I refer of course to the classic 70s/80s version. The version I collected as a kid. Back when everything was 100% objectively better in every conceivable way than things are now. The contemporary versions – like the diabolic abomination that is/was reimagined roller-bladin' Pepsi Max Action Man – are utterly soulless affairs. Dreamed up by besuited corporate dullards. Crap and cynical tie-ins for crap and cynical "franchises".

Though the slick and lifeless images are bad enough – smothered, as they are, in a processed CGI-cling-film sheen – it's the arbitrary and WTF-like nature of the individual category scores that most offend my nerd-child sensibilities. As a young fella I genuinely believed that Waddington's employed teams of cool and dispassionate boffins (boffins swayed by neither whim nor fleeting fancy) to assign a particular card its values. They were, basically, androids – who'd crunch all available data before deciding that Fu Manchu warranted a "Fear Factor" rating of 74. No less. No more.

Today's Trumps (with their chimps and typewriters approach) either reveal this belief to be the product of wide-eyed boyhood naivety, or else the makers (as I suspect) just give much less of a shit now. Sure the kids will lap up any old crap as long as Harry-fucking-Potter-cock is on the box.

Anyway, that lengthy old-mannish rant is but an excuse to showcase some of the crude beauties of yore. All of these were once in my possession. Now gone. All utterly gone forever. *sob*

The Fiend. Not (by any means) the most formidable card in the Horror pack (or packs, there were two) but a clean decapitation with a single swipe? Kudos. No skimping on the gore either. Yay!

Venus? Goddess of love and beauty. Venusians? Unfeeling hackers-off of prisoners' heads.

Yes, Death was actually a playable card. Death! And he looked weird. And he kicked ass (check out those stats). Have to question a "Killing Power" of (a mere) 95 out of 100 though, for a character who, y'know, is death itself.

The "Spacecraft" set was another favourite. One offering delightful (and incongruous) mash-ups that gleefully erased boring old divisions between science fact and science fiction. Ever wanted to know who'd win in a "fight" between the Viking 1 Mars Lander…

…and an "Imperial Space Cruiser" (a.k.a Imperial Star Destroyer)?

Top Trumps once had the answers. To this, and all other questions.

(Curtain draws back to reveal…not a stage, but bare concrete walls atop a bare concrete floor. On this floor are two bins. In Bin A sits “The Man” – an emaciated figure sporting a sick-stained tailcoat, a battered top-hat, and a cracked monocle (also sick-stained). In Bin B sits Gorgothogohnx – bringer of despair. A bipedal, demonic reptoid from the the 14th Orbiton of Balthodox.)

The Man: Well, it's been a big year for death & suffering, hasn't it Gorgothogohnx?

Gorgothogohnx: Yes.

The Man: To reflect this, tonight's show will be dominated by themes of doom, pain and dejection.

Gorgothogohnx: And Transformers.

The Man: Yes, and Transformers. You like Transformers, don't you Gorgothogohnx?

Gorgothogohnx: Yes.

The Man: (Rolls eyes and exhales wearily. Becomes conscious of own breath) You wouldn't have a mint, would you Gorgothogohnx?

Gorgothogohnx: No. No mint.

The Man: (Gazes at stained tailcoat) Or a Dettol wipe?

Gorgothogohnx: No. No mint.

The Man: (mutters) …for fuck's sake…

Gorgothogohnx: Repeat?

The Man: Nothing…

Gorgothogohnx: Nothing. No mint.

The Man: (affecting a breezy air) Would you like to see some toys, Gorgothogohnx?

Gorgothogohnx: Transformers.

The Man: Yes…I know. We'll get to those in a while. Anything else?

Gorgothogohnx: Crayons.

The Man: …well strictly speaking they're not actually toys…

Gorgothogohnx: Transformers.

The Man: (gnawing on his own fist) OK! Let's just start, shall we?! Gaze into that puddle on the floor there, Gorgothogohnx. You'll see some mad shit.

(Gorgothogohnx does as instructed. Stares intently. Shapes begin to form and coalesce from the swirling fogs therein. A terraced house. A man. A woman. Two cats. A baby [sleeping, hopefully]. Some cheap alcohol. And, yes, many “Transformers”.)

9.00: Welcome, earthlings. Welcome, mortals & immortals. Welcome, Gorgothogohnx. Welcome, one and all – to the third annual Manky Toy Show. Assuming you have very limited experiences (and have lived, all your lives, in secret cellars – like Kaspar Hauser or Natascha Kampusch) then tonight's extrava-manka will be the greatest, thrillingest thing ever. Ok? Let's boogie.

9.03: I haven't paced myself. I'm half a bottle of plonk in already. And we haven't even really begun. I'll be on the floor by 10. Background tunes? The murderous loveliness of Phil Spector's Christmas Album.

9.05: Music. Yes. That's the thing to get our cockles warmed and imagination bones erect. Take it away The Hal Bradley Orchestra and Space Age Santa Claus.

9.10: Some of the fucked up shit Santa's up to in space?

He’ll loop tinsel around through the stars
Light up Christmas trees all over Mars
He’ll take the dark clouds out of the air
And hang up fluffs of angel hair

Surely the universe is a delicate and finely balanced thing. A gargantuan and sensitive "ecosystem". Going around hanging up " fluffs of angel hair" all over the place is highly irresponsible.

9.14: Also…

He’ll start a gift shop on the moon

The brazen capitalist bastard. Leave the moon alone you fat cunt!

9.16: OK, before the punters start getting restless we'd best whip some toys out of this Lidl bin-liner on the ground before us. First up? An item that flies gleefully in the face of the contemporary fad for fair trade/organic produce. Y'know, for evil kids.

9.19: Before I open it. What the fuck's going on with the font?! Is that a serpent's tongue licking the "A" in "Farm". This thing gets more diabolic by the second. Jess cracking into the box…

9.23: Box proved tricky to demolish. Favourite detail at first glance? Trailer that proclaims it to be "The Auto Speedy". Would never have associated speediness with tractor trailers, but there you go. Box assures us that it comes with "authentic working functions". This appears to mean "wheels that turn". And nothing else.

9.27: Conclusion? A solidly made and stolidly boring piece of mank. No Mexicans inside (sorry, Fiona). Not much of anything really…but an alarming amount of relative quality. You've got to hand it to these Farm Exploiters.

9.31: Right. Taking it sideways a notch, we'll go for…Champion Fastro! Yes, that's his name. CHAMPION FASTRO! Alright!

9.33: They're brimming with confidence, these Champion Fastro makers. They're so sure they're on to a winner (with Fastro and his pals) that they boldly declare "Every Styles Fully Wonderful". Not just "Partly Wonderful" – which is the best most mainstream toy makers could ever hope for.

9.37: Champion Fastro is one of those toys that you just feel like smelling. Both Jess and myself have done this…and the odour is almost indescribable. The closest we can get to it (with words) is "stale biscuit" meets "community hall".

9.41: Champion Fastro – despite being a toy whose name you can't say without imagining multiple exclamation points – is designed to disappoint. Why? Because you obviously expect him to be a bootlegged "Transformer". Look at him! "Yay", you think, "I wonder what he'll morph into?!". And then it turns out that he morphs from Champion Fastro into…Champion Fastro. Balls.

9.45: Hang on. He's just got 3.5% less boring. He has a red – Sacred Heart-tastic – light in the middle of his chest. We've seen this with manky toys before. It's the last desperate throw of the dice when you know you've got a doomed piece of shit on your hands. "Gentlemen, put a fucking light on that thing and get it the fuck out of my office".

9.49: Time to pause for breath and locate my bottle of bog-standard Cab Sauv (as shiny and detestable people in radio ads no doubt say). Lets go to the ads. This thing ain't gonna pay for itself.

9.55: Gaylord's emergence from the pipe – trailing in the wake of the most over-reacting cat of all time – is quite possibly the lamest entrance in toy history. I am underwhelmed. Damn you, GAYLORD!

