AT LAST - FOOM COVER & IMAGE GALLERY - PART ELEVEN...

Images copyright MARVEL COMICS & ERB, Inc.

Tempus Fugit indeed.  It's been over seven months since I posted the previous part of this series, but here, at last, is the latest instalment in the FOOM cover and image gallery.  This issue has quite a bit of meat on its bones, focussing on author EDGAR RICE BURROUGHS' JOHN CARTER Of MARS and TARZAN characters, as published by MARVEL in comicbook form at the time this 'in-house' publication was available. 

Anyway, if you're a member of this blog, it's not because of anything I have to say, so I won't hold you back from the good stuff any longer.  And don't miss the FOOMtastic British Feature Page near the bottom of this post for (old) news about the British STAR WARS magazine.  Ah, it's just like 1978 all over again, don'cha think?

Coming soon:  The last two issues of  FOOM (#21 & 22).

******

(Remember, for a better look, click on images to enlarge, then click again for optimum size.)

Copyright 1978 Edgar Rice Burroughs, Inc.

DAY Of The DEFENDERS...

Images copyright MARVEL COMICS

While looking through my comics recently, my eyes fell upon this one, which I remembered buying four or five years ago - or so it seemed.  Turns out it was actually 14 years back, in 2001 - time flies, eh?  It's a cracking little comicbook featuring three titanic tales, the first two sort of leading up to the formation of MARVEL's 'non-team', The DEFENDERS, and the third being their actual first 'official' adventure.  Well worth having, I assure you.

So, while you're pondering whether to track one down on eBay (assuming you don't already have it), here's a plethora of pictures to show you just what you're missing!  Feast your eyes, frantic one!  ("HULK like pretty pictures!")

And if you're interested in reading what FOOM mag #19 had to say about The Defenders, then click here, effendi.

And below is the original cover of MARVEL FEATURE #1, wherein the dynamic Defenders made their 'first' appearance.

ARREST ME, OFFICER! I USED TO PUNCH YOGI BEAR ON A REGULAR BASIS...

It's amazing what you find out long after the fact.  Case in point: When I was three or four, I remember my father inflating a YOGI BEAR figure while sitting on the back step at the side of the house.  (Yeah, the 'back' door was at the side of the house - go figger!)  I had what seemed like loads of Yogi merchandise when I was young.  In that house alone, I had a MARX Yogi on a scooter, a cardboard Yogi Hallowe'en mask, a pair of Yogi slippers (with little Yogi heads on the toes) and the above inflatable Yogi.  (I also had a Marx Yogi & Huck ramp walker about this time, but I may not have got that until we'd moved to our next house, I'm not sure.)

I loved punching the bejabbers out of my inflatable Yogi (in an affectionate way, of course), but no longer remember exactly what happened to him.  I have a vague idea that he sprung a leak and was discreetly disposed of, but I probably wasn't told of his fate at the time.  I recall my dad putting sand in the base to weigh him down on the day that Yogi first arrived, but I never knew where he'd come from - until now that is.

I recently bought this flyer, which reveals that the punch toy was a special offer from FAIRY SNOW and associated washing powders - so, over 50 years later, I at last know where one of my best boyhood buddies originated.  (Confusingly, the flyer says that either sand or water can be used to weigh Yogi down, but the instructions which accompanied him said that water should not be used.)  Now if only I could find a replacement.  Does anyone know where I can get one?  If so, I'll let you have the first punch.

Did anyone else have an inflatable Yogi when they were a kid?  (No - an inflatable sheep doesn't count, you perv!)   Then leave your reminiscences in the comments section. 

BABE Of The DAY - NICOLA BRYANT (AGAIN)...

Ah, here's a lovely lass to make a

man's heart beat faster, the stunning

NICOLA BRYANT!  That Doctor

 Who is a very lucky chappie.

TEENAGE TALES: Of MICE And BLIND MEN...

