Wood-and-String Music Men, Adam Faith, an Empty Record Sleeve and the Extended Holly Hiccup

Hey, what's cookin', you hep cats? These wood and string music men live on the desk here amidst the detritus in the House of Cobwebs. Generally, however, as they are not very stable and fall over at any opportunity, they are usually to be found sitting in a small pile, often with their heads broken off, gathering dust. But I have posed them resplendently here for your enjoyment.

I can't remember where they came from but they used to live inside a vintage cocktail cabinet I had in Amersham in one of my previous lives. I'm guessing that they are circa 1960s and that there might be one missing. In repeated efforts to convince myself that they are supposed to be The Beatles I have often found myself trying to assign the identities of one member of the Fab Four to each of them, but to no avail. You can't get round the fact that this bass player is not left handed. Still, pretty groovy, eh? Straight outta the fridge, Daddio.

While we're on the subject of music, take a look at this - from a time in British music before Beatles.

If you haven't seen it, Beat Girl is a terrific British rock n' roll exploitation picture from the late 1950s. Everyone goes on all the time about how it features a young Oliver Reed (and, yes, it does) but perhaps more importantly, quite apart from the foxy chicks (Gillian Hills and Shirley Anne Field) pictured here, it is a showcase for the much maligned but much underrated Brit fop-pop star and actor Adam Faith.

Soon after this film was made, with the first wave of rock 'n' roll rebellion tamed and morphing into 'pop' music, Mr Faith's image was revamped somewhat - he was given smart tailored suits, and some foppish pretty-boy songs to sing (e.g. Poor Me, Someone Else's Baby and, recommended for die hard devotees only, the ultra-saccharin seasonal number Lonely Pup in a Christmas Shop, complete with kiddie choir). Popular with the young ladies, he became rather a fixture in the Hit Parade in the early 1960s, before The Beatles came along and changed everything. Adam tried to keep up with the beat groups, and he recorded some rather fine tougher-sounding waxings with his own backing combo, The Roulettes, but the kids weren't fooled. But, in his day, he was big. My old man assures me that, once upon a time, so famed was the young Mr Faith that he was known simply as 'Adam' the same way Presley was known as 'Elvis'. Yeah, right. But I love the idea, and, though I suspect that my old man has allowed his own enthusiasm for Adam to cloud his memory, I choose to believe him. Anyway, everybody laughs it up these days when they hear Adam's slightly flat, drippy, ultra-twee Buddy Holly-esque vocals (hiccups all over the place - where Buddy would use one every now and again, Adam would often attempt to get as many as he could into virtually every line, with his own particular twist on the idea being to extend the hiccup as far as possible; e.g. Poor Me becomes P - aw-aw-awa-awa-ahaw-oor Me-ee-ha-her-hee-ee) but it's all great fun and the early singles all feature great, lush, echoing orchestral backings by John Barry, and I like to listen to Adam warbling along with them while I am in the bath.

Let's have another close up look at sulky Adam and his 'dolls', down at the espresso bar drinking the new continental invention 'frothy coffee', the young rascals.

He's so mean and moody. Unfortunately, there is a sad end to today's tale. I have the Beat Girl E.P. sleeve, but not the record that goes inside! Horrors! This was another Hounslow Heath Car Boot buy, for 50p, from a bewildered seller that couldn't understand why I would possibly want to buy a record cover with no record. I combed the stall for the platter, but alas...

That was many years ago. Of course, I live in eternal hope that one glorious, happy day I might locate a sleeveless copy of the disc, and then...but why torture myself, eh?

You will find this empty record sleeve in THE HOUSE OF COBWEBS.

Kinky Mouse Bondage!

Not only are pre-Comics Code funny animal comics funnier and more imaginative than those that came later on - they also contain all kinds of weird subtexts to disturb your brain.

This one here, recently obtained from an Ebay seller who finally cut the price on this choice item (unbelievably, it would seem that no-one else but me wanted this - and he must have spotted me watching it for about six months), is full of all kinds of crazy stuff.

I suspect this was its writer's first crack at a Disney comic. He doesn't seem to have much of an understanding of the characters he's handling - so they all act a bit oddly - and, unusually, he draws attention to the fact that the main protagonist is a mouse. I've never seen Mickey act so rodent-like.

