1) Clad in black, austere, severe, surrounded by cats. Here is the Old Maid archetype. The terrifying spectre of moth-balled, odd-ball female singledom that haunts the dreams of women everywhere (or so patriarchal bastard card-mongers would have you believe). She stares vacantly into space. Impossibly empty space. Joyless and despair-filled space. Silent space punctuated only by the dull "plop" of cat shit hitting the floor.

2) Chirpy, unreasonably optimistic, and demented gargoyle. Tragically out of step with contemporary fads and fashions. Caked in cheap make-up in a late and desperate bid to hook a man. A pantomime dame, a drag queen, a disaster. A lesson to ladies everywhere. Dear God, don't leave it too late.

3) Clad in the mode of a terrifying maiden aunt, her meanings seem, at first glance, easy to unpick and unpack. But there's that roguish smile. And there's that…um…circus. Is she proud of that "Admit One" ticket she so brazenly displays? Is this an "Old Maid" content with her singular lot? Can society cope with such a creature?

4) Rich. Eccentric. Crazy cat lady. Rattling tipsily around a decaying mansion. Simple.

5) Mary Poppins with an inhuman taste for man-flesh. Crazed rictus grin revealing teeth sharpened into vampiric points. Not just sexually and socially dead, but undead. Yet still somehow predatorial. Flee, menfolk. Flee! She wants to chomp yer balls clean off.

6) Young girl thinks – "Whatever happens in my life, I must not become her".

7) Parrot shrieking the name of a lost love (drowned at sea). Animal menagerie stinking up the house with the odour of faecal matter and social maladjustment. Heart arrowed not by Cupid but by his malevolent bastard cousin. A motif that recurs in our next offering…

…which has the added non-bonus of spectacles (Ugh! Intellectual!), a bedraggled and suicidal feline, and knitting – the non-sexiest thing one can do with one's hands. You can't knit passion. You can't knit a child!

9) A greater sin than unwanted, unwonted and grossly inappropriate sexual aggression is…ice-cold, buttoned-down, purse-lipped frigidity. Who does she think she is?

10) Witch and her familiar. Drinker of infant blood. Pure evil.

Five seconds later and my memory centres were launched on a Proustian rocket ride back into the (usually) dim and (always) distant past. Clacton-on Sea, circa 1976. The elder sister and I shyly stand by the door of a promenade apartment as an elderly woman shuffles over to her card table. She lifts its lid and produces two small boxes. One, an "Animal Snap" game of some sort (which she places tenderly into my nervously-outstretched hand).

The other? My sister's prize? Old Maid. The exact same Old Maid. Same (glorious) font; same lurid colour scheme; same thin and sweet-smelling cardboard. 34 years…erased in an instant. I was so utterly transported I nearly forgot to buy a jumbo-bag of Maltesers.

Anyway, delicious as the exterior is/was, it is but a taster of the delights that await within. I have no idea how you play Old Maid (even after reading the enclosed instructions), so I'll take a cue from the title, and 1940s aesthetic, and assume it's all about not getting "left on the shelf", like a mad, dessicated old cat lady.

The pack is divided into pairs of hunky and eligible bachelors¹ on one side (the side of right, naturally), and a lone "Old Maid" card on the other (rocking a slightly less Old-Maidy look than her *totes* frigid sister on the box).

There she waits, the patron anti-saint of non-romance – dooming all who touch her to an anguish-stuffed life of unutterable loneliness and despair. Yay! Root through the purse of any single woman of a certain age and you'll find (tucked away at the bottom) a tattered card such as this. A grim reminder of the youth, hope and dreams that now lie smashed and shattered. The Old Maid smiles, thinly. She has won…again.

What you should have done, single ladies, is picked one of these majestic specimens. They are the cardboard embodiments of all that is good in manly man. Look at all we have to offer? There is simply no need to die alone and unloved in a dank, dark house where (because of your weird, off-putting spinster-ness) your body lies undiscovered for weeks. The cats probably eat a bit of you too. All because you were too proud, or fussy, or intellectual or something. Look what you missed out on.

Proto-Top Gun studs in bulgy suits!

Big Caruso baldies with tiny feet!

Wet sucky-lemon-faced Tory minister types!

Passionate artist chaps who'd get all sexy and paint you nekkid!

Golf ball smashers!

Outdoorsy Victorians who hit fish with big sticks!

Um, lady cyclists…

And, my personal favourite, sharp-suited, pipe-smoking, dreamy motorcar enthusiasts! Look at the crease on those slacks! Swoon!

