"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you were wondering, I can confirm that the comic book is not all that it might be; and, unfortunately, the coupons are no longer valid.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.

Go now, to the dustheap of history... Morecambe and Wise, Charlie Chester and Larry Larkin

Welcome, chums, to what probably won't become a new occasional series of articles focusing specifically on popular cultural items held in the House of Cobwebs Archive that I have somehow acquired, and have some kind of vague, fleeting interest in, but that I cannot ever foresee myself actually using, reading, watching or listening to... the kind of millstones of clutter that I profess to wish to throw out or give to a charity shop or foist on to an unwitting pal as an "ironic" gift, but end up proclaiming a renewed interest in, and carry from one flat to the next, like some kind of madman. Apologies in advance to international readers who don't have a clue who Charlie Chester is. Don't worry, hardly anybody in the UK knows (or cares) either.

Exhibit 001:

Morecambe and Wise in Night Train to Murder

Format: VHS videogram

Source: Gift?

Time held: 2-3 years

Description: This choice addition to the Thames TV "Best of British" Collection features the much-loved comedy duo in a feature length "spoof comedy thriller".

The case for the Prosecution:

Take a look at the cover picture for a start. Wise looks tired, Morecambe looks ill, and if that's the most enticing image they could conjure up from this end-of-the-line TV special (from when they'd gone back to ITV again) dating from their twilight years (1984), who needs it?

Incidentally, I don't know about you, but I never thought Morecambe and Wise were anywhere near as good as everyone would have you believe, and my least favourite bits were always those tedious long sketches with celebrity guests (like the creepy Angela Rippon) in them that everybody is supposed to howl with laughter over (according to minor celebrities on those rotten "100 funniest comedies" type TV shows). So I'm biased to begin with. Also, this tape was passed on to me by my very close friend Fred Karno, and, highly suspiciously, he told me that he didn't want it back.

The case for the Defence:

According to the back cover, it was written not by the team's usual writers, but, unusually, by Morecambe, Wise and director Joe McGrath. So, even if it's awful and self-indulgent, it'll be interestingly awful and self-indulgent...won't it? Also the pictures on the back suggest that there are two attractive young ladies in the cast. Yes, I'm shallow like that.

And Fulton Mackay is in it, too...that can't be bad, can it?

Even if Eric looks like he's slipping into a coma in this lively production still.

Verdict: Back on the pile for another few years at least.

Exhibit 002:

Charlie Chester: The World is Full of Charlies

Format: Hardback book in horrific faded orange photo dust wrapper.

Source: Probably a charity shop. But according to the price pencilled inside the front it cost £1.50, which is a bit of a puzzler, because I couldn't see myself paying any more than 10p for this highly desirable item. In fact, to be honest, I couldn't see myself buying it at all.

Time held: 8 - 10 years?

Description: Recollections of a lifetime in show business by the old variety performer.

The case for the Prosecution:

"His first job after leaving school was as a grocer's errand boy but it was not long before he was augmenting his meagre earnings by entering and winning many talent competitions as a yodeller and guitarist. At seventeen he ran his own accordion band."

The case for the Defence:

"His first job after leaving school was as a grocer's errand boy but it was not long before he was augmenting his meagre earnings by entering and winning many talent competitions as a yodeller and guitarist. At seventeen he ran his own accordion band."

Additional evidence for the Defence:

Ernest Marples, former Minister of Transport having fun with Bud Flanagan, Jack Solomons and Charlie.

(No glass in Bud's glasses? Oi!)

Charlie, as King Rat in 1951 with guest of honour Charlie Chaplin. Georgie Wood and Fred Russell, OBE, in background.

(Chaplin looks like he wishes he wasn't there. But then so would I if Wee Georgie Wood was lurking behind me, wearing a strange sash, peering over (or under in his case) my shoulder.)

Verdict: Back on the shelf for another few years at least.

Exhibit 003:

Larry Larkin: Is the World Ready for Larry Larkin? (Answer can be found below)

Format: 45rpm Extended Play record

Source: A charity shop in Amersham

Time held: Approximately 8 years

Description: Supposedly humorous record by a forgotten beardy comedian.

