HAUNTED HORROR COVER GALLERY - PART ONE...

Images copyright GUSSONI-YOE STUDIO, Inc.

Someone gave me the first 16 issues of HAUNTED HORROR recently (as well as the first half-dozen of WEIRD LOVE, and no it's not porn), so that's all the excuse I need to have a cover gallery.  Here's the first half, the second will follow before you know it.  And away we go!  (Now that's what I call a short intro.)

(BOND) BABE Of The DAY - JULIE EGE...

Here's delectable JULIE EGE sitting

on a drum.  (She's always banging on about

something.  Dare I say "Boom-boom!" ?)

THERE'S BEEN A MURDER...

I witnessed the aftermath of a murder a few days ago.  The body was cordoned off behind yellow tape and bits of the corpse lay about on the surrounding grass.  The victim?  A tree I'd known from when I was 7 years old, situated in a far corner of the grounds of my old primary school.  I'd seen it only the week before, I'm sure, and had been glad to note it still guarding its space, but just a short time later it was dead and dismembered, and yet another old friend from childhood had bitten the dust.

I presume it must've been diseased, hence the tape around it warning people to keep their distance in case branches fell onto them, or the old tree collapsed on top of someone.  Still, it was yet alive when the chainsaw made its first cut into its trunk and it must've felt each burning blow. It's at peace now, though I miss it standing like a sentinel in the grounds of my old school, which is actually now a new school as the old one was demolished (and replaced) a few years back, yet another victim of time.

The base of the tree and its roots remain in the ground however, and maybe new shoots will sprout from it, as I've seen happen with other trees.  I once saw one that had been shattered by lightning and wasn't much more than a husk, but after several years, it grew back to its former glory.  I have 'before and after' photos somewhere, which I'll post whenever I find them, so that's something for all you Criv-ites to look forward to.  (He said modestly, ever the optimist.)

Some of you may wonder why I mark the passing of this tree, but it's like seeing yet another piece of my childhood being consigned to the dustbin of history, and with that comes the chilling reminder that my time to join them isn't so far away as it once was.

******

Incidentally, I was standing at the foot of this tree (perhaps even clambering over its lower trunk) when my primary school dinner-bell rang on the day that this incident occurred back in the 1960s. 

THROUGH The... BEDROOM WINDOW...

Back in 1983, when my family moved from this house, the tenancy still had almost 3 weeks to run.  We moved out early because the house we were moving to was new-built, so it was lying empty waiting for us.  We left the odd piece of furniture at our old address, to be collected at our leisure before our tenancy officially ended.  During that period, although we were living in our new home, I'd now and then pop into our old one and sit on a wicker chair and gaze out of my old bedroom window at the sun going down on the horizon.

I knew I'd miss my old view, and never quite felt that I'd ever get used to the 'new' one.  Well, as regular readers know, just over four years later, we returned to our former domicile and I was reunited with that view, and for the next 20 years, I seldom thought about the house we'd vacated, or the view from its bedroom window.  Now, however, another 10 years down the line, I find myself recalling it with almost the same kind of fondness I had for the one I returned to.  I find it strange that I immediately fell into the familiarity of my old view and never gave the 'new' one much thought - until relatively recently that is.

I just accepted being back in my old home to the extent that it almost felt as if I'd never been away.  However, I looked out of my window tonight, and I think it was the first time since being back that I realised I'd taken it pretty much for granted.  Tonight was the first time it'd struck me that the view I'm again so familiar with was once part of my past life, and not (for just over 4 years) my then-present one.  I sometimes feel as if I only dreamt about living in another house, but now and again I'm reminded that, no - it was for real.

You know what?  I reckon that if for some reason, I had to live in that house again, then I'd probably feel as if my 30 years back here were a dream, not the other way around.  No real point to this by the way, I just thought I'd share with you the strange thoughts that can occur to a fella from glancing out his bedroom window. 

MONSTER Of The MONTH - FRANKENSTEIN...

The best FRANKENSTEIN Monster

of all - British-born BORIS KARLOFF.

