THUNDERBIRDS ARE GONE...

So, after PATRICK MOORE, CHARLES DURNING and JACK KLUGMAN, comes the sad news that GERRY ANDERSON, creator of shows like FIREBALL XL5, THUNDERBIRDS and the indestructible CAPTAIN SCARLET, has gone to that great TV studio in the sky.  Gerry more than deserves his place in television history, but I have to confess that I often found watching or listening to him being interviewed over the years to be quite an uncomfortable experience.

The reason for this is that Gerry himself seemed uncomfortable about being associated with kids programmes; appeared frustrated by it - to resent it, in fact, and spoke with apparent reluctance about his involvement in the cult shows which had made him a household name.  He always went to great pains to point out that it was never his ambition to produce entertainment for children, and that his shows were merely a showcase to demonstrate that he was capable of far more 'respectable' and prestigious projects, if only given half a chance by any movie moguls who might be watching.

Perhaps he was just painfully shy, but he more often than not came across as being embarrassed by his classic puppet programmes and only too eager to distance himself from them, although never quite able to escape their shadow completely.  After all, they were his main (maybe only) claim to fame, so it's understandable if he decided that he might as well try and salvage something from the situation - exploit it (however reluctantly) until something better came along.

At least that's how it seemed (to me) for most of his career.  Then something happened, and I can only hazard a guess as to what.  In later years, he seemed to finally give in and accept the cards that fate had dealt him; seemed to come to terms with his situation and realise that there was no shame in creating magic and enchantment that kids would fondly remember for the rest of their lives.  He began to relax and accept the high regard in which he was held as his due; see that the gratitude expressed by adults whose childhoods he had enriched as genuine expressions of respect and affection, as opposed to fawning flattery by a bunch of geeks and freaks who simply couldn't grow up.

I read his autobiography a couple of years ago and, in my opinion, it didn't always portray him in an entirely favourable light, though he was presumably unaware of the negative aspects he revealed about himself and his personality.  However, now is not the moment to dwell on the human failings that all are heir to; rather, it is a time to celebrate the life and achievements of a talented, creative man, whose triumphs touched the hearts and minds of a great many children and adults, and will doubtless continue to do so for a very long time to come.

To paraphrase LADY PENELOPE: "Oh, Gerry... well done!"

In Memoriam:  Gerry Anderson - 1929 - 2012.

JUST HOW FAST Is A FART From The FLASH?

Images copyright D.C. THOMSON & Co., Ltd

If ever I needed something to remind me of just how fleeting time is (which I don't), the above comic would have to be considered a leading contender.  The 50th Birthday issue of The DANDY, which I really do remember buying as if it were only a few months ago, as opposed to the quarter century it actually happens to be.

Think about that just for a moment; this comic is now 25 years old and comes from a time when The Dandy was but two-thirds of the way through its 75 year journey which ended only this month.  Those under a certain age will not yet be able to fully appreciate the enormity of the scenario I'm trying to describe.  If you're around 30 years of age, imagine going to your bed last night as a five year-old and waking up today the age you are now.  That's how mind-bogglingly awesome is the realisation that I actually purchased this comic back in 1987.

Well, while I sit here reeling from the shock of practically half my life going by faster than a fart from the FLASH, you can have a look at some of the contents of this anniversary issue from (gasp) so long ago - perhaps from a time before some of you were even born.  To those of you under 30 who bought the last ever Dandy and are wondering what the heck I'm wittering on about - comprehension will smack you right in the face like a wet kipper in around 25 years from now (if not sooner).  Hopefully I'll still be around to say "See?  I told you so!"

  

A BOXING DAY 'BEEZER' OF A CHRISTMAS CLASSIC...

