YOU'D HAVE TO BE MAD NOT TO HAVE BOUGHT THIS MAGAZINE...

Images copyright DC COMICS

"I don't believe it!" as VICTOR MELDREW would say.  It's now been almost 20 years since I bought the first issue of this 8 issue reprint series of MAD - from the era when it was a comicbook rather than a magazine.  Yup, as every true comics fan will know, Mad started life as a comicbook, in the same format as other 'funny books' of the time.  I already had these comics in a deluxe slipcase set of four hardback volumes, but there was something appealing about seeing them in something resembling their original incarnations, as far as paper quality goes at least.

Well-worth having, and if you don't fancy shelling out big bucks for the hardback volumes, I'd imagine that these 8 classics should be fairly easy and - more to the point - inexpensive to track down on eBay.  Even if you're not consumed with a burning desire to own these great comic mags, I'm sure you'll all still enjoy seeing the colourful covers.

So - here they are.

BABE Of The DAY - IMOGEN HASSALL...

I saw IMOGEN HASSALL in a

'60s episode of 'The SAINT', and in

the end credits her surname was mis-

 spelt as 'Hassell'.  Still lovely!

RUEFUL REPOST: WINDOW On The PAST...

The view from one of my old classroom windows -
now demolished.  (The school, not just the window)

Regular readers will be aware by now that one of the chief delights of my life when younger was gazing out of my classroom windows and losing myself in daydreams.  What cared I about matters pertaining to geography, history, maths and the like?  I was too busy flying around the sky or saving the world - in my fertile imagination, at least.  Sometimes I wasn't quite so energetic in my fantasies, and was content just to watch the clouds glide by in languid motion, going wherever it is that clouds go to.

It should therefore come as no surprise to anyone to learn that I still like to gaze out of windows today, observing the comings and goings of neighbourhood residents, the antics of assorted dogs, cats, birds, squirrels and foxes, and whatever else happens in a typical street.  And yes, I still enjoy just watching the clouds drift by or contemplating the rain pattering off the pavement.  Recently, however, I've become aware of just how few people I actually recognise in their daily perambulations past the panoramic perimeters of my property.

There are now only two faces I can identify from around the time I first came to this house over forty years ago.  One was here before we moved to the area, the other took up residence a year or two after we arrived.  There are others who've lived here for maybe twenty or thirty years, but for some curious reason I still regard them as 'newbies' and not yet established in the neighbourhood firmament.  Strange how them not living here within the first few years of my arrival makes them seem like newcomers I haven't quite adjusted to yet.

The view from my old bedroom window, with my school in sight

There's a possibility that one of the old, familiar faces may sell up and move on in the not too distant future, and the other is retired and getting on in years.  When the last link to how things once used to be has finally gone, I wonder just how I'll react to being surrounded by complete strangers with no connection to my younger days back in the early 1970s.  I've noticed a feeling of 'displacement' gradually creeping up on me over the last few years as more and more 'well-kent' faces have faded from my everyday experience, and sometimes I almost feel like I'm the stranger who doesn't quite belong in these here parts.

It's then that I immerse myself in comicbooks from four decades ago and re-live the early years of when I first moved to this house, in an attempt to recapture the mood, the ambiance, the atmosphere - the flavour - of what it was like to live here back in the sensational '70s, when I was practically just a lad not too far removed from the start of my journey through life and all it had to offer.

Then I lose myself in visions of the past; where long-gone local worthies yet walk the streets beyond my windows - living, breathing, laughing and chatting as they did in bygone days, before they gradually fell, one by one, victims to time.  I seek refuge in a place and a period which now exist only in memory, populated by the ghosts of yesterday, and the knowledge is not lost on me that, one day, my 'continuance' will consist of being nothing more than a lingering echo in the minds of others.

BABE Of The DAY - DANA GILLESPIE...