DOCTOR WHO - AN ANNUAL EVENT...

Images copyright BBC TV

Actor DAVID BRADLEY (as WILLIAM HARTNELL) holds aloft the very first Dr. WHO Annual - or does he?  In actual fact, it's a re-imagined version for the 2013 programme, An ADVENTURE In SPACE And TIME.  The cover of the published 1965 book is below.  Note that it doesn't feature a DALEK, though the original mock-up of the cover (which didn't much resemble the finished item) did.

And below is the very cover mentioned in the above paragraph.  Maybe it was ditched because of the red (or so it looks to me) TARDIS.

BABE Of The DAY - MICHELLE KEEGAN...

MICHELLE KEEGAN is playing

'hide and seek'.  I'd better tell her she's

meant to stand behind the pillar in that

case, not in front of it.  Or perhaps she

wants to be found?  (By me!)

CRIVENS' ALTERNATIVE COVERS: THE MIGHTY THOR #144...

Images copyright MARVEL COMICS

Above, the published cover of The MIGHTY THOR #144, pencilled by JACK KIRBY and inked by VINCE COLLETTA in 1966.  Below, the rejected original cover, inked and lettered by MIKE ROYER in 2000, followed by a 1975 reprint of the above ish.  Some diehard Kirby fans often criticise any changes to his art, resenting even the slightest variation from the original.  I've even seen the change to the baddie's mace in the above cover being questioned, but to me it's blatantly obvious why - the original looked like a cartoon duck's head!

Thor would've laughed himself to death on sight of it, before it had even hit him.  The fact is, STAN LEE often knew best.  As for the rejected cover, it's a belter sure enough, but perhaps it was felt it made Thor appear to be losing the battle, or was considered just a little too difficult to ink.  (Mike Royer later showed that wasn't so.)  Any theories as to why it was rejected?  Let's read them in our ever-lovin' comments section, frantic ones.

SPACE - THE FINAL FRONTIER...

You'll never know just how much I suffer for my 'art', Criv-ites.  "Art?" you say, "isn't that a rather pretentious word for a mere blog?"  Maybe as regards my written content, but not for its 'cosmetic' appearance as regards the paragraphs of text.  I spend a good deal of time trying to keep everything consistently symmetrical and well laid out, but I hadn't allowed for the effects that different browsers have on the layout, or even the fickle nature of individual browsers, which infuriatingly differ from one minute to the next.  Wait and I'll explain.

If I finish a post and it looks perfect on one browser, it might not look quite the same on another.  Also, if you access this blog from Facebook, the layout is haphazard and nothing like it looked when I pressed 'publish' at my end.  Even on the same browser, the font size changes slightly every so often, throwing my carefully prepared spacing out of kilter.

AAAAAARRRRRRGGGGHHHHH!!!!

So if you see any little (or even big) departures from the norm in the spacing of an occasional sentence or paragraph, and find yourself thinking: "H'mm, ol' Kid's been a bit careless there", chances are that it's down to the vagaries of Blogger, not myself.  Honest.  Try accessing it on a few different browsers and you'll see precisely what I mean.   

CRIVENS' CRACKING COMIC COVERS: STAR WARS WEEKLY #71...

Image copyright relevant owner

Seeing this cover on eBay fairly recently, reminded me that it used to adorn my bedroom wall back in the late '70s - mainly due to the fact that I found the picture of PRINCESS LEIA seriously sexy.  Know what?  I still do!

BABE Of The DAY - IMOGEN HASSALL...

The lovely IMOGEN HASSALL waits

patiently for me to change into my trunks before

we go for a dip in the ocean.  The only problem is

I can't swim.  Never mind though, it shouldn't be

too difficult finding something buoyant which I

can grab onto to help me stay afloat.

A MOMENT IN TIME, NOT FAR REMOVED...

Chances are, dear readers, that you've moved house at least once in your life.  Do you remember the evening before flitting, and the morning you arrived at your new home?  I do - in all my houses but the second one.  Oddly, I no longer recall actually leaving the house, but I do very much remember arriving at our new home, the third one.  Why do I ask?

