Back in the fun-stuffed, joy-filled, gloriously utopian days of the early 1980s, three things seemed sure and certain.

1) Nuclear Armageddon was imminent and inevitable. It was 2 minutes to midnight and jttery fingers hovered over red buttons. We were all fucked.

2) We'd soon be abandoning a borked earth and heading out into the cosmos on giant space arks. Possibly as a result of 1.

3) I'd wake, most days, to find myself caked and coated in drying urine.

All three were, I'm sure, related. Cold war politics, space opera, and my stinky wee. Key ingredients of a frazzled Zeitgeist.

It's my daughter's ongoing love affair with Bosco that has such thoughts fizzing about my brain-box. This afternoon we watched the episode where Frank Twomey returned from "the pictures" having viewed a Star Wars knock-off. He was jazzed. He was jizzed. He was excited. He wanted, he said, to build a spaceship and to head off, he said, into the depths of outer space. He, Marian and Bosco decided to sing a song that spoke of the thrills, spills and adventures that awaited them there. This is the result.

Bosco – Outer Space, Is the Place

Melancholia and poignancy absolutely drip from every flat, warbled note. Outer space suddenly doesn't sound anything like a jolly old…er…space where you'd whizz about in an X-Wing, chortling delightedly. It sounds deeply sad. And empty. A place of forced exile. A quality Marian captures upsettingly with the words…

"Past the moon,
And then soon,
We will wave the sun goodbye".

Yes, we will wave the sun goodbye as we squat in our tin-can ships gazing longingly back toward a long-disappeared earth. Tears streaming down faces half-lit by said sun's weakening rays. We're suddenly out here like Major Tom, spinning and floating and slowly asphyxiating. Mummy! I want to go home!

To make matters worse, Frank all but admits that space travel is, really, when you think about it, a metaphor for death.

"Outer Space,
Is the place,
Where we all intend to…fly".

There's a millisecond's pause between "to" and "fly" that inevitably invites the listener to jauntily sing "Where we all intend to…die!". You think subtleties like these were lost on young Bosco enthusiasts? Not a bit of it. There may have been a time, back in the giddy days of the 50s and 60s, when space seemed seductive. A place of boundless possibilities and off-world technological utopias. But by the time I was old enough to really consider such things, and worry about such things, and piss in the bed as an indirect result of such things, space just seemed horribly cold, weird and indifferent. A vast place where'd you'd lose your mind. Where you'd slowly suffocate or burn up on re-entry. Where you'd watch the tiny blue bauble of mother Earth vanish (forever) into the endlessly black distance. The place where we all intend to die.

Nobody (not even Kubrick, or Bowie, or Tarkovsky) articulated this space/death analogy as succinctly and movingly as Europe's beautiful Joey Tempest of course.

The mushroom clouds are rising. We're headed for Venus.¹ The undiscovered planet, from whose bourn no traveller returns. It's game over, man. I'm off for a little cry. *Sob*²

1. Snigger! [back]
2. Actually, I'm off to the Irish Blog Awards in Belfast. I may see some of you there. [back]

Much to the annoyance of my "Sasanach" wife, who says it's nothing but a tawdry, second-rate knock-off of the glorious wonder that was Play School,¹ our littlest one has become a hard-core Bosco junkie.²

This morning, as we sprawled contentedly (on the sofa) eating toast and enjoying the non-stop fabulousness of The Best of RTÉ's Bosco – Volume 1, I saw something that left me gravely unsettled. It was "Christmas Special" time, and there were Frank Twomey and Gráinne Uí Mhaitiú exchanging gifts and kisses in a grim studio lit by nuclear-powered über-lights. But it was neither the unexpected display of affection or the savage lighting that left me so troubled. It was their (attempted) trip though the Magic Door…

The "rules" of the Magic Door, as I'd always understood them, were simple. A single soul approaches, utters the appropriate incantation, and passes through this enchanted portal into another world. A colourful and marvellous world. A world like…a regional meat-packing plant, or the shit-encrusted monkey enclosure at Dublin Zoo.

I'd assumed the "One person enters" thing was an immutable law of physics. Like the "You have to be totes naked and alone" rule for backwards-time-travelling types in Terminator. This knowledge gave me comfort. Reassured me that though the universe I lived in was cruel and cold, it was, at least, well-ordered. But here were Frank and Gráinne, about to flagrantly defy this "truth" I'd long held sacred.

I held my breath. The (magic) door swung open. And…out came…Marian Richardson, Marcus O'Higgins and Mary Garrioch.

So not only could more than one person pass through this space between realities, beings could actually enter our world…from the other side. Granted, the invading force only consisted of three Bosco presenters on this occasion, but the point still stands. I mean, next time it could as easily be the hairy demonic entity that tried to pop through a mirror in John Carpenter's Prince of Darkness. Or Cthulhu. Or Mumm-Ra.

We're wide fucking open.

The door must be destroyed.

1. Scoff! As if! [back]
2. If she thinks "Boxo" (as she, understandably, calls him) is thrilling, wait till she gets a load of my 35-cassette VHS box-set of Going Strong. It'll blow her little mind. [back]

Though I detested it (and all who played it) when I was a wimpy, long-haired, pretensions teen – I have, in recent years, tried (manfully) to set aside my prejudices and look on it more kindly. This is not always easy.