"Do you want some super sex?"

trilled devastatingly dynamic DANA

GILLESPIE.  "Both - I'll have the soup

afterwards!" I said.  Hah!  I'd outfoxed

her again!  The soup?  It was tomato

 soup - and very tasty it was too.

RAMBLING REPOST: WHAT'S IN A NAME? ARE YOU KIDDING? A LIKELY STORY...

"Why are you called 'Kid'?  Is it because you act like one?"

If I had a pound for every time I've been asked that, I'd have - well, I'd have a pound actually, so I don't suppose there's really too much interest in the topic.  However, I have to fill this blog with something, so - assuming you'll all bear with me in yet another act of shameless self-indulgence - I shall address the issue in the forlorn hope that anybody even remotely cares.

There was a period during my early teenage years when I called everyone "kid".  It was short, snappy, and it meant never having to worry about remembering people's names.  One day, I ran into a pal of mine in the company of a group of his friends. Anticipating my familiar, well-worn greeting, he thought he'd get in first in a daring act of mockery at my little peccadillo.  (Feel free to supply your own amusing rejoinder to that last sentence.)  "Hi Kid!" he said with a cheeky grin upon his smug countenance, immensely satisfied with himself for - in his mind - 'beating me to the punch'.

His pals were unaware of his intended 'irony' however, and merely assumed it to be my nickname.  But ours is a drama decreed by the fates to be acted out (always loved that line by LARRY LIEBER); I subsequently became friendly with that little group, who - in their innocence - always referred to me by that appellation.  And so the name stuck and I've been known as "Kid" - to them and to others - ever since.

But whence came the habit which led to me effectively naming myself?  Why did I call people "kid" to begin with?  I'm glad I pretended you asked.  You see, back in the early 1970s, there was a brilliant comedy show called WHATEVER HAPPENED TO THE LIKELY LADS, starring JAMES BOLAM and RODNEY BEWES.  In fact, as they had alternating billing from week to week, if you re-read that last sentence, reverse the order of their names so that I don't hear from their agents or solicitors.

Although the programme was a comedy, it also had pathos, poignancy and profundity - otherwise known as the three Ps.  During the course of their frequent nostalgia-laden soliloquies, the characters often addressed each other as "kid" or "kidda".  In my devotion to the programme and my desire to emulate the two main characters, I soon adopted the practice of referring to everyone I knew (and even some I didn't) as "kidda", which resulted in some fairly puzzled looks.  That's because the words "kidda" and "kidder" sound pretty similar when pronounced with a lazy Glaswegian accent, and this made folks think I was accusing them of pulling my leg in some way.

"Kidder?" they'd say in a slightly bewildered manner (likewise mispronouncing it as "kidda") - "Kiddin' about what?"  Well, it didn't take me too long to realize that adopting the shorter option - "kid" - would avoid any unnecessary confusion amongst my sturdy band of companions and free me from having to endlessly explain myself. It could've been far worse, as I'd once been in the habit of exclaiming "Jings, man!" in response to anything of even a vaguely interesting or surprising nature.

This inevitably led to all my friends and acquaintances calling me "Jings-Man" every time I appeared on the horizon.  Fortunately, I soon dropped the use of this 'oath' (doubtless acquired from reading too many BROONS and OOR WULLIE strips in The SUNDAY POST) and thus escaped any longterm association with the name which could've resulted in lasting damage to my delicate sensibilities.  I much preferred being called "Kid" - or "Sir", even.  (In fact, now that I come to think about it, "Master" is good as well.) 

And there you have it!  The hitherto secret origin of how I gained my teenage nickname which has remained with me to this day.  And you also have an object lesson in the art of writing something about nothing - but you should only ever do so if your very life depends on it, so I have absolutely no excuse.

FABULOUS FLASHBACKS: FANTASTIC At FIFTY...