You wouldn't care much about the entertaining but ridiculous plot; suffice to say that Mickey gets framed for stealing some jewels. But Minnie takes centre stage in this one. Goofy only turns up for one out of character - but funny - bit:

Considering how he's usually Mickey's closest compadre, it's amusing and slightly weird to see the Goof as a full-on "village idiot" type labourer - complete with wheel barrow - stupider than usually depicted. I particularly like his blank stare, and the whizz clouds behind him. It would be interesting to see him this dumb more often.

But the most striking thing is, that through the course of this story, Mickey gets tied up over and over again. The cover pretty much sums it up. I'm not kidding, not much else happens.

So, even if Minnie's glossy black gothic mouse-lipstick doesn't do it for you, if you're one of the growing number of deviants into MBSM (Sad0-Masochistic Mouse Bondage), with enforced bow-ties, you'll love this. Made sure the missus is out? Good. Then we'll begin.

Chonk! Rough stuff. What's more, everything really does look painful. Yow! It's like Mickey Mouse directed by Tarantino. But if the bad guy cuts off this dude's ear, he'd better put down some plastic sheeting first.

Mickey remembers he's a rodent and gets chewing. Mmm, delicious rope. Mind your bow-tie!

Simply being tied to a chair combined with nose-play no longer fulfils the fetishist's need. The whole mouse body must now be tied, and left in a country lane. Only the enormous cartoon-character shoes can be exposed. Then the ropes are eaten to achieve climax.

As the fetishist's sexual needs escalate, to find satisfaction, he must now be fully tied in an armoured car with a lady mouse, and talk dirty about ham sandwiches, whilst he forces himself to ingest rope.

Mutual mastication.

I don't know about you, but I'm full. I couldn't eat another bite. No, not even some string.

Aha, here comes the denouement:

I wouldn't dream of giving the end away, kids, but maybe - just maybe - you might be able to figure it out. Suffice to say - it's all tied up at the end! HO HO HO HO HO! Scream! Guffaw! I still got it.

Bizarre old stuff, eh? You'll find this comic in the kinky HOUSE OF COBWEBS.

Baron Von Charlton's Spooky Comics Casebook: The Hounslow Spine-Roller

As the autumn nights draw in you will often find me, cosily perched atop my deluxe Argos oil-filled radiator, amidst the splendour of my luxurious wood chip-panelled hovel, enjoying my comic collection. If you got a ladder, placed it against the wall, climbed up it and peered through my third floor window, you might perchance spot me carefully arranging my beloved comics in numerical or alphabetical order, worrying whether they should be sorted according to publisher, checking them against the price-guide, sniffing at the smell of their glorious decaying newsprint, lamenting the fact that modern printing methods cannot replicate a particularly vivid cover hue, or engaging in some other similarly useful and fulfilling activity. Sometimes I even read them.

You will remember my Old Man, who spotted that Man From U.N.C.L.E. Annual. Well, he came up trumps once again recently when he stumbled upon a stash of early 1970s Charlton horror comics at the legendary Hounslow Heath Car Boot Sale. I must confess that though I have long been an aficionado of Marvel and DC horror comics of the Silver Age, I had generally written off the Charlton stuff, assuming it must be as lousy as other Charlton product, like Freddy. I was wrong.

The Pater - calling me up direct from a muddy field - had brokered a deal with a seedy chap peddling old comics and obtained a stack of Charlton horrors at 50p a time (the seller regretted offering them so cheap once he realised someone - at the other end of a mobile phone - was interested - ho ho!). I wasn't expecting much, to be honest, but when I got hold of said issues, and dug out a similar pile that lurked unread in a cardboard box on top of a wardrobe, I was both shocked and pleased to discover that Charlton were the unexpected masters of crazy, outlandish 1970s horror comics.

As we know, the 1970s saw a resurgence in the popularity of the horror comic genre. Charlton were publishing small-fry compared to market-leaders Marvel and DC, and couldn't offer their writers and artists as much in the way of spondulicks as their hy-tone competitors; but, as I gleaned from the enthusiastic discussions going on in the letter columns the comics contained, something else was on offer: artistic freedom.