If, after all this, you still insist on turning your disdainful, womanly nose up at the above catalogue of wonders…then I suggest you grab the nearest cat and disappear into the gloom and the silence. The chaps (Tally ho!) will carry on regardless. The "Old Maid" – eternal, terrible and deathless as the deepest sea – will add another soul to her collection.

[Full Set Here]

1. Steady, girls! [back]

(Scene: The interior of a modest semi-detached house. The décor is fussy, chintzy and predominantly brown. The general air is one of mildew and despair. Christmas decorations have been placed hither and yon in a bid to lift some portion of the gloom…but they are of poor quality. On a (fussy, chintzy and predominantly brown) sofa sit two figures. On the left is Kathleen Ni Houlihan – the personification of the Irish nation in female form. She is wearing a filth-encrusted slanket and is munching contemplatively on an After-Eight. On the right is Gorgothogohnx – bringer of despair. A bipedal, demonic reptoid from the the 14th Orbiton of Balthodox.)

Kathleen Ni Houlihan: Ochón! But it's been, like, a mouldy old year for Ireland. And, of course, by extension, myself, being the the personification of the Irish nation in female form and all. It's been one flippin' punch in the tits after another, hasn't it Gorgothogohnx?

Gorgothogohnx: Tits. Yes.

Kathleen Ni Houlihan: (*sighs, dramatically*) I sometimes wonder where it will all end. Do you like my slanket?

Gorgothogohnx: Comfy.

Kathleen Ni Houlihan: (*chuckles*) You're a gas man, Gorgothogohnx! (*flips through channels with remote*) There's never anything on the telly. Do you fancy a cuddle?

Gorgothogohnx: Coitus.

Kathleen Ni Houlihan: Ha! You're not wrong, Gorgothogohnx! A bit of whatever you're having yourself. So…

Gorgothogohnx: …Headache…

Kathleen Ni Houlihan: (furiously) Well piss right off back off to the 14th Orbiton of Balthodox so, why don't you?! I hate your scaly cock anyway. It's bad enough being the personification of a *totes* fucked nation without having that scaly cock of yours humping me, mechanically.

Gorgothogohnx: After-Eight.

Kathleen Ni Houlihan: (*sighs*) G'wan so… It's the last one. But that never stops you. Ochón, I'm shocking depressed now, Gorgothogohnx. Flip on your Balthodoxian vidi-screen there and let's have a gawk at what's happening in Limerick. It's the jolliest place on earth. It always cheers me up.

Gorgothogohnx: Yummers. Obliging.

(On comes the vidi-screen. The image is fuzzilated at first. Indistinct. But then, slowly, a clear picture begins to form. A different semi-detached house. A man. A woman. Two cats. A toddler [sleeping, hopefully]. Some cheap alcohol. A giant sack of mank. The national mood is about to be given the ride of its life.)

9.00: *sings* "There is no place I know that compares to pure i-mank-ination". Yes. Forget the birth of Santa. Forget Christ's eventual graduation (with second class honours) from college…or whatever it was. This is where the xmas-winter-fest really begins. Our shit is gonna blow your faces off – like a gold, frankincense & mir bomb. I'm well into the Beaujolais. My lovely helper, Jess/Bettyoctopus, is slobbering into a tin of Polish beer. Time to kick your bums. Welcome.

9.03: Right. To boot us off – let's go Billy Barry on this mother and get jiggy with it. As a mood-setter I offer you a seasonal classic so magnificent and indestructible not even the monstrous evil of U2 could totally wank all over it. Darlene Love – take it away:

9.09: Okee dokee do. Hope that has you (like me) weeping into your sherries – like the wimpy and maudlin bastards that you are (and I am). Toys! Let's get to the toys!

9.12: Fans of Strumpet City will appreciate this one. The toy of choice for we who now squat muck-covered and destitute in our cardboard negative equity boxes. I give you…Dire Rat.

9.16: Bleeeurrgh! Note the top left corner. "Wonder World of Nature". Er…"Horror Planet of Vermin and Disease" more like. It's a toy dreamt up by Werner Herzog – who sees nought but decay and brutality and savage bloody murder in this thing we like to think of as cuddly and sublime (and watercoloured) old nature. Jess opening it now. Report imminent.

9.20: Jess's findings: 1) "Texture = Human organ filled with gravel". 2) "Smells of nothing". NOTHING!

9.22: Garrr! She's just fucked it across the room at me. My thoughts (as I recover from the trauma) are…ancient used condom stuffed with haemorrhoids.

