Village of the Damned

It’s 6.30am and the alarm is doing its usual morning beep. A groggy arm swings to turn it off, but instead of tapping snooze and retreating back under the duvet, it keeps going and reaches for an i-Phone. There are some tiny muffled taps on a glass screen then suddenly the sound of chirrups and birdsong can be heard. Moments later the room is alive with the noise of activity; saws sawing, spades digging, workers whistling, giggling and grumbling. It can mean only one thing: the Smurfs are awake.

If three is a crowd, our little house has been like Wembley Stadium of late. Courtesy of Smurfs Village, another pointless but addictive i-Phone time-waster, we are now sharing every waking moment with 40 (and counting) cheeky tiny blue people with a very strong work ethic and no interest in shirts.

For those familiar with the concept, Smurfs Village is like Farmville but with more blue. Players are provided with a large clearing in a forest and requested to create new homestead where itinerant Smurfs can live. By planting and successfully growing crops, players earn cash and power-ups to buy things to make the village more homely – houses that look like mushrooms, flower beds, park benches, lampposts, giant friendly caterpillars and the like.

In theory we are omnipotent super beings helping them rebuild their village somewhere safe from the villainous Gargamel. In practice we are their slaves, responding to the daily chores set out by the bearded Papa Smurf. These range from the reasonable (‘Plant four crops of blackcurrants so we can make some juice for thirsty Smurfs’) to the vaguely surreal (‘Send 5 Smurfs into the woods to placate some angry chipmunks). Such tasks are undertaken in real time, which has led to examples of me receiving texts during work meetings advising that my carrots are ready to harvest and should be collected before they wither.

Smurfs Village isn’t a new concept, combining elements of the SIMS series, Tamagotchi robot pets and several other Farmville derivatives. However one interesting addition is the capacity to spend actual money on improving your village. This allows you to fast track the rebuilding process, giving you access to games, utilities and special characters like Smurfette.

I only know one person who has gone down this route and the result was terrifying. Given free reign over her Smurfdom, she created a nightmarish futuristic high rise agrarian nightmare. Row upon row of Smurf houses sit on top of each other like a mushroom Manhattan whilst almost 100 Smurfs work the soil relentlessly, growing only the highest value crops with no break in sight. Meanwhile, Smurfette’s house sits isolated across a river, ‘for her own good.’

Without this purchase power, my own village has evolved slowly and is (I believe) a much nicer place for it. Stone walls line the paths, all homes have gardens with benches and picnic tables and crop rotation keeps the Smurfs and soil happy. Meanwhile my actual garden has gone to pot. Weeds have taken over, all my herbs have gone to seed and the grass was recently up to my knees, but that’s OK because Papa Smurf doesn’t tell me off about that.

Of course with great power comes responsibility, a burden some people take more seriously than others. Another friend was greatly distressed when the village she and her daughter had lovingly created suddenly vanished into the ether after her phone crashed. Still mourning for her little friends, she diligently restarted, only to see that village disappear and be replaced by her original creation. She now accepts that it is her destiny to tend and nurture whichever village is in front of her and has vowed not to shirk her responsibilities.

As for me, well, I’m ashamed to report that my interest in the Smurfs is already on the wane. I’m sick of being a slave to my crops and I’m bored of waiting 42 hours for Smurfs to come back from the forest after tending to a sick squirrel (unless the glitch in the programming which randomly speeds up Smurf time happens to occur). I’m over Handy Smurf’s dull hammering game and generally fed up of tarting up a village that I was quite happy with several levels ago.

In considering whether to ditch the village I was reminded of the most recent series of Mad Men, in which a spurned lover tells a newly engaged Don Draper ‘I hope she knows you only like the beginning of things.’ I wondered if this might also be true for me and the Smurfs? Could it be that with the novelty over and the interesting work done, simply maintaining my creation and generally making sure that everyone is alright is something that just isn’t in my nature? It’s almost reason to stop someone from having children.

If so, it’s the best argument I’ve heard to date that there is a God, somewhere out there. It’s just that having nicely set everything up here on Earth, leaving a few aardvarks and venus fly traps and manatees and dinosaurs and people about the place, he or she got a bit bored, downloaded a new game called Earth 2.0 and just left us all to look after ourselves.

For now my Smurfs can rest easy and I will continue to tend to their needs. Besides, I only need a few more smurfberries to buy Smurfette’s house - I’ve come too close to give up now. After that though, all bets are off. My little blue friends had better up their game in the entertainment stakes or else, in the words of their bearded leader, their smurf could be smurfed.

Where the Force is Still Strong

I have a recurring dream. It's not very exciting dream but its frequency continues to surprise me. The locations and the players of this dream are rarely repeated but the result is always the same: somehow, somewhere at some point I gleefully uncover a stash of rare, old Star Wars toys.