TV must take its share of the blame. Big scowly men glaring fiercely into the camera as Carmina Burana turns the pomp-o-meter up past 11. Oooh, scary! They're like warriors of the ancient world. Steely muscles hewn in the battle-fires of…er…Mordor or somewhere. Brawny arms folded, broadswords absent but implied. Grrrr! They're out there rolling around in the muck, slaughtering the unrighteous and defending us from the combined threats of quiches and poetry and feminism and stuff. Grrrr!

I know, I know – that's all part and parcel of the ludicrous, Sky Sports-inspired, over-hyping style that's become the ubiquitous contemporary default. Easily digested with a spoonful of healthy cynicism. Shit like this, however, is harder to swallow.

Fisherman (Grrr!) and Firefighters (Snarl!) – unreformed totems of trad-masculinity. They totes love rugby. But, so do, like, the working-classes. Cleaners (grrr?) and Supermarket Check-Out people (snarl?), they're all over it too. And not a sign of a besuited jock entrepreneur-type anywhere. I thought they were the backbone of the game? Apparently not. We're all rugby fans now.

And we all recognise that what sets rugby apart, of course, is its pride, its integrity, its total fucking superiority to all other sports. "Patience and humility coarse through the veins", we're breathlessly told. For "patience and humility" read "spectacular smugness and puke-inducing self-regard". This is rugby telling itself how brilliant it is. How it heroically values "honesty of effort" above all else. How it is characterised by its "camaraderie" and its rugged "determination to succeed". In other words, what it's projecting (like projectile vomit) is a reactionary vision of all that is good in men.¹

They're soldiers, they're leaders, they're bastions of fair-play and decency. With big jaws. Goal-driven, success-driven, not wimpy fag losers like you and me. This is Rugby C(o)untry. This is OUR LAND. Let's all give ourselves big man-slaps on the backs (Grrr!).

Tony Robbins must be jizzing himself into a frenzy if he's watching.

1. You can ignore the token women. They're just there to show the lads how much they admire them. [back]

I shall treasure it always.

A quick explanatory note on “slash fiction” (in case anyone’s rigid sense of moral propriety makes them unfamiliar with the term). “Slash fiction” – which first appeared in its contemporary form in the 1970s – was (and is) amateur, not for profit, fan-made-fiction (often written by women incidentally): focusing on romantic/erotic relationships between same-sex fictional characters. The original (and most important) of these pairings being Star Trek’s Jim Kirk & Mr. Spock.

And to set the mood I’ve got a tasteful fan-produced slide of them to show you…

There they are – relaxing and luxuriating in a nice bubble bath, in front of a gorgeous backdrop of airbrushed gas clouds, stars and swirling nebulae. By the way, if you’re thinking that this represents a twisted, perverted and wholly re-imagined version of the Kirk/Spock dynamic then you’ve obviously never seen the show or subsequent films. Slash fiction writers (and artists) weren’t inventing subtexts, they were accurately representing the text.

Here’s another…

…where they’re both manacled and topless in a prison cell – having just been brutally tortured and whipped. By Nazis. Amazingly enough, that one’s actually real.

Now, Trek creator Gene Rodenberry, may have intended the relationship to epitomise some kind of 23rd century Platonic ideal of male love (and it’s certainly moving on that level): but in giving Spock so much Vulcan restraint and stiff-upper-lippiness, he (perhaps accidentally) created a pulsating Costume Drama style vibe. As in most costume dramas, unarticulated passions heave and seethe just below the surface – held (just about) in check by Spock’s Vulcan cool and their mutual professional obligations (this is, after all, a workplace romance).

Unlike most costume dramas, one half of the couple (namely, Spock) suffers from the Vulcan affliction of Pon Farr, which means he has to mate once every seven years or else he’ll actually die. Talk about pressure. So even if they never actually shared a sensual cosmic bath together (onscreen at least): every loaded look, and potent touch, and awkward (pregnant with meaning) silence suggests that they definitely both considered it.

Anyway, where once such tales were distributed through hand-stapled and crudely photocopied fanzines – they’ve now, unsurprisingly, found a perfect and sympathetic home on the internet. Expanding and exploding online to include not just slash tales of same-sex encounters – but heterosexual, bisexual, pansexual and (somewhat alarmingly) interspecies ones as well.

Not all fictional universes, however, are evenly or equally represented. Over on the indispensable adultfanfiction.net, for example, the clear market leaders (with thousands of tales devoted to each of them) are Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Lord of the Rings, and (slightly upsettingly) Harry Potter.

The convention is for each story to synopsise itself through a use of codes indicating the relevant genders involved and themes explored. Here’s one perplexing – and mildly terrifying – example of said codes taken from a Buffy story called “My Own Demons”.

Obviously, there’ll be a few even the most chaste of you will recognise there: Anal, Oral, Trans, Bond and…um…Other¹ – but unless you’re a particularly open-minded crowd, I’d wager that the bulk are unknown, and possibly unknowable. I’m not sure man (or woman…or other) was ever meant to know the meaning of HJ. Or AU/AR. Or UST, WAFF, WIP and Yuri. It’s like trying to fathom a mind-bogglingly complex equation, cataloguing the inner workings of outré human passions and sexual depravities. Stare at it long enough and you might just go mad.