For quite a while after moving into a new house, one's repertoire of memories is still very much anchored in the previous one.  On your first day in a new home, if you wish to recall anything that happened more than a day ago, your recollection of any event is set in the time of your former home, for however long you happened to be there.  Was it five years - ten?  Then, as I say, most of your accessible memories are rooted in your old house, not your new one.

What am I on about you may be wondering?  Well, I sort of feel that, until you can cast your mind back any significant amount of time and it's a memory of something that occurred in your current residence, then it's almost like you're still living in your old one and haven't yet fully 'acclimatised' to the change.  I'm maybe overstating things to make my point, but it's perhaps not 'til the balance of memories of both houses is at least equal that you've fully settled in.

What I'm trying to suggest is that, when most of your recollections are based in a different location, in an unconscious sort of way you're still living there.  It's a bit like your partner dying (or you getting divorced) and you marrying someone new soon after.  The day after your wedding, you can't think of your spouse beyond that point without it being your previous one.  It takes a while to build up a new stock of memories so that when you think back any length of time, your new spouse is part of the picture.

Okay, I'm stating the obvious in order to prepare you for the ground along which we're headed, which is this.  Sometimes, when I wake in the morning, because it's the same room I slept in when I was 13, it's easy to imagine that it's my first day in that room.  Meaning it's only the day before that I was sleeping in my old room, making the time I resided in my former home feel much more immediate and recent than it is, which I find comforting.  It feels like my time in that former home, and therefore my childhood, is no further away than the day before.

That feeling is fleeting and only lasts 'til I see the old man in the mirror staring back at me, but for a brief instant, a cherished moment in time is resurrected and it feels like I'm not so far removed from it.  Trust me, that's mainly a good feeling - until it passes and reality once again reminds me of the cold, hard facts of life.

The ORIGINAL DOCTOR Is BACK...

The best 'cliff-hanger' moment in DOCTOR WHO is probably the end of the initial episode of the first DALEKS serial in 1963.  (Which was actually episode five of the BBC's new teatime programme.)  The sight of a Dalek 'plunger' coming into view sent viewers into a frenzy of anticipation for what was to come next.  Just what was on the other end of that sucker arm?  I really can't recall any other moment in the show's history which matched that moment for making viewers determined to tune in for the next episode.  Until tonight that is.  (Though you might have to be around my age to feel that way.)

A while back, I suggested that the Beeb should make a series of Doctor Who starring DAVID BRADLEY as The Doctor.  David is a talented character actor who brought the late WILLIAM HARTNELL back to life in the 50th Anniversary programme, An ADVENTURE In SPACE And TIME in 2013, and now, by the looks of things, he's playing The Doctor himself.  This confirms the rumour that the 'original' Doctor was going to be the current (but departing) Doctor's companion in this year's upcoming Christmas special, but I still reckon the BBC should give David Bradley a series as the time-travelling Time Lord, or occasional specials at the very least.

Anyone agree?  Let's hear from you.

BABE Of The DAY - LESLIE BIANCHINI...

It's only just turned July and

LESLIE BIANCHINI is digging out

her Christmas decorations.  That's surely

'being prepared'!  Could she have been in

the boy scouts?  (There's a joke in there

 somewhere, but I ain't touchin' it.)

The GOING RATE...

Lee looked at the strange figure in front of him and eyed it up and down in a quizzical sort of way.  He wasn't quite sure if red was really Nick's colour... and as for those horns and the tail, well... but he'd let that lie for the moment.

"How much?" he asked at last.

"Two cents" came the reply.

"Two cents?  Are you kidding me?  It's gotta be worth much more than that.  C'mon!" he bellowed, indignantly.

"That's the going rate for a soul these days" Nick said, dismissively.  "You think you'll get more upstairs?  He pays nothing... figures they all belong to Him anyway."

"But two cents, man.  That ain't worth spit."  He began to wonder if he'd made a mistake getting involved in this deal.

