It’s almost inconceivable to think that it took until the latter half of the twentieth century for someone to improve upon the design of the basic single-line Chinese kite. It’s almost as inconceivable to think that the only change anyone could think of was to stick another line on it, so that it could be controlled with two hands instead of just the one. But there you have it – the “invention” of the stunt kite, the aerial trapeze artist that filled the ‘Seventies skies with darting, diving, loop-the-loop diamonds of brightly coloured nylon.

It was Britain’s own Peter Powell¹ who popularised the dual-line stunt kite, a Cheltenham-based entrepreneur with a knack for knowing a good bit of PR when it fluttered by. Initially gaining fame winning awards at a Geneva exhibition of inventions (and then the British Toy Of The Year in 1976), Powell never turned down the chance to appear on TV flying one of his own durable plastic kites with its distinctive tubular tail². Always dressed in a suit, he could often be seen running along blustery hilltops with an airborne triple stacker, or hoisting his granny off the ground with pure kite power before steering her back down to a soft landing (we assume). Such showboating attracted the attention of a Japanese investor and sure enough, within months, Powell’s cottage factory was churning out millions of pounds worth of kite.

The craze literally flew around the world, for some reason appealing to adults as much as kids. John Noakes crashed a Barnstormer kite onto Shep’s nose on Blue Peter (although in truth each looked as nonplussed with the whole stunting obsession as the other). Powell received endorsements from the likes of Jimmy Stewart and Mohammed Ali, even appearing on the front page of the New York Times at the height of his fame. Then, as quickly as it had taken off, the kite fad came back down to earth with a bump.

Despite the fact that Benjamin Franklin had plainly documented one of the major drawbacks of kite flying with his storm-powered discovery of electricity in 1752, the powers-that-be deemed it necessary to issue a special public information film. This terrifying warning of the dangers of running your kite or Frisbee into overhead power cables (and then stupidly clambering up a pylon to free it), ran on children’s television in 1979 as part of a government-sponsored Play Safe campaign. Whether it was down to this or the persistent rumours of “a bloke” who ran off the edge of the cliffs at Beachy Head whilst trying to keep his kite aloft, the wind was well and truly taken out of the kite industry’s sales.

When Powell’s business collapsed, he burned all evidence of it ever having existed - scrapbooks, cuttings, stock, the lot went up on a bonfire. Powell himself was the biggest casualty, however, declared bankrupt and becoming a virtual recluse ever since.

There’s an almost infinite number of reasons why we should hate He-Man And His Assorted Toy-Flogging Swashbuckling Masters Of The Cartoon Universe. For a start, he’d have been wedgied into the middle of next week if he’d turned up at our school disco with that pudding-bowl haircut, “Power Of Grayskull” or no. Plus, he hung around with such a bunch of cockmunchers (floating conjuring incompetent Orko, sappy love interest capture-monkey Teela and moustachioed P.E. teacher Man-At-Arms – real name Duncan) that he was in serious danger of looking a dweeb by association.

However, we’ll quite happily go on record as saying that Mattel’s He-Man toy range was fucking excellent, simply because we’ve never seen a company throw itself quite so wholeheartedly into merchandising a toy in our tiny lives. Seriously, there was no stone left unturned¹. The range comprised the biggest and barmiest selection of figures, accessories and playsets the Eighties ever saw, each constructed to the same, chunky, child-hand-sized scale (at five and a quarter inches of pleasingly tactile plastic, they were completely incompatible with the likes of Action Man and Star Wars figures).

Masters Of The Universe was arguably also the first cross-gender toy range. Despite all the macho posturing, there were plenty of slender-thighed lady figures for sis to kick ass with and – in 1984 – an entire range of She-Ra toys. Blessed with long, brushable hair and a selection of fashions, She-Ra fought with “honour” rather than “power” as heiress to the throne of Etheria. (She was, naturally, He-Man’s twin sister.)

