Virtual awards time! The inaugural Clanging Gongs of Doom show starts here and starts now. Or, actually, in a little while. Have to go change a nappy. Back in a bit.

Ok. Nuclear bum waste disposed of. And I didn't get no shit on me tux neither. Let's get to it.

1) The "Ah crap…I'm genuinely upset that this relatively famous person has died" Clanging Gong of Doom for 2009 goes to…

Dan O'Bannon

2009 – that rabid devourer of life and livelihood – has (in its final days) claimed another victim. Into its gaping (frost-bitten) maw has tumbled a "genre" hero. A titan of B-Culture. *sniff*

While most obits (such as there are) have focused on the John Carpenter connection (Dark Star) or the begetting role he played in Alien, comparatively few have made much mention of what is (for me) his magnum opus.

Baby-watching detail doesn't allow time for much fresh elaboration, so I'll dip into my archival sack and recycle some previously aired thoughts:

Few things are as enjoyable (when successfully realised) as good horror comedies – the only problem being that there are so few of them around. List-compiling film buffs routinely cite the same three or four features as high points of the sub-genre: An American Werewolf in London, Evil Dead 2, Abbott and Costello meet Frankenstein etc. Rarely (outside of 'fanboy' circles) however, does one hear mention of Dan O'Bannon’s delightful and delirious Return of the Living Dead. Best known perhaps for being the film that introduced the classic zombie "Brrrraaaaaiiinnnsssss!!" refrain to cinema audiences, its ingredients – general daftness, a cast of fairly irritating teens etc – do not appear overly promising on paper.

What makes it memorable (and highly rewatchable…especially after a few pints) though, are three perfectly pitched performances from the senior male leads: James Karen (as the folksy and avuncular 'Frank'), Clu Gulager (as his put-upon, pragmatic boss 'Burt'), and Don Calfa (as the Nazi-loving mortician 'Ernie').

Add in a kicking soundtrack (from The Cramps et al), a 90 minute runtime that ensures the joke doesn't become too strained, a winning affection for its (unabashed) 'B-Movie' aesthetic etc, and the result is a gooey, gory, hilarious treat. There may be one or two more important zombie films (Dawn of the Dead, for example) but none are anything like this much fun.

Dan – your award is now beaming its way o'er the astral networks to the happy lands of the dead. RIP.

Now for a long-ish commercial break – a day or so most likely (this ceremony is to be a very leisurely affair, allowing ample time for Yuletide reflection on mortality).

Later.

26/12/09
And…we're back. Stuffed to overflowing with day old turkey and sprouts (and stuffing). Giddy from the effects of one too many hot ports. Delighting in the gifts we have received (most notably a sumptuous book on the work of Ray Harryhausen, signed by Ray Harryhausen). Ready to dish out more gongs.

2) The "Tireless Promoter of Crude Gender Stereotypes" Gong of Doom goes to…

Radio Advertising

If you discount, a) the buffoonish entrepreneurial comedy stylings of Ben Dunne, and, b) twee Ould Mr. Brennan chuckle-fests, then 100% of all remaining Irish radio ads are puke-inducing, "War of the Sexes"-style shitathons.

The message is ever the same. All fellas are slovenly, disorganised eejits – but (Ho! Ho!) loveably rougish for all that. You can't actually see them winking cheekily to camera (what with it being radio and all) but the wink (and elbow nudge) is automatically implied.

All "girls", on the other hand, are nag-o-maniacal bitch-monsters who alternate between joyless tut-tutting (at their fella's many failings) and coquettish arm-twisting to get what they want. And what they all want, of course, are a) shoes, b) vouchers for the Kildare Village Outlet Centre, c) chocolate-coated Sex & the City box-sets, and, d) huge fuck-off engagement rings.

Having established the above facts, radio has (for the last 12 months) beamed out non-stop messages like these:

"Staggering home from the pub? Langered drunk? Forgotten to do that thing you were asked to do (like, forty times)? Don't sweat it! Pop in to your nearest Londis and pick up a Mega-Bar of Galaxy Indulgence for only €1.50. We guarantee it'll shut that bitch up!

Way hey! Go on the lads…

Not all advertising is this evil of course. Some of it is life-affirmingly wonderful. Behold (even if you've already beheld it):

Along with its magnificent "making of" companion, this was the YouTube find of the year. Snow-speeders in space (traveling with an Imperial fleet)? Decidedly non-canon "Beam Transfer" technology? A Darth Vader/Maurice Pratt buddy movie dynamic? This ad had it all. It's a worthy winner of…

3) The 2009 "Priceless Pop-Cultural Treasure Dragged Back from the Edge of Oblivion" Clanging Gong of Doom.

More to follow (probably).

28/12/09

Right. Last couple of gongs going mouldy in the bottom of me bag here. Beginning to reek. Time for some quick-fire awarding.

4) The Clanging Gong for "Bestest and Fabulousest (Irish) Blog Post of the Year" goes to…

The Notional Conversation (Fergal Crehan, Tuppenceworth)

At a time when public figures were lining up to sing (with misty-eyes) the praise of Questions & Answers (and John Bowman) – Fergal's cracking post exposed the inner-workings of the (smooth & pointless) "public discourse" machine.

5) The Clanging Gong for "Weirdest & Most Brain-Searingly Wonderful Book of the Year" is hereby awarded to…

You Shall Die by Your Own Evil Creation! (Fletcher Hanks; edited by Paul Karasik, Fantagraphics).

Question: How would you punish a criminal master-mind who tried, using his "oxygen-destroying ray", to take over the world by suffocating "every big shot in America"? If you answered, "By using my transforming ray to turn him into a giant head before hurling him into a 'space pocket of living death where the headless headhunter dwells'", then Fletcher Hanks (a demented 1930s/40s comic auteur and visionary) may be something of a kindred spirit.