"Take it or leave it" came the reply. "Now, I'm busy... either sign or stop wasting my time.  There's plenty more fish in the sea you know."  He stood up as if to leave, fully aware of the effect it would have.  He'd done it too many times before.

Lee panicked.  This might be the only chance he'd ever get... the only chance for getting his name in lights short of changing his name to 'Exit'.  The only chance of attracting women (men, even... he'd always wanted to try), the high-life he'd always craved, back from he was a little boy that nobody liked because he stank of pee and looked at other boys' 'bits' in the toilet.  His one and only chance of escaping the obscurity which defined his life, slaving away in his little basement room night after night, in that drug-induced haze which freed him from his inhibitions and allowed his imagination free-rein.  A twisted, sick and perverted imagination, true, but it was his ticket out.  Or so he thought. 

He seized the paper in front of him greedily, and scrawled his signature in the space provided.

"We're done" said Nick, as he headed for the door.  "I'll be in touch."

His laughter as he ascended the stairs from the little basement apartment stayed with Lee for the rest of his days.  It haunted his dreams and allowed him no peace for the remainder of his empty, miserable, wasted life.

And short, too. 

The RECYCLER (A CHARACTER PIECE)...

Agnes liked the watch.  It was an expensive one and the woman was dead with no friends or family, so what harm would it do to take it?  She slipped it into the pocket of her uniform and made her way to the hospital canteen.

"After all," she thought, sipping her gin-enhanced tea, "it'll only go to waste.  It's not really stealing, it's... recycling."  She was pleased with this analogy, and a self-satisfied smile spread across her smug face.  "All the work I do, I'm entitled to a few perks."

Agnes was a nasty piece of work.  The kind of person who only 'helped' others so that she could feel superior to them.  "Look at them," she would think, "lying there in their own filth.  I clean them, I fetch and carry for them - they'd be nothing without me."  And thus would she wallow in the misery of others to validate her own existence.  Like a parasite needs its host, Agnes needed the sick and needy.  Her life was nothing without them.  The irony of her needing her patients as much if not more than they needed her was lost on her.  If ever a more selfish, spiteful, sickening and soulless creature strode God's good Earth, their existence was lost to recorded history.

Every act of 'goodness' did not go unannounced.  Every tenuous opportunity to introduce her latest act of 'charity' into a conversation did not go unexploited.  She was her own best public relations officer when it came to relating all her many splendid and 'unselfish efforts' on behalf of the disadvantaged.  It is the nature of vultures to feed off the dead, and Agnes strode the corridors of the dying in much the same way.  She fed off their groans and screams, and drank in their agony.  When they expired, she feasted on the tears and misery of their loved-ones, revelling in the fact that she was in the midst of it all and that it gave purpose to her being.

Like I said... she was a nasty piece of work.

WHERE MORTALS FEAR TO TREAD...

Image copyright MARVEL COMICS

The stranger rode through the gates of the city with a determined frown upon his scarred but not unhandsome features.  His ebony steed trotting proudly under him, his hand resting easily upon the ornately fashioned hilt of the sword which hung by his side, he slowly made his way into the heart of the sprawling township.  He had travelled long and far, but his quest would soon be over he told himself.  Thank the gods!

Directing his mount down the narrow, uneven streets of the crowded marketplace, his dark, smouldering eyes, like fiery embers, stared hard at each trader, obviously in search of someone.  Those that noticed his piercing stare shuddered and quickly averted their eyes, pretending unconvincingly that they were unaware of the stranger's gaze.  "Pity the man he's looking for" they thought, each one relieved that it wasn't him.

The stranger, for his part, as if ignorant of the eyes which fixed on his back as he passed, wound his horse through the swarming populace, until, eventually, his attention was arrested by an elderly, cadaverous individual, who stood stooped over a stall with a variety of menacing-looking instruments displayed upon it.  Congealed blood crusted the instruments, and also stained the stall-holder's threadbare habiliments, and when the stranger noticed this, not for the first time since he had begun his mission, he trembled inwardly.