 

Copyright D.C. THOMSON & Co., Ltd

 

Remember when comics were cheap, cheerful, and Christmassy at the appropriate time of the year?  Then you're sure to love this Yuletide edition of The BEEZER from 1986.  Let's not bother with any waffle from me - fling yourselves headlong into these lovely cartoon capers, lads and lasses (or 'lassies' if you're Scottish).  Most of your old favourites are here.  And be sure to record your reminiscinces in the comments section.

 

THROUGH A GLASS, DARKLY...

Me on my family estate (he lied, shamelessly) around 1988 or '89

As we grow up and pass through the various, inevitable 'chapters' of our lives - like infancy, childhood, teenage years, young adulthood, etc., - we do so unselfconsciously, without realizing at the time that we're exiting one stage and entering another.  It's only when we look back many years later, that we come to recognize that certain phases of our lives (depending on individual circumstances, naturally) each fall into their own separate and distinct 'compartments'.  (Or, at least, that's how it seems in retrospect.)

That's probably a bit vague and ambiguous, so let me attempt to clarify what I'm trying to convey.  One of my fondest childhood memories is sneaking downstairs with my brother in the wee, small hours of a Christmas morning to unwrap our presents, as our parents snored away in blissful ignorance of what we were up to. Another is going out on Hallowe'en and chapping neighbourhood doors in the company of three or four others, and reciting a verse or three in exchange for monkey nuts, some apples and oranges.

Sliding down slippery slopes on sledges my father had built was another boyhood joy, with the spray from the snow splattering my face with its exhilarating tingle as I raced recklessly downhill with seemingly suicidal intent.  I christened my sledge 'Fireball XL5' and still had it right up 'til my early twenties, when it mysteriously disappeared ere I had a chance to protest.  My father probably used the wood for something, or it was thrown away in the early '80s when I wasn't looking.



A very poor, out-of-focus photo of me from around 1977/'78.  That's
my sledge leaning against our dog Tara's kennel on my left

It occurs to me that one of the worst cruelties parents can inflict on their children is to decide, in their absence and without consultation, to dispose of their childhood treasures on the grounds that they're 'too old' for them and don't need them anymore.  (Many a lifelong obsession has resulted from such thoughtless parental behaviour, I'm sure.)

If you're an adult who yet lives in your childhood home, perhaps happy halcyon days don't seem so very far away, and, if so, you're in an extremely enviable position.  I first moved into my present address aged around 13-and-a-half when the immediate past seemed far closer than it does now.  However, these days, I often find it a source of great disappointment that fondly-recalled moments associated with childhood belong to previous houses rather than my current abode.

It never seemed to matter much before, but as I get older, my past appears even further removed from me, and it galls me that I never got to sneak downstairs at Christmas in this house, or went sledging down the hill in the nearby park in winter, or guising 'round the neighbours' houses at Hallowe'en.  These things all happened elsewhere.

The house with the dark front door is the one I lived in when
my sledge was built.  Photo taken around 2009 or 2010

Last year, at Christmas, I revisited the area I used to live in from about one-and-a-half years old until I was six, going on seven.  It's only about 25 minutes away on foot, which might not sound like any kind of a journey, but the 'reality' of travelling 46 years into the past is an immense distance in anyone's book.  It was between seven or eight o'clock at night and some local teenagers (about 17 years old, I'd guess) were sledging down the very hill that I had done all those years before. I was with a friend, so not having to worry about being mistaken for some lone, sinister stranger, I hailed them and asked if I could have a shot on one of their sleds.

I explained my connection to the area and they were entirely agreeable, no doubt hoping to witness this old duffer come a cropper on the slopes.  It was one of those modern plastic sleds, red in colour (my favourite), so the blood wouldn't show if I happened to injure myself.  What an experience!  It was great to relive a moment in the same place as nearly 50 years previously, and I'm glad I did so before the local council decide to sell the land for houses or whatever.

