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A Lament For a Fallen Hero
Collectible Commentary by Ian King
Like a
lot of men my age I grew up with a constant 10-inch plastic
companion. No not that sort, drag your minds out of the gutter
please. I'm talking, of course, about Action Man.
I fondly
remember the Scorpion Tank that was almost as big as I was,
roaring it around Mum's living room and crushing Nazi's beneath
the treads with Childish zeal, the one man Submarine that
never did work properly but that I loved all the same.
Hour upon
hour of fun was to be had with Action Man alone or with friends,
indoors or out, doing what little boys do best, fantasising
about shooting people with great big guns. Having a rather
active imagination my poor lads were terribly abused in the
name of realism. I wanted authentic looking wounds, blood
bags and everything!
Unfortunately
the closest I got was holding one of the troops up to the
bars of the fire to try and produce a realistic victim of
a flamethrower attack. Obviously this buggered him completely
so I probably cried until Mum & Dad got sick of the noise
and bought me a new one to shut me up.
Surely
you can remember the "eagle eye" Action Man, bright, icy-blue
eyes staring insanely out of his tanned and artfully scarred
face? One look was enough to tell you that this little plastic
maniac wanted to kill everything in sight, especially those
rather rare models with the beard that looked like someone
from "Deliverance"
My point,
which I'm finally going to make I promise, is that he was
a proper soldier. His makers created him with a sense of realism
in mind. Realism and welded on blue underpants. His uniforms
were pretty much standard Army issue; he fought Nazis that
wore the proper German helmets that look a bit like the end
of your dick and everything. Even the green jumpers he wore
were made of that slightly scratchy material you were damn
sure the real ones felt just like.
Ok in
his latter incarnations towards the end of the 80's there
was a brief flirtation with the absurd in the guise of the
"Space Ranger" Action Man, complete with the Homo-erotic rubber
suit that was impossible to get on the bugger without grown
up assistance, talcum powder and swearing.
Just take
a moment to remember the glory days of the Action Man. He
wasn't just a toy, he was homage paid to the heroes of World
War 2; he was the very essence of the brave soldier distilled
into a ham fisted and badly articulated body.
And now
look at the twat.
All I
can say is: "What the fuck!?"
What have
they done to one of my oldest and dearest friends? No longer
is he clad in itchy, army green and ill-fitting plastic boots,
gleefully gunning down the Bosche and keeping this sceptred
isle free from the thousand year Reich.
Now I
see him in bright orange bloody roller blades, mincing around
like one of the village people on steroids and trying to save
the rain forests from Dr. fucking X. Who the bloody hell is
Dr. X? The name conjures up 1950's comic strips and black
and white Sci-Fi shows. The bloke even looks like a bargain
bucket Ming the Merciless.
I'm looking
at the Action Man website as I write this and I'm shaking
my head in disbelief. I've just read that "Aqua Mission Action
Man is using his "Monofin" to stop Dr. X destroying the Coral
reefs.
Oh bloody
marvellous! What fun the kids must be having these days. It's
no wonder they're all out stealing our car stereos. My Action
Man wouldn't have given a shit about some slap head with a
bionic arm and pussy tickler moustache destroying the Coral
or any other delicate eco system for that matter.
He'd have
been lying about in a sweat-stained vest with a beer and a
cigar after seeing off Rommell and then screwing a bevy of
hookers in Mombassa. It's no wonder kids don't have a clue
nowadays. Where's the realism in "Action Ponce" blowing things
up in his missile packing canoe or "Extreme" mountain bike?
My Action
Man was a man's man. A man who knew the value of some good
honest warfare, a man who knew the value of not wearing bright
orange bloody roller blades in a combat situation. He was
a man whose foes were the goose-stepping, jack-booted minions
of the lunatic Hitler, made all the more sinister by the fact
they existed.
He didn't
piss about with "Monofins" or saving the rain forests from
the evil "Gangrene". I have to admit that Hasbro do score
comedy points for naming a villain "Gangrene" If their next
villain is a mad British aristocrat named "Syphilis" then
all will be forgiven.
He was
tramping tirelessly through the mud and blood of the European
and Pacific battlefields, treading the same churned ground
as my Granddad once did. He was fighting or peace in an extremely
violent fashion, teaching me that good guys wear itchy green
jumpers. He was teaching me how to be a man!
At least
it was honest when I was a kid. No one seemed to mind admitting
that little boys enjoy pretending to blow things up all day,
they didn't feel the need to camouflage the carnage with spurious
environmental concerns.
War's
fun when you're a kid plain and simple and there's nothing
wrong with that. After all, sitting here in this darkened
room and ranting about a children's toy I can honestly say
that I turned out all right…..
Ian
King Ian can be found filing down his hollow points in the
bunker at: JJ_Oneway@hotmail.com
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