Candy and Andy

In 1966, at the height of his powers, "supermarionation" creator Gerry Anderson came up with a bold concept for a new television series. He had already designed the puppets and with the recent success of Thunderbirds behind him, it looked certain that the new project would be given the green light.

But there was one problem: Anderson's idea was utterly mad.

The new series was given a unanimous thumbs down by television executives, but undeterred, Anderson turned his idea into a franchise, spawning 154 issues of a comic and several books. The whole sorry episode lasted less than three years but it was long enough to screw-up a generation of under 5s.

Welcome to the world of "Candy and Andy":

Candy and Andy are just like any other children, except that they are plastic and live with two panda bears called Mr and Mrs Bearanda. They drive around in a Mini called Stripey.

The Candy and Andy books fail to explain the children's relationship with the Bearandas. It is clearly not a genetic bond, so were Candy and her brother adopted? Is Andy even Candy's brother? We are never told.

With their panda parents, Candy and Andy live in a world of humans (and a talking hedgehog). It should be enchanting, but the reality is deeply disturbing.

A slightly coquettish pose from Candy.

In Candy and Andy's world, you do talk to strangers. Oddly enough, these strangers are never alarmed by the presence of two sinister dolls.

A moment of reflection.

This photo is the stuff of nightmares, with Candy and Andy sitting on the lap of an evil-looking Father Christmas. This was the era before CRB checks, when perverts and sex offenders were able to find work as store Santas. This one looks as if he's just been released from Parkhurst.

I inherited a Candy and Andy book when I was three and forgot all about it until this year, when I started suffering from flashbacks. Perhaps it was my new job. If Proust was inspired to write a mammoth novel from the whiff of a few cakes, what hope did I have with thousands of books at my disposal?

There is another disturbing aspect to this story. I am a hardcore rationalist, but one day I saw a box of books and the words "Candy and Andy" came into my head. I started to unpack the contents and there, lying at the bottom, was the first Candy and Andy book I had seen since I was three. I now know the meaning of the phrase "sent a shiver down my spine".

Candy and Andy has been conveniently airbrushed out of Gerry Anderson's career history. There is no mention of them on Wikipedia and apart from one dedicated 1960s website, I can only find a few cursory references.

There are probably thousands of people in Britain who shudder at the sight of dolls without knowing why and find themselves suffering from recurring nightmares about talking pandas and psychedelic Minis. Like most traumas from early childhood, these memories are deeply repressed.

Perhaps it is time to form a support group for victims of Candy and Andy. We may have had our childhoods stolen by the weird, perverted fantasies of Gerry Anderson, but at least we can work together to end the nightmares.

NB - If you're wondering what happened to Candy and Andy, I'm told that Candy made a few soft porn films in the 1970s, before marrying a millionaire property speculator. She now manages a chain of high class hotels. Andy never managed to cope with the transition from child star to adult and his last acting role was in 1987, at a pantomime in Swindon. He was arrested last year for stealing a Breville Sandwich Maker from a branch of John Lewis. He still lives with Mrs Bearanda.

Northern Lights

I have just had a long, hot bath in an attempt to remove a thick layer of dust and grime from a day in a warehouse. My days as a foppish aesthete are long gone; I could go to a working men's club and look them all squarely in the eye.

Most baths seemed to be designed for midgets, so two years ago I bought the largest one I could find and I can now enjoy the bliss of being fully immersed in water. As an added bonus, the tap sometimes drips a syncopated, atonal tune that sounds like the theme tune of The Time Tunel. All I need is a Saul Bass intro sequence.

I've spent most of this week in the warehouse, throwing books away. It feels counter-intuitive to consign books to oblivion, but the alternative is a building that is mostly full of crap. By throwing the MS-Dos manual from 1992 or the collections of Reader's Digest condensed books, I can make more room for the titles that deserve to survive.

As expected, I found a few gems, including these photos from the album of a Lincolnshire family:

The first thing that came into my mind was "How Northern." It's not just the flat cap, but also the faces, particularly the man's.