Go down through the code-heavy lists on adultfanfiction.net and you’ll soon find yourself venturing into fringe and niche waters. Who’d have thought, for example, that Black Books could produce 10 texts? Or that Greatest American Hero would warrant 7? Or that Jurassic Park might spawn 11? – one of which (by noted author “bighardwang”) tells the alarming tale of how the…

“Professor dude who gets eaten in a bathroom finds a really pretty dinosaur before he gets eaten”.

Then there’s Dawn of the Dead’s six pieces (with one featuring the immortal line: “The zombie squeezed his balls between its gripping fingers”), Captain Scarlet’s one (wherein Captain Scarlet touchingly admits to his beloved Captain Blue: “I may be indestructible…but my heart isn't”), a lone Goonies story (I didn’t dare look) and two on…um…Schindler’s List.

Keep probing and exploring, and still weirder treats make themselves known.

Serving the deranged Mechanophile, or obsessive Top Gear follower (who foams at the mouth at the thought of polished chrome and thrusting pistons) is the surprisingly popular Transformers category. Which contains, to my human eyes at least, some of the least erotically-charged prose ever dreamt up by the human imagination. A few choice examples:

“The port was still dry, indicating that he wasn’t aroused. This made it a difficult situation since inserting his transfer into an unaroused mech would not be pleasurable for either one of them.”

“Slowly, Prime began to move his hip servos. Arching up against Soundwave…His aft port became slicker…”

Further down the rabbit hole of bonkers-ness are two understandably neglected categories – serving and servicing the proclivities of, I’m not sure who or what exactly. Exploring, in unflinching furry detail, the “erotic” adventures of Care Bears and My Little Ponies.

First up is the delightful “Belle of the Ball Until Dawn Comes…” the lone tale in the My Little Pony archives. Although…one My Little Pony story is still one more My Little Pony story than one might expect to find.

Here we’re invited to experience, with slack-jawed and agog faces, an account of a night of passion between Star Catcher and Twinkle Twirl.

That’s Twinkle Twirl there on the left, and the rearing and magnificent Star Catcher on the right. After an enchanting ball in magical Ponyland they tenderly get down to business.

"Star Catcher?" Twinkle Twirl whispered, shaking a little from the newness of things. She was aware that he had taken off her skirt and she was a little shy.

Now, I freely admit, I’m no My Little Pony expert, but I wasn’t aware they wore skirts. I guess without something to remove there’s less of an erotic frisson. As my father always says: If you want to eroticise animals, put clothes on them. Naked animals are, simply, animals. You wouldn’t want to bang a duck unless it had a pair of pants you could whip off.

Back to the story…

"Close your eyes… It'll be more pleasant that way. Relax and breath deeply of the cool night air", Star Cathcher instructed Twinkle Twirl as she complied. He began to massage her neck muscles softly… allowing her to loosen up as he went along. "How does it feel?" he queried.

"Heavenly…" Twinkle almost purred, except that ponies don't purr.

You have to give the author props for self-correction there. Instead of anticipating objections about the outrageousness of the material, he/she imagines incredulous readers saying: “Look, we can suspend our disbelief and buy all that stuff about magical equine fucking in a colourful fairyland, but purring ponies! Come on! That’s ludicrous!”.

Moving to the climax…

"Star Catcher!" She breathed. "HARDER!" She panted in a breathy equine sort of way, shivering.

He thrust into her harder still, gasping as he did.. IN and OUT…. in and out… back and forth… faster and faster… "Oh! TWINKLE!" He called out heavily. "Twinkle Twirl… you're wonderful…!!!!!"

I should point out that “you’re wonderful” is followed by no fewer than five exclamation marks² – so I fear my drab delivery isn’t really doing justice to Star Catcher’s punctuated enthusiasm.

We'll finish with “Morning Reflections” – a surprisingly affecting and sensitive Care Bear tale from the sex-mind of “Mana Angel”. Here are the relevant couple…

Proud Heart Cat there on the left, and the angst-ridden/sexually-repressed Brave Heart Lion on the right.

Brave Heart Lion knew about sex, of course…but he hadn't heard about it from his cubhood guardians, True Heart and Noble Heart. He supposed they figured it was a non-issue with them being what they were. But when he was younger, he had discovered by accident that when he touched a certain part of his body a certain way, good feelings resulted from it. Because of the private nature of that body part and those feelings, he had kept it to himself, but he had always wondered why. Then, one day, he had caught himself staring at Proud Heart Cat, and he’d almost had a serious social disaster when his penis began to swell. He had excused himself from tummy symbol practice,³ saying he didn't feel well, and walked towards his home with his hands folded in front of him to hide his condition. How embarrassing!

We meet him again, a little later, after a moment of painful intimacy…

Proud Heart had touched his most secret place, where her paw encountered nothing but silky fur. Their genitals were always masked by their fur, and for the males, their penises were hidden in a sheath; you'd never know they were anatomically correct…but they were.

Audience members of a certain vintage will undoubtedly remember the scandal and outrage caused by Kenner Toy’s 1982 range of anatomically correct Care Bears. If you cuddled them but a little they’d chuckle and lecture you on the merits of sharing. If you cuddled them a lot a fur-lined phallus would unsheathe itself, creep out, and poke you in the belly.

Moving on and wrapping up…it’s later still and Brave Heart Lion is shampooing his mane in the shower.