He dismounted and approached the man, who, regarding the stranger with interest, drew back the flap of the tent behind the stall, entered, and beckoned him to follow.  The stranger cautiously obliged and stepped inside.  He scrutinized the gloomy interior at great length and then studied the stall-holder nervously.

"Are you Korath?" he at last demanded from the man, who, compared to the stranger, seemed almost like a dwarf, though in truth he was of no mean stature.  Sensing hesitation in his voice, the stall-holder allowed a contemptuous sneer to flicker across his vulture-like features.  "And what if I am?" he enquired softly, unintimidated by the other's height.  His sepulchral tone sent an icy chill of fear down the stranger's spine.  "I seek a man named Korath" said the stranger edgily, "and from the description I was given, or rather, extracted......"  Here he faltered, as if from somewhere far away, a long-suppressed, unpleasant memory had suddenly resurfaced in his mind's eye.  Recovering quickly from his momentary pause, however, he went on "......from a whelp now dead, you appear to be he whom I seek!"

As he spoke, a black servant, easily equal to the stranger's great height and almost twice as broad, entered the tent bearing the various strange implements that had been exhibited outside and set them to rest upon a rough-hewn, bloodstained wooden table.  The stall-holder edged his way closer to the bench, trying to conceal his furtive manner with a casual air, but the stranger, with a sudden look of fear and anger, swept the man's legs from under him with a powerful kick.  "Your actions betray your identity!" he thundered.  "I was a fool to come here!"  "Do you truly believe you had a choice in the matter?" the stall-holder cackled, picking himself up from the floor.

The stranger, puzzled by the man's words, momentarily stood undecided in his actions.  The stall-holder, taking advantage of this weakness, shouted a command in a strange tongue to his ebony servant, who instantly moved towards the stranger in an attempt to subdue him.  However, the stranger, now galvanized into frenzied activity, drew his mighty sword from his side and beheaded the servant with one fierce, swift stroke.  The bloodied torso tottered for a moment, and then, like a marionette whose strings had been suddenly severed, fell to the ground, a lifeless husk.

Unnoticed by the stranger, however, the stall-holder had meanwhile crept around behind him, withdrawing something from under one of the folds in his robe as he did so.  There was a sudden flash of movement as a vicious bludgeon cleaved through the air towards the stranger's unprotected head.  The next moment, consciousness was racing abruptly away from him, to be replaced by the fearful, terrifying clutch of an all-enveloping, icy darkness.

******

When the stranger came to, he found himself reclining on several cushions of a luxurious purple velvet, which, though oddly at variance with the other rather spartan trappings, were spread of the floor of the tent.  For a moment he wondered where he was, and then, remembering, a look of dread flashed through his eyes, but disappeared when he realized he was alive and unhurt.  The emaciated visage of the stall-holder appeared before him, nodding benignly.  "Is it done?" the stranger asked, incredulously.  "It is done!" replied the man called Korath.

The stranger rose to his feet and removed six gleaming gold coins from a well-worn leather pouch hanging from his belt and tossed them onto the table.  "One for your services, the other five to replace your slave" he said, nodding in the direction of the corpse, which still lay undisturbed where it had fallen.  "A thousand pardons for my disrespectful behaviour earlier" begged the stranger.  "Some demon must have possessed my senses.  I... I just lost my head".  "As did my servant" said Korath, good-naturedly.

"I trust you won't reveal my cowardice to anyone" continued the stranger, nervously toying with his cloak in an attempt to cover his embarrassment.  "I swear by Krell, old one, that it was totally unlike me.  Usually I'm quite stout-hearted.  A curse on my head if I'm lying to you!"  "Never fear" soothed Korath with a twinkle in his eye.  "Even the bravest of men fear a visit to... the tooth-extractor!"

He chortled inwardly to himself as he handed the stranger his recently removed molar and watched him depart.

A TALE Of GEORGE And The DRAGON - And The BEAR...

