock at his question and stout refusal to be drawn made him realise his mistake, and that here was no potential participant?

Whatever his reasons, I avoided a terrible fate that night, but while the individual's predatory behaviour deserves nothing but total condemnation, I used to sometimes wonder if he deserved a (grudging) measure of credit for not trying to satiate his unwholesome desires by force.  But no, his reluctance to do so was doubtless nothing other than a shield reserved in the armoury of his own defence lest he ever be hauled to account, not any form of consideration for those he concluded were beyond his ability to 'seduce'.

So, physically, I was unscathed, but for years afterwards, I would sometimes have panic attacks at the thought of what could have happened to me.  I'd break out in a sweat and the room would spin; I'd feel as if I was suffocating and gasp for air, while a sense of fear, nausea and impending doom engulfed me.  This also happened in the form of nightmares, from which I would suddenly awake as though my life depended on it.  Even today, there are certain scenes in some movies that I cannot watch without feeling distinctly uncomfortable, and I can only guess at how awful it must be for those who have actually suffered sexual abuse to see such depictions regularly on their TV screens - all in the name of 'entertainment'.

(I saw a Jennifer Aniston movie on TV recently which had what appeared, at first, to be a rape scene.  Even though it later turned out not to be as it seemed, I was quite shocked at the graphic depiction of proceedings and could see just how traumatic the scene must be for victims of such a crime.  There must be thousands, even millions, of them.  Surely it's time for movie makers to exercise a far greater degree of responsibility - not to mention sensitivity - when it comes to what they actually show in their productions ?)

Anyway, that was my narrow escape.  In the more aware times in which we live today, I would have undoubtedly told the predatory paedophile to "feck off" and perhaps even administered a quick kick in the nuts before vanishing over the horizon in a cloud of dust.  However, back then it was a different, less informed age, and while I believe that the innocence of youth should be preserved for as long as possible, I'm smart enough to know that striking a balance between the protection of youngsters' mental purity and physical safety is a difficult (and often thankless) task indeed.

My biggest regret over the incident?  I really do wish it had occurred to me to boot him right in the spuds.  Let's hope that someone actually did so, eh?  Several times over, while wearing size ten, steel toe-capped footwear.

RON EMBLETON'S STINGRAY From TV CENTURY 21...

Copyright relevant owner

The late RON EMBLETON was an absolutely fantastic artist who illustrated STINGRAY in the weekly periodical TV CENTURY 21.  A single artist of his calibre was a coup for any comic, but TV21 had more than just one great illustrator on their books - MIKE NOBLE, FRANK BELLAMY, RICHARD JENNINGS and RON TURNER were also regulars, with occasional contributions from the likes of FRANK HAMPSON, DON LAWRENCE and DON HARLEY.

However, today it's the artistic excellence of Ron Embleton that we're interested in, so here's a complete Stingray adventure (16 pages) from 2065 to remind you of just how brilliant he was.

  

FIRST IMPRESSIONS - MOVERS AND SHAKERS...

Look at the salt and pepper shakers pictured above.  I acquired them around 1971 from a jumble sale in a community hall across the road from where I then lived.  One glance at them and I immediately think of my old house and neighbourhood, despite me only having them there for about a year or so before moving.

They've now seen three different homes, two of which they've spent far more time in than the one in which I lived when I first got them.  That being the case, why don't I associate them with either of the other two residences, except in the most minimal of ways?  I'm always amazed by how certain things can make such an initial impression on one's mind that, even over 40 years later, that first impression remains the pre-eminent one.

Does anyone else have an item from their early years that yet conjures up memories from the time and place they first got it, as opposed to any of the places in which they've subsequently lived for far longer periods, and which one would imagine would naturally supplant earlier and more distant associations?

If so, pray tell in the comments section.

******

Something that's just occurred to me is that, back in the '70s, the salt and pepper shakers passed the number on the front door of my former abode on only two occasions - once when I crossed the threshold with them for the first time, and again when we flitted from the house in 1972.

However, 23 years ago, I acquired the actual number plate from the then-current tenant, and affixed it to the room door of my studio.  The shakers were brought into my studio tonight in order to be photographed - and, in so doing, passed the old number plate for the first time in over four decades.

Don't know about the rest of you, but I somehow find that strangely profound in some indefinable way. 

WHEN THINGS JUST DON'T 'PAN' OUT...

Images copyright relevant owners

In 1913, American book publisher, SCRIBNER'S, issued an edition of The WIND In The WILLOWS nicely illustrated by PAUL BRANSOM.  Interestingly, the frontispiece depicted MOLE and RATTY's encounter with the demi-god PAN, which makes it all the more strange that ERNEST H. SHEPARD's later pictorial presentation of the same scene has, so far as I'm able to ascertain, never appeared in any U.S. edition of the much-loved classic for children.  I have therefore published the picture above, for the benefit of any American readers who may not have seen it before.  Below is the Bransom version from the U.S. edition.

METHUEN first published the book in Britain in 1908, though the rights to their childrens catalogue currently belong to EGMONT.  The American edition I acquired recently is published by ATHENEUM books (a division of SIMON & SCHUSTER), which sharp-eyed readers will doubtless have noticed is an anagrammatical way of saying it's 'A Methuen' book.  I wonder if it was deliberate? 

MORE TITANIC TV21 ADS From The '60s...

Images copyright relevant and respective owners

Going by the hits the earlier post on this theme received, I'm pretty sure another one will be just as popular.  So - for all the oldies amongst us, here's yet another selection of awesome adverts from the pages of various issues of TV CENTURY 21.  Don't they make you yearn to be a kid again, experiencing them for the very first time?  They do with me!  Anyway, sit back and enjoy!