His balls drew up close to his body, and he emitted a roar as he ejaculated. He had the sense to aim for the drain as his penis spasmed and his testicles emptied themselves of his seed…

He felt awful. It was a dull, hollow pain in his chest, as if he had committed some grievous sin. His member had shrunken and retreated to the safety and obscurity of its sheath. He sighed, shut off the water, and dried himself off. It was late enough as it is, and he still had to eat before he left the house. He pushed his guilt away, and went down to raid his fridge. It was his secret. No one would ever know.

Now, Brave Heart may only be a Care Bear, or a Care Lion (or whatever), with a jolly red heart adorning his chest – but that’s one of the most eloquent and heart-rending articulations of pubescent masturbatory guilt I’ve ever read.

Though I can’t quite relate to the mane, and the silky fur, and the sheathed cock – I can readily identity with the shame and the emptiness of covert, feverish wanking in the shower. Not only that, but when I was 13 I regularly brought myself to orgasm by humping a Masters of the Universe bean-bag (while dreaming of the Cadbury’s Caramel Bunny), so I retain a certain warm and fuzzy nostalgia for eroticised cartoon universes.

So, in conclusion, while there’s not much in the way of sexy pleasure to be had from the boggle-eyed reading of these tales – they do serve a purpose: namely, to remind us (in brain-scalding terms) of the rich, mad, endlessly perplexing tapestry of human sexualities. On adultfanfiction.net and its sister sites, nobody’s really a weirdo…because (of course) everybody is.

1. Catch all term there [back]
2. Bit of a redundant point in print, but there you go. [back]
3. I don’t know what that is, but it sounds hilarious. [back]

Zealous and pedantic fans of Joan Collins and David Hasselhoff will have to forgive me. Their 1984 made-for-tv, wannabe-screwball crapfest The Cartier Affair (in which they come together like a kitsch immovable object meeting a camp unstoppable force) caused me to fall asleep. Twice. Plus I missed the end.

It is, therefore, difficult to seperate the facts (the mental, mental facts) from the fictions of my fevered dreams. I may have filled in gaps, or tidied up loose narrative threads. Doing more asleep than the screenwriters did when fully conscious.

To summarise: The Cartier Affair sees bumbling ex-con David Hasselhoff pretend to be a gay secretary so he can steal Joan Collins' jewels and repay his debts to gangster Telly Savalas. Astonishingly, none of that is dream-stuff.

Joan, as she has done for practically her whole career, plays herself (or at least the "herself" she has spent her professional life creating). Her improbable name (mixing hints of jewels with bigger hints of sexual predatoriness) is Cartier Rand: disenchanted glamour-puss star of a shit daytime soap. She wants out. She wants to do stage work, to push herself as an actress. To escape the icon of seduction and excess she has become.

"I am Cartier Rand!", she bawls at one stage, "Whoever that is. That's not even my real name!". Yes, very non-good as The Cartier Affair undoubtedly is, it dares to, well, go a bit Meta. With Joan playing herself, playing Alexis Carrington, who in turn (of course) is a version of the "herself" Joan created to replace and eclipse the real herself (whoever that is). It's like Being John Malkovich meets Last Action Hero, penned by Murder She Wrote hacks.

In what may well be the campest scene in film/tv history, Joan and Der Hoff (her "gay" secretary remember) go jogging. Bedecked in sweatbands, leg-warmers and other "Let's Get Physical" accoutrements. Set your brains to "Jesus!".

In their defenses (and to be scrupulously fair) they actually carry off their poor-man/woman's Katherine Hepburn/Cary Grant double act with a reasonably deft comic touch. She (of course) cutting and uber-bitchy. He wide-eyed and naïf. But, sexual chemistry? There is zero. Less than zero. A big, black, anti-sex hole of zero. Doesn't stop them getting it on and humping each other though. In a fist-chewingly upsetting sequence with all the erotic charge of damp cling-film.

Bleeeurrrghhh!

Then talk turned again (though not by much) to Danger Mouse (another cornerstone of the burgeoning fake nostalgia industry). And from there to the villainous & amphibian Baron Greenback. Hugh Green chipped in with this:

Is it just me or was there an anti-Semitic undertone to the figure of Baron Greenback?

The answer, of course, is that it's not just me. I mean "you". Hugh. For the Baron is about as grotesque a caricature as ever slithered out of the rank propaganda mills of the Third Reich. As you (Hugh) succinctly explained.

I mean, a reptilian Baron seeking to dominate the world with a crypto-Jewish name connoting avarice. Problematic at best.

I tried convincing him (Hugh that is…this is getting confusing) that Greenback was originally supposed to be called "Grasping Jewfrog" but he (just about) maintained an incredulous raised eyebrow. It's still a true story though. Or it might as well be.

He was a gent throughout, expounding at length on such subjects as – sharing a stage with Laurel & Hardy, the failings of Fortycoats, colicky horses and much, much more.

By way of small (but long) tribute to the great man I dip into the archives and reprint the interview in its entirety.

May he rest in peace.

Part 1

To begin with, Eugene, can you tell us a little bit about how you first got involved in puppetry?

Well, I actually started doing puppets when I was a child, 8 years of age, when I got some books on it. My father was a county librarian in Sligo, I’m originally from Sligo by the way. Anyway, I made a ventriloquist’s doll when I was about 10 and after that I used to do school concerts and shows for the boy scouts and all that sort of thing. So that was the beginning.

