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…

No (to all three). It was the below…and she brought it home.

Yes folks, it's a Sci-Fi comic about Switzerland.¹ A promotional and propagandic Sci-Fi comic about Switzerland. A Sci-Fi comic about Switzerland that incessantly smashes you over the head with the sentiment "Switzerland is simply marvelous!".

The plot is far too laboured and Captain Planet-esque to warrant summarising in much detail here (four ethnically diverse Swiss youths come together to blah, blah, blither etc), but the below image should give you a representative (and slightly tummy-upsetting) taste.²

For those who (like me) spent their teenage years frantically masturbating their way to chronic short-sightedness, some text reproduction might be in order.

To save the Galactic Synchrotron from disintegration, TIMEAGENT I.D. uses the holocom to go back one thousand years in Cyberspace to "21st Century Switzerland". Here she hopes to find the rescuing formula, for the inhabitants of this small country are considered to be "Masters of Time": they manufacture complex instruments called "watches", amazingly precise forerunners of the Synchrotron…

Galactic Synchotron? Holocom? Going back one thousand years in Cyberspace?! Techno-babbling, Sci-Fi gobbledeegook of the highest (i.e. lowest) order. Also, describing someone's watch as an "amazingly precise forerunner of the Synchrotron" is an almost guaranteed way of blowing one's secret cover and exposing oneself as a 31st century Timeagent. Constant references to (for example) "your present time period" and the "5th Interstellar War" have much the same effect.

While In The Land That Invented the Future is essentially just a relentlessy tedious (and willfully banal) piece of thrown-together Sci-Fi muck, it shares the same crippling deficiencies found in most such "edutainment". It's preachy, it's self-satisfied, and it's keen to "improve" its readers' grubby little minds. Three key ingredients for a "shit comic" pie. A pie that any young comic lover, worth her/his salt, would puke into the nearest bin.

Still better than Voyager though…

1. Brought to us by Prasenz Schweiz PRS - "an official body of the Swiss Confederation [that] promotes the distribution of information about Switzerland worldwide". To what end, I'm not sure. [back]
2. Click to enlarge. [back]

The handout was, one presumes, intended to be educational, helpful and instructive. My reaction? Stifled laughter and bawdy, Carry On style snorting…

I know, I know…it's embarrassingly immature and all that, but there's something about attending a class - any class - that makes me revert to the sniggering, elbow-nudging days of secondary school. In my defence, could any man Jack (or woman Jill) among you gaze upon the below (in such circumstances) and not laugh?

I mean, look at yer man's face! There's something about his delighted grin (and his disturbing hair) that makes him seem less like a loving partner and more like a perverted opportunist.

Then there's the revelation that one's loved one will, during those trying early stages of labour, look upon her piles of ironing and despair.

I can't say I blame her. I've often felt like this at eight in the morning when I realise that all of my shirts are unwearably creased. It's at such times that life reveals itself to be little more than a vile and scarcely endurable vale of tears.

Faced with the reality of this cold and cruel universe (and the onset of crippling pain) it's little wonder that so many expectant mothers fling themselves at the ethereal feet of the labour goddesses.

Such supplication may not yield any miraculous results, but your pelvic floor will (I believe) thank you.

And finally, there's this (my favourite) - an image simultaneously moving, hilarious and tragic.

Sitting astride a plastic chair and weeping while trickles of (what I imagine to be) luke warm water dribble down on you. A more perfect (and Beckettian) picture of life's quotidian miserableness you couldn't hope to find.

Like I said - funny stuff.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

First, we had the jolly VHS version. All colourful & kitsch family fun.

Then came the DVD. Still vibrant and cartoony, but with just a hint of tough guy cool.

Now check out 2008's Blu-ray "Special Edition"…

Holy revisionist Bat-Repackaging, Batman! Adam West's Caped (and camp) Crusader has been forced aboard the (yawn!) Miller/Nolan gravy train and reimagined as a gritty, po-faced Dark Knight.