9.58: Look, stop bitching you whingers. I told you this year was going to be about death and pain! Gaylord's life is one of constant humiliation and agony. "Climb, Gaylord!". There's no respite.

10.03: Girls in the audience. Prepare to squeal with girly glee. Boys in the audience. Prepare to get aroused by plastic.

22.08: Jordan meets Bratz meets The Mystical Lands of Faery. The genius of this yoke is the amount of time and effort put into creating a back-story. Building a fantasy universe for a toy that will never be the subject of fan-fiction, daytime cartoons, or…anything much at all. Except ridicule. Check this out.

10.12: I'm sure the above was scripted by whoever George "Fat-neck" Lucas got to do the scrolling text about trade federations at the start of Phantom Menace. If anything, his/her work has developed and matured since then. "People lived in a horrific life" – George would be floored by prose like that.

10.16: Oh sweet lords and ladies of Atlantis! I need to wash my eyeballs. With Atlantean brandy. She's…um. She's…er. She's got pubes! Or at least "pube texture". It's like "pube braille". Fuck!

10.21: It's a good night for fans of "Legend of Atlantis Empire". The box is a practical novelization.

10.24: Multiple elemental powers. The usual Captain Planet shit. It looks like we lucked out with our choice. Evasoul! She of the "Sprite Power"! "Sprite Power" is just another word for "Heart Power", or "Love Power". Neither of which are proper powers at all. Not like "Gun Power". Or "Jump High Power". Or "Fist of Rage Power". If Atlantis is attacked by even a remotely competent professional army then the continent is borked. Try stopping bullets and shells with "Sprite", Evasoul.

10.30: Frantically thumbing through my volume of Plato's collected works here. He mentions Atlantis, but (curiously) nothing of Jaybreeze and Ellafrost – and their scantily clad battles against the dark side that forced people to live in "a horrific life". A huge oversight and a massive stain (phnarr) on his reputation.

10.35: Time to rock an ad-break. Jesus, I'm fading fast here. Need some…brandy and Spar imitation Pringles! Slurp!

10.42: This is deeply sad…and possibly deeply racist. The Great Garloo was once a behemoth that stalked Titan-like through our cities. Smashing things to bits. Having the craic. Drinking with Godzilla. And now? He's a fucking servant to little WASP bastards! A little "oriental" servant.

10.48: At least King Kong went out in a blaze of ape-y glory. Shot down in flames. No such honour for Garloo.

WASP Dad: "Oh Garloo! Did you clean my jocks?"

10.52: Emergency forces toys. Civil servant toys. Kids love 'em! Yay! Bin collectors. Council workers. Traffic wardens. Who needs Han Solo? Eh, Kids? Kids? Er…

I give you – "Mission Force"!

10.56: Point 1 – "Mission Force" is one of those nonsense, but powerful-sounding, names. Like "Team Squad". Or "Group Punch". Or "Effort Men".

Point 2 – Though these lads may look pretty cool – all facial hair, shades and guns – they're actually called "Police Guy" and "Police Hugh". And they're but a part of the bigger "Mission Force" (w)hole.

11.02: Yes, the four arms of the forces that protect us are: a) Soldier guys. b) Er…other soldier guys. Or possibly armed-to-the-teeth police guys. c) Firemen (steady, ladies). And, d) Ninjas.

Ninjas with names like Felix, Adrian, Bill and Ted.

Has the budget affected Ninjas? I wouldn't fancy being the one to mention pay cuts.

11.11: I'm beginning to doubt the integrity of Hugh and Guy, and their devotion to civic/civil duty. They come packed with a can of petrol and a bloody Molotov cocktail! They're obviously servants of some Warlord Oligarch who rules the lands of "Mission Force" with an iron fist of ultraviolence. Message? Give them shit and they'll set you on fire. Twice!

11.17: Moving onward and downward (*hic!*). Kids love mobile phones? Check. Kids like Barbie? Check. Kids don't like malignant cancers? Check. Fuck all these elements into a manky toy blender and this is what dribbles out the other end.

11.23: If anyone asked me how I'd like to be remembered, what adjective I'd most like used to describe me after I'm gone, what one goddam word I'd want used (repeatedly) during my funeral oration….it'd be benign. No doubt about it.

11.29: The "Try Me! Press Button" arrow promise is misleading. By "misleading", of course, I mean "amounting to gross and outlandish fraud". There's no button. Only a vast-ish expanse of pink cardboard.

11.35: Quick mention of Benign Girl's sound FX before we move on (Gorgothogohnx is going mental. He likes not girls. Or girls' toys. Only Transformers. And crayons).

Old school readers who remember the ("Nighttime is a bankable actor") Spidey telephone will know the drill. A bit of unintelligible, interrogative Chinese ("Wah dah byu?") followed by some crazed Chinese techno pop.

This may be an accurate facsimile of a Chinese phone of course. I've never been, so don't know. Not sure what network I'm on either…

11.44: Time for a new Manky Toy Show segment (brought on by repetitive strain injury from plastic manipulation). I call it…um…"Toys You Can Get In China But Can't Sadly Get Here. Unless You've Got A Credit Card. And Want to Order 700 Units". Let me present: Roking Ride On Plush Dog Amusement Toy.

11.49: Selling point 1.

Attractive appearance. The ride on toy is a well-designed work of art, exquisite lovely shape to meet the needs of the children's favorite animals and pets, and close to the psychological.

11.54: Selling point 2.

Entertaining. It can let children have fun, meet the children's hope and desire: Riding like adults, or riding like roles in cartoon who ride animals around. Also we add more entertaining function in the product. It not only could walk around, also has music box and the function of ears swaying, water spraying or boxing.

11.56: All I ever wanted, as a child was an AT-AT (which I got, thanks mum) and to once (just once) ride like the "roles in cartoon who ride animals around".

11.59: Oops. Forgot to mention the items I treasured above all else. Cartoon Character Aubergine…

…and…Plush Vegetable Cauliflower (the coolest of all Brassica oleracea)…

12.05: Fuck! Look at the time. More wine.

Blurb advertising the aubergine reads as follows:

We offer all kinds of lovely and cute cartoon character toy for the Movie & TV company, from classical duck, bear, micky, to our design special series like series vegetable, fruit. Character Doll, animals etc.

If someone gets me a "classical duck" for Christmas I will immediately divorce Jess and marry them. Male, female, cauliflower – it matters not.

12.09: Commenter "Urchinette" says this:

Jaysus, that cauliflower is like something out of H. P. Lovecraft.

She doesn't know the half of it. From the same company (or…China at least) comes this!

Yes, horror fans. It's a beanie baby Cthulhu! Tragically undersold, in the company's literature, as "Eccentric Toy". I'm both filled with dread and deeply happy.

12.15: Cut to words from our sponsors. Then back with faux-Transformer action.

12.24: Just returned from a "Willow bonks her head on bars of cot and needs comforting" mission. I'm sure Chuck Connors would approve.

Tin-Can Alley was something I coveted, dearly, as a child. Guns always seemed very American, back then. Exotic. Wild western. Desirable. Little did we realise that Tin-Can Alley was actually a home-training tool for bloody high school massacres. Something Chuck singularly failed to mention.

And who's the "Nice shooting, Chuck!" fella. Has he been in anything else or was that his 0.05 seconds of fame? Off to IMDB with you, willing slaves!

12.31: Tiredness washing over me like a tsunami of Calgon-infected 7-Up. Must push on. Must satisfy the demands of the ever-staring, ever-watchful, ever-whispering Gorgothogohnx (and his biggest fan, Fergal Crehan).

Transformers! Or, rather, Interchange!

11.38: Now to follow the crystal clear and nothing-but-helpful instructions.

Not a problem. It dismantled itself as soon as I removed it from the box.