You spent 7 successful years, I believe, with Jury’s cabaret performing as a ventriloquist with your dummy/companion Finnegan. Was ventriloquism a popular form of entertainment on the Irish variety circuit at the time?

Well no, not really. There were only about two ventriloquists around! So when I started doing it I had no idea that there was even such a thing as a ventriloquist. (laughs)

Was it literally then a case of just getting a book from the library and teaching yourself?

Well I actually started doing ventriloquism without a book at all. I’ve always mimicked and done voices and all that sort of thing, so it was a really just the next step from the other puppets I used to make…deciding to make a puppet that could move its mouth.

So if that was the very beginning of your interest in puppetry, how did you then get involved in it professionally?

Well, I was doing those concerts…and…you see my father died when I was 15 so I had to leave college, but I did go to the Tec for a few years, and I was always very good at making things with my hands. Then I actually became a fitter in Denny’s Bacon factory in Sligo, but I still used to do parochial concerts, and that, with the ventriloquism.

Then I came to Dublin…and we got married in 1950, Mai and I, we were only 22! So we came to Dublin and, as I always tell the story, we only had two cases. All our belongings were in one, and my puppet was in the other. That, and ten shillings…that’s what we came to Dublin with, you know. By the way, the dummy I had then was actually a predecessor of Finnegan, a character called Frankie.

Anyway, we came to Dublin and I got a job in refrigeration, in 'Re-cold', 27 Pearse St. It’s actually the Pearse Museum now, that building there…but it used to be a company called 'Re-Cold'. So, I was working in the fridges there when Mai entered me for a talent competition in James’ St. Hall. I won the competition and a chap saw me, he was a magician, and he brought me down to the Queen’s Theatre, which also used to be in Pearse St. So I got on in the Queen’s and that was really the first sort of professional break that I had. I did a lot of weeks in the Queen’s, before going on to play in the Capitol Theatre, which was beside the GPO, and the Olympia. In 1954 I actually played with Laurel and Hardy in the Olympia!

Around that time someone saw my act and I ended up going to England for 18 months, touring on the Musical Hall circuit. Nobody could do that now, of course, because it’s all gone. But it was a wonderful experience…and that, I suppose, is where I got my proper theatrical experience.

You said there weren’t many ventriloquist acts in Ireland at the time, but presumably there were quite a few on the Music Hall scene…

Well there was a famous ventriloquist called Terry Hall, and he was in the show in the Olympia when I was in the Capitol, and…I don’t know whether you ever remember Lenny the Lion?

Em…a bit before my time I'm afraid…

He was actually on the BBC…he had a BBC show…and Terry had left the show in the Olympia to do that, which is how I got the job! So, I went on tour then …I remember the first stage of the tour was in Cork in the Old Opera House, and when that finished I went to England and toured for 18 months as I’ve said. After that I came back to Dublin, and started doing dinners, children’s parties etc., but I also had a day job!

I also believe that you used to perform with Finnegan on a popular RTÉ radio program. Hearing this reminded me of a scene in Woody Allen’s Radio Days where one of the characters protests at the presence of a ventriloquist on the radio, asking (the fairly obvious question) "How do we know he's not moving his lips?". Was that ever an issue for you?

(laughs) Well no, not really. Charlie McCarthy was extremely successful in America on the radio, and then you had Peter Brough with Archie Andrews on the BBC [in a show called Educating Archie], and then, of course, I was here.

Take the Floor was a show on Radio Éireann with a man called Dinjo…and it was a huge success, and I toured around the country doing concerts with him, mainly Sunday nights…or the whole weekend in some places…and, of course, did the day job as well. We’d travel to Killarney and back in the one day and then have to go in to work in the morning!

I actually also had a children’s program called Finnegan Picks the Music on the radio…and that would have been way back in the 50s and the early 60s.

And what was the format of that?

Well it was based around Children’s records…which unfortunately you never hear now. I know people say that kids now are into pop music and all that, but they never hear the likes of Burl Ives and those songs…those wonderful children’s songs that he had. But there were a whole lot of these songs you know…Danny Kaye, for example, had hundreds of children’s songs. So I used to play those kind of records and then do a little bit of dialogue between songs with Finnegan and myself.

And then in 1963, I entered an idea to Telifís Éireann, and that’s where the other puppetry started…with a show called Murphy agus a Chairde. The idea I submitted was actually a marionette show, and from that I got what they call a 'test'. So it was all based around marionettes, which I had to make, and Mai (my wife), and my eldest daughter manipulated them with me. The other children (we had ten in the family) were very small at the time.

At the same time I was doing "Gaels of Laughter" in the Gaiety with Maureen Potter, as well as seven nights a week in Jury’s Cabaret in Dame St. So I had to give up the day job at that stage…as the money was pretty poor in comparison…

What was the money like in Telifís Éireann at the time, if you don’t mind me asking?

It was never good you know…but it was a lot better than the day job! (laughs)

So then, on the television front, Murphy agus a Chairde ran up until 1968 (5 years in all), and in the meantime I had met a wonderful director called Don Lennox and we started discussing further programs…and Wanderly Wagon came out of that and ran from 1968 up until 1982.

Part 2

Ok, Eugene, if we could just talk a little about the origins of Wanderly. Who takes the credit for the initial concept of a show based around a ‘magical wagon’?