Lucasfilm wasn’t up and running when Freud was about, but I suspect even the most casual student of cod-psychology could deduce that this goes back to my childhood and a period from 1979 to 1985 when I lived, walked and breathed all things Star Wars. Buying Christmas and birthday presents for me was a doddle. As long as there was a Kenner label on it you were on safe ground and I was in seventh heaven. I guess my recurring dream shows that those beloved toys [still safely stowed in my parents’ loft] have morphed into some kind of embodiment of youthful happiness.

With this in mind, you can perhaps imagine the hyperventilating that took place when I stumbled upon Lobos Collectables. Packed to the rafters with almost everything that ever tumbled out of Lucas’ mind, and a whole lot more besides, this small corner of Northcote is a shrine to science fiction, fantasy and overactive imaginations.

It resembles what you’d imagine the inside of Kevin Smith’s head looks like. Walls and walls of figurines, statues, aliens, robots, superheroes and super villains provide a backdrop to lovingly recreated dioramas, play sets and display cabinets. Spaceships hang suspended from the ceiling, a Star Wars trilogy pinball table pings in the corner whilst a life size Simpsons family watch old sci-fi movies from their sofa. This is no ordinary shop.

At the centre of the Lobos universe is Dennis Kafkis, a thirty something Melbournian who has managed to turn his own childhood escapism into a place where anyone can seek sanctuary from the rigours of what some like to call the real world.

I asked Dennis how Lobos Collectables came into being. Fittingly his story is full of adventure, romance, honour, tragedy, determination and a little bit of magic…

How did you get started in the world of science fiction? You always start with one item. In my case it was a bucket of green army men. I spent many hours in the back yard planning missions. My parents divorced when I was 8 or 9 and I was an only child. I went into a fantasy world of characters from sci-fi films. I could do it well because my parents spoiled me with toys and comic books - most likely their guilt about dissolving their marriage! So toys came into my life at a very important juncture for me.

What was it about Star Wars in particular that appealed to you? I don’t remember much of my childhood but I remember asking my mother for the same outfits Luke and Han wore at the end of Star Wars when they received their medals. She said no and thought I was crazy to want knee high boots and all the gear! I’m sure I had a big cry about it... I remember wondering why Chewie never got a medal as well. He risked his furry ass too! If you ask me he got ripped off.

I found my first Star Wars figure in the street in 1979 – the original Han Solo. Do you remember yours? My first was Luke from Return of the Jedi in his black suit. I still have it. I remember being in grade 2 and was playing with it outside during the lunch break. When we went inside I realized I’d lost his green light sabre. I was distraught and asked the teacher to let me go and look for it during class time. I took a friend with me and we looked for what seemed to be an eternity but with no luck. That sabre is out there somewhere!

When did the toys become a hobby? Well there was myself, Peter Mackay and our close friend Peter ‘Lobos’ Mastroanis. All of us came from the same high school and we kept up our interest in pop culture and sci-fi as we grew up. We loved movies, comics and toys including many things that are now collectable. We got into McFarlane figures, NECA , Bowen statues, Sideshow collectables. We got some of the holy grails that never got released in Australia - limited edition SDCC [San Diego Comic Convention] items. You name it, we bought it. I love the craftsmanship and the technology in making a fantastic looking figure or toy collectable… the imagination of different looks of aliens and the like. It can transport people’s imagination to another place.

How did you go from collector to owning your own store? Lobos and I were always going to open a comic store together. It was our dream so we thought ‘why not try to do it...?’ Then tragically he passed away. He was 31. He had a genetic malfunction in his heart and suffered a sudden heart attack. You hear stories where someone is fine one minute and not with us the next; this is one of them. I talked to him just a few hours earlier and everything was fine. It still haunts me to this day. When his younger brother Luis called me to tell me the news I was trembling like I was holding a jack hammer. Tragic night.

What did Peter mean to you? We were best friends from the age of 12. He was one of the best and kindest of people. He was very creative and taught me more than I ever taught him, that's for sure. We were going to open the shop five years ago, so it’s taken me a few years to get over his death. But I put my mind to it and opened the store and named it after him. Peter loved dogs – that’s how he got the nickname Lobos. It means ‘the Wolf’ in Spanish. His illustrated design is on our business cards – a picture of a wolf. There is a framed photo of myself and Peter in the store with Wolverine in the middle. It’s a great photo, you must see it.

What kind of reactions do you hear from people when they first come in the shop? ‘Oh my God ... I want to live here ... I will save all my dole money and spend it here every fortnight ... Can I work here please...? ... Where do you guys get all this stuff? ... Oh My God’ again... There’s a lot of drooling but mostly it is ‘cool shop, love the shop’ etc

Do you see Lobos as a shop or a museum? I understand what you mean with all the glass cabinets but no, not really a museum. They always have a ring of unapproachable about them and our store is not like that. Lobos is a place for escapism. You can touch, feel, talk to staff, even watch a movie on the TV. We do dioramas and displays of movie scenes. We open most items and take them out of their packaging. If you have time come spend an hour in the store and have a good look at everything. If you’re having a bad day or week you will soon forget about it!