Mattel was so single-minded in its determination to revolutionise the action figure oeuvre that not even the puny TV series could stop it². Around 1986 the toy giant gave up its dependence on the cartoon and started inventing its own range of villains, The Evil Horde. The He-Man figure alone was re-issued in at least six different versions (the original, then Battle-Armor [sic], Thunder Punch, Flying Fists, Laser Power and Clark-Kent-style alter ego, Prince Adam). In addition to the toys there were also He-Man comics, Viewmaster reels, walkie-talkies, videos, party horns, beakers, bedspreads, jigsaws and puzzles. And much, much, much, much more. Mattel was rumoured to have raked in billions and the impact on Western pop culture was permanent.

Lest we forget, He-Man also begat Thundercats and Transformers and, we’d be happy to claim, WWF. However, the abiding irony is that, on a cartoon which featured violence at its very core (there were more battle-axes this side of a Les Dawson monologue), He-Man had the gall to turn up at the end of each episode and deliver a lecture, the moral extraction of which can be summed up as “don’t be a cunt”.

In order to understand the appeal of this game, it’s probably worth a brief refresher course on the history of junk yards as they have appeared in popular culture (also including tips, scrap metal merchants, etc.).  

The quintessential junk yard was, of course, that which was home to Dr Who’s police (public call) box back in the very first episode of the series.  Owned by the mysterious I. M. Foreman of 76 Totter’s Lane, this 1963 junk yard was actually a BBC set, although real life stand-ins were visited in later stories.  Perhaps its biggest claim to fame is getting a namecheck in the 1986 chart-phobic Dr Who charity single “Doctor In Distress”, which isn’t saying much.  Similarly, although the address of the junk yard at Mews Cottage, Oil Drum Lane may be unfamiliar, the tenants are instantly recognisable, being none other than Albert Edward Ladysmith and Harold Kitchener Steptoe.  This rag and bone men’s yard was largely home to Hercules the horse rather than to any actual junk and wasn’t really seen in all its glory until the feature film versions of Steptoe & Son.  

Speaking of films, a junk yard setting often crops up whenever there’s a bit of foul play at hand (and especially when there’s a gangster or spy that needs offing in one of those car crushers).  Think Goldfinger, Pulp Fiction or Superman III.  Plus innumerable Derek Jarman “state of Albion” classics and nearly every Children’s Film Foundation effort.  Junk yards are everywhere¹.  

Thus it was surely during an afternoon’s skive off work in 1975 that an employee of the Ideal Toy Corp found himself, popcorn on knee, enjoying The Who’s seminal rock opera romp, Tommy.  At the heart of the film, the titular hero follows his own reflection through a mirror into a junk yard where he finds a pinball table.  A pinball table that turns him into the champion pinball wizard.  A millionaire pinball wizard.  Million-pound pinball!  

Wait a minute!  Junk yard?  Pinball?  It might just work…  

We reckon, however, even that deaf, dumb and blind kid would’ve had a bit of trouble with the resultant toy, crazy flipper fingers or no.  As Ideal’s analogue answer to Bally’s famous Milk Bar machines, the central conceit of Junk Yard was seemingly purloined from those open-to-reveal saucy birthday cards of yore.  That is to say, half of the illustration on each of the various scoring tags was hidden.  Each tag was fastened to the frame with an elastic band and tautly hooked under a plastic firing range (used to best effect with a window pane which, once you’d scored a direct hit with the stainless steel ball, leapt up to expose the broken glass beneath).  Even the drawings themselves were, on the face of it, half-inched (in this case from Top Cat, being the typical cartoon-inspired scrapheap fodder - old boot, fish-bone skeleton, knackered tyre, and so on).  

Sadly, like its film and TV counterparts, Junk Yard was always destined to add a bit of background colour rather than feature centrally.  So it was with this game.  By the late ‘Seventies and the arrival of Tomy’s Atomic Pinball, any and all rubber-band-powered toys found themselves heading to that great jumble sale in the sky, replaced in our favour by their D-cell guzzling descendents.  

Where to start?  Barbie had been knocking around since the arse-end of the ‘Fifties in one perma-tanned form or other, but we’re most interested in the so-called “aspirational” late ‘Eighties when manufacturer Mattel realised they could sell the dolls as collectors items as well as mere playthings.  Or, as the marketing speak of the day put it: to improve profitability and maintain consistent revenue streams, Mattel began a strategy of maximising core brands whilst simultaneously identifying new brands with core potential.  Ah yes, there’s the insipid corporate message at the heart of your Dream Glow Barbie.  