PART TWO Of TV CENTURY 21 COVER GALLERY...

Copyright relevant owner

As promised, here we are with the second instalment of early covers from the history of TV CENTURY 21.  Looking at these glorious colour pages takes me right back to 1965 (or should that be forward to 2065?) and a brighter and seemingly more innocent era.  I'm especially fond of issue #14, because I recall reading it in my back garden on a sunny day in April all those years ago.  I also remember #18 and 19, the former of which I had a second copy when on holiday in Rothesay of that year.

My mother had gone into a newsagent's while the rest of us sat outside in the car, and inadvertently bought the previous issue instead of the latest one.  I didn't mind too much, as it provided six year-old me with another opportunity to drool over the legendary RON EMBLETON's luscious delineation of ATLANTA SHORE, pegged out on an island outcrop as sharks waited for the water to rise and allow them access to their dinner.

Ah, happy days.

The 'TRUTH ABOUT JIMMY SAVILE' FILE...

Saw this recently when I was going through some back numbers of TV CENTURY 21.  That LADY PENELOPE, eh?  Not much of an investigator, was she?  Stupid b*tch!  PARKER should've given him a right good kickin' - might've saved a lot of people a lot of grief.

PASS-COMMENTABLE...

Recently I've been receiving comments on a daily basis intended to harass me.  No big deal, and don't panic - I'm not about to bore you with the details.  However, most of these comments now go into my Spam file, which I delete unread.  Thing is, I know from previous experience that, for some inexplicable reason, the occasional comment from some of my regular readers can also wind up there.

Therefore, if you've recently submitted a comment which hasn't yet appeared, it may have made its way into my Spam file and been inadvertently deleted.  Feel free to try again, but perhaps it might be an idea to first create a Google account so that your identity can't be hijacked in an attempt to slip a comment under the radar, as has also been happening recently.

Apologies for any inconvenience, and, hopefully, normal service will resume shortly.  In the meantime, enjoy the pretty piccie of the gorgeous girlie.

HECTOR'S HOUSE: SCHOOLTIME SCANDALS - PART FIVE...

'HECTOR' HILL we called him - mainly due to his uncanny resemblance (in our eyes) to the dog in Hector's House. Not just in appearance, but also in voice, unlikely as that may seem.  He was a decent bloke, a teacher at my secondary school, and a man with a conscience - as this latest illuminating episode in our 'Schooltime Scandals' series now illustrates.

Before each pupil sat a form, waiting to be filled in.  It asked us about our home life, details about our parents, etc., no doubt designed to determine whether we came from happy environments or were victims of poverty or abuse, or some such misfortune.  "These forms are 100% confidential," we were advised, "and will be treated with the utmost respect and secrecy."

And so we applied ourselves to our task.  However, before too long, the sound of adult laughter made me turn around to find out the cause of such open merriment. Mr. Hill and a female teacher (whose name is lost to the mists of time) were standing behind a girl named SHEILA CRAWFORD, reading what she was writing and laughing and commenting on it.

I stopped writing and put down my pen.  Noticing this, Mr. Hill asked if I was finished.  "No sir, but I'm not filling out any more.  You told us that these forms would be in the strictest confidence, but here you are, openly laughing at what someone is writing, and remarking aloud for all to hear.  I'm not prepared to supply any personal information, the confidential nature of which could be abused in a similar manner."  (Of course, it's unlikely that I expressed  myself in quite such an assured and articulate a fashion, but that was the gist of my statement.)

Oh, but they needed the information - it was important.  It would help them build a personal profile of each pupil, assist them in their quest to aid any student who might have a difficult home life, etc., etc.  "I refuse to participate" was my steadfast response.  "You openly laughed at what Sheila was writing, and remarked upon it in front of the rest of us.  That's a betrayal of confidence for a start."

(I should perhaps mention that this wasn't a case of me trying to be difficult on some perverse whim, simply for the sake of it.  It genuinely did bother me that I might inadvertently write something about my parents which could be a source of amusement among the teachers in their staff room, and I therefore wasn't about to 'play ball', no siree.  Familial loyalty held sway.)

No more was said, doubtless because the two teachers, in their embarrassment, wished to minimise their injudicious display, and I lost myself in idle thought until the bell rang and we shuffled off to our next lesson in the New Block.  About 15 minutes later, there came a knock at the classroom door.  A pupil entered, and politely informed the teacher that Mr. Hill requested my presence back over in the Old Block.

I duly trotted over to the class I had not long left, to find a contrite Mr. Hill waiting at the door, anxious to explain himself and, essentially, seek my forgiveness.  Yes, he had been wrong, it was a lapse in judgement, it wasn't a common occurrence, it would never happen again, would I please fill out my form.  However, my heart was like flint.  No, I wouldn't be filling out the form, nor any other form of a similar nature in the future.

Nothing was ever said again on the subject, but I must confess that I was inwardly impressed that Mr. Hill was prepared to reason with me, explain himself, treat me almost like an equal, rather than attempt to browbeat or bully me into submission. (He was also smart enough to know that such an approach wouldn't have worked.) Here was a man of honour, compassion, integrity - who realised he had made a mistake (trivial as it probably was) and was eager to redeem himself in the eyes of one lone pupil (no ocular pun intended).

So here's to Mr. Hill - to 'Hector' - a genuinely good man, and a teacher who cared - perhaps even too much.  Of him it can be truly said:  "He's a great, big, decent ol' Hector."