Bash Street and Co were our whimsical route to reading
When I was little, I sometimes got told off by my friends’ mothers. Not because I’d put a football through a window, or trampled a flower bed, or left chocolatey fingerprints on the living room scatter cushions. It was because their darling son had kindly invited me round to play – and I was ignoring him. Instead, I was lying on the floor of his bedroom, reading his comics.
I was addicted to comics. I read them all. Dandy, Beano, Beezer, Topper, Whizzer & Chips, Eagle, Roy of the Rovers, Big Comic. The ones I didn’t make my parents buy for me, I read in the newsagent or supermarket, at least until sharply reminded by the assistant that this wasn’t a library. And when I wasn’t reading comics, I was drawing my own. This wasn’t unusual. Most of my friends at school drew comics, too. I vaguely remember producing an adventure about an explorer who stumbled upon a mysterious cave that contained a single severed limb. The strip was entitled Leg End of the Lost.
I suspect that I came up with the title before the storyline.
I’ve been thinking about all this because a few days ago one of the greats of children’s comics died. Leo Baxendale, who was 86, drew the Bash Street Kids and Minnie the Minx, among others, for the Beano. Looking back at his drawings – ebullient, chaotic, teemingly detailed – I felt a little sad. Sad that children today don’t know the joy of comics. Not in the way we – and our parents, and our grandparents – did.
The Dandy stopped being printed in 2012. The Beano,eano, apparently, is still going, but yesterday I couldn’t find it in my local WH Smith, Tesco or newsagent. There were lots of other comics, but comic feels like the wrong word. Really, they were just promotional pamphlets for children’s TV programmes. They had few pages and few strips. Indeed, reading seemed a secondary selling point. Essentially, the deal was £2.85 for a polythene bag filled with cheap plastic toys. The enclosed comic provided little more than a space to stick the free stickers.
A pity. For generations, comics entertained children, fired their imaginations, kept them out of trouble on rainy afternoons – but more than that, they encouraged them to read. You might even say they taught them to read. Comics were a stepping stone between “the cat sat on the mat” and actual books. Now that helpful intermediate stage has all but gone. My little boy won’t get told off for ignoring his friends while reading their comics. He’ll get told off for ignoring them while playing on their iPads, instead. Journalists co covering the election have started to complain that Ther Theresa May’s speeches and in interviews are mindlessl mindlessly repetitive. No matter what the questi question, she simply recite recites the same sloga slogans, over and over over. B But if political rep reporters think the they’ve got it bad, im imagine what it mu must be like for Mr Mrs May’s hu husband, Philip. ““Fancy a cup of tea, Theresa darlin darling?” “I’v “I’ve been very clear. Under the strong and stable leadership of this Conservative Government, millions of ordinary working people across this country have enjoyed a cup of tea. I want them to go on enjoying a cup of tea. And that’s why they mustn’t put their cup of tea at risk by voting for Jeremy Corbyn and his coalition of chaos.”
“Of course, dear. But would you like a cup of tea?”
“As I’ve already made clear, cups of tea are important to millions of ordinary working people up and down this country. At this election, there’s a very clear choice. A vote for me, to secure a cup of tea that is strong and stable. Or a vote for Jeremy Corbyn and his coalition of chaos – leading to a cup lying broken on the floor, scalded feet, and sugar everywhere.”
“Oh, absolutely, darling. But I was just wondering whether you wanted a cup of tea. Shall I stick the kettle on?”
“I’ve given my answer to that, but to be absolutely clear, I repeat: the people of this country want to know whether their cup of tea is safe. I’m very clear. Only a vote for me will guarantee a strong and stable cup of tea, a sit-down, and the best possible biscuit. Under the weak leadership of Jeremy Corbyn and his coalition of chaos, there would be no biscuit, no sit-down, and a very real risk that the milk has gone off. And I think it’s very important that we make that clear.” Whimsy is fine, in its proper place. Parliamentary sketches, say, or Saturday notebook columns, or newspaper restaurant reviews. Just to pick three examples at random.
There are times, however, when even I find whimsy grating, and yearn for a bit of starch-collared formality. Take announcements at railway stations. As far as I’m aware, there is no great public clamour for announcements at railway stations to be funny. I’ve never met anyone who said, “Announcements at railway stations are so boring. Come on, guys – liven it up! Have some fun with it!”
Yet, at my local station – and others served by Southeastern – the old, purely factual announcements have been replaced by some chucklesome chump gurgling, “Hello! It’s Southeastern voiceover man here!” He ends by simpering, “Haven’t I got a lovely voice?”
If this were merely a prank by a member of station staff, doing it for a bet, I wouldn’t mind. But the announcements are recorded. They’ve clearly been commissioned by someone high up, with little idea how unreceptive to wackiness commuters are at seven in the morning. The person responsible evidently shares a sense of humour with the executive at Virgin Trains who decreed that all lavatory seats must be adorned with a sign matily reminding passengers not to flush “your ex’s sweater, hopes, dreams or goldfish” down the loo.
Peter Cook predicted that one day England would sink giggling into the sea. I wish it would.