LET ME DREAM...

                                   They've ruined my old street they have,
                                   they've blotted out the view.
                                   No far horizon can be seen,
                                   the place seems smaller too.

                                   The green field where I used to play,
                                   is long-since built upon.
                                   More kids today than ever was,
                                   but space to play has gone.
                               
                                   The hills that once I spied afar,
                                   no longer meet my gaze.
                                   A looming building blocks them out,
                                   the street's seen better days.

                                   They call it progress - that's a laugh!
                                   The neighbourhood's a sight.
                                   Too many years of 'adding on'
                                   have packed it much too tight.

                                   And yet in dreams I see again
                                   the street I knew when young.
                                   In dreams, the dear remembered past
                                   seems near and less far-flung.

                                   So let me sleep and live in dreams,
                                   where things are as before.
                                   And if I could I'd never wake,
                                   and dream forevermore.

FULL CIRCLE... GUEST POST By DAVE S...

All images copyright their respective owners

Truthfully, when I accepted our host's kind offer to write a guest post, I had no idea what I was going to write about.  A favourite comic from yesteryear?  There are plenty of other blogs which do that.  Desert Island Comics, where I do my best Roy Plomley impersonation and decide what eight issues I'd like to read if I was shipwrecked and washed up on the shores of Krakoa?  Terrible idea.

I recently read Danny Fingeroth's biography of Stan Lee, A Marvelous Life, which – as well as being a great read and one I'd readily recommend – had me thinking about my own relationship with comics and how that had changed over the years.  Why not write about that then?

When I was young, I read the Beano, sometimes the Dandy and occasionally the Beezer.  They were the funniest things I could ever imagine; irreverent, outrageous, sometimes topical and occasionally baffling.  I could (and did) spend hours reading and re-reading a single issue, until I knew it probably better than its editor.

Later, comics came to be things of wonder.  I read epic stories of men in iron armour, of gods defending the Earth, astronauts made fantastic by cosmic radiation, heroes who ran at the speed of light, and my mind marvelled at these paragons of power, men and women who lived lives so different from mine.  I often glanced into the sky, hoping to see some strange visitor from another world streak through the air, but it was always only a bird or a plane.

After that, excitement became the foremost feeling that these newsprint nonpareils inspired in me.  Excitement which doubled and redoubled in the weeks between issues: how would Iron Man survive his latest threat?  Were the Fantastic Four really beaten?  Concerns like these obsessed me to the extent that, when I got my frantic fingers on the next issue, I'd often be gripped with a sudden tension – what I would now describe as the dentist's-waiting-room feeling – as though even opening the comic would expose me to the same peril as the heroes.

Later still, comics became a habit.  I read certain titles because... well, because I'd been reading them for several years.  I no longer found them wondrous or exciting, but I stumbled on, not quite understanding why it didn't quite feel right.  Then, a week came around where I didn't have the money to buy my weekly issues, and that broke the spell.  I stopped reading comics, and I didn't miss them.

But, this interest that we share has a habit of drawing you back in.  Years later, I dug out treasured volumes of Origins of Marvel Comics, Son of Origins and Bring on the Bad Guys.  I read them, and it felt right again.  I no longer worried about the welfare of the characters, I just enjoyed them for what they were: fun!

These days I look at my small collection of back issues and appreciate the craft and skill that so many creators put into them.  I have on occasion watched Antiques Roadshow, saw art experts fawning over a painting and thought "John Buscema could do better", or wondered why Curt Swan isn't a household name.

I also find that I'm now much more interested in the creators themselves and the often fascinating lives they lead.  Did you know for example that Gardner Fox practised as a lawyer?  That letterer Gaspar Saladino was for many years a volunteer fireman, or that Herb Trimpe once made an emergency landing in the biplane he owned and piloted and was rescued by a man whose surname was Marvel?

One of the ideas I had when pondering what to write for this post was to choose a random comic from my box and burble on about it.  The comic that I closed my eyes and picked out was Rawhide Kid #1 from 1985.  I bought my original issue a couple of years after that in one of those second-hand bookshops that used to be dotted around, with precarious piles of paperbacks from floor to ceiling, stacks upon stacks of comics and usually a dim area near the back where furtive-looking men would lurk, pretending not to look at porn mags.