But then she’s always been one for the commercial tie-up has Barbie.  From the days of her first-run adverts during the Mickey Mouse Club to Barbie couture and those straight-to-DVD CGI-saturated movies, she’s monetised every innovation, trend and fashion in search of global dominance.  In fact, she’d probably use a word like “monetise” without blushing.  If she wasn’t wearing so much blusher in the first place.  

Fair play to the girl, though - she could certainly never be called a munter.  Always impossibly glamorous and immaculately turned out, Barbie has proved to be a role model to a million all-American, body-conscious Swatch dogs and Diet Coke heads.  And she sure does shift some units, taking upward of three billion dollars over the counter each year².  What could be more upwardly mobile than that?  

As Mattel’s trade-marked mission statement solemnly avows, Barbie is “more than a doll”.  Whatever it is she wants to be, though, she still hasn’t made up her fucking mind.  Model, gymnast, fashion designer, rock star – Barbie’s had a punt at every job under the sun, presumably packing in each one after a few days in floods of tears before settling down in front of Trisha with a packet of Milk Chocolate Digestives to “consider her options”.  What kind of a name is Barbie, anyway³?  

In recent years Barbie’s fortunes have see-sawed, as she suffered declining sales in the face of the Spice Girl-indebted Bratz dolls, split up (then got back together again) with Ken, and staged her own touring musical (“Live In Fairytopia” – urgh, can’t you just taste the syrup?).  

Call her anything you like, but don’t call her unpatriotic.  There is a Barbie doll in a time capsule due to be opened in 2076 to celebrate three hundred years of the American Revolution; she is dressed in stars and stripes dress featuring a line of soldiers in uniform on the hem.  Cut her down the middle and she’d have the letters U, S and A stencilled through her like a stick of rock.  Blow her head off and the blood on the wall behind would be red, white and fucking blue.  

Every parent of the Cream era sincerely believed that their kid had it in them to become the next Yehudi Menuhin, Herb Alpert or Jose Feliciano (although the generally foreign disposition of such virtuosos implies that their next protege is unlikely to hail from Daventry). Those with the financial wherewithall could pack off little Thomas or Yvonne to classes in order that any musical aptitude might flourish under intensive tuition. Those without might invest in a tin drum, a plastic-stringed guitar or a toy piano and blindly hope that junior exhibited some fruit of genius hitherto overlooked in the branches of the family tree.

Hence the Bontempi organ (the company name translates as “good times” in the Latin mother tongue - Justin Lee Collins take note), onomatopoeic, plinky-plonky descendent of that grown-ups’ fully-featured, cocktails-and-fondue-party centrepiece. (Although we’re probably being over-generous - any classic ’70s home organ was inevitably only purchased by a bachelor eager to impress the birds with a bit of single-finger-chord action back at his lonely, Cointreau-on-the-rocks, Black Magic pad. Dim the lights, tootle through Red River Rock with those square-wave reeds and the next sound would be knickers hitting the floor - guaranteed.) Where the adults-only version was a mahogany-honed, faux-ivory and plastic part of the furniture, the baby Bontempis came in a curious mixture of beige and orange.

Ostensibly all wind-powered (the smallest of the range was actually marketed under the name “mouth piano”, for blowing into), each organ contained an electric compressor which would wheeze into action on start-up and effectively drown out any budding Billy Joel’s aspirations of musical prowess. Far from being environmentally friendly, the later electronic versions had circuit boards which would overheat and spew out plumes of toxic solvents, whereas the early “analogue” organs contributed significantly in terms of noise pollution.

On board, the two-octave keyboard was enhanced with additional “instant chord” buttons for pig-shit thick cheats. Hence, it was possible to pick up complex compositions like Here Comes The Bride in double quick time (each tune was diligently transcribed for “melody” and “chord” accompaniment in one of the many Bontempi books; Preludio, Golden Melodies, Sing-a-long, Folkfest or Christmas Time).

No matter, though, as the instruments showed little favour to talent and absolutely no mercy to the audience. Like the death throes of an asthmatic camel, floating on a burning funeral pyre across the rolling mists of the Mull Of Kintyre, ghost piper and all, a Bontempi tune - once heard - was never to be forgotten.

