"Ho-ho! Now we're both eggheads!" Dandy 1496, July 25th, 1970

Hello again, pals. You may have noticed that I have been in self-imposed exile for some time now, only to be lured out of retirement by the fact that I have a whopping 21 followers. Intriguingly, the number of followers I have seems to grow at an inversely proportional rate to the amount I write. Or something.

Anyway, what could be a more entertaining way to briefly rouse me from my deathlike stupor than a little one-sided chat about that staple of the British comics scene, The Dandy. Nowadays, I understand, in a bid to boost flagging sales, The Dandy has been misguidedly redesigned to hide the fact that it is a comic, and looks pretty space-age. Yet no matter how futuristic it may now purport to be, I feel sure that it cannot compete with the out-there other-worldliness of this issue from 1970, which is, in fact, stunningly super-weird. Why the kids nowadays wouldn't want to buy this, I will never understand. Well, actually, to be honest, I do understand. But what I don't understand is why the kids would have wanted to buy it then.

Let us begin our journey into yesterday with Korky the Cat.

Page one, and we're already in a strange realm of the unreal. Putting aside for a moment the fact that this tale revolves around a sentient cat and elephant in a bizarre tit-for-tat battle of inter-species rivalry ultimately resulting in their becoming "eggheads", we are also asked to accept that Korky needs to find employment as a "death diver". If we're talking circus acts here, isn't being a giant talking cat enough? My favourite thing about all this, though, is not the splendidly contrived tale itself, but Korky's fish supper, neatly laid out on a cafeteria tray, with a nice cup of tea. How old is Korky supposed to be? He's like a pensioner on holiday, a wrinkled old duffer in a furry suit. I expect he paid for it with Luncheon Vouchers.

Now on to a work of considerable genius: Dudley D. Watkins' superb Desperate Dan. You can see that kids would have loved this, surely? Although they might have been freaked out by how exceptionally anachronistic it must have looked, even then. But feast your eyes on this fantastic artwork. Those splendid solid blacks...so brilliantly funny. I love how Watkins juxtaposes the wild west with a grimy Glasgow of long ago.

Cramming the page with brilliant humour, Watkins effortlessly manipulates the comics form here, treating us to two panoramic cinemascope panels, to create a brilliant visual gag. Absolutely terrific. What care we that it would appear to be 1954 rather than 1970? Perhaps it's a reprint. Publishers D.C. Thompson were frugal that way.

Now on to Brassneck. The inspiration for Viz Comic's Tinribs, the original has a surreal genius all of its own...more fantastic artwork. I don't know who drew it. Here's a great sequence where the evil Swotty takes Brassneck to pieces. The (unknown, underpaid) artist seems to be enjoying himself here; perhaps relishing the chance to dismantle Brassneck for a few panels, at least.

I do not long for much in this world, but I want a Brassneck I can attach a microphone to the 'bonce' of. Notice, again, that it seems to be circa 1958 rather than 1970, though the mic itself looks like a contemporary Sure SM58 (good for vocals and robot brain manipulation).

And then along comes Dirty Dick, and we could almost be back in the days of rationing, were it not for the abundant Bunter-esque jam tarts. Note the distinctive lettering. I always wondered why the Dirty Dick artist was, unlike everybody else, allowed to do his own lettering. And I always shall. But it allows his speech bubbles to pop out of the pictures in a dynamic way.

What I'm digging the most is the portly chap's straw boater and moustache (bottom right), and how he's jammed into the picture to accentuate the gag. Fantastic.

Another comics genius is at work on the centre pages: Davy Law, better known for Dennis the Menace, but here drawing the lesser known Corporal Clott. Love the splurgey watercolour inks.

Good old fashioned slapstick. Now we venture into a strange realm of dog-related soap-opera. As a kid I always hated Black Bob, the champion sheepdog/faithful border collie. I didn't like the way the story was written out in painfully flat prose in the corners of the panels, which always seemed to be in 'long shot'. And it was an interminable serial, which seemed to have no beginning or end, only an infinitely dull middle. It ran for ever and ever, didn't it? And didn't every kid, spotting the grinning mutt, the cloth caps, the shepherds' crooks and the acres of type, groan and skip this page? Oddly enough, though, looking at it now, Black Bob seems like some kind of impossible masterpiece of comic strip strangeness; an ultra-artificial Scottish canine melodrama, a Douglas Sirk film with dogs. And no women, of course. Just animals, wrinkled men, and young boys in shorts.