Out with the Gee Whizz-ing of Burt Ward's Robin. In with the billowing cloaks and sombre (urban gothic) palette. Expect plenty of confused parents and disappointed ("What the hell's this goofy shit?") young fellas this Christmas.

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

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

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

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

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

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

1) He's tough.

2) He's fast.³

3) He's…er…the highest point…

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

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

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

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

My prize was a very lovely Halloween (Un)Lucky Bag and my enthusiasm was not dampened by the knowledge that I myself had bought it earlier the same day (for 1 Euro). I'd expected it to contain amusing and mega-cheap mank but the contents actually represent serious value for money. Behold (and click to enlarge).

The jewel in the…er…bag is obviously the delightful skeleton keyring. A fitting trinket for the Día (de los Muertos) that was in it.

The prize-winning rig-outfit I'd assembled was simple, effective and deadly. An old lady frock, an old lady wig, and a giant blood-stained old lady knife. The result - that lovable ol' rogue Norman Bates dressed as his mother.

The excellent (and unnerving) old lady wig was, somewhat unexpectedly, advertised as…well…something else entirely. While wig devotees will, of course, instantly recognise it as a Widmann "Karl" Party model the rest of us might benefit from some documentary evidence.

What in the name of Mrs. Bates' pickled & preserved corpse is the "Karl" look supposed to capture/represent? Part Steven Seagal; Part geisha; Part The Bold and the Beautiful; All bonkers.

Though there will (as is customary at such human functions) be generous amounts of music and dancing on the night, I'll be secretly pining and longing for the pure pleasures that only "60 min [sic] of terrifying sound effects" can produce. Behold the 2 Euro wonder that is "Sound of Horror CD".²

I expected it to be harmless and charming. Full of cartoony creaky doors, cuddly booing ghosts, and rattling (zoinks!) Scooby Doo chains. The kind of thing they might sell to beaming, rosy-cheeked chiddlers at Disneyland.

I was terribly, terribly wrong…

Panting, Shrieking, Grunting, Moaning, Thumping hearts fit to burst, Brutal industrial rhythms - all these things and more are present (on one gruelling hour-long track). It's a festering, Satanic potpourri where slices of David Lynch (or Angelo Badalamenti) mix with bloody chunks of Guantanamo Bay style sonic torture. Have a listen to the first 3 minutes…

Now imagine an hour of that. On your headphones. With the volume turned up to 11. You'd be straight out the front door with the hedge-trimmers in hand, ready to shred the neighbours' kids into a fine gooey paste.

Is it all part of a giant, Silver Shamrock-esque mind-fuck designed to highlight the vacuousness of consumerist Halloween by generating mass carnage? The answer is - almost certainly yes.

You've been warned.

1. I'm a traditionalist. [back]
2. Bought in William St's latest cheapomarket "Your More Store". [back]

Given the current global financial apocalypse I assume that most of you are now eating shoe leather for dinner, wailing yourselves to sleep in damp & draughty cardboard boxes, and shaking your sore-encrusted fists at an indifferent god. While I can't guarantee that the following cheap/free bits 'n' bobs will rouse you from your wretched misery, they may provide some small crumbs of comfort.

1) A Ghostly Genre: Short Fiction and the Supernatural.

From some of the same team of mad geniuses who brought us "It Came from the 1950s: Popular Culture, Popular Anxieties" comes "A Ghostly Genre: Short Fiction and the Supernatural". Taking place in the august surrounds of Trinity College Dublin this coming weekend (24-25 October), the conference features tasty talks on Robert Aickman, Sheridan Le Fanu, Henry James, M. R. James, Edith Wharton and many more besides. Yummy.

It's the closest thing to "Dreadful Thoughts: The Conference" we're ever likely to see, so I encourage (nay, demand) attendance…even though I can't (alas) make it myself. Pester Bernice or Elizabeth at this address for more info (tell 'em I sent you).