For anyone who has never read this comic, its not your typical Western.  It's set in 1897, the dying days of the Old West, and the Rawhide Kid is no longer a kid: he's a middle-aged man, stricken by arthritis and half-remembered as a legend by the aged.  We see the Kid encounter a primitive car and feel his unease at the changes coming over his world.

As 12 year old, I though it was interesting and a little sad.  I found it funny that the Kid was grumpy, and I laughed when his false teeth fell out in a fight.  Now, more than three decades later, this comic strikes different notes with me.  It shows a man trying to understand the changes happening all around him.  It shows him despairing at the foolishness of younger people while remembering his own youthful errors of judgement.  We see disdain and lack of respect for the elderly.

It shows us a man who, after all he has lived through, makes contact with an old friend and recognises how important the shared memories of simpler times can be.  The Kid notices a small town expanding into something larger and wonders whether all the fences he sees are there to protect the privileged or exclude those who are different.

In short, this 36 year old comic, written by the oft-maligned Bill Mantlo, brings up a lot of concerns that many people still ponder every day in our uncertain modern world.

And this, I think, leads to my present relationship with comics: I no longer worry whether Captain America will defuse a bomb in time, or if Adam Warlock will survive his latest psychological assault, but I can still read old comics and find enjoyment, relevance, charm, life lessons and gorgeous art by talented draughtsmen (Herb Trimpe and John Severin in this case).  I don't take comics for granted, or too seriously, or read them through any sense of obligation, but when I do look at them, it is for sheer pleasure.  I feel that I've come full circle, back to the days when I read comics for no other reason than that I loved doing so.

These days, we live in a society where everyone can send their opinions worldwide at the click of a mouse or a tap of a phone screen (and think how strange that sentence would have sounded thirty years ago!).  Much of the time, this can be a joy – people can debate, argue (in the philosophical sense of the word) or share knowledge and learn from each other.

Sometimes though there are those lurking online who only want to bring others down or show off that (in their opinion) they know more, understand better, or are just superior to the rest of us.  I'll finish with a quote from Rawhide Kid #1 where Mr. Mantlo sums up such people more eloquently than I ever could.

"Leo Wade bought his first pair of sixguns this afternoon.  He practiced all afternoon, hoping for another crack at the Rawhide Kid.  Now he's got the chance and he means to put his money where his mouth is.  Some men are born fools."

******

Didn't he do well?!  Be sure and let Dave S know just how much you appreciate all his hard work in writing this post, fellow Crivvies.

BLACK OR WHITE? WHAT'S YOUR VIEW?

Here's something that maybe you can help me out on.  George Floyd died as a result of police brutality, there's no denying it.  Four policemen against one guy, so there was no need for the way things went down (as they say in the States).  There seems to be contradictory claims as to whether some kind of drugs he'd taken before his arrest contributed to his death or not, but, either way, that doesn't excuse what was clearly unnecessary force in subduing him.  And the question has to be asked - was there even any need to subdue him?  So it unequivocally shouldn't have happened and the way that the policeman/men dealt with the situation was clearly excessive.

However, I feel bound to ask why it's been labelled as an instance of racism.  Did the now convicted policeman ever state that he disliked black people?  Was the colour of George Floyd's skin even an issue?  Has that been proven beyond a reasonable doubt?  Or was it simply a case of power-mad cops revelling in and abusing their position in the way they dealt with an American citizen regardless of his colour?  Had George been white and the policeman black, would colour have even been an issue in the case?

What's your view, fellow Crivvies?  If you wish to contribute to the topic, you know where the comments section is. 

The PAST Is A FOREIGN COUNTRY - ESPECIALLY WHEN YOU LIVE In AUSTRALIA...

I was just looking at the Facebook page created for former members of my old secondary school (called high school these days) and saw a comment from a woman looking for old class photos that might have her brother (who, sadly, is now dying of cancer) in them.  The family moved to Australia in 1963, yet people who responded still remembered him.  I hadn't even started primary school in 1963, but her comment made me wonder if she ever thought how life might have been for her and her family had they never emigrated all that time ago.

