Closer inspection, however, revealed the enigmatic smile to belong to the Barcelona striker Lionel Messi, which I suppose makes more sense.
Mona and Messi do have much in common though, when you think about it: the iconic international status, the unmistakeable touch of genius, the ability to waltz through the Malaga defence and curl a left-footer into the top corner... Of course I’m being silly. If anything, the Mona Lisa is surely a no-nonsense defender in the Tony Adams/John Terry mould. Willing to put her head where others are afraid to put their feet, and if it’s bouncing around in the box, just put your boot through it, find Row Z, GET RID!
GET RID! Those two words echo around the nation’s parks and amateur league football pitches every Sunday morning, and illustrate why England never win anything. Children playing on large muddy pitches is not conducive to the development of passing skills and close control; it is conducive to GETTING RID! Big boys who can hoof the ball into the next field dominate. Personally I would make all kids play exclusively indoor football, with walls and no throw-ins, until the age of 15. Stevie Gerrard somehow managed to become Roy of the Rovers despite all this though, mind, so I could be wrong as usual.
Talking of which, they’re bringing Roy back. That was my favourite boyhood comic. I once had a letter published in the Hamish’s Hotshots page, which was quite a thrill. It was an odd comic though, with a mixture of ‘serious’ adventure strips (Roy himself, Goalkeeper, Billy’s Boots) and overtly silly ‘funny’ ones (Hotshot Hamish and Mighty Mouse). As a boy I drew no clear distinction between the two types, and took the silly ones pretty damn seriously.
A notable thing about all these sporting comics was the device of using members of the crowd to provide expository remarks while the action was taking place. So in the split second that Roy Race unleashes his famous Rocket shot and the ball is exactly halfway to the goal, a chap in the crowd would be speechbubbled saying “Roy’s gone for goal! He’s hit it hard, but will the keeper save it?”, and his mate would reply “It’s now or never, there’s only seconds left on the clock and if this goes in Melchester will win the cup, and that could be just the thing to rescue the club from financial ruin and also save Roy’s marriage!”
Time is meaningless in comics. My goodness, I must have absorbed absolutely tons of this nonsense. Pictures are what count to children, much more so than the words in books. When you pick up a long-forgotten childhood favourite, the illustrations hit you like Proust’s madeleine but it’s amazing how slight the stories turn out to be. This is because as a nipper you spend hours staring at the pictures until you know every detail, and you invest each one with a world of meaning and semi-conscious backstory. Much as adults do with the Mona Lisa, I suppose. For children, eight-page books are as vast as Biblical epics. So Scale must be something you grow into, or else a complete illusion, like Time.
12 comments:
I liked Commando or Victor in which Japs were called 'yellow bellied scum' and died on the end of bayonets going 'AIEEE!'
and I also liked the way that german guards, when surprised at a road block, always had time to say "Himmel! die, you englander pig-dog!"
happy days
I used to get the Victor annual every Christmas. I particularly remember Cadman The Fighting Coward, Alf Tupper the Tough of the Track, and the medieval Hammer Man.
Alf Tupper - working class hero, polishing off a plate of fish and chips and a can of tizer before running a championship race barefoot because his old pair of trainers were broken and he couldn't afford to buy some new ones. And then winning. In a world record time.
I seem to remember Alf always fell asleep on the train on the way to the track and missed his stop, because he'd been up all night shifting blocks of concrete, and had to run miles just to get to the starting line, before embarking on his record-breaking barefoot run.
Pro evolution soccer? Hot damn, I've been waiting patiently through all that patio and wabi sabi nonsense for a good dust-up on Darwinism.
I think I'd rather watch Mamma Mia than have another dust-up on Darwinism.
I hate Wii, my seven year old granddaughter thrashes me every time.
One reason why Bobbie and Jack Charlton were so good, they learned their skills in an Ashington back alley, duck and dive, dodge and weave. Ditto George Best.
Did I hear groans when I mentioned Jack ?
Nobody dirtier, not even Shearer.
Dare I mention the Mekon and his Treens ?
I agree will, a bit of the non PC stuff never did any harm, often flick through me old Biggles books.
The Victor, a raw nerve, still an open wound
Very early '70's I'm just a nipper. My aunt lets me take home my cousins collections of the Victor. Issue 1 to maybe 200, certainly the first three years, all pristine except the odd free gift missing from the front.
I read them all, scatter them around my room before their date with the dustbin.
Have very fond memorys of Billys Boots and Alf Tupper.
A few years later Bob monkhouse has a programme enthusing over the kids comics of the 50's, I could never watch it, too damn guilty!
Ouch, Xantia. Ever attempted to work out the value, you know, just for a bit of masochistic fun?
Who's the Mekon I hear you all gasp.
Who is the Mekon? A profound question for the 21st Century.
I'm off to France for the weekend, see the Bayeux Tapestry, visit un supermarche pour acheter le plonk etc. I will ponder this question on the ferry and provide a suitable answer on my return, unless someone can beat me to it.
Well, if you must, you must. But I'm sure that, as the big day draws nearer, you'll exercise the proper discretion to insure that the littlest Brit does not, in fact, become this littlest Frog.
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