That was a joint idea between myself and [director] Don Lennox. We had a lot of ideas at the time…but then of course they brought in writers…there were a lot of writers. We probably had, oh, 7 or 8 writers over the years.

Is it true that Pat Ingoldsby wrote some episodes?

Oh yes, Pat Ingoldsby wrote for us…Neil Jordan too! Then there was Carolyn Swift, Gordon Snell, Michael Judge…and a lot more.

I’ve heard you mention that Judge and Mr. Crow (the two most iconic puppet characters) were there from the very beginning of Wanderly, but had they ever been used prior to that (in Murphy agus a Chairde for example)?

Oh no, they were all different. They were all specially created for the show – Judge, and Mr. Crow, and Foxy, the squirrels, the mice, and Sneaky Snake – they were all our own original ideas for Wanderly Wagon.

According to the recent documentary made about the family, Pulling the Strings, you were originally only supposed to supply the puppets, but eventually found yourself playing the 'Jovial character' that Wanderly Wagon needed.

That’s right yes, originally. I had done some straight acting before that though. I was in the Abbey Theatre production of At Swim-Two-Birds [an Adaptation of Flann O'Brien's novel by Audrey Welsh] where I played the Pooka.

Oh Right!

…and did the ventriloquism for the Good Fairy who was an invisible character. Alan Simpson, Lord have Mercy on Him, was the director of that…an absolutely wonderful man. It was a wonderful production.

I also acted in a children’s play, a Robert Bolt play…in the Eblana theatre, which is gone now…and I did pantomime, of course, and a few other things too. I actually did several pantomimes with Maureen Potter in the Gaiety.

Of course when I did the ventriloquism it was really more adult shows and cabaret, but through television, then, I became known more as a children’s entertainer than an adult entertainer…

What about the casting of Nora O’ Mahony? Had you known her before, and what was she like to work with (and as a person)?

Nora O’Mahony of course was Godmother, and I knew of her…you know. She was a very famous actress actually, and had played in several films in Hollywood. One of the last ones she did was Darby O’Gill and the Little People, do you know that one?

I do indeed, with Jimmy O'Dea, Sean Connery etc.

Yes, they showed it quite recently…she was the barmaid [Molly Malloy] in that, so if you ever see it again you’ll know to watch out for her. She was a lovely person…but she gave it all up and went to work as a lay missionary in Rhodesia, and she was Bishop Lamont’s secretary for many years until she got a tropical disease, a kidney disease, and she was invalided home. After that she started reading letters on The Frank Hall Show on television, and that’s how we discovered her for Wanderly Wagon.

I believe that Rory (Bill Golding) left the show in 1974, though I don’t recall this personally I might add. I’ve read that the character "left the team early deciding to help the moon mice repair the moon with the help of some cheese". Is this true, and what are your memories of Bill?

He was a wonderful actor and he played several characters. He played Fortycoats¹ actually, with his flying sweetshop (The flying sweetshop was my idea, by the way).

And yes, what you read is true, himself and Foxy went off to repair the moon with the mice!

But Bill was always very busy because he did a lot of commercials and he did a lot of straight acting in the Gate Theatre and that…

Someone told me that he actually does the voice of "Ould Mr. Brennan".² Is that right?!

Yeah, that’s actually the voice he used to do for Fortycoats, the original Fortycoats! Now after Wanderly Wagon finished they did a program called Fortycoats & Co.…which was a rehash of our program…

So you (the Lamberts) didn't have anything to do with that show?

No, we’d nothing to do with that at all…but they actually rehashed some of our scripts, you know. Anyway, it was never as popular as Wanderly Wagon! (laughs)

Frank Kelly is another fondly remembered Wanderly regular. What are your memories of working with Frank?

Well Frank Kelly actually wrote quite a lot of Wanderly Wagon and then he played several characters over the years, the last one (of course) being Dr. Astro. But he had played several others…I remember he played a pirate – I forget his name now [Ed: Possibly 'Long John Gold'?] – and he was a brother..a monk! And, of course, he did the voice of Sneaky Snake. He was a very versatile man, though he’s now (of course) best know for Fr. Jack!

There’s a scene in the documentary where Jim O’Hare talks about the actual design of the wagon. Can you tell us a little bit about how it was first created?

Yes, Jim was the designer, and he worked in Telifís Éireann. The wagon was designed on a dray…CIE used to have these horse drays and it was on one of those. And we actually bought the original horse, Telifís Éireann owned him…Pádraig the Horse! We did a lot of filming of putting on the harness, and feeding him, and hooking him up to the wagon and all that…but there was actually a new lawn laid in Telifís Éireann, because it was quite a new building back then, and the poor horse ate the grass, got colic, and died.

Oh dear…

The thing was that nobody knew because we were still using all the footage we'd shot of the horse and the wagon! Then over the years they hired several other horses, but the kids never really seemed to mind that they were different. We had a piebald horse, and a brown horse…but it was just accepted! (laughs)

And, of course, we did a lot of the St. Patrick's Day parades with the wagon and the various horses.

So it was actually a properly functioning wagon then?

That’s right. Oh it was, yeah.

But the interior was obviously a set…

Yes, it was a separate set, and that was always a bit of a shock to the kids when they had a look inside!