Images copyright MARVEL COMICS

Launched on Saturday, February 11th 1967, it's been 50 years since Fantastic #1 first appeared on newsagents' counters all across the country.  Published by Odhams Press, it was the next stage in the evolution of comic titles like Wham!, Smash!, and Pow!, which featured U.K. humour strips among Marvel reprints.  (Or vice versa.)  Unlike its companion papers though, the contents of Fantastic weren't resized to fit a British comic's page, instead being granted the privilege of appearing (more or less) in their original format - albeit in a slightly larger size and in black and white.

Credit boxes were omitted, and U.S. spellings, references, and speech patterns were routinely altered ("I ain't" to "I'm not" for example), but just seeing the artwork of Jack Kirby, Don Heck, and Steve Ditko in all its crisp, cataclysmic glory, was what mattered to young readers back in the day.  Not forgetting, of course, the power-packed scripting of Stan (The Man) Lee, Larry Lieber, and also Roy Thomas.

The  periodical was edited by Alfred Wallace and Robert Bartholomew, aka Alf & Bart.  Along with Albert Cosser (Cos), they oversaw the five weekly Power Comics until, like the song's ten green bottles sitting on the wall, there were none left.  Fantastic contained some home-grown produce in the form of an occasional humour page, as well as The Missing Link/Johnny Future strip that appeared for 51 issues, drawn by Spanish artist Luis Bermejo.

 

It lasted only 89 issues, a Summer Special and 3 Annuals, but Fantastic remains one of the more fondly-recalled comics of the '60s by those who were fortunate (and discerning) enough to have bought and relished it at the time.  Tell you what - let's now take a look at why it was just so... Fantastic!

******

(I obtained my first replacement of this ish towards the end of 1980, just over 13 years after it was first published.  Amazing to think that more than 36 years have passed since then.)

  

The MISSING LINK copyright relevant owners

And if you'd like to read the complete episode, click here.

The free pennant-wallet

Below, trade and newspaper ads for the comic's launch. Note that the first one says the comic comes out on Monday 13th February, whereas the second 'says' it's Saturday 11th.  No wonder kids often missed a new comic, if they were looking for it two days after it first went on sale.  The comic came out on a Saturday, not a Monday - despite what the cover said.

(This is a slightly revised post of one first published on February 1st 2011.)

BABE Of The DAY - EMILY PROCTER...

EMILY PROCTER - what a

honey!  (That's all he wrote!)

SPIDER-MAN COMICS WEEKLY #1 - FORTY-FOURTH ANNIVERSARY...

Images copyright MARVEL COMICS

February 10th 1973 was the day SPIDER-MAN COMICS WEEKLY went on sale (and the secret of FOOM was revealed to the waiting world).  After sharing the first 19 issues of The MIGHTY WORLD Of MARVEL, the web-spinner was awarded his own mag, backed up by The MIGHTY THOR, with ol' Shell-head, The INVINCIBLE IRON MAN, joining them in issue #50.

Today, Friday, is the 44th anniversary of this collectors' item classic, so I thought I'd treat you to a selection of covers and images from SM's very first pulsating periodical in the U.K.  He'd previously appeared in POW! back in the '60s and then TV21 at the start of the '70s, but this was the first British weekly that presented full, uncut adventures in a publication with him as the title star.

So feast your eyes on the pics that follow, and indulge yourself in warm recollections of when you first laid eyes on them 44 years ago.  (And dig that dynamic JIM STARLIN illo on the back page.  Terrific stuff, eh?)  Okay, ready for your trip back in time?

Then let's go!

It was exactly one day short of six years since this story had appeared in FANTASTIC #1.  Nowadays,
six years seems like only a fart in the wind to me, but back then it felt like half a lifetime away.  In fact,
considering I'd not long turned 14 when SMCW #1 appeared, it practically was.

And below is the paper bag mask given away with this first issue.  Were any readers happy with this free gift I wonder?

(This is a slightly revised post of one that was first published on Tuesday, February 5th 2013.) 

BABE Of The DAY - JERI RYAN...

Seeing JERI RYAN for the

first time, I ambled up and asked

"Is it too early in our relationship to

consider marriage?"  I didn't quite

catch her two-word reply, but I think

the second one was "off".  I knew

  she was impressed though.