Take a look at the plot summary. The boys were on holiday from the city and knew so little of country ways that their grandpa thought they were cissies. The wee Sassenach bratties! So, quite rightly, they run away to show their innate manliness. But, meanwhile, their grandfather had been taken to hospital for an operation. Various nonsense ensues. But the main drama this week centres around a lamb that falls off a cliff. Can you imagine any of this in a kids' publication today? Splendid. Check out the following sequence - and the best thing is that Black Bob is so into his lamb-protection mission he's quite prepared to herd the wee laddies off a cliff, possibly to their deaths, to save it. For they are sissies, and deserve it.

Unfortunately, though, the small child does not die, and lambkins is saved. But, in the final panel, new intrigue.

Looks like they'll have to dash about amidst the heather for another week...and another...and another...forever and ever, amen. But I don't blame them. Grandpa looks a bit sinister and I bet he'd have at the little cissies with his stick. If he could see them. Which he can't. For another ten episodes, at least. It's all rubbish, really. Yet still I long to know what happened next.

Now, gather round, kids. Back before the internet, the letters page was a place where the readers of a comic could converge. Here - with the tantalising promise of a Bag of Laughs - a creepy aged schoolboy in rather close fitting shorts invites readers to write in with True Stories, Big Laughs, Funny Stories, though what you would actually end up getting were invariably Contrived Lies, Depressing Puns, Mirthless Incidents. But occasionally something a bit unusual would turn up - for instance this:

Shown around the set of a Norman Wisdom comedy film? Wow, how I wish I had been Timothy Snape of Lancs. But hang on a minute - this isn't just any old Wisdom vehicle - it's the brilliant 'adult' one that's never on TV - where wrinkly not-Pitkin unwisely gets his kit off and slides his spindle-shanks frame incongruously into the sack alongside the yummy Sally Geeson (rumoured to appear topless in the legendary 'export' cut). Blimey! No wonder Timothy Snape's so pleased with himself.

That's enough of that. Take a cold shower and return to the world of teachers in mortar boards, where you belong. Here's Greedy Pigg.

Pigg gives me the creeps. There's just something about him. Is it the striped trousers? The oddly swollen belly? The tongue? The way he surreptitiously prowls around the boarding school after classes stealing things from children? Couldn't Mr. Pigg afford his own cake? Shouldn't he prefer a stiff drink? Too many questions. We shall leave social services to investigate and linger here no longer. Flip the page for more mortar boards - as we visit an equally odd time-warp school to meet Winker Watson. He's a what? Oh, you said Wangler.

Another endless serial. Lots of running about, climbing over walls, that sort of thing, this week and every week. I always quite enjoyed Winker Watson - and do like the fact that Mr Creep wears his mortar board with his pyjamas - but I never seemed to locate the start or the end of any of the stories. The same artist as Dirty Dick, but here he's not allowed to do his own lettering. Why? This is the question that haunts me to this day.

And finally - another one that Viz ripped off - Bully Beef and Chips. The premise was simple enough. Every week Beefy would duff up Chips, but get his comeuppance at the end. Small recompense for Chips living his life in fear. But as we have learned the greatest of all crimes is for a child to be a cissie. Just ask the blind old git in Black Bob. A real-life Bully Beef would hopefully have been in an institution for young offenders. But this is Dandy world. More great artwork! Loud check demob suits all round - and supporting characters who look like George Formby film racetrack spivs - except for Beefy, who sports a Ramones haircut some years early.

July 1970. Not so long ago, really, in the scheme of things, yet so distant, so obscure, that it may as well be all eternity. How lucky we are to have The Dandy to give us an entirely inaccurate idea of how things were back then. And if you think all this is bewildering, you should take a look at The Dandy's early 70s companion paper, The Sparky. Especially the jaw-dropping title character, Sparky himself. No, you shouldn't. Don't even go there.