Once upon a time, in a far away land called 'The Past', I had a friend called ADAM COWIE (not quite his real name, but close enough).  From the age of around 7 years old until I was about 22, I considered him one of my closest pals.  I'm not quite sure why, as he was a liar, a fantasist and a thief, who, as a child, was always getting into trouble.  (This is the same boy who stole the moon-suit, as related in the previous post.)  His parents, who were both blind, were members of the local Baptist Church, and had an annoying tendency (as do many parents) to attribute their son's constant bad behaviour (at school and outside of it) to others, rather than to his own natural propensity for landing himself in the soft and smelly brown stuff.

One Saturday, in 1970 or '71, myself and my pal were wandering around the town centre and called in to the Pet Shop to have a look-see.  (Incidentally, the shop only relatively recently relocated to new premises after being in the same place for well over 40 years.)  Our eyes spotted a white mouse, which was inexpensive enough for me to purchase if I so wished.  I was half-inclined to, and Adam encouraged me, saying that he would give me half the cost at a later date, and that we could take turns looking after it.

And so it came to pass that we became the proud owners of a new pet.  We went back to his house first, whereupon his parents said he wasn't allowed to have it, not even on a part-time basis.  He threw a strop, and his father, fetching a cane from the outside garden cellar, marched his son into the house for a whipping.  He turned in my direction as he went through the door, saying "See the trouble you've brought to this house?!"  It goes without saying that I considered it unfair of him to place the blame for his son's reaction on me.  (It wasn't the first time, and it wouldn't be the last.)

Anyway, I became the sole owner of QUICKSILVER, as he came to be known, and looked after him until I had to find him a new home when we went on a fortnight's holiday to Largs in 1971.  (I didn't really want to part with him, but couldn't let him starve.)  Many, many years later, someone pointed out the fellow to whom I'd given him, and said that he was well-known for maltreating (if not outright torturing) pets he'd owned when younger.  As I type this,  I'm overcome with horror and guilt at the fate to which I'd unwittingly delivered poor Quicksilver, and can only hope that he didn't suffer too much.  If there's one thing I could go back and change in my life, it would be to not hand my mouse over to the sicko who I  thought he'd be safe with.

(I have a nagging memory of running into him months later, in '71 or '72, and asking him how my former pet was.  "It's deid!" he muttered as he passed.  I was slightly stunned at the news, but it wasn't until I learned of his disturbing proclivities long after the fact that the sinister significance of his words dawned on me.)

But I digress.  Earlier I'd said that Adam's parents were blind, which was true, but though his father had one glass eye, the blindness in his other eye was caused by a cataract, which, in 1976, was operated on, resulting in him having some partial-but-restricted sight.  Adam's mother had died in 1975, and he and his father moved into a flat not far away from me several months later.  It was while living in this flat that a female neighbour would sometimes chap their door and hand in a pot of home-made soup for the pair of them, purely out of the goodness of her heart.

One day, while handing in some soup, she mentioned that her radio had expired.  "Bring it over and I'll take a look at it," said my pal's pater, and she duly trotted across the landing to fetch it.  It turned out to be a simple matter of a blown fuse, but rather than replace it, Mr. Cowie just affixed another plug and retained the original.  (It may even have been the complete power cord.)  Once it was working again and handed back, I heard him crowing to his son at what a far better plug it was, and what an inferior, cheaper, age-worn plug he'd supplied in its place.  He was positively gloating at having put one over on the neighbour who'd never been anything but kind to him.  I almost felt like saying "That'll be why Adam's such a lying, diddling, scheming b*st*rd who's always getting himself into trouble - it's the example you've set him!"  I didn't, of course.

While still at primary school years before, Adam and a classmate came into school one morning with two diecast toy cars.  I can no longer recall if they were CORGIs or DINKYs, but Adam claimed that they were both presents from an aunt of either him or the other boy.  (I still remember the second lad's name, but I'll spare his blushes as what I'm about to relate was uncharacteristic of him.)  Turned out they'd stolen them from a young boy playing outside his house on their way to school, as we all discovered when the boy's mother descended on the school to complain.  If they'd kept the cars in their schoolbags and not shown them off, they might have got away with it, but having flaunted their ill-gotten goods, it was easy to track down the culprits.