Track listing:

SIDE ONE

1. I'm Just Here to Make You Laugh.

2. Flasher.

SIDE TWO

1. You're 16 Stones (You're Ugly and You're Mine)

2. They're Coming to Take Me Away, Ha! Ha!

The case for the Prosecution: I have, in fact, listened to this, and it was a grisly experience. I reckon any comedian who feels they have to come right out and tell you that they are insane (or zany, or wacky, etc.) is highly likely to be extremely unfunny and tedious in the extreme. And any humorist who claims that they are slightly insane is likely to be worse still. It's like he wouldn't want you to think he was too silly: he might be clowning around like a genius for two sides of a 45, but at heart, he is a cool clued-in kinda guy.

Nonetheless, I had high hopes that this record might be a contender for the "so bad it's good" section of my Archive and be garbage of the highest order, but alas it is merely mediocre.

The question on everybody's lips: Is the world ready for Larry Larkin?

The answer: No. However, the local charity shop is. Not that anyone will buy it.

But...

The case for the Defence:

Larry's autograph on the inner sleeve - his shaky felt-tip bestowing "luv" upon one Sarah (where is she now, was she the only one who asked for an autograph that night at the holiday camp ballroom, and did he buy her a gin and orange?) - makes Larry seem somehow more human.

It seems to me to evoke a wistful glimpse of the inner man, and makes me feel more sympathetic towards this slightly insane figure, who, let us not forget, got his first break as a baby boy when his Dad dropped him on his head. It makes me feel more kindly disposed towards Larry Larkin, and to his years of struggle, playing "Pantomime and Top Cabaret Venues", afterwards desperately trying to flog copies of "this excellent production".

Verdict: It doesn't take up much space. Back on the record shelf for another decade.

Conclusion:

Unfortunately, as soon as I start writing about this old rubbish, I always find myself suddenly more interested in it. Sigh. You will find these three items in THE HOUSE OF COBWEBS. At the bottom of the pile. Covered in dust.

POSTSCRIPT: Yes, you guessed it. As a result of digging this junk out from the heap, I spent much of yesterday evening watching Night Train to Murder. It is a full life I lead. It wasn't as bad as I thought it would be - an amiable enough if failed experimental attempt to break away from the Morecambe and Wise sketch show format, structurally very similar to a British comedy film of the 1930s, in fact. Unfortunately, though, the script was pretty duff, and exceedingly corny. Times had moved on. And though it appeared to have had some money spent on it, and there was a bit of location stuff, it was all shot on that particularly ghastly garishly-bright early eighties video tape. What's more, Eric looked like he might collapse at any moment (shades of Stan Laurel in Atoll K). Well, it can leave the house now, at least. The World is Full of Charlies remains here, however.

"You've got it wrong, love..." Mirabelle, No.1, 19th February, 1977

Greetings from beyond the grave, chums. To celebrate the fact that there are now at least 10 discerning culture-vultures who actually want to read this stuff (thank you, pals!) I thought it was about time I exhumed myself and dug into the fun-cupboard to reveal another useless, fusty artefact we can all enjoy.

Today we turn our attention to the fair sex and the ways of LOVE. Not something I am particularly expert in, it must be said. But, putting my own neuroses aside for a moment, I have always enjoyed girls' comics - a fact that, when mentioned over the years, has prompted many a raised eyebrow amidst the conspicuously weedy but distinctly hetero ranks of the comics cognoscenti, who generally prefer an adolescent power-fantasy to girly stuff like relationships, flowers, and all that rot.

Way back in the days before we males could admit to having any kind of sensitivity I used to keep it quiet. Indeed, I remember afternoons in the school summer holidays when I was a lad, circa the early 1980s somewhereabouts, when the best thing about the dismal prospect of having to be "looked after" by the next door neighbours was the chance to read their teenage daughter's copies of Misty, the now-cult British girls' comic that featured stories of ghosts, witches, strict schools and naughty girls getting their come uppance in inventively supernatural ways. In my heart, I always wanted to be able to get Misty delivered every week myself, but how could I? It was a girls' comic. So I thought I had to read Warlord and Victor instead, unfortunately for me. Have a pineapple, Fritz! Himmel! Boom! Argghh!