You will find this comic in THE HOUSE OF COBWEBS.

"Measure the louse for the hot seat while I take these two babes out where they can fight over me!" Crime Mysteries No. 3, September 1952

What-ho, pals. Welcome back to the fusty virtual corridors of THE HOUSE OF COBWEBS. Where have I been? Never you mind. But, in the interim period between this and my last posting, I have been engaging in a possibly futile attempt to get my life together (cripes!) and sort out some important matters. I even considered putting my comic collection in alphabetical order. But it's trickier than you first think, when, flushed with the gay excitement of a new day, you first contemplate the hefty crates of decaying tat. Do you sort by publisher? Is there really any point in it? I came to the conclusion that probably there isn't. Though I had an entertaining time reacquainting myself with issues of Super Duck, The Partridge Family, and many others, I was forced to conclude that my collection is a bit of a raggedy-bag of low-grade, tatty, falling to pieces comics, the unavoidable consequence of many years of not having enough cash to secure the kind of 'key issues' that 'serious' collectors would, by now, have 'slabbed' in plastic cases with official CGC gradings (9.5, NM+). There will be little for fortune-seekers to flog some years hence when they cart my lifeless body from my garret.

But every now and again a collector on a budget manages to pick up a valuable item for much less than 'guide' price. As is the case with this issue of Crime Mysteries pictured above, snapped up for just five quid at one of those seedy comics fairs I so enjoy. What a terrific pre-code cover! Of course, it has nothing to do with anything within. So, let's take a look inside.

We begin with The Seance of Horror. Which isn't really a horror tale at all, despite this lurid splash-panel. In these days of post 9-11 terrorist anxiety, it's intriguing to recall there once was a time that you could travel on aeroplanes with toothpaste, pencils, bottled water, shampoo, and...ticking briefcases.

Artist Marcus Rocke (or Marcus? Or Rocke?) has his limitations (faces, human bodies, that sort of thing), but is splendidly adept at extreme close-ups of ill-fitting trouser wrinkles and shoes with no socks, something today's so-called 'artists' could learn from.

Yes, the evil medium blew up the plane. Time for crusading criminologist Lance Storm to do a flying rugby tackle at the turbanned ruffian.

And what is to be his punishment for blowing up a plane?

Yes, that's right, a sock on the jaw. Take that! Even if he has a girl's long nails. Next comes my favourite story in the issue, The Fantastic Dr. Foo.

Of course, the flatfeet are entirely incapable of sorting this out. They need to call on the services of the sagacious Dr. Foo, and his ward, the beautiful Nalya...

Hmm, yes, you sure have a way with words, Dr. Foo. You tell 'em. Whatever it means.

Seems like Nalya is something more than Dr. Foo's 'ward', don't you think? Various pseudo-oriental high jinx ensue, before the climax - featuring another great shoe-close up. With some baggy white sports socks in evidence this time.

But there's more to Foo than just this talk of worms and eagles. There's the helio-electric battery, for starters.

What else can you produce from beneath your robe, Dr. Foo? Or is that strictly between you and Nalya?

Yes, turn it on, I say! Turn on that helio-electric battery!

That's the stuff. Now let us turn our attention to the Glamor Girl of Hollywood, Queenie Starr.

The fascinating thing about Queenie is that she seems entirely blase about the whole 'casting couch' approach to stardom. She'll do anything for a whopperoo, even if it involves canoodling with sleazy murder-suspect film directors, seen here cravatted and crotchety after the leading lady is bumped off...

Admittedly, our saucy heroine does rifle through his drawers looking for clues, but, blimey, Queenie sure is devoted to her job...and, when she solves the mystery...

And maybe she'd better climb right up on Sol Arnim's knee, and all, because...that's Hollywood!

One breathless page later, here comes Jerry Jasper...

The story is nothing to write home about, but I do admire Jasper's pizazz when, having solved the crime, he gets the girl and the murderer's girl, who would seem to be just a tad fickle, in one fell swoop, the dirty dog...