12.42:

I've just bent his knees. He's in a sitting position. Like Optimus Prime watching telly. Is this what the merger and upward accepting is about?

12.44:

For fuck's sake. I'm exhausted. And drunk. And the headlight area has just fallen off. We're getting further and further from our goal.

12.48: Wait! Hold! Commenter "Shoeymcshoe" has spotted something with eagle (i.e. "ordinary") eyes.

Your instructions do not resemble your product

No. They really don't. And that's because…they're the instructions for a completely different toy. China! What's the story?

12.54: Interchange presents children (and me) with an unsolvable puzzle. Instructions and toy are randomly shuffled. To spread confusion and (I guess) lateral thinking. Here's one of the final bits of the mind-fuck.

12.59: "Head to hereafter"? Is that some sort of coded command to crawl to bed? Or, as I suspect (given our theme of the night), an imperative demanding I press the Tin-Can Alley shotgun to my temple? Silver Shamrock, how are ya?

1.08: OK. We're into overtime. We're into the time beyond overtime. We're into tomorrow. We're into the day after tomorrow. Hardy hangers-on – can you take one more toy?

1.14: Cock! My rabble-rousing pleadings were based on flim-flam and hot air. And, more importantly, not having the right batteries. Wanted to finish with this…

…but all I've got is AA when it thirsts for AAA. Oh cursed fate! Oh wretched destiny! I was gagging to see what the four enclosed "cartridges" actually did. I love cartridges. Nintendo's never been the same since they embraced charmless discs. Boo!

Er…in the absence of a blow-out and go-out (and go to bed) toy, let's go to an ad before we fade into the warm darkness of a winter's night.

1.25: Right. So "The Game of Life" taught children all about craven ambition, consumerist longing, acceptance of prescribed gender roles, and the harsh brutalities of (safety-net-less) capitalism, but it always left a final act unsaid and unspoken.

You'd reach the end and there would be Millionaire's Mansion, or Lovely Acres Retirement Community, or whatever the fuck. And that would be it. Game over. The end. You win.

But even the most chipper and boundlessly optimistic of freckled children must have wondered what rolling the dice one more time would entail. What was beyond that finishing line?

Nothing but stinky, nasty, everlasting death. Yes, kids – DEATH! DEAAAAAATTTHHHHH!!!

Goodnight.

Christmas is coming! It cannot be stopped! It will kill us all! Aaaaaarrrgggh!!!

It's been one of those years. Economy? Dead. Hope? Dead. Michael Jackson? Dead. Karl Malden? Dead. Patrick Swayze? Dead. Konstantin Feoktistov; Danny La Rue; Jeremy Clarkson? Dead, dead, and still fucking alive. 2009. A year destined to end in tears. A year that'll have your eye out.

But wait. Set aside the vodka and barbiturates for a moment. Pop the "End is Nigh" sandwich-board back under the stairs. In the midst of this thick fog of despair and tooth-gnashing there are still oases of joy and wonder. Well…an oasis at least. Singular (but, y'know, it's better than nothing).

On Friday, 11th of December - two weeks after its tedious, official twin bores the knickerbockers off the nation – the 3rd annual Manky Toy Show will be broadcast live from fústar HQ. The format will, in the great tradition of…great traditions, be almost exactly the same as the previous two years. Booze, shit toys, spontaneous analysis, exhaustion. You're all invited. Every last sad & stinking one of you.

The vibe is (as always) – interactive. So here's what I need you to do. a) Go forth and purchase a manky toy for less than 5 Euro (budget stretched for special occasion); b) Take some pictures of said toy and write some words about its shitness (or its charm); c) Send said pictures and words to me. I will do the rest.

Oh and don't forget to actually turn up at 9 PM on the evening in question. Otherwise I'll be here pitching my A-material to an empty hall. Like a sad and deluded fantasist. Unwrapping Transformer knock-offs as the world falls apart. *sniff*

Related Posts:
None for Anyone in the Audience: The 2008 Manky Toy Show – Live!
To Whom it Concerns…It’s The Manky Toy Show (Live)! [2007]

Doing so in the current climate of woe, penury & ruination, however, might seem crass and brazenly ostentatious. Like driving a diamond-encrusted SUV through a soup kitchen full of orphans. Thank the thirty lords, then, for "Footsie" – 25 cents worth of not-much-fun.

Rule number 1: If you're peddling a toy that's highly likely to disappoint, don't (whatever you do) put illustrations of crushed & disappointed-looking children on the packet. It rather gives the game away. In fairness to the boy, I suppose, he is at least attempting a half-hearted "Hey! This is brilliant!" act of denial. The girl, in contrast, is in no mood for mendacity. It's fucking rubbish…and she knows it.

Though I've deduced that hopping is somehow involved, I cheerily admit to being a bit fuzzy on exactly what Footsie is supposed to do. Given the name, with its connotations of gentle physical flirtation, might it be a tool for early sexual exploration? One that doesn't involve an invasion of private space?

"I daren't speak to Lucy…or even go very near her. If I could, though, just get my Footsie ball to cannon into hers…I'm sure she'd know something of my love."

Or could (as I suspect) these apparently harmless items instead be the heralds of a brutal, recession-driven, dystopia? One in which robotic orbs drag idle kiddies off to government-run slave labour camps?

I'm telling you. It's only a matter of time.

Today, by way of a small apologetic gesture, I bring you – WAR! That much-maligned human activity/phenomenon that's good for absolutely nuthin' (Huurgh!). Well, almost nothing.

For without war we young fellas of the 70s/80s would have been starved of Action Men (Mans?), cheapo replica (rat-a-tatting) machine guns, and the humble plastic soldier. These things may (on the minus side) have served to normalise gun violence and indoctrinate us into a world where militarism (and warmongery) was admired and fetishised – but, y'know, at least we weren't bored.

Though the humble plastic soldier occupied a lower rung of the war toy ladder, there existed, even here, significant variations in quality. Those that came housed in boxes like this…

…tended to be pretty classy: well-sculpted & historically accurate. They looked (plasticity aside) like real regiments involved in real campaigns in real wars.

The same could not be said for those that usually came stuffed in a clear plastic bag with a thin piece of cardboard stapled to the top. Lacking the polish and finish of their boxed comrades, these chunky, wonky, misshapen plastic grunts reeked of shabby amateurishness. They were mercenaries. Militia members. Feral deserters driven mad by the deprivations of war.

Today's (2 Euro) gang definitely fall into this latter category. They're a shouty, aggressive and highly strung lot. Here we see their Commanding Officers barking out their crazed orders.

And here some of the grunts lounging untidily beside a ruined gate.

Snooty Matchbox soldiers would be pretty horrified by the rag-bag lack of discipline on show. Yer man on the left? No helmet, maverick slicked-back hair, and untamed eyebrows. His pal on the right? Deserves a closer look…

Cross-eyed (and boggle-eyed) from drink. His gun cocked wildly. He's got "war crime" written all over him. The mangy and ravenous cur in the foreground (above) only adds to the atmosphere of depravity and despair.

Then there's this guy. Ready to snap, crackle and pop at any moment.

The things he must have seen, man. Entrails dangling obscenely from hollow eye sockets. Dying tongues flopping uselessly in the sand. Eyeballs on fire in pools of sick. He was once a man…

As was his (broken) bazooka-wielding pal…

So what's the message? War as dehumainisng hell? War as the ultimate degradation of the soul? Perhaps, but then there's the puzzling inclusion of a "Map of Africa" emblazoned with the up-beat (propagandic?) legend "Enlightened Children on a Brains" (see above). And this flag…

And then there's the fact that the doorways the boys are guarding are about "3 feet" high (too small for even the mad dog to crawl through). Tiny (unseen) natives, an all-white militia, enlightened children, brains – what does it all mean?

What is it good for? Huurrgh?