Maybe we'll talk about Misty one of these days. Or maybe not. But for now I want to draw your attention to another British comic for girls. One I certainly didn't see at the time, and one that I had never heard of until I stumbled across a copy at one of those aromatic comics fairs of which I am so inordinately fond. Today I would like to introduce you to Mirabelle. This, the first (and possibly the only issue) was recently found in one of the cheap boxes among a load of rotten British reprints of dull 1970s Marvel Comics and cost me 25p. I may have imagined it but I think the stall holder may well have given me a look of what could only described as sceptical disdain when I purchased said item: is there something wrong with you? I don't care. It's terrific! But it is definitely not Love Stories in Pictures as the cover misleadingly claims.

In fact, I can't find any of your standard love stories in pictures in here at all. Instead, I find romance fused with horror, bleak post-apocalyptic sci-fi and sleazy sex comedy. Take a look at the comic's opener, The Poison Valentine.

It's like a Mills and Boon paperback crossed with a Pete Walker movie. Splendid. Dig the "skull" motif. Paperchase, take note. These cards would sell.

Could it have something to do with her boyfriend? It's a serial, but the moral of the story might be: never trust a guy with gypsy looks, an enigmatic smile and a David Essex neckerchief. He may secretly be a "freak". But we'll never know...

Flip the page and we have a strip about a fashion model desperate to get the photographer to "notice me as a person". This is how she goes about it. Hang on a tick, I thought this was a mag for girls!

I say, ding dong! Something for the Dads, eh? But, wouldn't you just know it...

"You've got it wrong love...pop off and change." Methinks it is this Leo Sayer-esque snapper who has got it wrong. But each to their own, I suppose...

Anyway, there's three pages of that. What shall we have next? How about some love stories in pictures? If you insist, but let's combine it with the story of a girl and her dog in a post-apocalyptic world. As you do.

Oh Jacko. Sometimes I feel like I can't move another step. Probably the radiation poisoning. Didn't you read the government leaflet about painting your doors white, buy in the dustbin bags for the family corpses, or stock up on tinned fruit? Jacko looks happy enough, though. He could be doing an ad for Pedigree Chum, if you ignore the rubble.

I fear that, deep in her heart, she may already know the answers to both these questions. If she's hungry, it looks like Jacko has plenty of meat on him.

She's also being chased by a load of sinister, vaguely Russian-looking soldiers. But hang on, this is all a bit bleak, isn't it? Where are the love stories in pictures? Time for some irradiated love interest...

Not a bad spread, eh? Armageddon can be quite nice, really. Less competition from other chicks when you're attempting to snare a guy, and that's the main thing, eh? Even when you're vomiting every ten minutes.

Hmm, a few pages left to fill. How about some lust stories in pictures? How about an exceedingly seedy comedy comic-strip reminiscent of Confessions of a Driving Instructor, reinforcing every stereotype about women drivers you can possibly think of? That's sure to appeal to the young ladies, don't you think?

Check out this lost sleaze-classic. They don't do comic strips like this any more. Not that they ever did, apart from here, as far as I'm aware...

Wa-hey, eh? Every girl loves a driving instructor in Tartan flares. Irresistible.

So much for Mr. Grimes... but there are other cravatted Lotharios to contend with...

Hel-lo indeed. You get the picture. But there is a happy ending to Sue's tale.

Here's how she did it.

Do you know, I could have sworn there was this movement called "Women's Lib" in the 1970s. But I must have dreamed it.

Whatever happened to Mirabelle? According to an advert inside the back cover, number two was on the way...but did it ever make it to the newsagents' shelves? I wonder.

Eight great stories and free shampoo? Girls, how did you manage to resist?

Mirabelle is the weirdest British comic for girls I've ever read. You will find it in THE HOUSE OF COBWEBS.