Elsie held the little porcelain figure in her hand and regarded it thoughtfully.  She'd always hated it - ever since George had first brought it home on her birthday and laid it proudly before her, like a cat presenting an expired mouse to its horrified owner.

"It's horrible" she'd growled, contemptuously.  "Whatever made you buy that?" she spat, without even the slightest attempt to season the cold nakedness of her words with a hint of gratitude for the thought behind the gift.  Elsie was the kind of person who called a spade a spade and was proud of it.

George looked pained... crestfallen... devastated.  Like a small child receiving an unnecessarily sharp rebuke for a relatively minor offence.  "I... I thought you would like it" he stammered, trying to conceal his hurt.  "Look - it's a little bear - with a hat - and a collar and tie.  I thought it was cute" he ended, lamely.

"I'm not having it in the house.  I don't want the ladies from the guild thinking I've no class, cluttering up the house with cartoon ornaments.  It's junk - get rid of it!" she ordered.  And that was that.

Or at least, it would have been... had George not been made of sterner stuff than his wife gave him credit for.  He just couldn't - wouldn't - discard the porcelain testament of the love he held for the unappreciative Elsie.  Over the ensuing months, he would tuck it away, half-hidden, behind a picture-frame or a vase until, inevitably, she would discover it and the game of 'hide-and-seek' would begin anew.  Many a time she wondered why she simply didn't throw it away or 'accidentally' drop it, but there was something about its irritating 'please love me' expression that mysteriously prevented her from doing so.  That was impossible, but she hated it - hated it with a passion.  "Blast the man!" she would say.

And so it went.  Until the fateful day she received a call from George's office.  The voice on the 'phone sounded like that of a concerned parent speaking to a little child.  Was she sitting down?  They were terribly sorry.  There had been an... 'incident'.  It was so sudden.  He wouldn't have felt a thing.  If ever there was anything they could do, it said.  She put down the 'phone, slunk into the chair beside it - and let the tears explode from her soul.  She cried for two hours, then put on her best coat and went down to the hospital mortuary.  When she returned, she was clutching a bag containing her late husband's personal effects.  Along with his watch, wallet and wedding ring was a little porcelain bear which was found in his pocket when he died.  For a moment she wondered why, but other concerns drove the thought from her mind.  She made herself a cup of tea, watched 'Coronation Street', then went to bed.  Elsie never cried again.

A few months later, the sum total of poor George's life lay in an assortment of boxes and carrier bags in a corner of the hall.  In one of the boxes, lying on top of George's best lambswool sweater, was the object of Elsie's loathing - smiling inanely at the ceiling as if it expected the ceiling to smile back.  "Hark at me" she thought.  "It's almost as if I thought the blasted thing was alive."  She laughed at her foolishness and consoled herself with the knowledge that, from tomorrow, it would be gone forever.  Sam from next door had offered to drive George's things down to the charity shop in the town.  Then it would be time to forget the past and move on.  A new optimism had recently begun to permeate her soul and she looked forward to the future with enthusiasm.  Life with George seemed almost like a dream.

"This all there is?" Sam asked when she opened the door to his knock the next morning.  He took the carrier bags first, then carried out the boxes one by one, puffing and grunting as he did so.

"Last one" he said.  As he stooped to pick it up, Elsie's eye fell upon a small porcelain object and a strange sensation suddenly welled up within her.  Feelings of grief, loss, pain, remorse, pity - a Kaleidoscope of emotions that threatened to engulf her.  "Wait a minute" she heard herself saying as she plucked the figure from atop the sweater.  "That's it, Sam.  Thanks very much for all your help" she said, in a slightly bewildered tone.

Elsie held the little porcelain figure in her hand and regarded it thoughtfully.  She had always hated it - but - now she was astonished to find that she couldn't stand the idea of being parted from it.  She couldn't explain why, but that's how she felt.  Sometimes people are surprised to find that they are not as hard, or as heartless, or as unfeeling as they imagine themselves to be.

