LITMIR.BIZ

      There’s nothing wrong with boys playing with dolls!

But just in case there’s the slightest chance that doing so could turn ’em a bit…y’know, make sure the dolls are butch soldier types who look good in a buzzcut and military uniform.¹ So went the thinking, we assume, when Palitoy imported America’s GI Joe and rebranded him Action Man for Brit kids in the–ahem–swinging ’60s.

      See also Cyborgs, ROM the Space Knight, Six Million Dollar Man, Barbie

Initially available with only painted-on hair and combat fatigues, the range was soon augmented by a whole wardrobe of snazzy outfits (including frogman, pilot, sailor, traffic cop and Red Indian)² and cybernetic extensions to Mr Man’s physiognomy (‘gripping’ hands, ‘real’ hair, ‘eagle’ eyes). And, much like Barbie, the big fella got his own fleet of personal transports–although not for him the pink limo treatment. Our favourite was actually the fairly unsophisticated, thumb-operated backpack-copter (which enabled us to re-enact the best bit of Thunderball), although it must’ve been cool to have owned its full-size army hospital helicopter cousin. There were, we recall, two tank varieties (a Scorpion and, erm, whatever the bigger one was called), a jeep or two, plus inflatable and outboard motor-powered dinghies.

      Frankly, there wasn’t anywhere our hero couldn’t go, except perhaps somewhere that required him to stand on an uneven surface (a deep-pile carpet, anywhere on grass). Basic instability problems could be avoided with the application of a child’s fertile imagination (which would require that members of the Grenadier Guards always adopt an insouciant, leaning-against-a-wall attitude to their sentry duties, or that the 21st Lancers conduct their parades lying down). In the 70s, more poseable joints were added to the basic model, including one around the neck that enabled Action to adopt a ‘sniper’ pose with one or more rifles from his impressive armoury.

      Endless battles could be enacted with this almost limitless selection of plastic weaponry in a war of attrition the ’80s superpowers would’ve boggled at (particularly given the unusual prospect of witnessing a fight between Taking Commando Action Man and Captain Zargon). Rumour has it that classic Dr Who adventure The War Games was written entirely while Patrick Troughton’s young sons were pitching German paratroopers into combat with the Queen’s Horse Guards.

      The biggest hostilities Action Man encountered were, of course, brought about by his owners. Sad to say, Action Man abuse was rife in the Cream era. Bangers, matches, caps, magnifying glasses, fireworks–all were employed in creating ‘realistic’ battle scars to show off to friends or maiming him beyond recognition.

So, although we know that nearly everybody owned an Action Man, the important thing is that everyone we knew wanted more.³ By virtue of the fact that the combined forces of our street could never amass a platoon of even Dad’s Army strength, Action Man remains on our wish list.

1 Yes, there were wars, and violence, and bloodshed, and tea, and medals. But at least we were learning something. Military history, for one. The Paras, US Marines, SS Stormtroopers, or (dialing down the testosterone) the RNLI. Action Man had proper guns that actually looked like they might hurt people. Nowadays, he’s either a neutered Extreme iPod Eco-Warrior or wishy-washy Skateboard Surf Ninja.

2 Altogether now: ‘It’s fun to stay at the YMCA.’ Action Man never ran out of outfits as long as your granny had enough green wool

3 Palitoy’s token-collecting system meant you had to send off for exclusive extras (on offer in the 70s were a Canadian Mountie outfit or a pit-bull). Then there were the additional figures: Tom Stone, the first–gasp!–black Action Man; the Intruder, a muscle-bound, dwarf Liam Gallagher-alike enemy with white eyes and grabbing arms; and Atomic Man, with bionic limbs, plastic clicky pacemaker and a light where his left eye should’ve been.

       Airfix Kits

      Inch high club

      Rather like a box of cotton-wool buds that warns ‘Do not insert into ear canal’ and the punter replies incredulously: ‘But what else are they for?’ So it was with Airfix–loudly proclaimed to be ‘display models’ and not ‘toys’, and yet toys they so obviously were. Paint? Bah! We wanted to play with the bloody thing, not wait overnight while the Humbrol enamel dried on the still-unassembled pieces! Even the decals were an annoyance.

      But, oh, there’s a word. Decals.

      It’s hard to imagine a time when we hadn’t heard of them. A time, perhaps, when we could see an RAF livery without immediately picturing one. A time before we soaked one in a bowl of warm water, slid it off its backing paper and placed it on the wing of a Spitfire or a Wellington Bomber.

      For the purposes of this entry, we’re limiting our examination to model planes. Because it was only the model planes that came in such a ridiculously varied range of scales and classes. Because you couldn’t hang a miniature replica vintage Darracq from a piece of fishing line thumbtacked to the ceiling. Because the big ships had annoyingly fiddly tacking rigging and plastic sails.

      See also Hornby Railway Set, LEGO, Flight Deck

      And because the planes had a truly aspirational hierarchy (which we seem to recall was based largely around the number of moving parts. Pretty much all the model cars had proper moving wheels, but it was only the bigger and badder model aircraft that included moving propellers, rotating gun-turrets and tyres, or fully opening bomb-bays and cockpits). Therefore, they win.

The decals, of course, were one of many hobby-threatening booby-traps designed to scupper your enjoyment, getting forever crinkled or folded before they could be applied properly. Here’s another: polystyrene cement–which could be guaranteed to coagulate into crusty white flakes all over your fingers and tabletop without ever acting as

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