Is it just me, or has there been some rather loose morality going on in this issue of Crime Mysteries? Is this a good example to set to the nation? We've had a mass-murderer punished by a sock on the jaw, Dr. Foo pimping his ward Nalya down by the docks, Queenie Starr smooching it up with all and sundry just to get ahead in Hollywood, and dear old Jerry Jasper cracking crime just so he can get it together for a three-in-a-bed with some sleazy dames. In fact, upon consideration, I feel positively unclean. Which must be why the last page of the comic features this public service announcement...

Well, I'm off down the church or synagogue of my choice. Praise the Lord! Please be seated. Today's reading will be from Crime Mysteries.

You'll find this reprehensible publication in THE HOUSE OF COBWEBS.

"Ha Ha! Very unfunny!" Freddy comics are bad comics...yet still I buy more of them

Because you demanded it: another rollicking moment from the strange, sick world of Freddy,Charlton Comics' chilling Archie rip-off. I won't bore you by telling you what's going on here, but one thing is for sure: he's not selling copies of his own magazine. Nah, dey ban not goot!

You may recall, chums, that I mentioned the fact that I had been tempted, against my better judgement, to purchase further copies of Freddy, following my fascinating blog posts about the oily-haired twerp here and here, but had not done so owing to the fact that I refused to pay £4.00 each for copies at a comics fair. You remember, right? No? Just humour me, anyhow.

Well, it just so happened that there I was, at the same stall some months later, and the stall-holder (who used to run a comic shop, but now works in Sainsbury's, apparently) was having an "everything with a little red sticker on it is half price" sale. Unsurprisingly, his previously £4.00 copies of Freddy had still not been snapped up. Reader, I bought them. Here they are; I beg your indulgence while I interject some random observations.

Another strange cover from D'Agostino. Wearing those "trunks" it is perhaps no wonder that the sword fish is keen to give him a friendly prod up the sit-upon. And, though the comic book might perhaps be somewhat below par, you should buy it anyway because there are coupons worth $3.37 in this issue. Incidentally, in case you were wondering, I can confirm that the comic book is not all that it might be; and, unfortunately, the coupons are no longer valid. But I still bought it, however, so what does that say about me? You don't have to answer that.

Freddy's overdone the magic mushrooms in this special libido-overload issue.

Aha, no wonder he was getting hot under the collar. Though you might wonder what this statuesque dream-doll is doing hanging out with drippy Fred. Especially when he's started a fire on the ice in the middle of a frozen lake. Inside...

Hey mom, how come you're the same age as I am? Don't ask awkward questions. It is all part of D'Agostino's master-plan. Talking of which, where's our Jughead-rip-off pal, Stuff? Here he is!

I must confess to being somewhat confused by this wordplay. "Holy Cow" isn't generally spelled "wholly cow", and either way, it isn't pronounced "woolly cow". And besides, it's not a cow, it's a dog. I guess Stuff must be confused because of that ice-bag on his head. Or could this be the rottenest joke in the world?

Hey, here's an idea. Why not get another character to repeat the same rotten joke again, then get Freddy himself to remind the readers how rotten it is? Very unfunny! But somehow it makes sense in the strange world of Freddy.

Unfortunately, though, pals, overall none of these newly acquired issues of Freddy reach the dismally sublime heights of surreal ineptitude that marked the one we examined previously. But they have their moments. Like a chucklesome story about killing animals, with this pay-off panel:

Nice elk, madam. We even have "plop-cloud" end of story fainting, a venerable comic strip technique dating back as least as far as Mutt & Jeff circa 1907.

And this bargain-basement hep cat crops up all over the shop. It's Nick the Beat, here appearing in Like, Let's Dance.

Like, the story is as tired and throwaway as you'd expect of, like, any tale written in approximately thirty seconds on the back of an envelope entitled Like, Let's Dance, but, like, I must confess that I have a sneaking affection for Nick the Beat. Happiest when upsetting uptight aged schoolboys whacking his bongo with a hearty Bong! Bonga! Boom!, I wish I were he. If only he'd had his own comic.