After culls and purges vicious enough to shame Uncle Joe Stalin, 5 battered & wobbly survivors are left (just about) standing in the "Best Popculture Blog" corner of d'Irish Blog Awards. Happily, mine is one of them. Two black eyes and a haunted look it may have, but it's still there – snuggled up to its fellows for comfort.

Hope all attending the ceremony enjoy copious high-jinks on Saturday night. I'll be joining in remotely – using my (admittedly crude) powers of bilocation. I may appear as gas, or a faint odour of Chipsticks, or a humanoid plant entity, but I'll be there (in the sense of not-being-there-at-all).

Over from London, to see their (first) first cousin, have arrived the lovely niece and lovely nephew. After a successful root around his grandparents' attic, the nephew (like a tiny, plastic-seeking, Indiana Jones) uncovered a box of vintage treasures. In said box were action figures of the Masters of the Universe and TMNT varieties.

While I could comfortably name He-Man, Man at Arms¹ and Buzz Off for the little man – most of the remaining identities could only be guessed at.

"Er…thats 'Fight Man', and that's 'Neck Head', and that one's 'Lizard Bad Fellow'".

And so on.

Though Masters of the Universe was (as I tried explaining to the nephew) a crudely animated, jumped up shit-toon of a toy advert, the associated toys weren't without a certain ludicrous charm. Like most kiddie action cartoons of the time the villains were particularly lame. Heroes had but to slice their belts with an accurate sword-swing and they'd instantly abandon their plans for world domination: hobbling off-stage with flushed cheeks and crossed hands over heart-patterned boxer shorts. Darth Vaders (or Uncle Joe Stalins) they definitely weren't.

For an example of said lameness (and said simultaneous ludicrous charm) see the below. God knows what his name is/was. EyePops? StalkLooker? MishMasher?

That's him in his "before" position.

Here's his "after" (action) pose.

Wow. Skeletor² must have rubbed his bony hands together with glee – thinking of the very specific situation(s) in which our pal's "powers" would come in useful.

Har, Har, He-Man! You think you can hide forever behind that modestly-sized brick wall? You think the fact that you are just out of eye-shot will save you? No longer! EyePops can extend the range/height of his vision by a very small amount! Assuming you aren't crouching down then you will surely be doomed! Har, Har!

Back I go to baby-attending (and radio silence). Peace out.

1. The spitting, squashy-headed image of Eugene Hughes by the way, snooker fans. [back]
2. A Kanu look-a-like according to my brother. [back]

Back in the early years of this decade, when fustar.info was but a faint twinkle in the deepest recesses of mine eye, I was a reasonably avid collector of McDonald's "Happy Meal" toys. Despite that company's (probably deserved) reputation as a monstrously evil corporate bogeyman, there was always something endearingly crap and half-baked about their mascots.

Hokiest and most winsome of these were McDonaldland's two chief public servants: Mayor McCheese¹ and Officer Big Mac. Their thrown-together (and incongruous) charm was more reminiscent of St. Patrick's Day parade volunteers – marching and waving in mangy, ill-fitting Bugs Bunny (or Tweety Bird) costumes – than polished products of the world's largest fast-food chain.²

By the time I'd started semi-seriously collecting, however, the mayor and his chief of police had been cruelly consigned to oblivion – victims of ruthless corporate "streamlining" in the 1980s.³ This inevitably meant that plastic objects bearing their burger-headed images became quite difficult to find, at least in the charity shops I used to regularly haunt.⁴

When the dust cleared on said "streamlining", McDonaldland was left with a core cast of but four: Head honcho Ronald, Birdie the Bird Girl, the reformed and defanged Hamburglar, and jolly purple blob Grimace.

Of these, the only character who retained much of the Mayor's crude appeal was the bould Grimace – a gormlessly optimistic, proto-Barney who carried a faint whiff of gender-transgressing danger.⁵ A lovable old soul certainly, but not necessarily (as Wikipedia confirms) the first being you'd turn to for a spot of corporate after-dinner speaking…

He is known for his slow-witted demeanor. His most common expression is the word "duh".

Hmmm. He was not, however, always the "well-meaning simpleton" his "duhs" might suggest. Back in his earliest incarnation he was a decidedly ill-meaning simpleton – dedicated (like the original Hamburglar) to theft and fun-interruption. To help him in this modest criminality he even had an extra pair of arms, all the better to grab and snatch. See the following, wretched-quality, video for details.⁶

This sudden and unexpected loss of arms, and total change of attitude (from baddie to goodie), is, of course, commonplace in another world – that of professional wrestling (well, apart from the arm-losing bit).⁷

In wrestling terminology Grimace's moral realignment would be know as a "face turn". The logical next step for Grimace, after a longish period spent as a beloved good guy, should have been an out-of-the-blue "heel turn" – i.e., a return to his former wicked ways. A short advertisement could easily have "sold" this reversal. Grimace "duhs" a few times before offering his hand/paw in friendship to his best pal Ronald. Ronald accepts. Grimace pulls him into a headlock and drops him face first (Ooh my!) onto a steel chair. That this hasn't (as yet) happened speaks volumes about the imaginative poverty of McDonald's creative team. Tsk, Tsk.

Even so, Grimace remains an intriguing and ambiguous figure. Behold the below for example – possibly one of the greatest objects I own.

Those reactionary fuckwits who viewed Tinky Winky's handbag as part of an insidious attempt to "homosexualise" pre-schoolers would no doubt read the pink scarf (and joyous body language) as clear indicators of an "alternative lifestyle".⁸

Did McDonald's anticipate this (possible) reaction? If so, they couldn't have side-stepped the issue better than by making the purple fella a kindly but moronic blob/slob. His incomprehension is harmless, and threatens not the status quo.

"It's OK kids. Grimace sometimes wears a skirt, or (y'know) a pink scarf and so on, but (bless him!) he doesn't understand! Silly old thing!"⁹

Then again…I dunno. I'm looking (closely) at his face and there's something in the rendering that suggests (if it's possible) a "defiant obliviousness". He is what he is and (damn it) he's somehow transcended the limits the "I'm lovin' it" mega-globo-corp has tried to impose on him. Onward he'll drive into the sunset (atop his little lime green cart) – waving at all of us. And for all of us.

1. The 2nd greatest fictional mayor of all time – after Mayor Richard Wilkins of course. [back]
2. Though this apparent crudeness could, of course, be a deliberate attempt by a much despised corporation to "soften" and deliberately undermine its all-powerful image. You wouldn't put it past 'em. [back]
3. They may actually have been driven to their graves by the makers of H.R. Pufnstuf – who successfully sued McDonald's in the 1970s for ripping off the characters they created. [back]
4. At this point I should point out that I have never, ever bought a Happy Meal. My entire collection comes from hours spent rummaging and rooting in charity shop baskets and bargain bins. Ronald McDonald never saw so much as a red cent of my money. In your fucking face, capitalism! [back]
5. More of this anon. [back]
6. I believe that's a young Jodie Foster. [back]
7. It's also not uncommon in Home & Away. [back]
8. I've a wind-up (skirt-wearing) hula-dancing Grimace somewhere that would send them over the edge entirely. [back]
9. Phew. We can all sleep soundly in our (heterosexual) beds. [back]

9.00 – A pair of cheap, stained curtains open. A thin figure bounds jovially through them and onto the stage. A glamorous, heavily pregnant, assistant follows (her movements cautious & wary). The scene reeks of tawdry & thrown-together charm – like a school nativity play performed by enthusiastic but bumbling & incompetent children.

[Virtual applause]

Ok. Alright. Thank you. Settle Down. Take your seats.

[More virtual applause]

Yes. Lovely. Hup! Hup! Thank you. Yes.

[Even more virtual applause. Louder and more ferocious this time. Almost deafening - with an edge of hysteria]

Yes! Lovely! LOVELY! Please stop… Please God stop… I'm scared… You're all MARVELLOUS! HELP ME! Oh Christ above in heaven…MY NERVES ARE SHATTERED!