9.25: Right. Enough of the gooey and organic and pus-filled natural shit. Bring on the robots! They're better than us (and rats). They don't poo or leak or carry the plague. Let's boogie – "Interstellar Combatant":

9.29: "The Truth Who the Eyes Met Before", says our combatant (sounding like a new romantic album title, or a perfume ad from Veidt). Thus bewildering and circuit-fucking his enemies' digital brain-boxes. Jess unboxing him. While we wait I draw your attentions to his "futuristic" microphone. Beloved of Britney Spears, Will.i.am, and the interstellar combatants of the telesales world.

9.35: Unboxed. Batteries inserted. On switch activated. And…sweet mother of robot Christ! He sounds like the apocalypse, falling down a flight of stairs! We had to rush him into the next room for fear his shrieking would awaken our (human) child. To my (deafened) ears he appears to be roaring:

LET'S SHELTER IN THE MUD-SKIPPER! 3! 2! 1! FOLD!!!

Oh, Interstellar Combatant…you're a gas man.

9.39: The "Thunderclap" portion of his subtitle is no idle boast. He is like a robo-Brian Blessed after a bin-liner of crack. Think I've developed tinnitus. To go with the dose of plague I caught from Dire Rat.

9.43: He's obviously gifted in interstellar Orwellian double-speak too. "My Mission is Exterminate the Enemy. Maintenance Peace". Total peace, means total war. Or, in this case, total hearing loss.

9.46: Time to go (like the big corpo-Mammon-whores that we are) to a message from our sponsors. This may upset you. Back in a bit.

9.51: The laughs grow ever more manic. The mouth gapes opener and opener. The cute little girls roar hysterically as their teeth fall out and rivers of blood spurt from their eyes. And into that swirling vortex of a mouth Baby-gobble-a-soul sucks your eternal essence. Happy Christmas!

9.56: Moving on from robo-overlords and demon dollies…let's say hello to "The World of Animal: Species Diversity". A toy for snot-nosed little Richard Dawkins lovin' punks everywhere.

10.00: On the face of it, a fairly uninspired collection of big scary safari (and polar) badasses. Open the packet, however, and out tumble cards of the purest fabulousness. What they prove, as they narrate the tale of some wolves who eloped to Canada (I think…who can tell?), is that Manky Toy-mongers should never over-reach themselves in the prose department. Example one:

10:07: Mr Shotgun! You horrible murdering cunt! Leave Fuzzy and Buzzy (whoever they are) alone! Moving onward and madward:

10.11: Mr Shotgun and his "intimates" (Matron, please!) forcing the innocent to move to Canada (for fear of murder)? Is this a coded expression of the Irish national situation as we enter (oooh, er) 2011? And more…

10.17: "Be prudent, hide in a cave" – words to live by in difficult times. As for the sad lament of the wolf…

"I look like a dog. But people and animals are all afraid of me because I like eating them".

…it's hard to sympathise. Didn't Jeffrey Dahmer once say much the same thing in his defence? Call me narrow-mined, but when someone is gleefully eating me I tend to struggle with empathy and the bonhomie. Finally, kangaroo-size-accuracy purists may wish to look away for a moment.

10.24: Humans. They can be the size of an atom or as tall as a Godzilla! Except they can't. And neither can kangaroos. Dawkins would go mentoid if he read this shit. It's evil-er than a giant Hitler-shaped bin stuffed with all the world's religions. Righto. Time to hit the ads, the booze, and the jacks. Be back in two tickety-boos of a rat-sized kangaroo's tail.

10.36: When your "toy" isn't actually for anything and only does one thing that nobody would really want to do anyway (as it causes dizziness, pain and, ultimately, premature agonising death) then having someone constantly shriek out "What?" is a stroke of evil genius. Thus its WTF-ness becomes all mysterious and enigmatic (and whiplashy). Readers old enough to remember "Big Ed Loves Mona!" will sympathise.

10.41: Oh, and there's also a great group shot of Swing-Wingers lurching over the brow of a hill. Like the shittest invading Z-Movie alien army of all time.

10.42: "Go check on the cat", Jess just said to me. "Huh?", says I. "The cat we're growing", says she. "Huh?", says I – until I remembered. Now I wish I hadn't…

10.44: This beauty was gifted to me by the good people of Spanish Exposition HQ (who're out gallivanting tonight presumably). As gifts go – it's about as welcome as an envelope full of smallpox. It had been sitting in a Petri dish of water for some hours, not doing much…or anything at all, but having just checked on it now I'm desperately hoping that Ireland has some equivalent of those super-cool CDC hazmat suit-wearing fellas you'd see in the X-Files. The whole thing is covered in grotesque, pulsing fungoid type growths. I kid you not (I wish I did). Worse still, some of said growths attached themselves to me as I was transporting it from the other room and my hands are now covered in a toxic orange paste. I also may have breathed some of the spores in. Mummy…

10.52: To take my mind off my impending descent into "Fluffy Grow Pet"-Ebola madness I'm going to grab some man stuff. Raaarrgh!! Kill!! Here's what Fergal Crehan (@Fergal), the mannest man in the manverse, sent me…

10.56: Is that the best glaive? Is that even a glaive? What's a glaive? "Modern Style and Good Toy" – Oh, manky toy makers – god bless your misleadingness.