Hence cheesed-off, exiled unpredictable genius types like Spiderman co-creator Steve Ditko found a haven here, and were allowed to plough their own bizarre artistic furrows without editorial tampering.

I expect we'll chat about these again, but in the meantime, let's have a quick look at a few covers...

Afraid of women, moi? Don't be ridiculous. Do I detect just the merest hint of repressed male sexual anxiety here? I must be imagining it. Great cover, though. As per the eternal rules set down by EC in the Tales From the Crypt days, all the Charlton horror comics had to have "hosts" who introduced the tales within - in this case it was the delectable Winnie The Witch (you can see her up on the top left corner, in all her vivid blue glory).



From the quaint looks of this one, the 1950s never ended... Artwork by Rocco "Rocke" Mastroserio, apparently, who, from the sound of his name at least, gave up boxing to draw this (this is a 1981 reprint of a comic first seen in 1967). Your horror host: Doctor Graves. All the stories within come from his "casebook". Since the first case in the issue is No. 805, I wouldn't want to be the one carting that tome around in my briefcase. And, more importantly, how come my hair didn't go grey in that cool way?


This one is rather more 1970s, is it not? You'll note that this comic bears unmistakable marks that identify it as one of "The Hounslow Horde": to wit, the previous (slightly unhinged?) owner has rolled the spine so carefully and excessively that a fair amount of the back cover seems to have ended up on the front. I'm not sure how he managed this; but you have to hand it to the poor nerd, he's done a splendid job. I've never seen such a bizarre and distinctive damage-marking technique employed before. In fact, I can almost imagine him, alone in a bedsit, perhaps in Feltham in 1978 - unconsciously? - marking ownership of these comics in this "special way". Incidentally, I spent some hours trying to flatten this out again, and thought I had succeeded, but slowly, insidiously, overnight, it sprang back.

Top marks to artist Mike Zeck, who drew this, one of the best giant-furry-spider-menacing-a-sleeping-child covers I've ever seen. Terrific. But sadly his efforts were in vain: this was the last in the series. Horror host Mr. Dee Munn just didn't catch on. I guess that middle-age and pot-belly is no competition for sex-pot micro-skirted blue witch-chicks, and the unfortunate Mr. Munn was obviously at the back of the line at Charlton HQ when it came to handing out the pun-tastic names.


Another one from the "Hounslow Horde" with an even heavier spine roll. Boy, he sure was a nutcase. Coverwise, I don't have much of an idea what's going on here, but anything featuring killer mummies and a sacred scarab amulet is fine by me. That chap at the front looks a bit stressed, and may perhaps be in a spot of trouble here; but, on the bright side, it doesn't look like he ever has any trouble with his teeth. You have to count your blessings. Artwork from Rich Larson's fevered brain, apparently. Your horror host for this one is the lively Mr. Dedd, who's opening words are And now you will pay your debt in full! Just thought you should know.


Ah, Ditko. Good ol' Ditko. Only Ditko would contemplate a bizarre composition of this sort, and only Ditko could pull it off. Sort of. Just about. OK, maybe not. But the story inside is about mad ventriloquists, so that's all right. Get back in the box. I don't want to get back in the box. You know what happens in it.


This one is weirder still - baffling, balmy and proudly defying all rules of composition, it's surely a fine example of the kind of cover image that the other, more fraidy-cat publishers would have rejected. Great. Love the guy with the flower-pot on his head, and the devil-man pointing out at us. Hey, you squares, yeah you! I'm a devil-man. I don't think this is by Ditko, but definitely by an artist who wishes he was Ditko. A freaks' parade. Don't ask me what it means. And it has nothing to do with the stories, either. Your horror host is a lanky fellow in a natty suit with an enormous blue forehead (blue seemingly being the groovy colour of choice for 1970s comic-book horror-hosts). I don't know his name. But it doesn't matter, they're all interchangeable anyway. Try not to let it worry you.

I really enjoyed reading these. If the sample I have studied so far is anything to go by, the Charlton horror comics of this era contain some of the weirdest, least predictable and most entertaining tales of the strange and uncanny to emerge from the genre since its late 1940s/ early 1950s pre-Comics Code heyday. I will find more of these and do further research. And every issue I find I'm going to roll the spine right round to the front.

You will find these comics in THE HOUSE OF COBWEBS.