[Instant, virtual silence]

[Slowly recovering composure] Ah? Yes. OK.

Welcome, welcome and thrice welcome dearest friends to the 2nd annual Manky Toy Show. I can't see you, and I can't feel you, but I know you're there. I can hear you breathing – heavily. It sounds like millions of tiny 1s and 0s smacking into my ear-hole. A not entirely unpleasant sensation.

Anyway, tonight's spectacular promises (in the spirit of one-upmanship) to be bigger, better, looser & more improvised than last year's. A Super Persil Ultra Plus to 2007′s boring old Persil Ultra. Like last Christmas, I'm being ably assisted by the fabulous (and admirably diligent) Jess. Unlike last year, Jess's movements and behaviour are being controlled by a tiny, internal puppeteer – our (currently) unborn daughter. If Jess starts flipping out and acting weird(er) then blame the wee passenger. If I start flipping out and acting weird(er) then blame the booze.

Away we go.

9.05 – I say "admirably diligent" but when I went downstairs to get her a minute ago she was passed out fast asleep on the couch. You can't get the help…

9.08 – First up, one for the lovely ladies. No prizes for guessing the inspiration.

9.10 – No, it's not a My Little Pony your honour. Not by a long chalk. My client's product is clearly marked "Fascination of Pegasus".

9.12 – The chief (only?) attraction of this one is the name. Fascination of Pegasus – a fascination I'm sure we've all felt at one time or another. Jess is tearing open the packaging now and looking confused. "What's up?", I ask. "It's a bit skinny for a horse", says she.

A "horse"? Pchah! Nil pois for Jess in the mythology quiz. This is no horse – but the magnificent winged steed of the gods.

Actually…it is a little skinny…

9.17 – A curious feature of "Fascination of Pegasus" and all other My Little Pony knock-offs is that they imitate a product that is surely well past its sell by date. While I don't (honest!) loiter round the girl sections of local toy shops I was under the impression that the Pony phenomenon died out sometime back in the 90s. So why then do the Manky Manufacturers persist in, yes, flogging a dead horse?

9.23 – Jess also notes that one of the wings comes off rather easily. A crucial and critical design failure for a horse that soars through heaven's lofty firmament. Wouldn't fancy it landing on my head (or the bonnet of my car – if I had one), but I have to admit that (design issues aside) it has a strangely attractive face. For a winged horse.

9.27 – The sponsors are roaring commands in my ear-piece so we must now pause for a scheduled ad-break. From the wonder & magic of mystical (and plastical) Pegasus to the good ol' pastoral charms of a lactating cow. Moo!

9.33 – Ah, lovely Milky – with her preee-tend milk and her luscious lady lips. If you thought Pegasus was hot, this one's a ride altogether! The glee with which "young fella A" pumps her tail is perfectly understandable. If all cows were this attractive the days of lonely stalkers would, surely, be over.

9.36 – Commenter "Chimp" has this to say about the science of Milky:

What unknown substance converts water into “pretend milk�?? Anthrax would be my guess…

Not entirely unfeasible. Back in the 70s Anthrax was available from even the most basic corner shop. They used to advertise it as a tonic against rickets.

9.40 – Jays, look at the time! My lovely assistant is fit for the bed already. Let's crack on. Toy number 2 please.

9.42 – Nothing like the glamour and sophistication of 007. And this is certainly nothing like the glamour and sophistication of 007. In fact, several of the objects list the agent as No. 707 – licence to look like a cross between Sean Penn & Nicholas Cage.

9.45 – Jess's verdict = A shamelessly wretched piece of mankiness. So bad they've lowered the price from the standard 2 Euro to a sub-standard 1.70. It's not wholly without its charms though. I mean, who could fail to be seduced and intrigued by "Passport of Universal"? I'm intrigued to see what's inside. What kind of magical diplomatic contents could allow the bearer to pass unhindered throughout the entire universe?

Answer: Blank grey cardboard…

Boo!

9.50 – A stern, but (as it turns out) wholly unnecessary warning, can be found at the foot of the box.

Do not use any bullets/darts/arrows or any other projectiles except those supplied with this toy.

Fine so, says I. Let's have a crack with the ammo supplied.

Oh wait. There isn't any. Bastards!

9.57 – The girls may be growing restless with all this man-nerd Bond talk, so let's turn to something pink, plastic and oozing class.

9.59 – I love the disconnect between the promise of Sweet Rita as seen on the box (smiling, magical, tiara-wearing princess) and the reality of what's inside. In Jess's words – "A sullen, trashy, balding whore with a missing thumb on her right hand".

10.05 – Commenter "Simon McGarr" offers this on Rita:

Sweet Rita may have Mentalist powers, betrayed by her distended forehead.

There could be a clue here alright. What if she once looked like the Sweet Rita the box promises? The Rita of smiles, regal waves, elegant balls etc. Through some unimaginably cruel and traumatic ordeal she has somehow been reduced to this lumpy-headed trash-queen we see before us. Trauma, stay with me, can often bring deeply buried powers to the fore(head). Are we now seeing a Rita who stalks the night like a mentalist vigilante wreaking havoc on all of mankind? Using the awesome powers of her extended (and demented) mind to…er…make leering men's cocks fall off…or something…

23.13 – Time for a) Another word from our sponsors, and, b) A quick slash (this Montepulciano D'Abruzzo is going through me like preee-tend milk).

10.18 – Sweet mother of suffering bestiality! That's not eating a Flake, that's inhaling it. One half expects a hot jet of molten Fry's Chocolate Cream to come squirting from the tip.

10.21 – Subtext? "Flake – The next best thing to sucking off a horse".

10.26 – An hour and a half (and the bone's of a bottle) in and it's time for our first super-duper-heroes.

10.28 – Manky Toy manufacturers have a genius for surfing the wave of the Zeitgeist. There's not a single cultural kiddie phenomenon that they fail to respond to with a flood of shit products. Within minutes of the recent Robert Downey Jr film hitting the screens you can bet a year's supply of preee-tend milk that the designers of Iron Storm were hard at work. I'm guessing (from experience) that the factories in question have thousands of generic, superhero/Power Rangers-esque body parts waiting for a crude paint job and a spot of opportune repackaging. A quick head change, a quick splash of the appropriate colour and "Bingo!" – you've got Iron Man, Spidey or whoever else the kiddies are currently going mental for.

10.32 – Like other mank before it, Iron Storm sets toy enthusiasts a very modest and manageable task.

Collect Them All? It seems like I just have! Hooray for me. Everyone's a winner.

One wonders if Golden Storm and Iron Storm have a relationship based on partnership and universe-saving, or if (instead) they're locked in an endless war of gouging, slicing and dicing antagonism. Who's the baddie? Is there a baddie?!

This ambiguity is messing with my head…

10.44 – At this point I though a musical interlude might have been in order. Something to soothe, relax and unwind you. Something to unfrazzle your nerve-ends and loosen your rigid neck muscles. Unfortunately the Digiboard 5000 has tones so maddeningly shrill and flat that exposure to them would make your ears leak torrents of pus and blood. I'll show you a pic though, and Jess will test it out (taking one for the team).

22.48 – Yes, the "Digital Display" is, in fact, a sticker. Yes, the abundant text promises a multitude of settings and a plethora of pre-set songs. No, the product doesn't live up to any of its promises…

The pre-set songs are all instantly recognisable classics.

Embrace.

In Metal.

Fluestr.

How Long Jordan.

Miss You.

Sensitive.

Medicine.

Miss you Rcality.

Hard to pick a favourite there.

22.55 – Fans of "How Long Jordan" may be surprised (and aggrieved) to discover that their beloved tune sounds suspiciously like "Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star" when given the Digiboard treatment. Likewise, the seminal "Miss you Rcality" has more than a touch of "There's No Place Like Home" about it. I think these anomalies may owe something to the fact that the instrument seems to be stuck on its "Rercussion" setting.