2) Wordsworth Editions - Tales of Mystery & The Supernatural.

I gleefully spat in the pinched and mean face of the recession today by purchasing six books. On my meagre wage that may (at first glance) seem the foolhardy extravagance of a doomed man, but look closer. The volumes in question - part of Wordsworth's groovy "Tales of Mystery & The Supernatural" series - all clock in at well under €4.00. Thrift and classic horror - together at last.

While it is (of course) a giddy joy to be able to pick up the collected stories of renowned authors (Conan Doyle, Henry James, Ambrose Bierce etc) for a modest fee, I get even more of a kick out of snapping up lesser-known delights. Today, for example, I got my mitts on Night Shivers: The Ghost Stories of J. H. Riddell and H. D. Everett's The Crimson Blind & Other Stories. Two relatively obscure gems, with funky covers, for the price of a bog-standard lunch. How can you refuse…even if the bailiffs are kicking down the door?

3) Dreadful Thoughts: Where Do We Go From Here?

Last Monday's meeting of the story club witnessed sad and raggedy clumps of tumbleweed blow through the blog. Numbers were down. Spirits were low. Your host was deflated.

However, with the passing of a week (and the buying of the aforementioned books) a sense of reinvigoration and renewal is in the air. "Damn it", thought I the other day, "There are still so many nooks & crannies of horror to explore and discuss. Without this damn'd club I'll stop reading these lovely, lonely tales and move on to something else." I don't want to do that just yet. For one thing, it wouldn't be fair to J. H. Riddell.

And so…I ask you. Does enthusiasm for, and interest in, the project still remain? Would changing times and days make a difference in terms of gathering people simultaneously together? Are there any changes to the (low-tech) format that might jazz proceedings up?

I'm still (almost in spite of myself) feeling the love for Dreadful Thoughts. With Halloween rapidly approaching it's an apt time to ask - "Is there life in the old dog yet?".

P.S: Don't forget. It's completely free.

Though their primary purpose is, I'd imagine, to indicate to stressed and bedraggled parents that they may park their brat-packed SUVs here (or there), they have a charm of their own that transcends this simple function.

Passing along the line of cars (and trying not to look like I was obsessively photographing license plates) I noticed that the signs were becoming progressively more degraded (and hence more interesting).

Image 1. Short, dumpy, armless child is accompanied (and protected) by disturbing, pelvis-free, giant-legged adult.

Image 2. Slightly less dumpy (but still armless) child balances on a gangrened leg that is just about to fall off. From behind a lamp-post a masked figure emerges - reaching out its blade like hand to rifle through the child's pockets (for financial or deviant reasons). Isn't society gone mad altogether? 'Tis. The budget, etc.

Image 3. A falling-to-bits adult (with a shrieking, and freakish, Pac-Man head) turns to flee from a young pursuer. A small wicker speech bubble separates them, but "says" nothing. Perhaps indicating wordless pain, or unmentionable longing. The young pursuer certainly seems to find the whole situation extremely…er…stimulating. Each to their own.

Further reading:

Take my Hand and Let us Flee - Signs, Pt. 1
The Enthusiastic Worker - Signs, Pt. 2

Misanthrope? Misogynist? Satirist? Supernaturalist?

Tonight, on Dreadful Thoughts, we're not only getting out the club magnifying glass to squint at the werewolf myth (through the prism of "Gabriel Ernest"), but also asking (in strong, but non-judgmental, terms) what Hector Hugh Munro (a.k.a Saki) was ultimately all about.¹

Pop the kids under the stairs, lock your aged relations in the attic, crack open a bottle of whatever you're having yourself, and let's boogie.

Begin.

1. Not that such a reductive question can actually be answered of course. [back]

Though this thing we call the internet generally caters effectively to the colourful needs of the planet's fetishists, paranoids, perverts and obsessives, there are areas of enthusiasm that remain curiously (and sadly) neglected. Take fans of live blogging, horror, and critical/performative crisp-eating for example. Who, out there, is really working to synthesise their diverse interests and put smiles on their jaded faces?