11.02: I've banged this pair of "glaives" against the shield for some minutes now and I'm still not being let get surprised and pleased. Boo! Time for some more man stuff – to hit Jess with till she cowers 'neath the glaive shield like a whimpering little woman! Mwaaa haaa! I call thee forth – God of Archer!

11.07: Not only is Jess cowering, she is also deeply confused as I – acolyte of the God of Archer – whip out a tiny sword and shield combo. Um…she's stopped cowering now. And her best glaive has made shit of me. Sniff. In fairness, my hand is being consumed by a fungoid lurgy of death as we speak. It's reached the wrist. Crawling with ruthless purpose toward the brain (or anus).

11.12: Ok. Warrior Jess involved in the opening and deconstruction of a complex, turd-like piece of mank. To keep us busy for a moment, let's gaze once again on the wonders of our sponsors. "More creepy doll shit!", you shout? Don't say you didn't ask…

11.19: "I…want…to…tell…you…a…secret".

AAAHHH!! AAAAAHHHHH!!! AAAHAHHHHHHHHHHAAAHHH! AAHHHHHHH!

(*stops for breath*)

AAAAHHHHHHAHAHAAHGGHHHHHAAA!!!!!

"…kill…them…all…".

11.23: In a bid to help you regain some semblance of your shattered composures – I give you this. The boring-est kind of non "God of Archer" cack that well-meaning (but gormless) relations used to give you in a futile attempt to force "education" (yuk!) upon you. Jess has been banging away at it (waaa!) for some time.

11.38: Like all dreary toys that purport to be edu-taining, they come with instructions. Lengthy grey instructions. The AT-AT never needed fupping instructions! Bah.

11.31: Is this supposed to be loosely attaching itself (like a clingy scarab) to a muscular sexy kind of Indiana Jones archaeology? Or a spooky, groovy & curse-filled Egyptology where mummies eat your face? Or, even, the…actually I can't think of a sexed-up pop-culture version of entomology. Whatever the case may be, we've both smacked the crap out of the mud dough to the point of red-faced exhaustion and we've yet to make a dent. The "chisel" is actually a miniature plywood door wedge. Woefully unsuited to the task. Mank: 1. Science: 0. Professor Marty: -1.

11.39: Hokey doke. 2 hours and 40 minutes (and 3/4 of a bottle of Beaujolais) in. And there's no let up for the wife. After watching her scarlet-cheeked and maddened, down on all fours walloping the scarab-containing (?) turd with a toothpick (in impotent rage), I've got her doing more make-and-do…with goo. Behold "Dough Make a Car" – the Queenly donation of Alexia Golez.

11.44: My glamorous assistant's conclusion? "Dough make not a car (though it does smell nice)". Basically you mash the dough into a car mould, bang on the chassis and push. Upon removing the mould you find…*gasp* a lump of shapeless dough atop a set of wheels. It's like a car made entirely of sick and ear-wax.

11.51: Jess wants to go to beddie-byes. What a lady-girl! You're with me man-chaps, aren't you? Yeah! Gird up your loins, let loose your balls of war, and feast your testoster-eyes on this beast.

11.55: When you've got a dirty job. A job that's suicide, dammit. A job that even the the most war-gorged kill-junkie won't touch. Who do you go to? You go to the fupping best. You go to – "Peashooter Soldier Force"!

12.02: "Gentlemen. Each of you has been brought her for two reasons. One – because you're the best. Two – because every goddamn one of you is capable of acts of scintillating. Particularly you, the guy at the back with the moustache. No, that guy. The guy behind you. Ok, just forget it! Grab your peashooters. Let's scintillate this mother!".

12.10: "I’m starting to have my doubts about the CE mark", opines commenter Simon McGarr. His doubts are justified. Not only does the "Peashooter Soldier Force" rifle lack a trigger (making acts of scintillating problematic at best) it also constitutes a choking hazard so severe that only "children" over the age of 14 may go near it. 14!

12.16: We're into the a.m. but there shall be no let up in the gun-ishment.