His parents were obviously in denial over their inability to control their unruly offspring, and often blamed me for his wayward exploits, as we sometimes got into bother for trivial misbehaviour together.  However, the fact that I was seldom ever in any trouble myself, while he was often in trouble either by himself or with others, was lost on them.  It was always "that [insert my name here] fault", whether I was even present at the time of an incident or not.  Years later, he admitted to me that he'd sometimes told his parents that I was the cause of several of his various misdemeanours, simply to shift the blame and assuage his parents' anger - even if we hadn't been together at the time of his transgressions.

If you're interested in what eventually became of this fellow and our friendship, further details can be found here.  Thinking things over now, if my former friend and a mouse were hanging over a cliff, I'd be sure to rescue the rodent first (the furry one, that is).  In fact, I'd be tempted to call it quits after saving the mouse.

This has been another completely self-indulgent 'Rambling Reminiscence' - in case you hadn't already noticed.  Comments, anyone?

MARX TOYS FRICTION-DRIVE DALEK..

Copyright BBC TV and the Estate of TERRY NATION

I've shown this friction-drive DALEK before, but not the box, so because the art is just as evocative of the '60s as the toy itself, I thought you might like to see it.  I got my first MARX Dalek from R.S. McCOLL's in 1967, and there's a story relating to it which I may as well recount while I've got your attention.

I'd spotted this toy some days before and told my parents about it, whereupon they said they'd buy it for me at the weekend on a trip to the shops.  On the earmarked Saturday, one of my pals turned up at the door as we were preparing to leave.  A hasty 'phone call to his parents to see if it was all right to take him with us, and we were off.  (In stark contrast to his parents, who'd simply have said they were going out and closed the door in my face.)

While I was buying my Dalek, my pal disappeared, and my concerned parents searched for him for a while before returning home in case he'd made his own way back there.  Sure enough, he was sitting on our front doorstep, talking to my brother and showing him a MAJOR MATT MASON MOON-SUIT he'd mysteriously acquired.  My parents told him off for wandering off on his own, as they'd been charged with looking after him.

Regarding the moon-suit, he said that one of his friends, whose family owned a baby/toy shop called NURSERYLAND, had given it to him when he'd called in for a look-around, but it was obvious from his shifty and self-conscious manner that he'd nicked it.  Funny thing is though, that because of that, forever after and right to this day, I've always associated these two toys from the '60s with one another.

Anyway, enjoy the piccies - the self-indulgent and uninteresting reminiscence is entirely free.

TOMORROW NEVER DIES...

Here's k.d. lang (she doesn't use caps on her name,

so neither will I) singing TOMORROW NEVER DIES.

Personally, I think they should've used this as the main

theme tune, but nobody cares what I think.  (Huh!)

A SPY TYPE GUY...

Back in 1972 or '73, my local cinema was showing a double-bill of LIVING FREE (the sequel to BORN FREE) and The MAN CALLED FLINTSTONE.  The Flintstones feature was an actual cinema release, not a made-for-TV special, and it was amazing to see on the big screen in full colour.  (As opposed to black and white on a box in the corner of the living-room.)

Anyway, here's one of the songs from the movie that so captivated me as a 13 year-old kid.

The TITANS COVER GALLERY - PART THREE...

Images copyright MARVEL COMICS

Up next, another ten covers of The TITANS comic from back in the '70s.  One of the things about British MARVEL weeklies was that they sometimes seemed a bit makeshift, and The Titans was no exception.  Perhaps it was due to the American production staff being more accustomed to turning out mags for a monthly instead of a weekly schedule, but whatever the reason, I found myself somewhat irked by the less than perfect results.  Whether it was art varying in size from page to page, or having no margins because they'd been trimmed too close to the panels, it robbed the comic of a truly 'professional' look.  Also, the reproduction varied in quality, and some pages had Letra-tone (which was sometimes too dark in such a reduced size) and some didn't.  Had a bit more care and attention being lavished on the title, it may well have lasted for far longer than a mere 58 issues.