But I digress.  As my very existence ticks faster and faster away, what once seemed like one cohesive 'whole' now seems fragmented and scattered to the far corners.  I refer to the various aspects that make up my life of course.  Sometimes, I look at my comics and toys from childhood and am suddenly beset by a feeling that they belong elsewhere, and seem curiously out of place.  One item recalls one house to memory, another summons forth recollections of a different one.  Mostly, such mementos afford me a great deal of comfort and pleasure, but, occasionally, can also cast a pall of sorrow over my ruminations.

A similar occasion to the one described, but in a different place around
20-odd years earlier, in 1989 or '90.  (Same colour of sled though)

As I've no doubt ruefully reflected before in my melancholy musings, it sometimes seems like the 'spirit of youth', which once beat so strongly within me, slipped off somewhere to die when I wasn't looking, leaving me tired and empty, a mere husk of my former self.  All that remains is a dim and distant echo that yet reverberates in the vast caverns of memory, but even echoes eventually die.  The ghost of my childhood now resides in former homes, having fled this current one.  It deigns to visit me on occasion however, so I must be thankful for small mercies.

Usually, surrounding oneself with familiar objects from the past helps perpetuate the notion that it's not so very far away after all; that, in fact, there is no past, present or future - only one big 'now'.  However, the mind is a fickle mistress, and sometimes delights in torturing us with a 'reality' far different to the one we'd prefer.  On that mournful note, I'd be interested in reading the opinions and perceptions of my fellow Criv-ites.  Is the past, to you, not only a foreign country, but also a forgotten one?  Or, like me, do you constantly endeavour to keep it in view, reluctant, like MOLE in Kenneth Grahame's The WIND In The WILLOWS, to completely abandon the old life for the new?

Well, I'm not sure whether any of the above screed is as clear as I'd have liked, but, if you can understand what I was trying to say, feel free to analyze, soliloquize, theorize, rationalize - or even agonize - about it in the comments section.



My faithful dog, Zara, three quarters of the way down the actual hill
I sledged on as a child - and once as an adult.  Taken around 1996

Click on photos to enlarge.  In the case of photo #3, clicking again will  enlarge even further.  (In case you want to look through the windows.)

The 1986 CHRISTMAS BEANO...

Copyright D.C. THOMSON & Co., Ltd

Merry Christmas to all readers of this blog, and here's hoping that SANTA was as good to you as you could afford him to be - or even more so, if possible. Harking back to to the days when comics were inexpensive fun that sold in the many hundreds of thousands, I thought I'd let you take a little keek at a select few pages from The CHRISTMAS BEANO of 1986.  Look at that lovely snow on the logo. Maybe that's why old farts like myself seem to remember it having snowed every year when we were kids - after all, it always did in the comics we read, and they perhaps influence our memories of the past when we look back on it so many years later.

Anyway, whether that's a profound thought or not, just enjoy these pages from the days when comics were fun, simple and easy to read, instead of the headache-inducing, visual obstacle courses that some of them are today.  (What few that are left, that is.)

  

BASHFUL BENJY WOULD LIKE A QUICK WORD WITH YOU ALL...

As a special Seasonal treat ("Another one - as well as Jim Reeves?" I hear you all cry, astonished at my generosity), here's the MIGHTY MARVEL BULLPEN Christmas card from 1965, as drawn by Mirthful MARIE SEVERIN.  What more can I say but - 'NUFF SAID!

SILVER BELLS...

 

 

Well, Christmas is almost upon us, so here's a Yuletide classic from BOB HOPE's movie, THE LEMON DROP KID. Pal BING CROSBY was first to release the song on record after Bob's film, but no one can caress a lyric like 'MR VELVET' himself, the mighty JIM REEVES.  Click on the link below to listen to a cosy Christmas cracker now.

THE DANDY AVAILABLE AGAIN...

Copyright D.C. Thomson & Co., Ltd

As I predicted in my poignant post on the last ever issue of The DANDY, publishers D.C. THOMSON have reprinted this collectors' item classic, which, as I type, is available in WH SMITH's (and also from EVENING TIMES vendors in Glasgow, apparently).  I think we can assume that some other outlets will likewise have copies.