"Ze alcohol! You are spilling ze alcohol!" The forgotten genius of Danny Kaye in The Man From the Diners' Club (1963)

Greetings. As well as old comics, I love old films. Especially comedy films. The incredible rubber-faced multi-voiced high-speed comedy genius Danny Kaye has always held a particular place in my affections. When I was a kid, I remember watching his 1955 comedy The Court Jester with my Paw and laughing so much at it that I thought I my sides would split - really, I'm not just saying that. Twenty years later, it finally came out on DVD and I got the chance to see it again. I was rather worried - supposing that it wasn't that funny after all? I sat down to watch it with my flat mate (who also hadn't seen the film for 20 years) and luckily it was just as funny as ever - perhaps more so. Or perhaps I'm just even dumber than I was as a kid. But seriously: it may, in fact, be the funniest film ever made. Yes, folks. If you have no idea what I'm talking about, get yourself a copy right now.

But that's not the film I'm writing about today. No, today let's rap about The Man From the Diners' Club. This is a lesser-known Kaye comedy, directed by Frank Tashlin, a one-time director of Warner Bros. cartoons who moved into live action work, notably directing some films by comedy genius clown / unfunny conceited club comic (depending on your opinion ) Jerry Lewis in the 1960s. More about Lewis another time, maybe.

The Man From the Diners' Club is not available on DVD. I find this astonishing. It is an unduly ignored comedy film about nervous, twitchy credit card company employee Ernest Klenk, who accidentally issues a card to a gym-running mobster (splendidly played by Telly Savalas), then spends much of the film trying to get the card back from the gangster before his boss notices he's issued it. For ridiculous reasons, he has to get a job as a gym instructor in the gangster's gym to do this. Meanwhile, the gangster has decided that he will murder Klenk because he has the same size feet as himself and steal his identity (along with his credit card) and split to Mexico. The plot's pretty muddled up at some points and a bit over-complicated but it doesn't matter that much - the main thing is that you get to see some great energetic twitchy gulpy Danny Kaye routines. Savalas is great, and there are some very sexy 1960s gals on hand to take a peek at too, which all adds to the fun.

Danny Kaye as nervous employee Ernest Klenk. He's probably just about to start twitching, rolling his eyes, and gulping. I wouldn't be at all surprised.

These are the best bits:

1. Ernest/Danny attempting to get a card out of a giant computer, which is in fact an enormous card index. Of course, his tie gets stuck in the mechanism, and all the cards fly out, with sound effects of springs twanging. Cue Danny twitching, pulling faces, and cards flying everywhere, as he frantically tries to collect them up, while they blow about like they were in a gale. The scene just goes on and on. He falls over, etc.

2. An amazing beatnik party scene, with a groovy young Harry Dean Stanton spouting brilliantly well-observed Ginsbergesque hokum about "The Cosmic Laundry" to the bongo accompaniment of his polo-necked pals. Cue Danny twitching, pulling faces, etc. Fantastic.

3. Ernest/Danny, pretending to be a gym instructor, attempting to give one of his office colleagues a massage, without him catching on who he is. Cue Danny pulling his jersey over his face, and pretending to be a brutal Bavarian masseur, twisting the poor guy's neck, hammering his back, and pouring massage oil in his face every few seconds whilst shouting "Ze alcohol! You are spilling ze alcohol!" and such like, in a cod-German accent, over and over. The scene just goes on and on. It looks genuinely violent. Then, having run out of script and ad-libs, he throws talcum powder all over the place. Brilliant stuff.

FOH Stills from the film (which was in fact in good old fashioned Black and White). Note bottom right - Ernest gets his tie stuck in the giant computer card index... guess what happens next...

The tie-in paperback adaptation of the film. If you look closely you can see the cards all flying about while Ernest tries to gather them up. Also note Danny's doll-like screen girlfriend, whom you can't possibly believe would go for drippy old-man Klenk. Nice cover, but the problem with the novelisation is that it can never replicate the experience of hearing Danny shout "Ze alcohol! Ze alcohol!" over and over until you think he can't possibly do the line again, and then he does.