Now, of course we weren’t covetous of these chunky, cheery toys – good God, we barely knew they existed! But who was it, do you think, that looked down on the cross-legged kids busy with the 23-piece toolkit, shape-sorter or play family garage and thought “Hmm… this lot are a bit lazy, all told – they could do with starting work a bit younger”? Whoever it was, we’ll bet our state pension they’re the same people now campaigning to raise the retirement age. Giving it to us at both ends? Thanks.

Accordingly, the Fisher-Price Activity Centre arrived in toy shops; a collection of moving wheels, dials, dingers and squeeks with enough sound effects to recreate the opening bars of Pink Floyd’s “Money”. Looking back from the lofty age of eight years’ old, suddenly we felt like we had missed out after all. Now there were tots in the cradle clocking in for a full day’s button-pushing toil literally without getting up off their backs, while we suffered the indignity of short trousers and a real-world primary school.

In the interests of research, however, we now present those so-called “activities” in full (and what consequences they lead to in adulthood). The unit comprised a mirror (pandering to narcissistic tendencies), a hare and tortoise slider (for budding inveterate gamblers), a pump-action test-your-strength style bell (for would-be fairground strongmen) and at least three different types of spinning discs (training the local radio DJs of the future). Surely the most telling activity, however, was the telephone dial of despair. With its purposeless rotation, lack of numbers or people to call, it surely fuelled the fear of living (and dying) friendless that is our great modern-day tragedy. Seriously, we can’t think of any other justification for the popularity of MySpace.

Invented at the turn of the (20^th) century by later-synonymous- with-model-railways Frank Hornby, Meccano revolutionised the toy industry. The name, possibly better suited to a gruff, Scottish detective, was reportedly a contraction of “mechanics” and “know”, although Hornby first marketed it as “mechanics made easy”. The company’s Binns Road factory in Liverpool¹ churned out tonnes of the tiny tin plates until its closure in 1980 (and, as well as producing Meccano, Dinky toys and Hornby train sets, the factory performed a vital social function in the city, having its own sports teams and hosting the Miss Meccano beauty pageant and various works outings. Betcha don’t get that at Computacenter).

A boy’s toy if ever there was one, each box came with a full set of spanners, screwdrivers and other hard stuff – there was no room for LEGO-style “we’re making a dollies’ house today” exceptions here. It was robust dockyard container cranes, plate rollers, industrial robots and traction engines all the way. Plus, Meccano had a whiff of the vocational about it. It was only a short step from building your own toy skyscraper to eating a packed lunch on a fifty-third floor beam on the yet-to-be-completed London Gherkin. (For goodness’ sake, please don’t take a short step from there…).

Later Meccano sets were more flexible – literally – but this toy had always offered a couple of additional, extra-curricular uses. Two long strips bolted together into a cross formation made for a razor-sharp (and often rusty) pirate’s sword, as many a sliced knee bore witness to. Also, rumour has it that, when Barry Sheene smashed up his bike on the Grand Prix run in Silverstone, surgeons had to rebuild him with parts from the range’s best-selling Construction Outfit 10. More recently, smart-arse conceptual sculptor Chris Burden used Meccano to fleece saw-you-coming-mate bosses at Newcastle’s Baltic museum out of a hundred grand for a replica of the Tyne Bridge. Reports that the artist’s next project will comprise taking a million pound shipment of coals to the city are unsubstantiated.

Here – in reverse order - are our top three spurious claims made about this, the self-proclaimed “most complete model motor racing system in the world”.

Number one; at least five Australians were admitted to casualty last year with Scalextric-related injuries. Oh really? What happened? Did they get their tongues caught in the slots? Confused by the 1/32 scale and tried to drive through “the Bush” on one? Suffered carpel tunnel syndrome from gripping the speed controllers too long? We’re guessing that, in common with all hospital-related horror story stats, the nationality of the unfortunate slot-car victims changes depending on where this oft-repeated tale is relayed. All it really tells us is that people love to hear anecdotal evidence that others are more stupid than them. And – come on – five isn’t a very high number is it? Out of a population of 20,579,913, it’s a pretty poor effort.

