FINALLY! PART TWELVE Of FOOM COVER & IMAGE GALLERY...

Images copyright MARVEL COMICS & relevant owners

And now, at last, we reach journey's end, as Crivens features the final two issues of FOOM magazine, which, over the course of around five and a half years, managed to produce 22 pulse-pounding publications devoted to all things MARVEL.  It's hard to believe that it's been just over two years since the series began on this blog, but now we pull down the curtain and take our last bow as the audience rise to their feet and make their way towards the exits, hopefully satiated by the magnificent meal of Mighty Marvel Masterworks on which they've so fervently and ferociously feasted.  (And just try saying that with a mouthful of marbles.  On second thought, better not - you might choke, and I need all the readers I can get.)

Any reminiscences about any of the images on show?  Were you a FOOM fan, or did it manage to slip under your radar at the time?  Feel free to tell your fellow Criv-ites all about it in the comments section!  Incidentally, the back cover illustration of the final ish (22) was reused on The FANTASTIC FOUR Annual for 1980, issued near the end of 1979.  

Update: As a special bonus, below is the cover and a few interior images from a FOOM one-shot published in 2017, 44 years after the final issue of the original series.

BABE Of The DAY - LESLEY ANN WARREN (AGAIN)...

Here's lovely LESLEY ANN WARREN

stepping into a fight between the Invisible Man

and Susan Storm, holding them apart until they

both calm down.  Don't ask me why she's kitted

out like a butterfly - I have no idea.

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.