Now, how about some hand grenades? Guaranteed to break the ice at parties.

I think I'll have the "Pineapple" as it is famous through three wars. And an "egg", while you're at it.

I didn't realise that, in his heyday, Freddy had his own letters page. Hard to believe that anybody wrote in, right? And that's what "a girl by the name of Linda Hartman" thought too...

On the contrary, I think Linda Hartman must have been an unusually astute young lady. Whereas young Marilyn (they're the very best ever. I've been buying them for a long time and will continue to buy them) may perhaps have been an unhappy child, and (all my friends and I love "Freddy" comics) a loner at school.

The Charlton office boy seems almost to be blubbing into his $3.37-worth of coupons in his drippy heartfelt response...

Though Freddy pretends not to be "mad" at Linda it nonetheless seems to me that there is the underlying implication in this tearful reply that Ms. Hartman is anti-American, a Communist, and a thoroughly bad sort, and should be pelted with stones in the street. If there were any "loyal" Freddy fans to do it, of course. Which I doubt. I think most of the letters were made up. Probably including this one.

I'm with you, cue-ball. Leave him there. That about wraps it up, don't you think?

You'll find these marked-down copies of Freddy in the HOUSE OF COBWEBS.

In which I get an award

Greetings readers. I had planned to bring you the final unwanted chapter in the story of my relentless search for further back issues of Charlton Comics' unloved 1960s Archie rip-off, Freddy. But I'm afraid that will have to wait. Please try and be patient.

A certain Mr. Coniam, a 'blogger' who appears to have a great deal of time on his hands, if the huge number of blogs he writes is anything to go by, has unexpectedly awarded me The Creative Blogger Award.

I usually have no respect for awards at all, and affect to despise both those who give them and those who receive them, but I'm making an exception in Mr. Coniam's case. Any man who writes a blog entitled The Marx Brothers Council of Great Britain as well as another solely devoted to the intricate analysis of every forgotten Dennis Wheatley novel (in order, no less) is obviously a man of discerning taste who both knows what he's talking about and truly understands and savors both the futility and the joyous, pointless excitement of wallowing in pop-cultural history, while your everyday life crashes and burns around you. So, despite even his misguided suggestion, amongst the comments following one of my posts, that Morecambe and Wise's Night Train to Murder is "magnificent", I remain pleased to accept this award. Unaccustomed as I am to public speaking, etc. The British are coming!

Apparently, though, it's not as simple as that. These awards are beastly things, something like chain letters. I can't just accept it and be done with it, and go about my business. In order to receive it, I have certain duties to fulfill, all of which revolve around the number seven. But instead of having to promise to send loads of creeps from my junior school class 5p each, I am now supposed to reveal 7 facts about myself, and award further awards to 7 other 'bloggers'. Complicated, eh? And does anybody really give a toss about moi? Besides, the concept of a 'fact' is inherently problematic. I ask you. To tell you the truth, I could live without it.

Anyhow, here goes. Let's start with the 7 blogs lucky enough to receive awards from me. Blimey. I feel exhausted already.

Ideally, I'd give awards to all the "followers" up there on the right who read my blog, of course, including that mysterious chap Jerry who doesn't seem to have one of his own, but has a rather fetching picture of a budgerigar as his 'icon'. But I'm afraid I can't. So I apologise in advance. Here are the lucky nerds who get The Creative Blogger Award from me (if they, or you, care):

1. KinoKarno

The deranged ramblings of British trash film-auteur par excellence and connoisseur of all things smutty Fred Karno, who has himself been churning out zero-budget film rubbish of the highest order since the 1980s. One day the mainstream media will surely discover him and proclaim him as a genius, as Stan Laurel did for Marcel Marceau. I fear, though, it may be some time after his demise, unfortunately. Mr. Karno doesn't post as much as he ought to, but you're sure to find some obscure saucy film-fun at his blog.

2. Exile on James Street

Splendidly poetic and perceptive travel writing, social commentary and pondering on existence from the enigmatic I AM PENTAGON. He doesn't write enough, either. But take a look! His latest, after about a decade of silence, is all about a graveyard. That's the stuff.