RECOMMENDED READING: THE AVENGERS - VINTAGE STORIES FROM DIANA COMIC...

Copyright relevant owner

I must admit to having mixed feelings about BIG FINISH's collection of The AVENGERS strips from DCT's DIANA comic weekly for girls published in the 1960s.  While the art is terrific and more than deserving of a wider audience, the finished result could have done with more care before being released to the panting public.

First of all, the pages would greatly benefit from being printed in a larger size, so that the art by EMILIO FREJO and JUAN GONZALEZ could be appreciated at its very best.  Secondly, the book claims that the pages have been 'restored', but there are speech balloons and captions missing from a few panels.  This means that the pages were sourced from the original art, but surely the printed comics could have been used to supply replacements for the missing lettering?

(Interestingly, some of the lettering on some of the later pages looks as if it's been redone, as the balloon and caption shapes don't match the originals.)

Thirdly, the text material at the back of the book suffers from insufficient spaces between many of the sentences, and the word 'hear' is rendered as 'here' in one instance.  So while it's great to see these beautifully illustrated stories, the book has a certain slapdash air about it which prevents it being the polished publication it could and should have been.

Maybe Big Finish will do a second edition one day and do these iconic pages justice.  We can only hope so.  Still, it's worth having just to view some terrific artwork from the swinging '60s.

Below, the original printed page, next to Big Finish's version.  Can you spot the mistakes?

Above, one missing caption and three missing speech balloons on the very first page.  Talk about careless? For a better comparison, click to enlarge.

Can you spot the missing caption on the above page?  Below, a cover of Diana from 1967.

BABE Of The DAY - ABIGAIL RATCHFORD...

It's February, so why's it so warm

around here?  Must  be 'cos ABIGAIL

 RATCHFORD is such hot stuff.

RUEFUL REPOST: MEDITATIONS On BEGINNINGS & ENDINGS...

It may come as no surprise to any of you, but from a very early age I was much given to looking back on the past.  My remembered past, obviously, as I wasn't interested in or capable of reminiscing about events which pre-dated either myself or my ability to recall them.  When, aged five, I moved from one house to another just a few short minutes away, I made it a point to return to my previous street on a regular basis so I could re-experience the nearby woods in which I'd once played and again take in the expansive view from the top of the hill.

Over the years (and houses and neighbourhoods), I always found it comforting to return to the places of my youth and reconnect with them from time to time, and for almost the first three decades of my life, most of these hallowed haunts remained essentially unchanged.  Each time, the experience was akin to the hushed awe and reverential atmosphere so exquisitely described in The PIPER At The GATES Of DAWN chapter in Scottish-born author KENNETH GRAHAME's beautiful book, The WIND In The WILLOWS, first published in 1908.

It was almost like returning to the dawn of creation, when everything must have seemed magical and mystical, and from which every living thing derives its strength and power.  Revisiting the environs of my early childhood recharged and revitalised me in some way, but it also somehow made events from even only a few years before seem like a far-distant era - at the exact same time as making them, paradoxically, closer than a lover's kiss.  I suppose, to a seven year old, three years is more than half one's remembered life, and perhaps half one's life seems just as long or as short at any age.  Does that make any sense?

   

Then things started to change.  First it was lampposts being supplanted by newer, thinner models, placed on the inside of the pavements instead of at the kerbs.  Then it was the paving stones, replaced with tarmacadam, dark and dismal in the gloom of the night.  Next, it was building on fields and green areas, and the removal of swing-parks, resulting in open, spacious, well-planned neighbourhoods being transformed into crowded, claustrophobic, concrete ghettoes.

Earlier this evening I decided to retrace a certain route to my first primary school.  Sometimes, as children, we'd take a detour into a swing-park and then through some woods which led to the school.  The swing-park is an empty space and the trees were cut down some years ago, the fallen giants now littering the overgrown trail they once used to shade.  On previous occasions over the years, visiting the area was like a pleasant journey into yesterday and a salve to my soul.  That these places could always be relied upon for the same simple welcome seemed like one of life's unchanging truths, but, alas, that is no longer the case.