The 2nd printing is a few millimetres longer than the 1st edition, and the cover-colouring on the facsimile of The Dandy #1 is slightly lighter, but whether this is to distinguish it from the earlier release or is simply down to the vagaries of printing is unknown (to me, at least).

  

It seems to me that DCT missed a trick by not printing variant editions; they should've issued one version with JAMIE SMART's cover on the front and another with KEN H. HARRISON's - then they'd have sold twice as many.  Even The RADIO TIMES is wise to this marketing ploy.

Anyway, if you missed it first time around, you've now got another chance to acquire a copy.  Get down to WH Smith's today!

SCHOOLTIME SCANDALS PART ONE: 'SNOWBALLS'...

A photo of my old school from about a year ago

As previously stated on this blog, Christmas tends to make me sentimental for the past - to an even greater degree than usual, if such a thing is possible.  This may well be the last Christmas my old primary school will see, being due for demolition when a new one is completed to house the pupils who temporarily inhabit it.  That perhaps requires further explanation, so allow me to indulge myself by elucidating.  (If you're a regular reader, you can skip the next two paragraphs.)

A brand-new school has already been built to replace the old one, and the pupils are presently ensconced within its gleaming interiors.  However, another school in a nearby neighbourhood needed to be demolished before the new one could be built (due to limited space), so the pupils from that school moved into the vacated premises of my old one, which has been rechristened in the process.  When their new building is completed, the pupils will vacate my old school - which will then, sadly, be wiped from the face of the earth.

Luckily, I was able to arrange access to the old school just before it was 'pressed into temporary service' and managed to take loads of photos for posterity.  I was looking at them the other night (once more retracing the steps of my past) when, as I gazed at the corridors along which I once so casually cavorted, an incident from the long-vanished days of my childhood resurfaced in the tranquil waters of my recollection.  Allow me to share it with you now.

******

In a far more innocent age than the one we now inhabit, it was once the custom (and may yet be) for primary pupils to pair up with a partner when the class was in transit to another part of the school.  So, if a class was going to the dinner hall, pupils were instructed to form a double column, clasp the hand of the person next to them, and proceed in an orderly fashion to their destination.

This practice was so ingrained in us from our earliest days that, eventually, whenever we were required to form an orderly line to or from any point in the building, we'd automatically 'pair-off' with another pupil by saying "Take" (as if staking a claim), and then grasping their hand in our own.  Sometimes this choice was made purely from whoever was in closest proximity, and sometimes it would be a particular pal who was accorded the accolade.  (And vice versa.)

With that in mind (just in case it's no longer the practice these days), you're now equipped to understand my motivation in the tale I am about to (finally) relate.

The first-floor corridor in which the following incident occurred

One fine day, our class was on its way to the gym hall at the other end of the building.  As was my habit (being a rather shy, introverted boy, believe it or not), I hung back and waited for the rest of the class to leave the room before joining the trail at the tail-end.  Being without a partner, I skirted along the outside of the line of pupils, looking for someone in a similar position, when I noticed something ahead of me.  The fire doors in the middle of the corridor were open, giving the top of the door frame the appearance of a roof beam.

A peculiarity of many introverted children is that they sometimes over-compensate with uncharacteristic displays of extrovertedness, and this day was one such occasion.  As I made my way along the outside of the line, I said "Watch this" to two boys on the left of me, took a couple of hops and a jump, and hit the top of the door 'beam' on the way through.  Having 'shown off' (for the year), my attention was diverted by the boy ahead of me - BILLY McCLUSKEY - likewise being without a partner, so I automatically said "Take" and clasped his hand in line with then-current custom.