It also made me wonder how my life would've turned out had my family ever decided to emigrate.  To think that she moved to the other side of the world nearly 60 years ago, yet still thinks back to her schooldays and the friends she knew is pretty surprising to my mind.  (It wouldn't be in ordinary circumstances perhaps, where someone still lives in the country of their birth and is still in occasional touch with their childhood friends, but it seems surprising when seen in the context of having moved away 58 years earlier and had all that time to adjust to a new environment and make new pals.)

So what I'm wondering is, fellow Crivvies, did your parents ever consider emigrating and then decide against it, and do you ever find yourself regretting their decision? (Or are you glad they didn't?)  Or how about even just flitting to another house in a different neighbourhood?  Do you wish you'd stayed where you were, or are you pretty philosophical about it and don't really care one way or the other?  Also, do you ever wonder about friends who moved away decades ago, who you've never heard from since?  Y'know, whether they're still alive or not, and whether they fulfilled all their dreams and aspirations?  Feel free to express yourself in our hungry comments section.

BABE Of The DAY - PAIGE SPIRANAC...

It's summer, it's Saturday, it's Paige

Spiranac - what more can anyone possibly

want?  Here, Paige awaits me arriving for our

hot date.  Originally, I had other plans, but she

kept asking, begging, and pleading, and I just

 couldn't say no.  (Well, could you?)

FATHER AND SON 'REUNITED'...

I can tell you for a fact that it was Friday 5th November 1965 that I left my first primary school for the final time.  For several days at least, the teacher had been giving our class daily readings from Carlo Collodi's book, Pinocchio, and I recall being slightly miffed that I now wouldn't get to hear the end of the story.  It was many years later as an adult that I finally bought an edition of the book for myself and read it at my leisure, concluding the adventure begun in childhood so many years before.

On the Monday of the following week, my family moved to a new house in another neighbourhood, and on the Wednesday I had my first day of attendance at my second primary school.  A few short years later I bought a Marx Toys 5 or 6 inch 'twistable' figure of Geppetto* (probably from a shop called Nurseryland), and I've always wondered whether it was simply because I remembered his name from my final days at my first primary as I can't see what there was about the character that would've appealed to me.  Maybe it was just a case of me having money and wanting to spend it on something.

(*That same night, I watched a Miss Marple movie on TV - Murder Ahoy, starring Margaret Rutherford - and therefore associate the film with the figure as a result.) 

A number of years ago I bought the Marx Toys Pinocchio twistable figure (again, not quite sure why), on eBay, which has sat in the shadows of a cupboard since I got it.  A few days ago, I saw, at a very reasonable price, Geppetto (again on eBay), so took the plunge and made the purchase.  This time I knew why - simply to replace a toy I'd once owned when I was an innocent youth who seemingly had forever in front of him.  (How I wish I could re-create that illusion today.)

Now Geppetto and his son can share that cupboard space together, and I can enjoy a measure of satisfaction that comes from 'reuniting' the pair after so many years of separation and isolation.  Don't you just love a happy ending?  (We'll ignore the fact that the figures aren't in a proportionate scale to one another.)       

I LOVE IT WHEN I'M RIGHT...

Copyright D.C. THOMSON & Co, Ltd

Apparently, Fatty from the Bash Street Kids is no longer going to be referred to as Fatty (old news I know), and it's created a minor stushie in some circles as many former readers are against it.  (Will Spotty be next to lose his nickname I wonder?)  The argument (as I understand it) is that it's to prevent the possibility of kids in the real world being influenced by The Beano into calling fat kids 'fatty' just because a comics character has the name.  So DCT's flagship weekly title wants to set a positive example, and Fatty will no longer be referred to by his affectionate (and accurate) long-standing appellation.

Parity suggests that if something can have a positive example, then it can also have a negative one as, basically, they're two sides of the same coin (or mirror images of one another).  I've long allowed for the possibility of certain comics potentially being able to set a bad example as well as a good one (or even none at all).  Not because there's anything intrinsically harmful in the medium itself, as it's more a case of the content than the carton, but there's always the chance of kids being influenced by what they read (and see, and watch, and experience, etc.,) as they're particularly susceptible to suggestion.

So DCT have now acknowledged this with their 'rebranding' decision, and that means some of those who argue in defence of such a change, despite their prior protestations that comics could never influence readers negatively, have implicitly admitted they were wrong in believing such a thing, though most likely they're unaware of the dichotomy between the two views.  My own opinion is that fat kids (and adults) are always going to be called fatty, with or without any possible influence by a comic, so it's basically just another bit of self-righteous virtue signalling by the pompous.  (Or simply a publicity move to draw fresh attention to the comic, which sells a tiny fraction of what it sold in its heyday.)