Long neglected and largely forgotten, Hanks' work has undergone something of a revival in the last 2 years or so, thanks to Paul Karasik's (Eisner award-winning) reprint collection I Shall Destroy All the Civilized Planets (Fantagraphics, 2007). Hanks (as that astonishing volume delightfully illustrated) was churning out his violent tales of bizarre crime and savage (grotesque!) retribution at a time when "Superhero Comic" conventions had not yet been established. Without a prescribed path – and cursed/blessed with a stiff and crude artistic technique – Hanks was free to indulge in "righteous" morality tales of power, potency and gleefully excessive brutality. His villains were decidedly un-super: bumbling gangsters or fifth columnists. Ape-like hoods as drawn by Hieronymus Bosch. His heroes, like the "Super Wizard" Stardust, were omnipotent dolers-out of the roughest justice.

Hanks (an alcoholic, violently abusive father) died destitute & frozen on a park bench. The work in (volume 2) You Shall Die by Your Own Evil Creation! (produced entirely by Hanks, at breakneck speed) might be testament to rage-filled, borderline psychosis – but it's thrillingly vital and magnificently (uniquely) strange for all that.

Hmmm…I smell yet another atomic nappy. Time to don the Hazmat suit and begin Operation Destinkify. That's yer lot for the 2009 Awards. Semi-regular service will resume in the New Year. 2010! We're living in the future!

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

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

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

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

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

And so on.

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

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

That's him in his "before" position.

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

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

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

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

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

Back when Manky Toy Monday was but a weak and mewling infant I suggested (by way of a partial mission statement) that:

Special attention will be paid to those delightfully crappy knock-offs and pastiches of established brands. For every Star Wars action figure, after all, there is a shadowy (and mega-lame) Galaxy Battles doppelgänger. For every Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle there is a distant and embarrassing cousin: let’s call him Kung-Fu Newt.

That was almost one year to the day ago (tomorrow is MTM's official birthday). How many 2 Euro Star Wars knock-offs have I seen since then? None in Limerick. Nor in Galway. Nor in Dublin. None, even, in Venice. Not a single one…anywhere.

Given that 2 Euro shops are (as I have learned) fairly accurate "fad barometers" (or bad farometers) this absence seems to suggest that the Star Wars universe is no longer deemed that floggable. The lumpy plastic Lukes and Chewbaccas (there were always Chewies) that once lined the shelves of such establishments have been shunted aside to make way for Spider-Man products by the shit-load. Spidey, it seems, is the new black, with every young fella I know loving the lord of the webslingers to the point of near obsession.

I'm not sure exactly when this mass clear-out of Galaxy Battles – I mean Star Wars – merchandise actually happened. Was it around the time kids were being encouraged to buy Jar-Jar beanie babies and Rugor Nass¹ sleeping bags? If so, a question begs itself: Did George Lucas create a series of prequels so bankrupt that even the Manky Toy-mongers deserted him?

Whatever the case may be we should be thankful for The Star Wars Collector's Archive and, in particular, its fantabulous "Bootlegs" page. The fact that Manky Toy Monday had not 'touched base' with it before is a source of shame and regret (though I'm exceedingly grateful to Niall Munnelly for pointing me in its direction). It really is a delicious cornucopia of the bad, the worse, and the "so bad it's better than the original". I've never previously allowed anything into this series that I didn't hold in my own sweaty hands but these are just too good (i.e. bad) to ignore.

First up – Logray, the Ewok medicine man (bought, the archive tells us, "somewhere in South America"). That's what he's supposed to look like on the left. The bootleg (as you may have guessed) is on the right.

The author of the entry (a Ron Salvatore) offers a summary of Bootleg Logray that's almost impossible to surpass, describing him as "a half-rotten banana with gray mashed potatoes heaped on top". He doesn't, however, mention the impression given by the clear plastic bag and the (ecstatic) open-mouthed expression on Logray's face. A definite suggestion of auto-erotic Ewok asphyxiation gone wrong methinks.²

Let us move on promptly to these magnificent early Dutch gems, sold (apparently) before official merchandise was available in the Netherlands:

That Chewbacca may well be one of the greatest objects ever hewn from rubber or plastic. If they had a crap Waxwork Museum on Kashyyyk then an 8-foot version of this would be on display in the lobby "honouring" its favourite son. The Stormtrooper looks like a down-on-his-luck Stay Puft Marshmallow Man (tapping change from passers-by) while the Vader is…surprisingly accurate, though he appears to have ditched the traditional lightsaber and gone for a more low-tech solution to killing and dismemberment.

Another Jedi opting for a less noisy blade is Vader Jr. – Mexican Luke Skywalker.

Aside from the fact that it's got the most delightful backing card I've ever seen, this classic bit of mankiness manages to knock-off not one, but two fantasy/sci-fi universes. Yes fan-boys and girls, it's "The Sword of Omens" – more usually the property of the Lord of the Thundercats. I wouldn't mind but the Luke on the card (not 3 centimetres away) is wielding a lightsaber.

Possibly my favourite page on the archive is one featuring a motley crew of Mexican Vaders (reflecting the enduring appeal of masked baddies perhaps). Here's but a taste:

Everything about the "Darth" second from left is just hilarious – his puny frame, his awkward posture, his over-tight trousers (and protruding groin), his ineffective looking black club (etc). He looks mortified – as if he'd been dressed (hurriedly) by his mum.

Truly a golden age of mankiness. Its like will (thanks, in part, to the joyless party-poopers from EU consumer affairs) never be seen again.

1. The fat fella underwater in D'Phantom Menace. [back]
2. There are worse ways to bow out I suppose… [back]