23.03 Sweet Rita's life may be one of skanky, big-headed misery but at least she doesn't have to suffer alone. She has a pal. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you (and please take her) the beautiful Candie.

23.09 – Jess's initial assessment of Candie's "style"? "Rural, shell-shocked, milkmaid slapper from the 80s". Meeow!

23.11 – With her special no-flatten tits (see comments), her come-hither lips, and her retro-chic sense of style you'd imagine that Candie would have the fake Action Men (i.e. Action Dans) lining up in their droves. If, however, even these abundant charms aren't enough she has a Ace up her sleeve (i.e. on her neck).

Her "Musical Blinking Necklace".

It has powers to soothe (or deafen) even the wildest beast.

23.19 – The pause between the tinny theme song from Love Story and the tinny whatever the fuck it was (Be not Afraid? Love me Tender?) is obviously the pause in which the potential suitor is saying, "Er, is that the time? I really must be going. I've got a big meeting tommor…"

Bleep, Bleep, Bleep! Bleep, Bleep, Bleep!
Bleep, Bleep, Bleep, Bleeeeeep, Bleep!

There's no escaping Candie once she's locked that blinking tractor beam onto you.

23.26 – Commenter "Embarr" helpfully tells us that we can learn how to play "Candie's Song" on the Digiboard here. The only mistake she makes is in assuming that the Digiboard functions in a manner that closely resembles a conventional keyboard. It really, really doesn't…

The black keys are purely ornamental. Actually, so are most of the white keys.

In a new and unexpected development, however, our cat has stamped all over the object and mashed the correct sequence to ensure "Happy Birthday to You" (or "In Metal" as it's better known) has come screeching out. Make it stop!

23.36 – A few final pieces of Candie goodness before we shove on. First – a warning. Despite her best attempts to convince us otherwise, it turns out that she's simply "not suitanble".

23.40 – Subject to technical change or change of [sic] color? What…after purchase?!

What we appear to have on our hands here is an adapting, evolving and mutating doll. I'm also intrigued as to what "possible correspondence" I could have with the relevant manufacturer. Dear China…

23.47 – Hang on a mo. One of our cats (the Digiboard smashing one) has puked and pissed on the floor. A combination of stress, cystitis and pure dementedness. I'll get me marigolds & a mop & be back.

00.01 – And we're back. I bet Pat Kenny's never had to break off mid-flow to mop up urine and vomit. Spoilt rotten that bastard is.

When I say, we're back, I mean – I'm back. Preggers McGeggers has had to call it a night and is now wrapped up in bed with an improving book.

No rest for the wicked. Let's carry on with our dis-improving mank. Where we? Ah yes, still on Candie! Jesus, she's dominating the night. Her power is matchless. One last pic before we (finally and mercifully) put her to sleep.

00.07 – There's something about the sweep of her hair and that teasingly exposed back (and I mean exposed – look at those batteries. Drool!) that gives the image an undeniable erotic charge. Countering this arousal are the grim words, "If her voice sounds weak…" – suggestive, as they are, of the slow fade-out into eternal silence that happens to us all. A moving moment. And a sobering one…needed after 3/4 of a bottle of plonk.

00.15 – Bye bye Candie, hello tonight's first piece of donated mank. As the donor (the absent Fergal Crehan. Where is he, the divil?) put it – "A toy so manky that it even has words like 'Terrible' and 'Horrible' plastered all over it". A rare display of honesty in an otherwise mendacious world. As it turns out, however, it's not 'arf bad.

00.22 – Before we even think of delving into the contents, just look at the box's exterior.

"Who's Played These Terrible Jokes On Me?"

That's not a young chap who's merely been the "victim" of a few harmless pranks that he can laugh off later. That's a broken young fella who's just had his self-esteem, his faith in mankind, and all hopes & dreams for the future utterly shattered.

He looks like he's been lured into believing (and the illusion must have been carefully built up over time) that the pranksters were his dearest friends. They loved him. They respected him.

It was all a lie! All a set-up for these cruel and brutal jokes. He's irreparably smashed…

00.31 – On to the contents (and I had to cheat a bit and open this earlier). Cue wide-eyed surprise and wild delight when these were the first things that fell out of the box.

The "must have" (but "never had"), lusted after and fetishised object of a childhood spent reading imported American comics. Mine at last!

Glad to see that "Wing Shing" are carrying on a fine tradition and brazenly over-selling their product.

Scientific Marvel of the Century

Controversial. I'd be tempted to bet against if we could gather the world's foremost scientists in my bedroom ("Watch out for that cat puke, Mr. Hawking") and put it to a vote.

00.47 – A "Snappy Gum" fandom seems to be forming itself in the comments section. Time to give the punters what they want.

2 points.

1) If you're going to try and trick an unsuspecting pal with "Snappy Gum" (and why wouldn't you? It's gas!) then try and avoid versions that actually have the word "Snappy" printed in big fat letters on the packaging. Tends to lessen the surprise.

2) Isn't "Wow, Wow" a rather curious reaction to finding one's finger trapped in a novelty gum packet?

00.55 "Embarr" is off I see. Darragh soon to depart? We're down to the die hards, and it's time to get hardcore. I'm going to offer myself a lovely piece of Winnie's Pure Mint Snappy Gum. Bring on the pain!

00.59 – The tension is unbearable. I'm teasing it out as slowly as I possibly can and remembering why I hated these yokes as a child. That horrible sense of something sudden, jolting, painful and unpleasant about to happen. I'm downing a goodly swig of vino to steel my nerves.

As I do so I can't help but be amused by the instructions on the box's rear.

Serve your friend the item & ask him to take the gum himself.

This is obviously designed to help slow-witted pranksters avoid inflicting the intended damage on themselves.

"Fancy a chewing gum?"

"Sure, here you are. AAAHHHHH!!!"

01.05 – Kabang! As with all such things (well, apart from getting shot etc) the expectation was far worse than the eventuality. No pain at all. The spring mechanism is well-cushioned and child-proofed. I'm mildly impressed, and half-tempted to cry "Wow" (once only).

01.11 – Next, the never-popular "Fly & Spider".

No instructions on this one. What's the story? Are you supposed to sprinkle the little fellas on your Dad's steak (and sit back to watch the hilarity, or savage beating, unfold)? It's unclear…especially because the elderly gent pictured seems to be rather enjoying the fact that his meat is teeming with insect/arachnid life.

01.17 – Well into overtime now so we'd best leave the fake (pretzel-shaped) poos for another day. Just looking again at the packaging for the "X-Ray Gogs". Imagine they did actually work? The kid who's so thrillingly looking at the bones of his own hand would soon find himself riddled with cancer.

"I jus' wanted ta see the bones in my own hand, Doc. Just once. And then I couldn't stop!"

"You're a very sick boy now, Jimmy, and you're almost certainly going to die…"

[tearfully] "It was worth it, Doc! I saw my pal Joey's sister's undies through her dress! I'm ready to die now, Doc!"

1.33 – Perfect timing. The last sup of vino tinto has been gulped down (*hic*), the last of the stragglers are winding their weary ways toward their comfy beds, and the last of my energy has disappeared into the December ether. Time to pack up, put things back in boxes (tomorrow…) and say goodnight (blowing farewell kisses of joy and love as I do so).

The "Winter Wonderland Girls" will take us away to the black 'n' white (and endlessly chipper) land of nod.

[Curtains Close]

Friday, 5th December, 2008 @ 9.00 p.m.

Pencil that date and that time into your diaries. If you don't have a diary then sprint madly out the door this instant and buy one. If you don't have a pencil…then, God help us, the recession must be shafting you most brutally.