I presume that the wagon was designed, from the beginning, with puppetry in mind?

Oh yes, it was. The downpipe was for Crow, and there was a barrel where Sneaky Snake was operated and so on. There was actually a fair bit of room inside, but it still used to be cramped enough when all the puppets and puppeteers were in there.

Jim also suggests that the original intention was for the show to be an outside broadcast, with the wagon (physically) travelling around Ireland every week? Was that the case?

Yes, but we very seldom travelled anywhere! We had it down in Clonmel at a big parade one time…and I’m sure there’s footage somewhere, because that was filmed…so it’s around somewhere.

Would be great to dig that up. So, basically, despite the initial concept, the show pretty quickly became almost exclusively studio based…

That’s right, but we did do a few outside things. I remember we had it in Powerscourt a few times, and Stephen's Green on several occasions. Whenever we actually went anywhere thousands of people used to turn up! We also had it in Birr, and a few festivals here and there but originally it was supposed to travel a lot more.

Part 3

So what's become of the actual wagon now Eugene? The documentary [Pulling the Strings] seemed to suggest that it has become the property of Fossett's Circus….

It used to be outside Telifís Éireann [in Donnybrook] for a long time, literally falling asunder, until Eddie Fossett took it. He then (thankfully) decided to repair it, so he has it in storage now.

Actually, for the second last Late Late Show with Gay Byrne, Gay said he would love to have the wagon on…but nobody knew where it was! Then, by accident, I found out where it was through doing the Punch and Judy Act in the Peter Ustinov film version of The Old Curiosity Shop. I didn't appear myself, but I did (as I say) do the Punch and Judy in it, and there were also some of Eddie Fossett's jugglers and acrobats involved. Anyway, Eddie and I got chatting and he said "You know, I have the wagon!" (laughs) So that’s how I got to find out.

Then, about 4 years ago, we had it up in the National Museum in Collins' Barracks, and we had about five thousand turn up to see it…mostly adults!

So is it back in Fossett's now?

Yes, it's back in Fossett's. It's there and it can be hired out.

You've suggested that you felt that you (and the family) lost control of Wanderly Wagon, somewhat, around the time it made the transition to colour, as it no longer felt like "a live show". How had things changed exactly?

In the early black and white days they couldn't edit the tape, so you did the show from beginning to end and if anything went wrong you had to start again. But then when it went into colour and they started to have editing facilities, they began to do shows simultaneously, so we'd do the interiors (say) for two different shows together. That made continuity very difficult …it became more of a technical show…and it was much more difficult to work like that for me.

I know that Wanderly was one of the first Irish TV shows (if not the first) to use 'Chroma Key' (or 'Colour Separation Overlay'), thus allowing the wagon to enter more fantastical realms (under the sea, outer space etc). What are your memories of working with that technology?

Well there were wonderful things you could do, of course. Suddenly the wagon could fly, and I remember we used helicopter footage that they had, and showed the wagon flying out to Cappagh Hospital, and all the other children's hospitals we used to visit at Christmas.

In general, how much freedom, did you have from RTÉ creatively?

Well we were always allowed to come up with ideas, and I was consulted about the different things we could actually do with puppets. So…over the years we came up with a lot of the puppetry ideas that made the show what it was.

How tight was the schedule in terms of getting the shows finished on time?

We used to rehearse for two days, and then we’d be in the studio for a full day, but it was never enough time, never enough time…

Then there were also sessions doing songs, recording songs and so on with Jim Doherty who used to do the music. There were a lot of different song-writers and composers too, over the years.

Were the mythical/folkloric elements of the show something you personally felt interested in, or did they (instead) spring simply from the imaginations of individual writers?

Well that really only featured in the later episodes like the ones they're after doing for the DVD, and 'Chroma Key' was used a lot in those ones. But we really didn't do that kind of 'Irish folklore' thing too often before that. We had some great episodes, though, in the early years, like 'Upside-Down land'…and…some of the early ones were marvellous really. All done without the special effects too.

I’ve heard that many (if not most) of RTÉ’s Wanderly Wagon tapes were erased/re-used due to cost-cutting techniques prevalent at the time. How much material actually remains in the archives, do you know?

Well they were big, wide tapes and they used to use them over and over. I was originally told that most of the tapes were gone, but there are still quite a few left…probably 150 tapes at least. Of course, we must have done an awful lot more that that over the years…so it's a great shame. But it was common practice at the time, and the BBC used to have the same problem.

For example, for all the years we did Murphy agus a Chairde (5 years) there's none of it left. Well, there's a little 2 minute clip…or it mightn't even be 2 minutes…in the documentary, and that survived because it was on film. It was a documentary about Telifís Éireann that happened to be filming at the time.

But in the coming years they're going to allow me to go through the archives and pick out ones that I'd like. I'll hopefully even be able to get something out of the tapes that are damaged, and I could always link up the fragments with inserts from Judge and myself.

So there'll definitely be more material coming out on DVD?

Yes, [the first volume] was a great success last year with over 30,000 copies sold. I didn't really have that much to do with it, they really only gave it to me to OK, but if I'd had the choice I wouldn't have picked the ones they picked. If I'd had the time I might have chosen something else but by the time they came to me it was already November so…

Anyway, it was EMI that did it and it took a long time to get Telifís Éireann to release the material, but because of the success they're definitely going to do more.