And so it was with Elsie.  She looked at the little porcelain bear and thought of George - and remembered how much she'd loved him - and realized just how much she missed him.  Tenderly, she caressed the small figure, kissed the top of its head, and then placed it on the top shelf of her very best display cabinet where visitors would be sure to see it.  Then she smiled to herself, made a cup of tea, and sat and thought of all her wonderful years with George.  "Bless the man!" she sighed.  From its prize position in the display cabinet, the little bear sat and smiled at Elsie.

And - wherever he happened to be - no doubt George was smiling too.

BABE Of The DAY - ELKE SOMMER...

Let's be frank, shall we?  If you

had a woman like ELKE SOMMER

at home, you'd never leave the house,

would you?  (Except for a rest.)

AGAIN - The KENROY AUTO-CADDY - AND IT'S MINE!!!

Remember my post on the KENROY Auto-Caddy back in April?  Well, I've now got one which seems never to have been used.  It comes in its original mail-order box, posted on December 3rd 1967.  The last pic is the unopened bag of wall-mount, screws, and glue (for affixing it to tiles).  I doubt I'll ever be using it for tea though - maybe I'll fill it with instant coffee instead.  Great, innit?

A TASTE OF PARADISE - A VERY SHORT STORY...

Robert wasn't sure what had suddenly made him think of his old neighbourhood and want to visit it again, but before he knew it he found himself walking along the street where he'd lived as a child.  It was a beautiful sunny day, which puzzled him as he could've sworn it had been pouring with rain not too long before.  He prepared himself for the shock of the changes he'd first seen around thirty years ago, on a visit twenty years after he and his family had moved to another house in another area.  He'd lived in many different houses and areas since then.

But what was this?  The old folks' home that had been built on the field he'd once played football with his pals had gone, and the field was once again as it had been in his day.  What's more, the new houses which had been erected on the site of his former primary school had also vanished, and a perfect duplicate of his boyhood seat of learning now occupied the space.  Robert was astonished, reminded of his dreams of winning the Lottery and restoring the neighbourhood to as it had been when he'd lived there.  Had someone else done that very thing?

"Let's have a look at the old house," he thought, and made his way down the back lane of the top terraced row where he'd lived from the age of seven to fourteen.  He froze in his tracks as his eyes fell upon his former home, the site of so many joyous childhood and teenage memories.  A man worked in the back garden, while his wife sat in a deckchair, sipping lemonade and reading her women's magazine.  A boy played keepie-uppie in the corner, and the impression of domestic bliss was almost tangible.  Robert rubbed his eyes, not quite believing what he was seeing.  Wasn't that his father and mother, as well as his brother he saw before him - or at least their very doubles?  It couldn't be them, because they'd died years ago, at different times and in different places.  Was someone playing a trick on him?

Perhaps he was dreaming, but he could feel the cool breeze that lovingly caressed his heated brow and hear the musical murmur of birds twittering in the nearby trees with a greater potency than even the most seductive dream was capable of.  Surely this was no delusion?  He tried to recall what had prompted him to revisit his old environs.  Last thing he remembered was that it was raining, and that he was about to cross the road to buy a paper from the newsagent's on the other side of the street. Was that a rapidly approaching car he saw from the corner of his eye as he stepped out onto the road...?  Why did he find it so difficult to think, to remember?

His father looked over and hailed him, and his mother and brother smiled in happy surprise.  "We were wondering when you'd turn up," his mother said.  "Come into the house and we'll have a bite to eat."  Not quite understanding, Robert glanced at his watch to see if he had time to indulge this welcome fantasy, whatever its explanation, but the watch was gone from his wrist - a wrist which now belonged to that of a young boy.

And then he understood, fully and all at once, what had happened, and with that knowledge came the realization that Paradise is precisely what we wish it to be.

WHAT... AGAIN? PLAY A NEW TUNE FOR FECK'S SAKE...

Copyright MARVEL COMICS

When I received an anonymous comment submission saying that an obsessed blogger appeared to be up to his old tricks again, I was faced with a dilemma.  Should I, or should I not, respond to his apparent 'insinuations' on one of his blogs about an unnamed 'someone' allegedly 'trolling' him, or just ignore it.  I know from past experience who his usual nominee is, and I'll likely be damned either way whether I address the matter or not, so I decided to meet it head on.