I'd always thought, in my declining years, the locales of my boyhood would still exist and I'd be able to revisit them one last time, and find solace in the fact these spots would yet be around for future generations to enjoy similar experiences to my own.  I'm now only too well aware when my final bedtime comes, sadly, that won't be the case.  The only hope left to me is, should I awaken on 'the other side', I'll find all those familiar places waiting to greet me and welcome me home.

Night has fallen and the daylight seems a long way off.  Is that my name I faintly hear, carried on the whisper of the evening breeze? 

REVISED REPOST: HERE'S JOHNNY'S...

Once upon a time, in a mystical, faraway land called 'The Past', there existed a magical place of wonder called JOHNNY'S.  Nothing to do with anything you got in the barber's 'for the weekend', I assure you, but rather a shop in Gallowflat Street in Rutherglen, Scotland.

My grandparents (who I irreverently referred to as 'Grunt' and 'Grumpy' - shame on me) lived in Rutherglen in the early 1960s, and it was our well-established custom to visit them every Sunday.  We had to pass through Gallowflat Street en route to their house in Hamilton Road, and we invariably stopped outside Johnny's on the way.

Johnny's was a newsagents, confectioners, tobacconists - and, as well as other sundry items that such shops always stock, also sold toys.  Oh, what treasures teased, tempted and tortured both my brother and myself from within that toy and trinket-bedecked window display.  It was there (around 1963 or '64) that I first saw an AURORA PHANTOM Of The OPERA model kit, built and painted in all its blood-curdling, gruesome glory.

I well remember being fascinated by the desperate prisoner staring out pleadingly from behind the bars of a basement window on the model's base.  Deep lacerations in his arms had exposed the bones, and blazing red blood weeped from the wounds. What four year old boy wouldn't be captivated by such a gory and macabre sight?

A few years later (if memory serves - and why shouldn't it?  I pay it enough), Johnny's had moved to bigger premises a few doors along (The Hospice Shop, I think - in the 2nd photograph from the top), and it was there I obtained my second QUERCETTI FIREBALL XL5 parachute toy in 1968 or '69 (or even '70) for a mere 2/6d.  A bargain if ever there was one, because the one I got for Christmas back in 1962 or '63 cost 10/6d.  (Now it would cost far more.)

Ah, dear old Johnny's... now sadly long gone.  It must have been around the mid or late '70s it closed its doors for the final time, but I don't know for certain.  In 1964 or '65, my grandparents moved to the town in which we lived to be closer to us, and that late '60s visit to the shop was the last I can remember.  (Might've paid it a visit around 1971, but can't be sure.)

The featured photos were taken a good few years ago, when the original Johnny's premises were a flower shop (and may still be). The reason I took them was because 'Johnny's' name was still clearly visible under the painted green board above the new sign.  At least, in real life it was clear, it's a bit harder (but not impossible) to see it in the close-up photographs.

So, if you're around my age and are familiar with Rutherglen, you may well remember this legendary landmark.  Click on the pics to enlarge, click again for optimum size.  You should just be able to discern a hint of the name of that long-gone, much-missed shop from childhood, when, I wager, each of us used to think we had forever.

Here's to Johnny's... and to us.

BABE Of The DAY - ABIGAIL RATCHFORD...

ABIGAIL RATCHFORD dresses to

impress - me that is.  Red's my favourite

colour, so it's nice to know she cares.

LYCANTHROPIC LARRY TALBOT IS A BIT OF A HOWL... (Updated)

Thought all you Criv-ites might like a look at an AURORA WOLF MAN kit I built and painted for someone.  It took me many months, as I can only apply myself to things for very short periods at a time before becoming fatigued (due to a medical condition), but I think the eventual results were worth waiting for.  What say the rest of you?