Finally, Eugene, could you tell us a little bit about the 'International Puppetry Festival' you're currently organising?

The puppetry festival is in its 13th year, and we're working hard on it at the moment. We're hoping to have a Russian company, a Mexican company, and a group from Iran would you believe! They're three girl puppeteers from Iran and it would be a great coup if we could get them.

As well as our own theatre we'll also be using the Pavilion this year, for the Russian one. It's not all finalised yet but we're hoping it'll be a very good festival.

1. The character of Fortycoats seems to have been named after a real-life Dublin 'character'…or possibly more than one, as Wikipedia explains:
   

   The name Johnny Fortycoats first appears in Dublin folklore in the 1930s. It may perhaps have been applied to more than one person, including one of a couple of tramps who walked the coast of Dublin at the time of the television series. A wild looking man, universally recognized (Dublin is a large village), harmless as anyone knew. He was far removed from the world of television. It was his habit to wear several coats, hence the nickname.

   [back]

2. For those who don't know, 'Ould Mr. Brennan' is a famous Irish, uber-Dub, radio character who advertises "Brennan's Bread"…in pretty maudlin style. [back]

(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.

A curtain prepares to raise itself…

A hideous (fur-covered) twosome – atop a grimly lit stage – are revealed…

They gaze into each other's sad & boggled eyes – communicating a weary resignation and a deep, nameless pain…

They begin to chant arcane words. "She" – garishly made up and clumsily bewigged (a demonic Norma Desmond). "He" – A proto-Shrek (brain skewered with gaily coloured pins). Hellraiser pales in comparison.

Their necks begin to extend – grotesquely. The pace and fury of their delivery begins to increase. All this before an infernal backdrop where the muddy hues of Joseph Turner meet the terrible vision-scapes of William Blake.

On and on they go. Faster and faster. Disturbinger and Disturbinger. Elastic necks at maximum extension. Screeching wails at lunatic pitch…

And then – as the audience (if there even is one) begins to lose its fragile reason and scream for them to stop – they violently withdraw their ghastly heads. Letting loose (as they do so) a long and loud sigh. An almost orgasmic sigh. A sigh that mixes brief relief with the knowledge that they – like doomed Sisyphus – must soon repeat this manic ritual.

For all time.

P.S: Animation nerds might like to learn (if they don't know it already) that the creative hand behind this (and, indeed, Gregory Gráinneog) was one Jimmy Quin.

Severe budgetary constraints, coupled with a grim national mood, meant that over 65% of any individual episode's running-time was taken up with long, lingering shots of scenes like this:

The Mondrian¹-inspired set does its best to try and lift the spirits, but the desolation and emptiness is impossible to shake. An absent Bosco. An empty cardboard box (carelessly-discarded). A dangling piece of string. Sorrow and despair. Beckett without the laughs.

It wasn't, however, always this gloomy. It was often worse. Especially when the bleak clay(marla)mation adventures of Gregory Gráinneog² took centre stage. Here's the gang caught enjoying a rare moment of levity:

Garish pink skies; dark bare hills; lumpen, ruptured earth – clear indicators (recognisable to any jittery child of the 70s/80s) that here is a ruined and irradiated world. Those mad bastards have done it. They've dropped the bombs. They've blown us up.

In the midst of such terrible adversity, however, unlikely alliances are made and friendships formed. If, after all, you're the last hedgehog left on earth then hanging around a giant (fleshy) mutant boot with a motley, multi-species group of survivors mightn't seem wholly unattractive. You can, for example, share your many woes with the sad-eyed Síle Seilide…

…an even sadder-eyed and haunted-looking owl…

…and an utterly frazzled, traumatised and demonic-looking rabbit.

It's like Winnie the Pooh meets Planet of the Apes…directed by Andrei Tarkovsky (where no-one's Tigger and everyone's Eeyore).

And then there's Gregory himself – less a hedgehog and more a bipedal, scalded-horse-faced freak.

Eyes rimmed and caked with bloody tears. Body scored with countless scars and sores (like a plasticine Saint Sebastian). Simultaneously repulsive and heart-breaking.

But there are, for all that, some pleasures to be had. On a pink-skied summer evening, gathered round the twisted wreck of an old-timey car (relic of a dead civilization), the friends listen to Gregory tell bitter-sweet tales of the lost world that was (and will never be again).

1. Or, V05. [back]
2. Hedgehog. In Irish. [back]

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]

Near the top of that virtual/imagined list would be the Looney Tunes cartoons of the 1940s & 50s. Imagine, then, my surprise (go on, imagine it) when such reveries were interrupted by the sight of the below in Guiney's today.

Now I realise that the wild, lunatic energy of the original cartoons has long since been domesticated, tamed, and commodified – but I'd still never have guessed that the seething, eternal enmity between Bugs and Elmer Fudd would (or could) be used to sell "Tender Care Wipes". Elmer's gun seems to have been airbrushed out, but you can't disguise the look on his face. He wants to kill that wabbit. A mind this bent on murder is, one would have thought, rather unlikely to be overly concerned with care wipes (tender or otherwise).

Nice little visual gag on the back of the packet though, showing (perhaps) that some of the ol' spunk is still there.

Unless of course it's a genuine warning. In which case – Looney Tunes, R.I.P.

In Conclusion: Come home soon, honey. Daddy has much to show thee.

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…