12.25: The "Police" not only have "A Passion for the Peace", they're also big into their nonsense (but cool sounding) buzzwords (just like Dubya used to be). Counter-Strike! Fight Terror! Collateral Demankining! Here's a police force that does everything, and nothing. That ID wallet kicks ass though. I'm actually going to draw a crude picture of myself on it (in crayon) and hang around crime scenes, telling grief-stricken relatives of murder victims about my passion for the peace.

12.35: Important things to remember for any "Police/Passion for Peace" Cadet: "THE THINGS CAN'T BE PUT INTO MOUTH" (Boo!) and "CAN'T AIM AT PEOPLE'S SHOOTING". With nancy-pants bureaucratic restrictions like that, how the hell can they be expected to get the job done. Putting things into mouth and aiming at people's shooting is at the core of police work. Without it, they are nothing. And their passions will wither away and die like mist in a soda-stream.

12.42: Final word from the sponsors. This one is (appropriately enough for the time) dreamy.

12.52: The eerie refrain of "Open the door…for your…mystery date" is like a tag-line pulled straight from a stalk 'n' slash 80s exploitationer. The twist is, of course, that the dreamboat in his tux, or skiing gear is a dead-eyed psycho, and the slovenly, stubbly fatso is actually trying to save the stalked lassies. Or something. It's all about the dangers of shallow judgements based on superficial appearance and how to avoid going on a date with Michael Myers.

12.58: Wine gone? Check. Audience gone? (*gazes into empty interweb*) Check. Time for a couple of ultra-quickies before collpasage into bed. If there's one thing worse than the kind of bootleg "Transformer" that transforms only with considerable difficulty (and muscle strain), it's a bootleg "Transformer" that turns out not to be remotely transformable at all. Such as the case with "The Bravest Warrior", whose shameless "Try Me" suggests something to try, or do, or change, or transform.

But then you unpack him and…he's just a static non-changing robot. With two even more static plastic-robo-tigers as pals. You kind of hoped they'd click together to form a giant awesome kill-bot, or an airline-carrier or something. But, instead, they non-click and just stand there. Separated and useless. "Once Own, Nothing Can Instead" whisper the enigmatic words on the box – somehow summing up the melancholy & disappointment. Saying nothing, but speaking volumes.

1.16: Aaaannd, finally – as I collapse face-first and brain-shattered on the keyboard – we finish on the girliest of notes. It's the "Mini Perfumistas Fashion" brigade.

They're basically small girls you wear…and…um…smell…

If you're into that kind of thing. Which of course you are. You filthy, disgusting bastards.

1.23: Righto. That's yer lot for another year. Rest now. I'm off to Canada on the morrow, to prudently live in a cave and thus escape Mr Shotgun and his intimates. It's either that or perish. I've been forced the option. We've all been forced the option, isn't that right, Gorgothogohnx?

Gorgothogohnx: Affirmative. King Diamond. End.

Well…no, not really.

Due to bits and bobs (and a toddler who's a mite pukey) tomorrow night's scheduled Manky Toy Show is hereby postponed.

We'll meet, instead, on Saturday, 18th December, at 9 P.M.

Spread the news around. And stop crying.

Frozen, sad-eyed, defeated people of Ireland. Prepare to ignite your dormant pleasure centres. Ready yourselves for giddy fun-times. I come (like a bearded man with a magical sack) to inject hope back into your (Yuk!) collapsed veins.

One week from today, at 9 p.m. (when gloaming has given way to deep, dark freezingness), the 4th annual Manky Toy Show will kick off here. Right on this very frequency. A fully live, completely unscripted, barely-planned celebration of all that is cheerily cheap and life-affirming.

Bring booze. Bring yourselves. Bring strong opinion and hilarious comment.

Together, we can take 2010′s vale of frozen tears and turn it into liquid joy. Or, y'know, an arsenic-based life-form.

Friday, 10th of December, 9 PM: Join us.

In related news, my 1,400 page magnum-humpus, The Insatiable Necrophilic Blood Lusts of Saint Teresa of Ávila,¹ should be in the shops in time for Christmas. Perfect stocking filler…if you've got a stocking the size of a bin bag and some extremely broad-minded relatives. Slurp!

In not-so-related news, the event of the season – the 4th annual Manky Toy Show – is almost upon us. Every year I ask for donations to the cause. And every year you let me down – like the disorganised horde of doe-eyed bastards that you are. So this year, please shovel your X-Factor addicted arses off the couch, go to your nearest emporium of 2 Euro tat, pop said tat in an envelope, and address said envelope to me.² Your offerings will be discussed – in wild, unscripted, and thrillingly live fashion – on the night itself. It's a kind of immortality.

1. It's got a bit of everything. Mysticism, boobs, zombies, charming period detail. [back]
2. Address available on request [back]

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…