I must stress that Danny isn't given much to do here in terms of his trademark witty, clever quick-fire verbal humour, and there's no singing at all; I guess many Kaye fans would be disappointed for that reason. It seems more like a Jerry Lewis vehicle, crossed with a Jacques Tati film, crossed with a Bugs Bunny cartoon. All of which suits me fine. But if you don't like your comedy broad, loud, childish, overdone and with humorous German accents, you probably won't like The Man From the Diners' Club.

Indeed, difficult though it is to contemplate that there are such philistines out there reading this, I must point out that if the thought of watching 90 minutes of Danny Kaye relentlessly mugging, dashing about, rolling his eyes, stuttering, twitching nervously and shouting "ze alcohol!" doesn't fill you with a sense of buoyant joviality and an air of expectant glee, you may conceivably find this film a laughter-free zone. You humorless old buzzard.

But you will find a bootleg copy in THE HOUSE OF COBWEBS.

The Cheapo TV Spin Off Affair: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. Annual 1969

I was out with my Pater perusing some of the second-hand bookshops along the Charing Cross Road when he pointed out a copy of the 1969 edition of The Man From U.N.C.L.E. Annual, in a dank subterranean basement, for just two quid. This seemed remarkably cheap for the Charing Cross Road. Closer scrutiny of said item revealed that at some stage the cover of the book had either got wet, or some happy child had attempted to burn it, or perhaps both. But not being the kind of fellow who "slabs" my comic books or won't open up a paperback for fear of cracking the spine, it didn't matter to me. I snapped it up.

On the cover you can see the stars of the show: U.N.C.L.E. secret agents Napoleon Solo (Robert Vaughan) and Illya Kuryakin (David McCallum), with their boss, Mr Waverly (Leo G. Carroll) peering crustily over the book title. I can almost hear him gruffly mumbling "Open Channel D! Come in, Mr Solo!"

I love the Man From U.N.C.L.E. series. Growing up in the 1970s-1980s, I was too young to have seen the TV shows the first time round, but the feature films (which collected together two-part episodes from the original series) were regularly seen on Sunday afternoon telly. It was an excellent tongue-in-cheek spy show made in the shadow of the James Bond movies, and though I was a kid I could immediately detect that it was funnier, more absurd and less self-important, in the same way that Fawcett's Captain Marvel was always more fun than DC's Superman.

Besides this, Napoleon Solo (suavely played by the brilliant Vaughn) was responsible for what became my obsession with what is now known as "retro" clothing (back then it was out of date clobber that you gave to jumble sales). I spent much of the 1970s clad in hand-me-downs from various folks who lived up and down the street (I had a happy childhood, and never went without, but times were tighter back in those days!) - and for a brief time I was unfortunately compelled to wear a particularly awful pair of tartan flares with golden buttons (adorned with anchor designs) down the legs, to emphasise the flare (which, believe me, didn't need emphasising). I was not best pleased. Already yearning for the days when I could choose my own attire, I was awestruck by the sharp style of clean-cut Solo's splendid 1960s suits and narrow ties. He was so cool! But I had no idea then that he was wearing the fashions of a past decade.

Ironically, I had chosen to focus on the old-school "square" of the programme's duo of leading men - for it was his supposedly Eastern bloc spy-colleague Illya Kuryakin (splendidly played by Brit David McCallum) who was supposed to be the the stylish "swinger" of the show, with his gear Beatles mop-top, groovy black polo-neck jumpers and shades. Anyhow, at the time, I didn't care about that, I wanted a suit like Napoleon Solo's. I still do. But, funnily enough, they don't turn up in the charity shops very often. Incidentally, I do now own a couple of sixties suits (one of which, I'm proud to say, I acquired from a charity shop bargain rail for just a quid. It is known as The One Pound Suit). I wore one to my University graduation in 1993, in fact, with a vintage triangular U.N.C.L.E. badge on the lapel (hidden by my graduation gown), which might give you some idea exactly what kind of a man I am. But, as usual, I digress. What of The Man From U.N.C.L.E. Annual?