Take a look at the FANTASTIC FOUR splash pages from #s 29 & 30 - they're not the originals, but have been redrawn to fit the 'landscape' format in a style pretty close to that of JACK KIRBY's.  This was a neat way of filling up one full U.K. page with the equivalent of one U.S. page (instead of two) and thereby using less material per issue.  Some re-drawn splashes were better than others, but you'll be able to judge for yourselves as this six-part series unfolds.  The FF covers (and one or two others by the look of it) have been similarly redrawn - most likely by LARRY LIEBER (#s 27 & 29) - and they're fairly good imitations.  So there you have it for the moment, but be sure to return for the next set of covers - coming soon!  In the meantime, as always, if you'd like to reminisce about any cover in particular (or just the comic in general), then feel free to do so in our ever-lovin' comments section.

Back page cover ad to #22

TURN ON - PUSH/TALK - LET GO/LISTEN. HOW DIFFICULT IS THAT?

I was in a new shop called HOME BARGAINS today (it's new in our shopping centre anyway) and saw a portable door chime kit at a very reasonable price.  Back home, in preparation for fitting it, I first had to remove the old one which no longer worked (and hadn't for some time). That's when the memories resurfaced of an earlier house and an earlier time from around 30 years ago.

You see, dear reader, I'd first purchased that doorbell when I lived in that other house, which was the one it was intended for.  I probably bought it at least a year before we moved back to my present abode (regular readers know the story), but I simply never got around to it.  However,  I had first envisioned it on that other front door, and even though I've passed it on my way in and out of my present address for around 25 years (I was back here for about two years before I had it fitted), I still mainly associate it with my previous home.  With one exception that is, which I am now about to relate.

I say 'doorbell', but it was actually an ARCHER intercom set I'd purchased in TANDY.  My reason for acquiring it was so that my elderly parents could check who was at the front door before opening it, but it proved to be an utterly futile ambition.  When I eventually got around to having it fitted (in my present house, remember), I carefully explained the rather easy procedure for operating it, which was this.  "When someone rings the bell, turn on the intercom, then press the button clearly marked 'push/talk' and ask who it is.  When you've done that, let go of the button in order to hear the response.  Got that?  Turn on - push/talk - let go/listen."  I demonstrated it several times, but they simply couldn't get the hang of it.

I'd go to the front door, ring the bell, and, my father would  forget to press the 'on' button to activate the thing.  He would simply press the 'push/talk' button, but because the intercom wasn't switched on, I couldn't hear him.  Again I would demonstrate the simple three part procedure: "Turn on intercom when you hear the bell, press the 'push/ talk' button to ask who's at the door, let go of the button to listen to the response."  In my impatience, I felt that teaching retarded chimps how to clap their hands would've been far easier, so uncoordinated and uncomprehending were they in following my simple instructions.

I was driven to frustration and tempted to bang my head off the wall - ironically akin to what it felt I was already doing in trying (and failing) to impart enlightenment to my parents.  I could've house-trained an incontinent puppy sooner than it seemed I'd ever be able to teach them those three simple basic steps.  "NO!  Turn the bloody thing on first.  Look - (Click!)  Now press the 'push/talk' button and speak - (Press!)  'Hello, who's there?'  Now let go of the 'push/talk' button and listen - 'It's the Milk Man come for his money!'  Now how bloody difficult is that, for feck's feckin' sake?  Aaaarggghhhh!"

They still couldn't do it.  Even when they remembered to turn it on first, they'd forget to let go of the 'push/talk' button after speaking, so they couldn't hear me at the door shouting "Let go of the feckin' push/ talk button for feck's sake - how many feckin' times do I have to tell you?"  Sometimes my father would push the button, speak, forget to let go, then suddenly remember, by which time I (or whoever was at the door) had finished replying.  As there was no answer (already having been given) he would ask again, "Who's there?", but he would forget to press the 'push/talk' button first so he was talking to himself.

"It doesn't work!" was their blunt assessment of the device designed to protect them from dodgy characters at the front door.  "No, IT works, it's your BRAINS that don't!" were the tender, loving words from their dutiful, affectionate and caring son.  It was pointless to persist.  They never used it and I soon gave up trying to show them how simple it was.  What is it about getting older that turns the brain to mush?  I hope I'm not that bereft of comprehension when I'm the age they were then.  Of course, it may simply have been that my parents thought there was nothing any mere youth could teach them, and therefore paid no more than superficial heed to my 'technical' instructions.