Number two; there are now more Scalextric sets sold each year to baby boomer adults trying to recapture their youth than to actual children. This little nugget comes courtesy of the BBC which, we can quite confidently claim, is unlikely to have carried out the research itself. Leaving aside the significant probability that this statistic was seeded by Scalextric’s marketing dept. to attract an untapped demographic, we ask: since when did kids go out and buy their own bloody presents anyway? Okay, there are probably more collectors than thrill-seeking brats these days; more permanent, loft-based circuits and chicanes than junior Spaghetti Junctions erected over the lounge floor. But “Parents in ‘purchasing children’s toys’ shame”? It must surely have been a slow news day.

Number three; if your holiday flight to Playa De Las Americas is delayed, it is probably because a team of overpaid lads’ mag journalists have built a Guinness Record-breaking Scalextric track on the runway and are busy spraying champagne around and snorting coke off Z-list celebrities’ arse-cracks. That, or some Top Gear presenter has chartered an Airbus to push a full-sized Formula One car out of the back to see if it will reach Scalextric’s measured “scale speed” of over 600mph, the idiotic, mid-life-crisis-gripped bigot. Okay, we might be exaggerating this one a bit but, all things considered, it was always your boorish future petrolheads that were attracted to Scalextric at the expense of more recreational pursuits. Show us the boy at seven, and we shall show you the boy-racer. Now who’s for a nice, gentle game of Turbo?

For some reason, this lexiconic leviathan has been criminally ignored when it comes to compiling lists of the greatest games¹. Put it down to years of family fights over the OED (they might as well call it Squabble), or a reputation for attracting po-faced, serious and worthy players – that’s “word slingers” to you, sunshine – at international tournaments. Or that covert, crafty it’s-good-for-you quality (as you improved your game, you expanded your vocabulary – up to a point, that is. No one ever dropped a QAT or ZEK into a conversation at the grocers. Not unless they wanted bruised spuds and a stunted cucumber).

And yet…

It was a game that starred in some of the biggest sitcoms ever made (from Seinfeld to The Simpsons – hell, even as far back as Steptoe & Son they were warming over the old “pass off a made-up word as real” Scrabble schtick for cheap laughs). It’s numbered Sting, Keanu Reeves and Mel Gibson amongst its devotees and been issued in twenty-eight different languages. Including Welsh!

Our greatest literary figures have invoked Scrabble (look up Shakespeare’s Merry Wives Of Windsor, Act II Scene I, where the Mistresses check out Falstaff’s gigantic set: “I warrant he hath a thousand of these letters, writ with blank space for different names”²). Lewis Carroll reckoned he invented it. Douglas Adams had it determining the Ultimate Question Of Life, The Universe And Everything (“What do you get if you multiply six by nine?”).

So we salute Scrabble, game of champions and the only place you could ever score with benzoxycamphor, diazohydroxide or oxyphenbutazone. Unless you spent your youth outside Camden Market on a Tuesday afternoon, that is.

Originally invented in the ’Forties by maritime engineer Richard James, who later disappeared to become a preacher with a Bolivian religious cult (not to be confused with Richey James, the ex-Manic Street Preacher, who just disappeared), the Slinky was eighty feet of flat steel wire machine-wound into a short column of 98 coils. In its heyday in the ‘States (during the ‘60s when a catchy ad sent sales spiralling), there were Slinky dogs, Slinky trains and those eye-ball goggles with Slinky specs.

Back in boring old Britain, we were similarly attracted to this big loose spring, although the brand name original never seemed to arrive in our Christmas stockings. Say hello instead to the Merit Springer, Magic Spiral, Rainbow Coil and a thousand other patent-infringing copies just waiting to be tangled to buggery by Cream era kids. Worse still, there was a plastic version that didn’t even behave like a Slinky. One of the hidden secrets of the metal original was, that, when dangled full-length and held to the ear, wobbling it about would recreate the laser blast sound effects from your favourite sci-fi films¹.

Ultimately, though, all Slinkies suffered a fatal calamity, whether it be through accidental treading-on, over-optimistic stretching or rust. A bent Slinky, like Prince Naseem Hamid, is never going to get back into shape. Thus the career of this mortal coil would come to an end at the back of the wardrobe. Isn’t that where they always wound up? Or down.