Answer: No-one…and so the job falls on my shoulders.

Saturday, 11th October - 6.18 pm.
Have just returned from an afternoon spent lunching & wandering with our Americo-Kerry friends Niall and Liz. They it was who recently alerted me to a small, dimly-lit, but significant corner of Irish salty snack culture - i.e., the horror-themed crisp. As they are soon (alas) leaving these shores I dedicate this live snack-munching extravaganza to them.

6.29 pm.
Today's crisps of choice were purchased during a "waiting for a bus" interlude in Tralee, Co. Kerry. While Limerick's newsagents seem content to limit themselves to boring mainstream snacks, the Kingdom is (it seems) home to more imaginative outlets. Who could resist the siren call of Perri's Banshee Bones? Not I.

6.36 pm.
Though most people with even a passing knowledge of Irish folklore (or Darby O'Gill) would readily recognise the Banshee as a traditional death messenger, few (I'd imagine) would be familiar with Perri's rather self-centred take on the legend.

A radical re-orientating and re-focusing of established lore. According to Perri's re-imagining, the function of Banshee wailing is not, as has always been thought, to herald imminent death, but rather just to give someone a "big fright". Not only that, but this anti-social behaviour seems motivated by a simple salt imbalance in her diet. One corrective packet of Banshee Bones later and she's laughin' it up and turning cartwheels through the fields and meadows.

6.58 pm.

Preparing to open the packet.

6.59 pm.

Packet open. A faintly Chipstick-y odour fills the air. I'd anticipated a more intense and pickled stench, a la Monster Munch. This is an unexpected development, and one that demonstrates Perri's dedication to the art of surprise.

7.03 pm.

I dip my hand inside and withdraw a solitary "bone". Amusingly, the word "bone" seems to operate on (at least) two levels. While the crisp does vaguely resemble a maize & potato piece of the human skeleton, it also doubles up as a risqué snack phallus. Hang on till I take a picture.

7.15 pm.

Sorry for the delay. I'm something of an amateur when it comes to photographing salt & vinegar flavoured cocks. Excuse the poor-quality.

7.18 pm.
Right. Time to put one of these babies in my mouth and see if they make me (as, sort of, promised) "forget [my] moans".

7.21 pm.
First taste is salt, though this lasts but a nano-second before it is overwhelmed by lashings of synthetic vinegar. The initial crunchiness is pleasing (and suggests lastability) but this almost instantly gives way to upsetting sogginess. It's like eating a penis-shaped Chipstick that falls apart before you've a chance to swallow. Hmm…

7.32 pm.
Popped downstairs to offer Jess a bone. She chewed meditatively before confirming the taste as "very Chipstick-y". She also claims the experience was a bit like eating "puffed vinegary air". It should be noted that she's pregnant, and thus not entirely reliable as a scientific test subject.

7.36 pm.
About half-way through the pack now and Banshee Bones are proving, despite low expectations, to be very "moreish". I notice the rear of the packet instructs interested consumers to "visit our website on www.perri.ie". I'm a particularly interested consumer this evening so visit it I shall (as I suck down another bone).

7.42 pm.

Error occurred: 404 - not found.

Gah! It appears that the current global financial meltdown has lowered its trousers and taken a big bankrupting dump all over Perri. Damn you, global financial meltdown. Damn you to hell.

7.52 pm.

The final bone has disappeared and I'm left feeling both unsatisfied and slightly giddy. Also, I notice that for the last 2 minutes I've been (like the pre-Banshee Bones Banshee) "wringing [my] hands". The combined effect is not a pleasant one.

7.59 p.m.
Time to bring proceedings to a close. We've a "posh" dinner lined up with some old friends and I need to a) spruce myself up, and, b) rid myself of this queasiness and anxiety.