He'll always be Fatty to me.  What's your view?

I HAVE OFTEN WALKED DOWN THIS STREET BEFORE...

The street in which I live is a long, winding, twisting, turning snake of a street with nearly 200 homes in it.  Towards the late '70s, I had two friends who lived in the street, but nearer the beginning than I was.  In fact, one lived in number one, the other half-a-dozen houses further up from him.  Neither of them live there now, having moved out decades ago, but their parents (then, with the passing of time, a parent in each case) continued to inhabit their long-term domiciles.

Last year, the father who lived in number one sadly passed away.  He was a very well-educated and extremely intelligent man and whenever he saw me, he'd say "Hello Kid" (yes, even my friends' parents usually addressed me by that singular appellation), and I'd stop and have a blether with him.  Sometimes, on my way to the shops, I'd chap his door to see if he needed anything, but his family, though no longer in residence, usually made sure he was well looked after, so there was only one occasion when I was of use to him for a couple of items of shopping.

Anyway, since he died, whenever I've been passing his house, I've always looked over and given a nod in its direction, just out of respect for him.  Yesterday, however, I saw a 'sold' sign at the entrance, which surprised me as I hadn't seen a 'for sale' sign preceding it, which would normally be the case.  So it's sad that my 45 year 'connection' (minor as it was) to the house has come to an end now that it's passed into the possession of another owner, but I don't think I'll ever be able to pass it without giving it a nod of acknowledgement when I do.

Today, I went around with my camera and snapped a few photos of the front and back, as it's unlikely I'll ever again set foot on the path and steps leading up to the front door.  Casting my mind back, it was in one of the bedrooms of the house that I scored my first* '180' at darts sometime around 1982, and I well remember the apoplectic fit my friend's brother had in frustration at me gubbing him at the game he seemingly thought he was superior at.  And maybe he was, but not on that particular day.  Ah, happy memories.  (*H'mm, or was that in Southsea the year before?  Same darts I was using, but regardless, it was the first time I scored 180 while back home.)

However, I'm becoming all too aware that, with the passing of time, more and more familiar places are passing beyond my reach - or disappearing altogether - and it's a sombre and scary reminder that all things must pass, and that eventually there'll be little or no signposts to my youth left to take comfort from.  I used to be able to visit my old primary schools whenever there was a jumble sale, but they were demolished around 6 or 7 years ago, so I can no longer walk the halls of youthful academia.  Friends have moved or died, so I can no longer revisit the interiors of their houses I was so familiar with when I was a kid or teenager.

I don't know about you, but I miss being able to reconnect with certain aspects of my past due to people or places no longer existing, or for whatever reason it might be that prevents me doing so - like a friend's familiar house now belonging to someone else.  Previously, I knew that if I wanted to chap the door of the house under discussion, I'd be made welcome and given a cup of tea and a biccie.  The fact I knew I could meant that I didn't avail myself of such hospitality as often as I might have, but now that it's forever beyond me makes me kind of sad.

Any of you feel the same way when such things happen to you, or am I just a great big overly-sentimental wussy-boy who should toughen up and just get on with things?  Make your feelings known.

HAVE YOU HAD A BUSY DAY, LITTLE MAN? THEN IT'S TIME TO RELAX AND LET ALL YOUR WORRIES MELT AWAY...

It's been mostly a warm sunny day today, a bit overcast at times, but at its best the type of day that would've benefitted from a nice cool breeze.  Well, here's the aural equivalent of such a breeze, delivered by the man with one of the greatest voices ever to grace the planet - Jim Reeves.  The song is called Crying Is My Favourite Mood, but you won't be crying after listening to it, no sirree.  You'll be sighing with pleasure and more relaxed than Mr. Relaxed, of Relaxed Street, Relaxedville.  Don't take my word for it, give it a listen.  And don't miss the nod to Gershwin's Rhapsody In Blue at the end.

YOGI BEAR NEVER HAD A DOG TO GREET HIM IN THE SUMMER OF 1972 - NOR DOES HE NOW...

