On February 27th (yes, this very day) last year I 'penned' a Manky Toy post about the delectable Maureen - a doll beautifully described by Kirstie (of Beaut.ie) as "Mullingar Beef from the Ankles Up".

In said post I also admitted to having been (when a short-trousered youth) the slightly ashamed owner of two dolls - one black and one "raggedy":

The raggedy one was called "Judy" and was quite treasured. I well remember going into hospital to get my tonsils out and worrying what the other guys in the ward would think of a pale kid with what was clearly a girl's doll. Being an enterprising soul, however, I squeezed a pair of Action Man boots on Judy's feet, popped a sock on her head as a manly hat, and thereby created what I thought a most cunning disguise. I toyed with the idea of drawing dots of stubble on her cloth face but resisted for fear of doing her permanent damage.

Judy (who now spends her days in my niece's care) was but one of a large and motley collection of stuffed toys that were dutifully lined up in bed beside me every night.

There was a Golliwog (he and I unaware, at the time, of insidious racism); a bipedal dog in blue trousers (who'd returned with my father from a Spanish holiday); a small, male Judy-a-like (who quickly became her sweet and wholesome brother "Jack"), and a (or should I say the) Cookie Monster. That was the main gang - though their numbers were routinely swelled by a substantial supporting cast of soft anthropomorphised animals.

The thought of any of them falling out of my bed during the night and lying (shivering and alone) on the cold floor was enough to fill me with horror. To guard against this potential tragedy I would lie on my side and press myself flat against the bedroom wall, thus allowing my furry/floppy friends the space they needed.

Though this arrangement meant that night-time "pop outs" were infrequent, it didn't save them from the grim results of my regular bed-wetting. Whatever reservations they may have had about being routinely covered in urine, their love for me never seemed to waver - as evidenced by the fact that they'd always clamber for the best spot in the bed once night rolled around once more.

That lengthy preamble is merely intended to set the scene, and to explain why I'm (still) very easily moved by the idea of abandoned toys. A case in point - I find it impossible to sit through Toy Story 2's "When Somebody Loved Me" sequence without weeping profusely like a big girl. It's devastating…

Though I profess sensitivity, however, I have (of late) been quite the "bad parent" to the numerous manky toys this blog has celebrated (or slagged off) over the last 14 months or so.

The original intention (as stated in the very first Manky Toy Monday post) was a noble one:

After being recorded on fustar.info the toys shall be returned to charity shops, allowing the great cycle of consumption to begin again in a worthy environment.

A combination of laziness and forgetfulness has meant that this promise has never been fulfilled…and so they gather dust (sad and unloved) in plastic bags under the stairs.¹

By way of small compensation for this shameful neglect I've decided (after consulting with Sir Damien of Mulley) to polish them up, dust them down, and take them out on a grand adventure. By that I mean - a fantabulous trip to the 3rd annual Irish Blog Awards in the Alexander Hotel, Dublin. There they will be awarded, as spot prizes, to lucky (or unfortunate?) attendees.

To make my manky children more attractive to their new mammies and daddies I'll do a spot of customising on them - giving them an (un)official seal of (un)authenticity, or covering them in gold stars…or some such. They'll be pimped up to the nines and ready to be won.

I expect their new owners to treat them with love, compassion and respect. Anyone found chucking one in a hotel bin will be stared at most severely.

This is a once a lifetime opportunity. Their like will never be seen again.

Update - 28/02/08:

Speak of the devil. I but mention her name and in pops an email from the big sister in London showing Judy surrounded by my niece's many stuffed cats.

She looks happy and well-adjusted in her adopted home, despite the weird blue figure (the sister's beloved childhood toy as it happens) looming menacingly in the background. A life of not being urinated on seems to agree with her.

P.S: I also want to take the opportunity to give an (unrelated) enthusiastic shout-out to Dara Burke and all the gang helping to organise the splendid Cork French Film Festival. It runs from the 28th Feb - 7th March and full of cinematic delights it is. Best of luck to all concerned.

1. Christ…there go those tears again. [back]