So what's so special about Friday, 5th December, 2008 @ 9.00 p.m? Well, that's when the 2nd annual (Live) Manky Toy Show kicks off. The date chosen is not entirely random or arbitrary – being exactly one week after RTÉ bores us all to slow and painful death with its own Lame Lame Show version.

So if, tomorrow night, you find yourself compelled to put your boot through the TV (in a vain & desperate attempt to utterly destroy Pat Kenny's fat, monstrous face) then join us here on the 5th for a jolly antidote to the Late Late's festering poison. There's nothing like 2 Euro mank to put a seasonal spring in your step. It beats succumbing to impotent rage and gnawing your fists into bloody stumps at any rate.

Don't forget that I'm also encouraging active audience participation. If you happen to stumble across a Manky Toy that you feel warrants inclusion then please don't hesitate to send it to Fústar HQ (address available on request). It'll help foster the right collaborative spirit…and save me money.

Friday, 5th December, 2008 @ 9.00 p.m.

Cancel all other plans.

Related Posts:
The Toy Show: An Alternative
To Whom it Concerns…It's The Manky Toy Show (Live)!
The Manky Toy Show 2008: The Countdown Begins…

Ask square and un-hip members of society what the highlight of their 2007 Christmas season was and they'll most likely answer: the dinner; time spent with loved ones; browsing through the bumper issue of the RTÉ Guide etc. Cool cats, in contrast, will instantly acknowledge that one yuletide event left all other seasonal experiences paling in comparison.

I speak, of course, of The Manky Toy Show – this blog's (award-nominated, oooh!) attempt to spit blood in the eye of P. Kenny & his bloated, consumerist love-in (a.k.a The Late Late Toy Show).

As the perceptive among you may have guessed, that intro was my way of saying – "We (my lovely assistant Jess and I) are doing it again this year".¹ Yay!

Like last time, it'll be "Live" – with yours truly opening boxes and offering unscripted (and incredulous) reactions on the fly. As I do that, you (dear reader) will hopefully be banging out witty comments between mouthfuls of turkey & sips of red wine.² In between there'll be bits of music & pieces of video to get (and keep) you in seasonal mood.

Commenting ain't the only way to participate though. You can (and please do) send me physical/actual Manky Toys by post for review and inclusion. Though the "rules" of Manky Toy Monday usually restrict outlay to 2 Euro per item I think we can make exceptions on this splendid & special occasion.

Spend up to 5 quid if you like. Go nuts!

No date set yet (or "yet set"?) for the "show" but it night be cool to hold it on the same night as RTÉ's official cack-fest, no?

Watch this space, make some suggestions, and (if you feel so inclined) send me some stuff.³

Related Posts:
The Toy Show: An Alternative
To Whom it Concerns…It's The Manky Toy Show (Live)!

1. Well, "We are doing it again this year" is also my way of saying we're doing it again this year. But you see what I mean. [back]
2. Pre-Christmas turkey and red wine to be provided by yourselves. I'm not made of money. [back]
3. Fústar HQ postal address provided on request. [back]

I've mentioned (somewhere) before that I, like most children, was more than happy to mix, match and mash together toy worlds and universes in the name of fun. This tolerance of inconsistency led to situations where Star Wars figures happily played 5-a-side soccer with Subbuteo balls, "Sylvanian Families" found their rustic cottages transformed into Ewok tree houses, and Sindy & Action Man shared both a bed and tedious domestic "adventures". All of this was, in my imaginative multiverse, perfectly acceptable.

There were, however, situations when even I was forced to draw the line and cry "Stop the lights! That don't make one lick of sense". A case in point? The conceptually nutty (and brazenly exploitative) phenomenon that was/is the "Superhero/villian plus Ridiculous & Unnecessary Vehicle" toy. You know the ones. Spider-Man on a quad bike. The Hulk driving a JCB. Superman in his Supercopter.¹ Dr Doom on a Pogo Stick. That kind of thing.

Since the makers of Manky Toys never miss a trick or a trend, I was in no way surprised to find just such an unlikely 2 Euro pairing in Wickham Street's Europlanet (or whatever it's actually called).² The hero included was the ubiquitous (and aforementioned) Spider-Man (he absolutely dominates the Manky market). Nothing particularly interesting or unusual about him – other than a "Sacred Heart" chest light (we've seen this before), a gold spider on each breast, and the usual manky absence of a paint job on his back half.

The real star of the pack is Spidey's cuddly, chirpy, freaky, Jimbo & the Jet-Set-esque means of transport. Here "he" is.

Awww. Ain't he cute? Big, googly, moist headlamp eyes and a stuck-on-spider button nose. All he wants in life is to wuv you (and to be wuvved in return).

Plastered all over his un-aerodynamic body are stickers advertising his pal Spidey's strengths and talents.

1) He's tough.

2) He's fast.³

3) He's…er…the highest point…

Despite our little friend's enthusiasm for his friend/master, problems of scale (and manky production) render him sadly useless on a practical level. Where's a shrink (or grow) ray when you need one?

Anyhoo, the midnight hour approaches and the voice of reason suggests 'tis time for bed. Here's a gratuitous ass-shot as a parting gift.

The licence plate (or cryptic message) is unexpectedly official (or mysterious). The rudimentary anus is simply hilarious.

1. Er, can't he fly? Ed. [back]
2. I think it used to be Black Spot records. [back]
3. Or "excellent" if you interpret this boast as Limerickian slang. [back]

There's something vaguely touching and poignant about mysteries that have (due to the whims of fashion) passed out of mainstream popular consciousness. Where once they might have been given high billing on Arthur C. Clarke's Mysterious World, or been deemed worthy of sizeable entries in Usbourne's books of the unexplained (etc), they're now consigned to prowl around the internet's outer perimeters – scrabbling at the main gate and (feebly) demanding re-entry.

Such thoughts are on my mind thanks to the memory-jogging effects of my newly purchased TV Cream Toys. There, on page 31, I recently stumbled across words that once (when I was but a wide-eyed youth) caused thrilling ripples of delicious fear to zip up and down my spine -

Bermuda Triangle.

If ever there was a mystery that had (from a position of some significance) seen its stock rapidly plummet and crash then it was this same triangle. Popularised by Charles Berlitz, and rendered instantly kitschy by Barry Manilow, the triangle was (during the 1970s) one of the most potent phenomena on the Fortean radar.

It didn't (like more conventional mysteries) just frighten, bewilder and discombobulate people – it actually made them disappear. The thought of thus disappearing, instantly and eternally, struck my childish sensibilities as one of those "fates worse than death" you occasionally heard mentioned. One minute you were there – reading an in-flight magazine & contemplating a week in the Caribbean sun – and the next minute you were (horribly and inexplicably) gone. Doomed, as I supposed, to an eternity of useless shrieking and floating in some swirling, trans-dimensional no-space.

Realising that children would respond to this gnawing dread by consuming products based on the very thing they feared, Milton Bradley hopped on the zeitgeisty gravy train and gave us Bermuda Triangle: The Board Game.

Until I saw the pictures in TV Cream Toys I'd forgotten that any such object ever existed – and with good reason. Unlike those board games of yore that managed to adapt to changing times and remain relevant (cf. Cluedo), Bermuda Triangle's time in the pop-cultural sun was but a brief one. Like the triangle itself it remains firmly (and fittingly) rooted (and trapped) in the 1970s.

As far as actual game mechanics are concerned, I remember little, having probably played it but twice or thrice. The description on BoardGameGeek doesn't immediately set pulses racing…

"In this game, you try to run a successful ship-transport operation…"

Yikes. Words that would make any observant child suspect that a dreary and dreadful "educational" board game was being foisted upon them by joyless parents. Happily the sentence ends with a bang that boots such suspicions into touch:

In this game, you try to run a successful ship-transport operation in the mysterious Bermuda Triangle.

Hoorah! That's better.