Characters copyright relevant owner

When younger, I sometimes bought comics that I was really too old for.  Comics like Little Star, Seven, and Yogi & His Toy.  Strangely, I also bought football comics like Shoot and Scorcher, even though I was never into the 'beautiful game'.  I guess I just liked buying new comics.  Almost 50 years ago I bought my original copy of the one above, which was the Summer Special for the aforesaid Yogi comic.  I received its replacement today, and it's with a sense of amazement that I realise three dogs (Prince, Tara, and Zara) at different times graced my family's household between me buying my first copy and purchasing its stand-in.  (The third dog, Zara, died in 1998.)

Is that significant?  Not to you, but I'm used to often being able to say when I replace a long-lost comic that "I first got that one when we had Prince" (or Tara, or Zara), so to acquire a comic with absolutely no doggie-association in my life is a bit of a strange feeling.  Only because, with this particular Special, we got our first dog only around 6 or 7 months later (when I no longer had the comic), so it's not too far removed from the timeframe of my family's doggie ownership.  In the case of much earlier comics, the time between buying them and getting our first dog is much greater and therefore doesn't really 'connect' in my mind in the same way.  (Although now that I'm aware of it, it might do so from now on.)

I really hope I'm explaining myself coherently as I find conveying precisely what I'm trying to say extremely difficult sometimes due to 'brain fog' caused by a medical condition.  Anyway, in short, this comic comes from a time when I was 'Douglas' (dug-less - get it?) and that's never really quite registered with me before.  It predates my status as a dog owner and, consequently, seems to transform an already lengthy nigh-50 year period into an even longer one.  Having waded through all that, you may now be either relieved or disappointed to learn that it's not really relevant to what this post is about.

No, I wanted to show you what can be done with a comic that's in less than pristine condition, using the seller's photos in comparison to my own once I'd performed a little 'work' on it.  There was a time when I'd have given an inferior condition comic like this one a miss, but I've learned to grab 'em while they're going in case a better one never comes along.  So the premise of this post is quite simple.  I'll show you the before and after photos just so you know that even imperfect comics can be greatly improved if you know what you're doing - and I flatter myself (well, who else is going to?) that I know what I'm doing when it comes to salvaging old periodicals from the scrapheap of history.

Ready?  Then let's go!  The above cover is the after, the one below is before.  The rest of the images are presented in before & after sequence.

And in case you're interested, below are my three dogs who never saw me read this Yogi Summer Special on account of me not keeping it before we got our first canine chum.  (None of them ever met, but the photos of each pet were taken within a few feet of the same spot in our back garden.)

PSSST! WANNA WRITE A GUEST POST?

Nope, I dunno why he's wearing a deckchair either

For all you cavortin' Crivvies who don't have a blog of your own, but would sometimes like to (or even if you do), here's an invitation for your careful consideration.  Write a guest post for Crivens! and savour the sizzling sensation of seeing your words in print.  It'll bring you such fame that you won't be able to walk down the road without being besieged by hordes of screaming, admiring females trying to touch you and slipping you their 'phone numbers.  (That reminds me, I really must give some of them a call one day.  They've waited long enough.)

Let me know if you're interested.

POST From The PAST: MEMORIES And IMAGINATION...

One tends to think of memory's magical kingdom as having fixed boundaries.  Only shadows of the past are allowed residence and interlopers are strictly forbidden.  However, the sentries can be fooled and intruders may sometimes sneak in under the cloak of familiarity if they bear a close enough resemblance to a recognised inhabitant.

"Okay, Gordie, you've lost the plot.  What are you blathering on about now?" you may well be thinking.  Simply this.  If you're around the same age as me, you may well remember the CAPTAIN SCARLET merchandise that was available back in the 1960s, particularly the DINKY diecast vehicles like the SPV, MSV, and SPC. (Though nowadays it's usually referred to as the SSC.  Perhaps it was only Dinky who called it an SPC?)

I had all of them - and still retain the set I acquired many years ago as replacements for my originals.  I've had them for far longer than I ever owned their predecessors, although it doesn't actually feel like it.  It's almost as if there's never been a period in my life when I was without them, and that the ones I have today are the very ones I had as a kid; hidden in a cupboard somewhere for all those years until I rediscovered them after a long period of neglect. That's not the case of course, it just seems that way.