It's easy to forget, in these fanboy-friendly modern times we live in, that adult devotees of TV shows were not always so well-served in terms of collectible ephemera and spin-off product. Kids' shows were kids' shows. Nobody had a video recorder back then and you were expected to watch a TV show once, half watch the repeat, then forget it. Collectors' DVD box-sets weren't even thought of. Tie-in products - like this annual - were fewer and further between (though U.N.C.L.E. fared better in this regard than many shows of its period, with plenty of magazines and paperbacks) and many such items were generally uninspired, quickly knocked-up cash-ins, designed to be peddled to parents to give to the kiddies on Christmas morning. This annual was meant to be looked at rather than read, scribbled on, made soggy, dried in an airing cupboard perhaps, burnt around the edges, left lying about for a year or two, then thrown away. It was definitely not designed for kooky adults (like our good selves, dear readers) to hoard, wax lyrical about, store in a plastic sleeve, or subject to close analysis. Paradoxically, part of the substantial charm of these hastily-prepared artefacts lies precisely in their weaknesses - the throwaway nature of their production, their unpretentious bargain-basement design, the strange absurdity of their thrown-together content. All these factors help make them fascinating (and highly entertaining, if you are a connoisseur of all things trashy) keepsakes of less pop-culturally aware times, times never to be seen again.

So, what do we have here? All the stuff you always got in these annuals. Reprints of American comic strips - which, as was often the case, were the high point. In this case, these were taken from the Gold Key U.N.C.L.E. comic, which bit the dust in 1969. How can you go wrong with this one, featuring a giant kangaroo, who's also an agent for nefarious spy organisation T.H.R.U.S.H.:

The kangaroo has even developed the villainous scowl of a sinister secret agent. You'll note that the writer and the illustrator have cottoned on to the fact that they can do stuff in a strip that might be a little trickier to stage on TV, and they can do it in lurid day-glo colours, to boot. The strip also features a snake and an eagle, two more mean-looking animal agents for T.H.R.U.S.H. You can't knock the ambition of this tale, even if Napoleon and Illya don't quite look themselves (Solo even seems to have developed a stutter) and the kangaroo looks a bit ratty. I must keep an eye out for some of the Gold Key issues...

A nice surprise was this crazy back-up strip featuring foxy biker chicks...

Is it just me, or has the artist copied that car - at that angle - straight from the Zapruder film? If only JFK had had the "beautiful femmes fatales" Stunt Girl Counterspies to protect him. "Good work, Petite...but make sure your shots don't endanger the crowd!" cautions Jet. Useful advice in those tricky firing-your-gun-in-crowded-areas-whilst-riding-a-motorbike situations. Whatta gal.

The problem is, it seems that the publishers of the annual only licensed one comic-book's worth of American strip content. Which meant that the filler-factor was at maximum. As the tightwads who cobbled the book together also didn't cough up for any photos from the programme apart from the ones on the cover, there is an abundant bounty of awful text stories, incredible illustrations of the cast that don't look like the people they ought to look like, and bizarre, unintentionally hilarious filler pages. Imagine getting the gig to write all this stuff. Or to do the illustrations. No-one was ever expected to read it. And no-one cared. It didn't matter in the slightest how it looked, as long as it was done quickly. All of which is highly entertaining in a dreadful sort of way.

The American-ness of the show collides with the British-ness of the cheapo kids' annual on pages like Spy Catchers, which would be more at home in a DC Thompson weekly war comic like The Victor. I include it here for your delectation and delight.

Hmm. The U.N.C.L.E. logo and the title, Spy Catchers. Sounds pretty exciting - I bet it's about the villains that Napoleon and Illya face, right?

Wrong. It's about the Great British Bobby, in the Second World War. What do you think this is, the Man From U.N.C.L.E. Annual or something? Now forget all about those absurd American chappies, and pay attention. You might learn something. See the police officer use his initiative here, wisely arresting anybody with a moustache and a gaunt visage who looks at a signpost in the street. Sentence: death.

'Ello, 'ello, 'ello. What do we 'ave 'ere, then? The rozzers mop up another Nazi "wearing the disguise of a travelling salesman". Maybe sticking around with that suitcase full of toothbrushes in the immediate vicinity of his 'chute wasn't such a good idea after all. But even spies have to peddle their wares somewhere...

Ah, himmel! I knew I forgot something! Addendum to next edition of German spies' handbook: after burying parachute, adopting the disguise of a travelling salesman, and stroking chin beneath signpost, remove all German sausage from suitcase. Especially if it's gone green, you might have had it for too long. Sentence: death.