  

Un-noticed by me, however, Billy held a LEE'S 'Snowball' from the tuckshop in his hand, which I inadvertently squashed within its clear cellophane wrapper, much to his annoyance and my surprise.  I'm sure you can see what's coming; Billy hailed the teacher's attention, proclaiming "Please, Miss - Gordon Robson's squashed my Snowball!" (behave - it wasn't a euphemism) and proceeded to kick up a fuss about it.  I, of course, protested my innocence (of intent, if not result), but the two lads I had passed were having none of it.

View from the first-floor corridor window

You see, to them, it seemed as if I'd invited them to witness my crime by saying "Watch this", and that my tagging the door 'beam' was merely a casual display of exuberance on my way to commit the dastardly deed, not the actual act I'd invited them to observe.  A few years ago, I could still remember the names of my two accusers, but the passage of time has diminished my ability to recall them now.  I've got a vague idea that it may have been BILLY MONTGOMERY and ROSS CAMPBELL (who had a history of 'cliping' in order to curry teacher's favour), but I'm not 100% certain.  Apologies if it wasn't them, but I probably owe them for other misdemeanours anyway so I'm not about to lose any sleep over it.  (H'mm, maybe IAN MORRIS was one of them - if only I could remember.)

The result?  I had to reimburse Billy for the cost of his confectionery, but that didn't bother me so much as the teacher not quite believing it was an accident (or she'd have replaced Billy's Snowball with another one from the tuckshop for free), and the alacrity with which my accusers had leapt to 'put the boot in'.  In all truthfulness, I can honestly state that I never knew Billy was holding anything, and that my account of events is exactly what transpired.  I can see why things looked as they did to the two boys, but it's a perfect example of a situation not being as it seemed, despite appearances to the contrary.

So, let that be a lesson to you (and me).  Sometimes, even when you're certain, you may still be wrong.  Funny the things that stick in your memory 45 years-plus after the fact, eh?  I wonder how (or even if) Billy and the two over-enthusiastic 'witnesses' recall the event.

Anyway, that's killed some time (and perhaps even your will to live).  If you don't behave, I may regale you with a similar-type tale from my secondary school days.  You can't say you haven't been warned.

A photo of Billy from secondary school

******

For more Schooltime Scandals, click here.

FREAKY FRANKIE FIGURE IS FINALLY FOUND - NOT FAR OFF FORTY FLIPPIN' YEARS AFTER THE FACT...

Copyright relevant owner

Look at the above ad, published on the back of various DC comicbooks in the early 1970s.  I'd have first seen this around '71 or early '72, and so impressed was I with the idea of a pocket-sized FRANKENSTEIN that I customized an old MAJOR MATT MASON figure to fit the role.  First, I cut up a black polythene bag to make a sombre suit, and then used a BIC biro to administer some scars and the familiar Frankie fringe.  In his black outfit and complement of facial dis-figurements, ol' Matt cut quite a dash as a suitable stand-in for Boris.

However, it was the second ad (above) that prompted me to scour the back streets of BLACKPOOL (in '73 or '74) in a vain search for this elusive figure.  British holiday resorts were great places for being able to obtain obscure items that never seemed to reach other parts of the U.K.  I'd been able to buy pristine condition copies of various MARVEL mags (FF and SILVER SURFER) from the 1960s, straight off the spinner-racks in newsagents at cover price (this was in '73 or '74, remember), so it was hardly outwith the bounds of possibility that older toys and model kits were likewise available from the same outlets.  (And some were.)

Sadly, in the case of this particular Frankie kit, it was not to be, and I had to wait nearly 40 years until MOEBIUS reissued this model (a couple or so years back now) to finally get my hands on this collectors' item classic.  Guess what though?  Not too long after acquiring this figure, an original AURORA one found its way into my possession, a gift from a generous benefactor.  Guess it must be true what they say - "All things come to he who waits."

I certainly hope so.  You see, the sensational SALMA HAYEK is also on my wants-list of coveted prizes, and it surely can't hurt to be optimistic.