However, there are other ways to fool the mind, and here's what I hope is an interesting example of just such an instance.  Back in the very early '90s, THUNDERBIRDS enjoyed a huge resurgence in popularity when the BBC broadcast all 32 episodes on network TV for the very first time.  Previously, back in the '60s (and with most subsequent repeats), they were shown in various TV regions on different days and times.  Amazingly, the '90s screenings were a huge success, spawning a level of merchandise to rival that which was available during the show's heyday.

The BBC tried again with STINGRAY and CAPTAIN SCARLET, but met with a more muted response from viewers.  However, having anticipated the same kind of enthusiastic reaction that INTERNATIONAL RESCUE had enjoyed, toy manufacturers launched all sorts of items to tie-in with the expected demand for all things GERRY ANDERSON.

Such an item was the SPV 'play set' by VIVID IMAGINATIONS, pictured in this post.  Now, here's the thing: I obviously bought this as a collector's piece, not to play with - and I purchased it while living in my present abode, with where one would naturally assume I would associate it. But no, whenever I cast eyes on it, I seem to see myself, as a kid, sitting on the doorstep in the back garden of my old house, playing with this exact same vehicle - even though this specific toy didn't exist at the time and wasn't made until around a quarter of a century later.

So vivid is the image that it does indeed seem like an actual memory - as opposed to what is obviously merely my imagination (see what I did there?), facilitated by the fact that I associate the familiar design of the vehicle with a particular period from my past.  In short, it's a perfect fit - and seems more at home in my memories of 1968 than of when I actually obtained it.

Funny how the mind can play such tricks, isn't it?  I believe it's called 'false memory syndrome', which is perhaps where 'Deja vu'-type feelings spring from.  Anyone got any similar experiences they'd care to share?  Feel free to let loose in the comments section.

 

BABE Of The DAY - PAIGE SPIRANAC...

Paige Spiranac is a honey!

I could drone on for hours about

this magnificent woman, but why

should I do all the work?  'Specially

as nothing I could say would make

her any better looking.  Just look,

then sigh with delight.

The MOST FANTASMAGORICAL POST In The HISTORY Of BLOGGING (NOT)...

Around 15 years or so ago I bought a huge Chitty Chitty Bang Bang car.  The chassis is around 14 or so inches from 'tip-to-toe', but closer to 17 if you include the front and rear fins.  Articulated figures were also available, but it was mainly the car I wanted so I didn't bother buying them, figuring (npi) I could pick them up later if I changed my mind.  Which I did (change my mind that is*), but never saw them again anywhere, so Chitty was left driverless and without passengers until only fairly recently, when I managed to acquire Caractacus Potts, Truly Scrumptious, Jeremy, and Jemima on eBay.  At last, I thought, now my car is complete.  Incidentally, the car is almost as light as a feather, even with the figures in it.

(*Okay, who's the wise guy who said I should've changed it for a better one?)

Only thing is, the female figures, despite having poseable legs, are hindered in their movements by their vinyl dresses, and the driver (modelled after Dick Van Dyke) is prevented from fitting his legs (with my help of course) under the steering wheel, so isn't quite a perfect fit as the back end of his bum sits a little above the seat.  Only the boy is able to be positioned on the back seat in the right position, whereas the girl has to stand, as does Truly.  Never mind, it's still a far more impressive item with the figures than without and it's great to finally have it as it was meant to look.  (The car was also issued with a chrome-plated bonnet as in the film, but, just like the figures, I didn't buy it when I had the chance.)

So although it's by no means certain that this particular post will attract much interest or many (or even any) comments, I thought I'd share some photos of the car with my fellow Crivvies.  Hopefully some among you will enjoy seeing such a great item.  Incidentally, it's amazing how often this movie is credited in TV listings as being a Disney film, and a large slice of the general public seem to be of that opinion too.  However, it's an Eon film, based on the book by Ian Fleming and produced by Albert R. Broccoli.  The fact that the songs for both movies were written by the Sherman brothers probably led to the confusion, with Dick Van Dyke's presence no doubt helping to reinforce that impression too.

I've placed one of my Corgi models next to it in the last three photos, just to give you a better idea of the size.  That's the main Corgi car, not the smaller Husky or Juniors one.

And here's me in my full-sized Chitty (he lied) a good many years ago