Enough already with the travelling salesman. What else do we have on file to fill the remaining two panels? Ah yes, a true but non-specific tale of the Scottish coast, in 1940. Don't splash my pencil skirt, you dumpkopf!

I arrest you for having sopping wet feet on a dry morning. No excuses. And also for wearing 1960s suits in 1940. And, come to think of it, having three legs is suspicious, too. Sentence: death.

There's also a charming but rubbish board game. Imagine the misery of playing this with an actual Uncle on a wet Sunday afternoon...

The Kiddies: Please, please, Uncle Peter, can we play THE SELECTA AFFAIR board game?

[some hours later]...Uncle Peter, pay attention, you're not playing seriously!

Uncle Peter: Nearly hit by a car? Why couldn't it be actually hit by a car? God, this is dull.


Sod this, kids. Play by yourselves, now. The pubs are open. [Exeunt.]

Splendid stuff. And as for those written stories, well, as you'd expect, knowing my track record, I couldn't get through them, but there are some superbly weird illustrations.

I'm made vaguely uneasy by the vest and Y-fronts combo going on there. I know I shouldn't be, but there's just something about it I don't like. This picture would have given me nightmares as a child. What was going through the artist's mind as he drew this? What was his brief? "Depict unconscious man in background, dressed in vest, white Y-front underpants, socks and shoes."

Look at the strange woman in this next one:

Illya, why are you harassing me with your child-woman blow-up doll? Not that it looks much like Illya, to be honest. It would seem that the main problem the artist faced here, as in all annuals of this kind, was trying to make the illustrations look like the people you'd seen on TV...

Illya? Is that you, Illya? Or a cabbage patch doll? And what happened to my face?

Illya? Illya? Is that you? Or a robot? No bananas for me, thank you.


Would you like a sweetie, little girl? Illya??

Illya? What happened to your hair? How come it's growing out of your forehead?

Illya? You've aged. And yellow's just not your colour.

All of which might give the impression that I didn't enjoy reading the 1969 Man From U.N.C.L.E. Annual. On the contrary, I enjoyed it very much. You will find this annual in THE HOUSE OF COBWEBS. Open Channel D.

"It's the most worthless thing I ever saw!" Pudgy Pig and other annoying animals

And now, chums, the long-awaited second in my occasional series of posts devoted to the detailed (and entirely pointless) assessment and analysis of the dismallest, lamest, what-were-they-thinking-est, dustheap-of history-est comics of all time (which, oddly enough, are all qualities which seem to compel me to purchase them and gather them together).

I was at the London Comic Mart on Sunday, shuffling quietly amongst my seedy, aromatic, vaguely embarrassed child-man brother-collectors, when I came upon Pudgy Pig. Though the issue is numbered Number 1, Volume 1, I can't imagine that anybody genuinely believed they would ever need to put an order in for a leather binder (proudly embossed, perhaps, with Pudgy Pig Volume I in gold leaf on the spine). Even the least critical kid would surely have spurned this publication, and it would seem they did: the 'volume' ended with Number 2.

The signs couldn't have been good for any comics-savvy prospective purchaser, back in September 1958 - it's a Charlton Publication, for a start, and you know what that means - but to the purveyor of all things odd, obscure and culturally bereft, it has a certain desperate something that is hard to resist. Take a look at that splendidly idiotic cover. Did you ever see such a blank-faced and emotionlessly conceived porcine hero? Blatantly and specifically designed to rip off Dell's successful Porky Pig comic book, this was surely a magazine created for one purpose, and one purpose only: to be purchased by mistake by a parent in a hurry or a half-blind grand-mama.

They didn't even bother to be consistent. As you can see from the cover, Pudgy sports a ridiculous Donald Duck-esque sailor hat, to disguise his exceedingly Porky Pig-esque coat and bow-tie. Perhaps the headgear was an attempt by the chaps at Charlton to deter the Warner Bros. lawyers from paying a visit. Intriguingly, by page 3, Pudgy has had a complete make-over, and sports instead a distinctly unPorky-like red jersey with a 'P' on it. Perhaps WB's lawyers did see the cover and did pay a visit.