On a side note, I'm disappointed to discover that Mr. Manilow's ditty is not the musical investigation of the paranormal I'd always imagined it to be. Instead of dealing with time vortexes, alien kidnapping etc., it turns out to be little more than a warning about the dangers of your woman "disappearing" into another fella's arms while on a sun holiday. As if the song's lame partner-swapping "humour" isn't tedious enough, the only version of it I could easily find online comes pre-packaged with a shit video based on shitty Lost. Apologies:

A final question then. Do chiddlers these days still have sleepless nights pondering the (contemporary) likes of the Bermuda Triangle, or have pedophilic/terrorist bogeymen moved in to dominate their nightmares instead? Answers to the usual address.

P.S: I'm getting so much fecking spam in my "moderated comments" queue that I can no longer be bothered sifting through it for the genuine articles. If anyone's comment gets accidentally nuked then please email me (fustar@fustar.info) and I'll sort it out.

As stated in my last post, we recently returned from an extended-family holiday in Connemara where, for much of the time, the wind howled deafeningly and the rain fell in buckets poured by a wrathful (and unsympathetic) God. During those evenings when we when we were forced to shelter from such elemental terrors, Cluedo (that game of beatings, stabbings, strangulations and shootings for all the family) provided moderate slices of entertainment.

Being someone who gets easily upset by the processes of change and "updating" (or should that be "updation"? What's the noun?) I did find myself slightly saddened by the transformations the suspects had undergone. Not, I hasten to add, because I automatically cling (like the hidebound and reactionary Col. Mustard) to "the old ways", but rather because I wholeheartedly subscribe to the philosophy – "Don't fuck with good design".

Take Professor Plum for example. Where once he had a memorable air of faintly roguish smugness…

…he's now (or at least he was, see below) lumbered with preposterous academic self-satisfaction and pomposity:

Plus he has a quiff. An orange quiff. And an actual humanoid body. All rendered in a charmless style that leaves little room for ambiguity (a vital quality in a game based on figuring out whodunnit).

The pitch-black backgrounds and (vividly-coloured) long-necked, curvy "plastic" bodies of the original game cards winningly combined elegance and menace. Or, as was the case with the fiery Miss Scarlett, sex and murder.

She may have been little more than a head, but to a young fella starved of sexual stimuli she had a "come hither (and I'll smash your brains in with a lead pipe)" look that was hard to resist.

The new and unimproved Scarlett looks vaguely like an emaciated Catherine Zeta Jones. Angular and cool, where the 1940′s (Betty Grable-esque) version was soft, curvy and volcanic.

The ugliness of the design may partially explain why I no longer find myself as drawn to Miss. S as I once was. Of greater significance, perhaps, is the fact that in the years since I last played Cluedo I've a) had sex, and, b) seen women naked. After such formative life experiences, drawings of board game characters no longer seem quite as erotically charged.

The morning after one of our Cluedo sessions (where, surprise surprise, Scarlett was found to be the murderer) my parents-in-law opened their copy of The Telegraph to discover a coincidence – an article detailing Hasbro's latest "reinvention" of the game. Being the Telegraph, of course, the tone was a tad on the "Is nothing scared?" side – inviting its readers to bemoan the replacement of lead pipe with baseball bat, library with spa, and Professorial Plum with "video-game billionaire" Plum.

One such online reader ("Jane") took up this invitation with indignant gusto:

The launch of an American 'updated' version seems extraordinary. The thought of swapping the bumbling Colonel Mustard with 'an ageing footballer turned pundit' doesn't seem quite right. I dread to think what he will be called; Miss Scarlet swapped for a 'lap dancer' or something even more 'exotic'.

We, as a family, have been using the same board for 4 generations and see no reason to change it to some awful Americanised version. The children have 'The Simpsons' version of Cluedo; it has been played with once as they prefer the PROPER version.

Tally ho! Modern Culture 0, Middle England 1.

Anyhoo, here are the even more rejigged Scarlet (sic), Mustard and Plum:

The Zeta-Jones-ing of Scarlett/Scarlet is complete and with it my childhood love/lust is dead. Dead like a bloated celebrity corpse. In a spa. With a baseball bat rudely jammed up its arse.

Combine this apparently unproblematic (and unreformed) masculinity with the very real tragedy of so many of New York's finest dying in the twin towers and you're more than half-way to explaining why hordes of (non-firefighting) meatheads wander around in FDNY t-shirts. They're not showing any considered solidarity with the dead. They're just trying to casually associate themselves with notions of heroism and sacrifice as they get slaughtered in shit pubs with their friends. In other words – a shower of cunts.

Today's entry into the Manky Toy hall of uselessness doesn't deserve such violent scorn, just sympathy. He's trying his best (on a modest budget) to be a valuable member of the Rescue Services. It's not his fault he's so poorly constructed.

I've spoken before of the squashy-headed "Action Dan" (Action Man's bastard, "pound shop" alter-ego), but hadn't actually stumbled across a "proper" Dan since I started critiquing Manky Toys over a year and a half ago…until now that is.

For what we have before us here today is emphatically an Action Dan – squashy head (check), ill fitting boots & clothes (check), small number of "points of articulation" (check). Most telling of all, though, are the hands. While the genuine, fuzzy-haired Action Man had a mighty grip that could clutch weapons, other Action Men, and his non-existent phallus…

…Dan never had anything but moulded plastic flippers (handy for slapping, but less useful when trying to squeeze triggers).

If Sindy (or Maureen) ever got trapped in a blazing plastic house then the best Dan could do would be to kick his axe hopefully (and pathetically) at the front door. His poor wretched flippers would never (even if they didn't melt off) be up to the required standard.

In those dark moments when he's haunted by such failings, however, he can (at least) still take comfort in his sculpted six-pack and equally sculpted flesh coloured Y-fronts.

The Manky God never taketh away with one (plastic) hand without giving with the other. Amen.

As if by way of tribute to the relationship between Anne Wood's demented quartet and stoner culture, today's Manky Toy introduces us to some utterly smashed looking "Phoney-tubbies" (seen below shuffling through the rolling poppy fields of Phoney-tubbie-land):

"Phoney-tubbie" is, of course, my coinage. The makers of these little chaps having gone for the slightly less catchy (and slightly more bonkers) "Little Animal Telephone".

My "Little Animal" appears to be a knock-off of "Dipsy" (he of the black and white hat) – if, that is, Dipsy had been the subject of a 60s underground comic ("Dipsy the Dyspeptic"?) drawn by Robert Crumb.

His face: A ghastly pallor. His eyes: Two rancid eggs floating in pools of watery blood. Life as a humanoid telephone is obviously proving too freaky to bear.

Regular readers of this series will no doubt have noticed his kinship to the Spidey-Phone featured in last Christmas's Manky Toy Show (and subsequently given away at the 2008 Irish Blog Awards). Like Spidey, my little fella doubles up as a torch – a fact celebrated by the immortal (and baffling) words, "Nighttime a bankable actor".¹

To ensure the bankability of the actor in question we're encouraged to "Install Two 'AA' Size Batteries", though we're cautioned that these are "(Not Included)". Mere millimetres below this apologetic admission, however, we find these yokes firmly attached:

Oh mama. As if the drug-crazed bug-eyedness of the "Little Animal" wasn't enough to guarantee value for money, we're treated to the delightful bonus of "free" bootleg batteries.

First glance suggests "Duracell". Second glance casts doubt on first glance. Third glance confirms "Dinaoell" (Super Extra).

Far out.

P. S: "Manky Toy Monday" will, from henceforth, no longer be exclusively restricted to Mondays. The Dreadful Thoughts Story Club has more or less claimed that day as its own so MTM shall now float freely (even though the name remains the same). Speaking of Dreadful Thoughts – don't forget that the next meeting is this Monday (April 7th), starting at 8 PM. Join us.

1. He also makes the same maddening sounds (bleeps, woofs, 5 second bursts of shrill, tinny music etc). [back]