3. Matching Dragoons

As a big Western fan, I am a loyal devotee of the DC Comics western Jonah Hex, which - somewhat implausibly - is being made into a film after being cancelled in the late '80s then more recently revived. A fine fellow called Dwayne writes a splendid blog about it all, and has provided detailed analyses of every issue of his adventures. He's also keeping a careful tally of how many owlhoots Hex has offed over the years. And it's plenty. Now he's dealing with the spin-off comic Hex , which saw the scar-faced bounty hunter in a post-apocalyptic Mad-Max rip-off future. You know you need to head right on over!

4. Famous Five Style

Ever wanted to live your life in the wholesome style of Enid Blyton's immortal George, Anne, Julian, Dick and Timmy the dog (woof!)? Of course you did. You didn't? Well, here's your chance. From choosing the right brogues for the Famous Five look, to chasing children who won't wash with carpet beaters, by way of how to make ginger-beer scones, it's all charmingly documented here in lovingly eccentric detail.

5. Eclectic Banana

And relax. A chap called Drake does this one. I'm not sure how to accurately sum it up in a couple of sentences, but suffice to say a recent post devoted to a photo of a cute redhead in a tight outfit ("am I shallow to melt over a pic like this?" says Drake. Yes, you are. But I'm more than happy to reprint it here) follows immediately after a post about Top Cat advertising Kellogg's Corn Flakes in the 1960s. I feel a distinct affinity for Drake's worldview.

Keep up the good work, Drake! I salute you!

6. Silver Age Comics

Nostalgia, incisive analysis and humorous comment on old comic books, the main things that make life worth living. And Pat, who writes this, was the first blogger to post an encouraging word of comment on my humble blog (a friendly disagreement about Donald Duck comics, I seem to recall). I'm sure he has plenty of awards already, but here's another one for his Bat Cave. I often spend my lunch hour reading Silver Age Comics. It's jam packed with important information I can't afford to miss about gorillas in comics, Ace the Bat-Hound and Superman's Pal Jimmy Olsen's signal-watch (zee-zee-zee).

7. Dartman's World of Wonder

If there's a theme running through my choices it's a certain degree of - shall we say - eccentricity going on here. And Mr. Dartman is no exception. There's all kinds of crazy stuff to be found in his World of Wonder, and as this is where I obtained a copy of the deleted rock n' roll album Chuck Berry '75, I feel I must give Mr. D an award - even if he contravenes all health and safety regulations by also making available the tragic post-Monkees travesty LP Dolenz, Jones, Boyce and Hart. If you don't believe how bad it is, just take a look at that sickly picture above. That should give you some idea. Yes, I just had to have it! But I regretted it.

So there you are. Sorry I could only do seven. And now, finally, the facts about me. Stay awake at the back, there. Just give me the facts, ma'am.

FACTS.

1. This is the first award I've won since I took first place in the London Borough of Hounslow 'Peace' poster competition (it was the 11-13 age group, about 1982, I think).

2. My winning picture, exhibited in Hounslow Civic Centre, was a ghastly watercolour painting of a war scene, complete with mushroom clouds, death, destruction, etc., melting into a giant cup with a CND symbol on it.

3. The prize was a book token for Ten Pounds. Or something. I may have spent it on the first British edition of Herge's The Blue Lotus.

4. Despite my pride at such an honour, the event was nonetheless tinged with regret. Which I will now attempt to convey to you.

5. In the following week's Middlesex Chronicle they mistakenly said that a drippy girl from a posh school had won first prize, and had a picture of her gloating in front of her painting instead of a picture of me gloating in front of mine (which, frustratingly, I believe could be glimpsed at the edge of the picture).

6. I was forced to wear my ill-fitting school uniform to the prize giving ceremony, and had a 'bowl' haircut. The newspaper made sure to publish a group shot, which wholly demonstrated this, though at the same time I was partially obscured behind someone's shoulder.

7. Just like The Gallery on Take Hart, they did not return my picture, presumably depositing it, along with all the others - with relief - in a dustbin as soon as Hounslow Council's Leftist agenda had been fully satisfied by its well-publicised exhibition.