Anyway, a new bell is now fitted, but - worn and non-working as the old intercom set now is - I don't think I'll ever throw it out.  Too many memories, and, the above tale apart, mainly associated with the previous home for which it was originally intended.  Funny that, eh?  

IS THAT YOU OR IS THIS ME...?

Here's something we've all asked ourselves at some time or other, I'm sure.  When it's super smooth vocalist JIM REEVES doing the asking however, it's usually worth listening to the question.  Thinking caps on...

BABE Of The DAY - VICTORIA VETRI (AGAIN)...

Okay, blonde bombshell VICTORIA

VETRI may currently be in her 70s and

serving time in the pokey for attempting

to 'off' her man, but back in the day, she

 was a pure babe.  Can't disagree, eh?

WILL THE REAL STEADFAST McSTAUNCH PLEASE STAND UP...

Image copyright relevant owner

As related in the now departed DENIS GIFFORD's letter below, STEADFAST McSTAUNCH was originally a dog in the first incarnation of KNOCK-OUT comic back in 1949/'50.  Above is the strip from the cover-dated November 29th, 1969 issue of WHIZZER & CHIPS (#7), wherein Denis reverted the then-current version of ol' Steady back to his original doggie-self.  I don't have the next issue, but relax - Steadfast regained his human form and all was right with the world.

TOYBOX TREASURES Of The PAST: The CHERILEA DALEK...

I remember it as if it were yesterday.  As I rushed 'round to a newsagent's just about to re-open after lunchtime, I tripped on a slab and plunged head-first between two metal railings, banging my head on them in the process.  "That'll teach you not to run!" came the voice of one of two old biddies sat on a wooden bench to the side of my prostrate form.  Suddenly her friend shouted "Oh, look at the blood!" and I was hurried upstairs to a nearby doctor's surgery where I was cleaned up and had two stitches put in the wound in my forehead.

Later that evening, back home, as I recuperated on the settee, my mother came back from the shops with a CHERILEA DALEK as a gift for my stricken self, still dazed from the thump to my head and the loss of the blood which had run down my face like an avalanche of crimson snow.  It had looked worse than it was, of course, but I was only about nine or ten and, to me, it felt as if I'd been involved in a major accident.  I had a scar on my forehead that's still visible to this day, and I yet have the stitches as a memento, although it took me 19 years to reclaim them after inadvertently leaving them behind when we moved house four or five years later.

But that's another tale.  The Cherilea Dalek was an odd toy.  It consisted of three main parts (not counting the appendages), and was an ill-fitting and not very accurate representation of DOCTOR WHO's arch-enemies The DALEKS.  It came in an assortment of colours that could be swapped from one to another, depending on just how many of them you were lucky enough to have.   As far as I remember, it was only available in WOOLWORTH'S, and I owned several of them at different stages.  If I recall rightly, the one my mother brought home wasn't the first I had, but it's the only one that has a story to accompany it.  Whether it's a story worth telling is another matter, but we Bloggers need material to write about, so you're stuck with it.

Anyway, yesterday, I took possession of a single replacement for all those I had as a child.  I couldn't say if its colour matches any of my previous ones, but hey - it's an actual, Cherilea Dalek from Woolies and these things don't grow on trees.  So say hello to my new pal, and if you have any memories of having this toy, feel free to share them with your fellow Criv-ites in the captivating comments section.

PART TWO Of The TITANS COVER GALLERY...

Images copyright MARVEL COMICS

Where's Nifty NICK CAPUTO when you need him?  This should be right up his street as Nick is an expert at identifying all the artists who drew the covers, splash pages and pin-ups for MARVEL's British weeklies in the  '70s & '80s.  I'm not such an expert so I won't even bother trying.  Instead, I'll settle for just introducing the second instalment of The TITANS cover gallery and taking satisfaction from sharing this collection with fellow Criv-ites everywhere.

So, let's have a big hand for me then, for being so unselfish and an all-round great guy!  "Hip, hip, hoo..." - hey, where'd everybody go?  Oh, well... can't win 'em all, I suppose.