Conclusion: Amusing shape. Poor-man's Chipstick. Dissolves too readily. Tenuous links to the Otherworld. Company appears to have collapsed. I feel strange.

Being (occasionally) a collaborative sort who (occasionally) values input, I canvassed regular and semi-regular Dreadful Thoughts "members" as to what tale they'd most like to cover in Story Club session number 9. After last week's encounter with a Byronic "Vampyre", I was keen to maintain the current "Classic Monsters" theme. To that end, I placed a solitary limitation on suggestions - i.e., they had to concern themselves with lycanthropy. Werewolves, WereDucks, WerePorpoise, WereMoose¹ - all of these (and more) were fair game.

The votes are in and the result is a clear win for our dear old friend - Hector Hugh Munro - a.k.a Saki (he of the poisonous & razor-sharp pen). The tale of choice is the wee little gem - "Gabriel-Ernest" (1910). Clocking in at a mere 2445 words this is one for short bus journeys, medium toilet trips, or longish descents in an elevator. It should prove easy to consume for even the most time-poor of readers. Yum.

Details as follows.

Story: "Gabriel-Ernest" (html), (pdf), (Project Gutenberg page).

Meeting: Monday, 13th October, 9 p.m.

Go. Read. Now.

1. Mooses? [back]

Anyway, the below stills/grabs are from some of these. Gaze at them, study them, click on & embiggen them. Then, after careful consideration (or no consideration at all if you prefer), hit me with your best guesses. The guesser who gets the most right will win my nerdy admiration (plus, perhaps, some virtual prize or other).

On with the show.

Further clues or stills will be forthcoming if needs be. Get busy…sure what else would you be doing on a Saturday?

Update 05/10/08 - New images added. It's easy now. Easy peasy. One of my cats just got three right and it spends most of its life asleep (or licking its balls). Come on humans.

Poor Polidori. That's the title of D. L. MacDonald's (critical) biography of the sometime author and physician we turn our attentions to on this damp, grey and windy night. And a fitting title it seems to have been when one considers a few of his woes.

For not only did the text of "The Vampyre" (which he appears to have left behind him in Switzerland in the autumn of 1816) get submitted to the New Monthly in London without his knowledge or consent, but, when it was eventually published it was described (by the magazine's proprietor, Henry Colburn) as "A Tale by Lord Byron". Ouch.

Add in Polidori's subsequent career failures, his dismissal (from his physician duties) by nasty Byron, and it's not entirely surprising that he opted for a romantic exit from this cruel world - taking his own life at the tender age of 26.

Yet the last laugh (or morbid chuckle) remains his. While many of Byron's other hangers-on are remembered only for their (sometimes literal…ooer) connections to his Lordship, Polidori's contribution to the genesis and development of the modern vampire mythos has ensured him a modest literary immortality.

Prior to Lord Ruthven's appearance, traditional (Serbian/Hungarian) vampires tended to be "bloated, shaggy, foul-smelling corpses who preyed on their immediate neighbours and relatives".¹ Not only that, but these grotesque revenants "were composed entirely of peasants".² Quick! Pass me my lavender-soaked handkerchief!

Polidori's transformation of the vampire from "bestial ghoul to glamorous aristocrat"³ established a template which blew away all competitors. Bram Stoker, Universal Pictures and Hammer (et al) would later finesse this model, thus helping to ensure its almost complete dominance, but Polidori's misattributed tale was (pretty much) where it all started.

With that I invite you to grab your flagons of blood-red wine and get chatting. My own contributions may be less fast and frequent than usual, owing to the fact that I'm currently laid up in bed with a bastardly cold. Offers of sympathy and understanding are encouraged. Sniff.

1. Polidori, John The Vampyre and Other Tales of the Macabre (OUP, 2008), p. xii. [back]
2. Ibid. [back]
3. Ibid. xix. [back]