I hope you enjoyed that intimate glimpse into my private world. You will not find my prize-winning poster in THE HOUSE OF COBWEBS. Normal service will be resumed as soon as possible.

A world where no-one had ever heard of Laurel and Hardy

Feast your eyes on this splendid old Stan Laurel money box. Yes, I know it's a bit damaged and it's been glued back together at some point, but it's still a fine item, is it not? I reckon it's 1950s, and it has an Italian look about it to my eyes - Stanlio - what do you think? I've cleaned it up a bit, but didn't want to rub it too hard - for fear that the paint might come off.

I picked this up at a car boot sale. When I saw it on the stall - standing proud and incongruous in the middle of a grimy wallpaper pasting table otherwise adorned with what seemed to the randomly scattered contents of a kitchen dustbin - I was momentarily fearful that the vendor would ask a high price for this, the only thing there that he could possibly hope to sell in a million years.

Feigning careless disinterest I stepped forward.

"How much is the money box?"

"Is fifty."

I eagerly handed over my 50p.

"You want another? I got another. Just like this. Fifty."

Enthusiastic in the hope that further large sums of money might be exchanged, the man proceeded to rummage among some dirty pieces of screwed up paper under the table. Did he have Olio down there? Sadly not: he emerged with some kind of small ornament shaped like an owl.

Smiling and nodding, I noted that it was indeed a fine piece, and undeniably the ideal complement to the item which I had already acquired, but ultimately declined to make the purchase. This seemed to puzzle him somewhat. I made my excuses and left.

As I scudded away chuckling idiotically over my prize, an important and troubling thought suddenly occurred to me: that bloke has no idea that this money box is supposed to look like the famous comedian Stan Laurel...in fact, he has never heard of Laurel and Hardy at all.

Which makes you think, doesn't it? On the one hand, it's a sad, sad world where people don't know who Laurel and Hardy are; on the other, it's not such an unhappy one if it means that, even in these post-Bargain Hunt times, nerds like me can snap up delightful grimy old Stan Laurel money boxes for 50p. I guess it's all part of the great design.

We're going now! Good-bye!

You will find Stanlio in THE HOUSE OF COBWEBS.

Suppressed Desires of a Bank Manager: The Sexton Blake Library, Third Series, No. 216, May 1950, "The Evil Spell" by Walter Tyrer

Greetings, junk-fans. It's been far too long since I last invited you to join me in an unholy decaying-newsprint tryst amidst the fusty portals of the House of Cobwebs. More importantly, I have to get rid of that picture of Morecambe and Wise from the top of the page - they look so sad and unwell they're starting to make me feel a bit poorly myself.

So, let's replace that faded photo with a splendid Eric Parker cover for The Sexton Blake Library dating from 1950. I love it. What brilliant composition, full of atmosphere and colour, and so evocative - really summing up that only-just-post-war world. What a fine artist Parker was. Check out the succinctly-captured look of pompous outrage on the hypnotist's victim (not to mention the watch chain tightly stretched across his waistcoat), the splendidly shocked clown, and the saucy showgirl in her scanty costume.

Sexton Blake isn't on the cover. He was perhaps the most famous of all the fictional brainy private detectives to follow in Sherlock Holmes' footsteps, and he appeared in umpteen squillion pulpy stories between the 1890s and the 1970s, notably published in the story paper Union Jack and, for decades, in the pocket-size The Sexton Blake Library. Hundreds of authors churned out stories of Mr Blake's exploits, as he unceasingly cracked crimes ably assisted by his young assistant, Tinker. He was big in his day, which was an incredibly long one, spinning-off into the films and on to the radio and the telly. He still has a devoted following. My old man - who crops up rather frequently on this blog - proudly displays hundreds of Sexton Blake libraries on the shelves of his 'man cave'.

The Evil Spell is about a bank manager who, under the influence of an evil hypnotist, does naughty things, like gambling with investors' money (bankers haven't changed much, have they?), and hanging out with showgirls. It was written by a chap called Walter Tyrer.