However, I find it hard to garner the necessary energy or enthusiasm, so I'll content myself with a few brief observations.  Portraying himself as some kind of persecuted martyr in the 'cause of comics' is perhaps this individual's way of feeling validated, but I wish he'd get some help with that as it's now become really quite tiresome.  Maybe he thinks that if he suggests it loud enough and long enough, eventually everyone will believe it, and no doubt some will - and do.

I see on Twitter that he's already trying (clumsily) to preempt any possible suggestion he might be manufacturing this latest controversy himself, a notion which I suspect is unlikely to have occurred to him unless it were true.  Or am I being too harsh and perhaps it's someone else who's stirring the pot?  Maybe he's only trying to increase blog visits or punt something, but you'd think there's surely an easier way to do it?  Now, if only I could rid myself of a nagging suspicion as to who submitted that anonymous comment.

Anyway, I'm off to turn my attention to more worthy and rewarding matters.  If only he'd do the same. 

THE BOND THAT NEVER WAS...

Cover art by PAUL MANN

Two decades ago, the producers of the James Bond movies hired legendary crime novelist Donald E. Westlake to come up with a story for the next Bond film.  The plot Westlake dreamed up - about a Western businessman seeking revenge after being kicked out of Hong Kong when the island was returned to Chinese rule - had all the elements of a classic Bond adventure, but political concerns kept it from being made.  Never one to let a good story go to waste, Westlake wrote an original novel based on the premise instead - a novel he never published while he was alive.

Now, nearly a decade after Westlake's death, Hard Case Crime is proud to give that novel its first publication ever, together with a brand new afterword by one of the movie producers describing the project's genesis, and to give fans their first taste of the Westlake-scripted Bond that might have been.

(From the dustjacket.  Emphasis mine.)

Available now from all good bookstores.  This one you gotta read, so don't deprive yourself.

******

And how's this for a spooky coincidence, Crivs?  When I scanned the cover, it came up as img007.  Appropriate or what?

RECOMMENDED READING: The WAY To DUSTY DEATH...

Images copyright MARVEL COMICS

"The WONDROUS WORLD(S) Of DR. STRANGE!" first appeared in The AMAZING SPIDER-MAN Annual #2 in 1964.  The villain, XANDU, showed up again in the '70s, '80s and '90s, and was put out to pasture once his tale was finally told.  So it took 28 years (from '64-'92) until the saga of Xandu reached its end and was all nicely tied up in a bow (so to speak).

However, I didn't read that first tale until 1968, in the pages of FANTASTIC Summer Special, and I didn't read the last one until yesterday, so for me, it took around 49 years to discover the final fate of Xandu.  True, I'd read one of the intermediate stories in a U.K. reprint comic in the early or mid-'80s, but out of context to the surrounding stories, it never made much of an impression on me past the SANDY PLUNKETT art.

Now I feel I've completed a voyage, begun as a child and finished as I totter on the threshold of old age, and there's a certain satisfaction derived from finally reaching the last stop in the journey. You can all take that very same trip (and in far less time too) between the covers of this great new MARVEL softcover book, entitled SPIDER-MAN and DOCTOR STRANGE: "The WAY To DUSTY DEATH".  Available from your local comicbook store (or eBay) today!

RIP-OFF CITY STARTS HERE...

Images copyright MARVEL COMICS

Take a look at this copy of The TITANS #39, on sale via eBay from DTA COLLECTIBLES (as the Americans spell it).  Here's the description:  Titans #179.  Condition: VG.  Small piece out of back cover.  Price: $54 (£42.64).  Postage: $67.50 (£53.30).  How can anyone justify putting such a high price on a British b&w reprint comic, which often had dismal reproduction and is not even that collectable in its country of publication?  (And in such a battered condition?)  They even got the number wrong in the description.  Words fail me.