Gone is the jacket and bow-tie. But his new outfit doesn't do him any favours. In fact, he doesn't even look like the same pig. That jersey fits where it touches, and Pudgy seems to have aged somewhat and put on a considerable amount of bacon around his somehow vaguely distasteful hips. Most disconcerting. No wonder his girlfriend favours Packing-House Pig III; by comparison, the rich fop seems to have sleek, snake hips, if such a thing is possible for porkers.

The stories are bewildering; I couldn't make much sense of them. It was like they were never intended to be read. Particularly the weird highlight of the issue, It's a Trade, which seems to have been written by an out-of-work absurdist playwright.

Gee whiz, there's an old boat full of holes at the bottom! I wonder if it's any good? Hmm, that's a tricky question. It's a boat, but it is full of holes at the bottom. And stop jumping around turning your head in three directions at once (none of which would allow you to see the boat you seem to know so much about). Anyway, here's the answer:

It's horrible! Calm down, Pudgy Pig, it's only a boat with holes in the bottom! A simple "no, it's not any good" would do. But Pudgy is kinda extreme, claiming that it is the most worthless thing I ever saw. You reckon? Taken a look in the mirror lately, Pudgy?

That's enough of that. Also in this bumper fun package, Pudgy gets erstwhile support from Atomic Bunny (not at all reminiscent of Fawcett's Marvel Bunny), who features in his own story, of a similarly high standard.

Mmm, delicious irradiated vegetables. And as Atomic Bunny is such a great, original idea, why not have Atomic Mouse (not at all reminiscent of Paul Terry's Mighty Mouse), too? You can't steal too much of a good thing, eh? Flip a few pages, and you'll come across this -

Erm...daily habits, Atomic Mouse? What kind of 'Fun with Pop' daily habits? Should I call Social Services?


Oh, those kind of daily habits. You mean if I do my exercises, I'll grow up to look as good as pudgy-cueball Pop? Maybe I'll just stay in bed after all. Reading Pudgy Pig comics.

But seriously folks, Atomic Mouse even does charitable work for the community. A whole page is devoted to this important public service announcement to the nation's youth, as part of the Fun With Pop scheme. What do you mean you've never heard of the Fun With Pop scheme? You been living under a rock or something, pal?

Poor Charlton. Whereas their hi-tone competitors (DC, et al) were actually sponsored to publish genuine sanctimonious governmental advert pages to brainwash the nation's youth, it looks like our pals at Charlton had to make up a nebulous, wholesome scheme of their own to get in on the act, complete with an official-looking logo, accidentally-on-purpose printed in a smudgy, indistinct fashion, I suspect, to hide the fact that there was no official endorsement of the initiative by anybody at all other than the hacks in the Charlton editorial office.


Well, at least the Pop in the logo has some hair. And doesn't wander about in his vest all day.

All very wholesome. But supposing you're not able to go out for 'Fun with Pop'? Supposing 'Pop' is an alcoholic, or something? What then? The next page has the answer. A horrible and unusual gift in a box.

Or, in keeping with the cheery atomic theme, how about this?

Just like an A-Bomb. I'm glad to hear it. Anything less would be rather a disappointment.

And once you've stolen 20 cents from Pop's wallet to pay for your A-Bomb, flick over another page and there's a ghastly written story, Annoyed Animals, which, once I'd detected that the words 'happy zoo' were included, I certainly didn't bother to read.

But the "illustration" is in another league entirely - definitely worth a look.


A masterpiece of stylised ineptitude, you have to admire the total lack of care taken over its execution: it looks like the 'artist' had a quick go at a couple of 'annoyed animals', did them a bit wrong, then drew funny lines over his mistakes. And shoved in a tree and a moon, because they're easier to do. Except the moon went a bit funny and looks a bit like a banana. A superb piece.

All in all, another Charlton classic. And which gifted comics-auteur came up with Pudgy Pig, I hear you cry? Sadly, we'll never know for sure, but perhaps there is a clue on the cover: the proud, prominent signatures of the cover artists (and creators?) of Pudgy Pig.

Yes, dear reader, one of these names is already familiar to the ever-growing legion of discerning readers who follow this blog: D'Agostino.

Could it be Jon D'Agostino, the key figure behind Charlton Comics' Freddy? Do I detect the hand of the master?

You might find this comic in THE HOUSE OF COBWEBS. Or I might shred it. I just don't know.