Like me, Tyrer doesn't seem to care that much about the one-dimensional characters of Blake and Tinker - for him they are merely the central ciphers that, as the hack writing this, he had to hang the tale upon. The two 'tecs don't feature very prominently in the story. Nor does Mr Tyrer seem to be much interested in plot, nor the potential for sensation in the 'hypnotism' premise. Indeed, it seems to me that, like so many frustrated writers of pulp, he was more interested in his own, more serious novelistic goals. One of which, for Tyrer, seems to be fashioning a character study of a supposedly respectable, puffed-up lower middle class chap (the bank manager you can see on the cover) tempted into debauchery, while gleefully highlighting how temptation begins the speedy slide from respectability to shame.

He creates a brilliant thumbnail sketch of the tormented bank manager, as he slides towards sin:

"Mr. Arthur Grimes had spent the early part of the evening listening to a symphony concert on the wireless because he thought that was a dignified and respectable thing to do, although good music was inclined to induce drowsiness in him. He did not listen to the Light Programme because he thought that was unrefined and socially beneath him. Humour puzzled him, also, although he occasionally unbent enough to make a joke. The Third Programme was, of course, suitable only for cranks and eccentrics, and not for bank managers.

...He switched the wireless off, because it was a regrettable fact that good music bored him. Now was the hour which, he informed those people who cared to listen to him or were compelled to, he usually spent with a good book, something to improve his mind.

A few minutes later he was busy with a form book and several newspapers, trying to reduce the running of certain horses to a mathematical formula. "

There's a lot of dry wit in Tyrer's prose. As Grimes - hypnotised - gets involved with an ageing showgirl - "a blonde with somewhat chemical characteristics" - Tyrer fleshes out her character, too, with cynical, humorous economy:

"Miss Lottie Short was creditably punctual the following morning. Blake and Tinker had arranged to meet her in the private bar at the Station Hotel, where they were staying, and promptly at opening time Miss Short, a bright and colourful figure, came through the swing doors like a newly painted liner with flags flying leaving the slip-way on which it had been built.

"Here I am!" she said gaily. "Up with the lark for once! I haven't even stopped to have any breakfast."

"Maybe we can arrange something," said Blake.

He looked around for the barman with the idea of ordering a sandwich, but he discovered that Miss Short's breakfast appetite was somewhat unconventional, and she elected to have a double whisky with ginger ale. It was, she explained, economical, because with the double quantity of whisky you didn't have to leave any of the ginger ale."

Later, Blake confronts Grimes with Lottie:

"Lottie's delight was childlike and unrestrained.

"Dear old Friar Tuck!" she exclaimed. "Fancy finding you here! Aren't you glad to see your little Maid Marian. When are you going to chase me round Sherwood Forest, like you threatened?"

Mr Grimes' consternation was only too apparent. His fountain-pen fell from his hand, while his eyebrows fled upwards in apparent search of his non-existent hair.

"You have the advantage of me, madam!" he said frostily."

Writing in a somewhat stodgy, but cosily effective style, pleasingly reminiscent of a minor Victorian novelist, here Tyrer concocts two fine studies of flawed, jaded, mediocre, unexceptional people, hiding them within the commercial confines of a feebly-plotted sevenpenny detective story. Who was Tyrer? Was he a jaded bank clerk, tempted by gin and gee-gees, wishing he had the time and luxury to write "proper" novels?

This is only the second Blake story I've read. It's not much of a detective story, but if you're unhealthily obsessed with the past and want a forgotten tale of closely-observed, small-time, down-at-heel characters trapped within a pulp-fiction British social drama, look no further. Just nip out with your 7d and pick up a copy. It may still be on the bookstalls.

Blake himself, impervious to all temptation, of course, sums up the moral of this tale:

"We have had a glimpse of the suppressed desires of a bank manager. It's dangerous, Tinker, to suppress desires too violently. Like sitting on the safety valve of a boiler."

How true, Mr Blake. But we can't all be as upstanding as you...

You will (temporarily) find this pocket library in THE HOUSE OF COBWEBS.