I wouldn't want to get on the wrong side of this couple.

A suitably bleak, wintry background for this couple. The man is clearly a master of Ecky Thump (Wikipedia link added for the 90% of readers who will be baffled by this).

One word: conditioner.

Here is clear evidence that, contrary to popular myth, Moslems successfully integrated into British society long before the 1950s.

Lincolnshire clearly enjoyed a vibrant gay scene, even 90 years ago.

Ditto

This soldier is taking five cameras to the Front. I suppose it's hard to get film out there.

A traditional childhood scene, apart from the cool, time-travelling boy with the polo-neck sweater.

This woman is oblivious to the fact that a small UFO is hovering above her head.

This hussy is brazenly revealing her right hand. Whatever next?

Children's fashions were clearly far superior to contemporary styles.

95 years on, there is still a school in Edward Street.

Unlike the other photo albums I've come across, there are two clues to its origin: the surname Ladley and the town of Grimsby. I know next to nothing about Grimsby, except that it is an important port. I doubt I'll ever go there.

A quick check on Wikipedia reveals that Grimsby features in the PlayStation 3 game "Resistance: Fall of Man". Wikipedia also mentions the fact that a Grimsby sex shop owner was fined £5,800 because customers successfully complained to Trading Standards that his films weren't pornographic enough.

But to return to the album, it is sad that these photos have ended up in the hands of strangers. The album was carefully compiled and although it may not have been done for posterity, I think that most of us hope that future generations, whether they are direct descendants or nieces and nephews, will act as custodians of what we were.

This album reached the end of the line and was destined to be thrown in a skip.I like the idea that these photos will probably now been seen by more people than ever. I hope the Ladleys would approve.

Damned by Faint Praise

I found this book club newsletter today:

If you haven't read Monica Dickens (great-granddaughter of Charles Dickens), you'll be pleased to know that her books are "always acceptable". I know that values have changed, but was there ever a time when that was high praise?

I'm afraid to say that I have sent a lot of Monica Dickens novels to be "recycled" (i.e. turned into road surfacing material) during the last few days. Like many middlebrow novelists who were incredibly popular in their time, Monica Dickens' books have no value today, as the supply far outstrips the demand. This is a great pity, as what I've read of Dickens compares favourably with many contemporary writers of popular fiction.

Monica Dickens was an interesting character. She was born into a privileged background and went to St Paul's Girls' School, but in her youth she chose to become a domestic servant and gained an insight into life "below stairs". I wonder if her great-grandfather's writing influenced this eccentric decision?

In the 1970s, her Follyfoot children's novels were succesfully adapted for television. I was going to include the title sequence of the programme, but that was before I discovered the magic of Richard Shireby and his electronic organ, playing Follyfoot's memorable theme tune:

Today

The company I work for has recently gone through a period of expansion. This always makes me nervous. I've worked for other businesses that have grown too quickly and they invariably end up being taken over by bastards who use words like upskill and robust. I hope it will be different this time.

One result of this sudden expansion is that I now around 30,000 books to deal with, so you can expect to see a lot more bookmarks and other ephemera. In the meantime, these are what caught my eye today:

There are times when an author photo isn't a good idea. The blurb beneath says that "W. H. Rowe comes from Cornish stock..." as if that explains everything.

This postcard fell out of a book on planes. The back reads "The plane was a Jumbo and stopped at Zurich and Nairobi. I didn't bother getting off. The plane went over the jungle - I didn't see Tavyan, but here are some Zulus."

A cheery note with a simple message: you only have yourself to blame. I'd have torn it up.

This colour illustration comes from the slightly misnamed Jolly Book, published around 100 years ago. Like most children's annuals of the time, it is bizarre mixture of crass sentimentality, casual racism and religious indoctrination. Interestingly, the annuals published after 1918 are far more restrained.

Finally, my new favourite book title:

This title conjures up a variety of wonderful images. It's an interesting concept, but I think I'll stick to packets for the time being.