DECK THE HALLS BY BARRY FORD

I know we all seem to complain that the great merchandising push for Christmas starts earlier every year, but thinking back to the ancient history that was my childhood those insidious marketing people were obviously on the case from early autumn when those great adverts for toys started to appear in between children’s programme on the television. I’m sure you remember the type that seemed to make even the naffest item a sure bet for inclusion on your list to Father Christmas.

Of course, there were those really great ads for Action Man which seemed to feature whole regiments of the fighting figure in exciting environments and poses, which never had quite the same effect when you tried to recreate them with your solitary figure and Scorpion tank on the living room carpet, but the wonders of a childhood imagination usually filled in the rest. There were also those ads that inevitably lead to disappointment on Christmas morning. One in particular was for a battery operated potter’s wheel that featured the usual smiling cherubs creating all kinds of wonderful pottery. Father Christmas, being a decent sort of chap, made sure I had one of these in my stocking and after the initial euphoria from present opening had subsided I decided to create my first masterpiece. After inserting the batteries and getting the wheel spinning I threw on some clay and it immediately ground to a halt: it turned out that applying any amount of clay bigger than a matchbox was too much weight for the motor and on top of that it ate batteries as if there was no tomorrow. The potter’s wheel soon ended up at the bottom of my toy box and stayed there until I had a clear out a few years later.

That’s not to say that everything that was advertised turned out to be a disappointment. One present that was as good as advertised was the “Ricochet Racer” – basically a big gun that fired futuristic cars out of cartridges at high velocity. It was advertised that you could race against your friends (who would also need to buy one, of course) or aim the cars at some barrels included in the set: a sort of ten pin bowling for Jeremy Clarkson. The manufacturers had included a safety catch that meant that the gun couldn’t be fired unless it was on the ground, but I’m sure I’m not the only one who managed to get around this.

Another memorable present was Airfix’s Flight Deck, which was a flight simulator without a computer. You sat at a console with a wire connected to your curtain rail and fired off a model plane up the wire; as the plane returned you had to direct its course using the joystick on your console to land on a plastic flight deck. Whilst this was fun in of itself, even more fun could be had by just using the console and joystick on their own as the control panel of the imaginary spaceship you were flying.

Of course, as Christmas got closer it meant that it was time to write that letter to Father Christmas and not forget all those items that had been accumulating in my little grey cells. However, the one item that was usually the top of the list for many years was Thunderbird One. I had, of course, my Dinky TB2 and FAB1 along with what was left of the JR versions I had wrecked as a toddler. I even had the JR TB4 and 5, and the friction drive TB3, which needed regular visits to the repair shop to glue those fragile nacelles back on. But, for whatever reason, TB1 was never to be found until years later (see my previous ramblings for the happy ending). The positive outcome of this was that for a good few years my parents, in a search for a suitable alternative to TB1, would often include a couple of Project Sword toys with my other Christmas presents. Unfortunately I was too young to appreciate the significance of the toys and enthusiastically played with them to destruction: the only surviving example being the blue Dyna-Soar (please excuse me if I’ve got the name wrong) minus the blue plastic caps to the bent wire aerials to the rear.

Speaking of Father Christmas, I trust that I wasn’t the only one that was scared to death of the annual visit to his Grotto? Think about it: all year long your parents drum into you that you should never speak to strangers. Then you’re paraded through the dark passages that formed the entrance to the grotto and told to sit on the knee of this big, strange chap with an enormous beard otherwise he wouldn’t bring you any presents. I seem to recall that we used to see Father Christmas in Lewis’s department store in Manchester, and they always made an effort when it came to the grotto. You would walk through tableaus with what we would now call animatronic characters before meeting the man himself. I wish I could remember anything specific from the grottos other than being a bit scared at the moving creatures and dark shadows, but I do seem to recall that one year there was some kind of space theme, which obviously made my day. No matter how scary I found the experience, looking back I can imagine the grottos being quite magical, which is a far cry from the garden shed in the middle of the Arndale Centre that most shops think is more than adequate these days.

Actually, talking about Lewis’s reminds me of something else that you don’t see these days: special shop window displays that featured toys, not just boxes piled up, but proper display settings similar to the adverts on the telly. I can remember it being a special treat to go out on a Sunday near Christmas just to look at the displays in the shop windows that might also have working models like they had in the grotto.

Then, after what seemed like a lifetime of waiting, came the big morning. Obviously sleep was had to come by the night before with all the excitement building up and so Christmas morning used to start fairly early in our household. And whilst there may have been an odd disappointment along the way it really was a fantastic time and my parents always did their best to create magic for me. It’s funny what does stick in your mind after all these years and you may have had similar experiences. After opening all those wonderful presents on Christmas morning and then after getting dressed and just being on the verge of fully exploring what I had got came the call to put everything away as our relatives would be arriving soon for Christmas lunch. And whilst I was promised that I could play with my new toys when the relatives had departed it always seemed to be too late before they left and so further play was postponed until Boxing Day. I can remember one year being given a large Boeing 747 kit and I was itching to build it; it felt like the relatives would never go home and then, of course, the start was put back until the following day. And then we were on the reciprocal visit to the relatives’ home, which meant further delays. Being long in the tooth I have many kits waiting to be made after years not days, but back then the wait to dive into the box and start gluing bits together seemed to last forever.

Inevitably we tend to look at the past through rose coloured spectacles, but I hope that my ramblings have fired off a few happy memories for you. Whilst things may be done differently these days and we complain about the commercialisation of the season, along with dismay over silly politically correct attitudes of some local authorities and other bodies, don’t forget that Christmas is what you make of it and don’t let anybody else spoil it for you. On that final note, may I offer you and yours all best wishes for a happy and peaceful Christmas.

Barry Ford 2009