I once found some Star Wars wallpaper for 50 cents at a church fete. What is the luckiest find you've ever made for merchandise? It’s my mother that finds the best stuff – I’ve trained her up! She’s like one of those St Bernard snow dogs. She found some 30” Batman and Superman figures which sell for $100 each. She also found a Star Wars Lego Imperial Shuttle in its box, 100% complete, just on the street. Don’t ask how! The guys in the shop always laugh about her.

My best find was at a garage sale 5 years ago. There was a box full of 1980s toys – Transformers, Star Wars, He Man and others, all in really good condition with all the weapons. The son had left home and his parents were selling all his left overs at a fraction of what they were worth. I gave them what they wanted for it and didn’t haggle!

Back in the 1990s a friend bought me an R5-D4 he found in an op shop because he knew it was the only original figure I didn’t have. Now you can find hundreds of them online and on e-Bay. Does the internet spoil the magic of shops like Lobos? This is my favourite question! Yes the internet mostly destroys the magic. It’s so easy to find things [online] these days, you’re 100% correct. Finding a special gem in a market or op shop has almost become a thing of the past.

We don’t have an internet site and we do not sell on e-Bay. We know you can sell all your really good items quickly and actually get a better price for them than our ticket price because you’re selling to the world and a larger market. But if we did that then the friends of Lobos would never see all the good items we have or have the chance to buy them!

One thing I like to do is place rare figures worth over $20- $30 each on our bargain wall from time to time so that someone finds it for a third of the price and can say they have found their own gems. I do this on purpose. I can sell it for more but let’s have a bit of magic... I had one guy saying ‘you know this figure is worth over $50 dollars but you have it in the $12.95 section?’ I said ‘well, we can’t change the price can we? It’s yours.’ He comes in all the time…

Is it fair to say Lobos is a labour of love? I work full time in a totally unrelated business that allows me to fund Lobos until it can stand on its own two feet (or in the world of Lobos, 12 feet and a tentacle. It is a sci-fi store!) For me this is a hobby and a passion. I do most of the work for Lobos at night. I stay up late and sneak in an hour or two here and there every day.

Most places like ours have closed down or are on the decline. It’s not easy - most weeks we don't even cover the costs of running the store but the feedback we get from our friends of the store is amazing so hopefully it will pick up in time and we can grow and become friends to many more people.

Dennis Kafkis and a few friends

Going back to your first love, what's your favourite Star Wars movie moment? Empire Strikes Back is my favourite movie. I love the Battle of Hoth. Snow and sci-fi: a perfect mix. The Cantina scenes [from Star Wars] with all the aliens are great too. I get the freeze frame out and do the slow mo action on them all. I also enjoy the Bespin City scenes as well. Anytime the heroes get screwed it’s interesting viewing…

Despite what adults think, kids love The Phantom Menace don't they? Yes they do. Trust me we sell lots of Jar Jar Binks figures and dolls. Give the alien a break, he’s okay!

What do you think Lobos would think of the store you made in his name? I am sure he would love it. We were very much about honour and this is a good start. It’s against my will but as time goes by your memories become blurred and not as sharp as they once were. I want to hold all the memories I have of Peter very close to me I hope the store remains open for 50 years so his memory is always there.

Lobos Collectables is at 503 High Street, Northcote. It's open 11-6 on Wednesdays and Fridays, 10-6 on weekends. I recommend you go in.

www.facebook.com/people/Lobos-Collectables/

(with thanks to TK 421 for the photography)

Nothing to do with your Vorsprung Durch Technik

The past few months have been a quiet time for the Mint Custard Book Club (membership one and counting, slowly). After ripping through A Streetcar Named Desire I got bogged down in Cloudstreet. This is less a reflection on Tim Winton’s Miles Franklin Award winning masterpiece than on the fact that I scored myself a free iPhone. Instead of bettering myself by diligently sticking to my mission to read at least one piece of literature a month, I’ve been distracted by the gaudy thrills of mobile internet, Angry Birds and pseudo-Scrabble, Words with Friends.

Yes, a mere three years after the launch of the iPhone I’ve finally caught up with technology. I say only because despite assurances from gadget enthusiasts that just six months can be a lifetime when it comes to technology, up til now I have spent my life separated from modernity by a continual seven year buffer of which phones are just a minor detail.

Much of this spans back to childhood and a general lack of gadgetry in our house. We got our first video - a VHS Ferguson Videostar – in 1987. It was my grandparent’s old one, donated to us because even Grandad wouldn’t be seen dead with a top loader by then. We had a hi-fi, one of those housed in an MDF wood-effect cabinet and sealed behind a darkened glass door, but it was a strictly tapes and records affair. 1985 may have seen Dire Straits become first band to sell a million copies of an album on compact disc but it was 1992 before I got around to buying my first CD player. Add another ten years to those two dates for DVDs and you can see a bit of a trend.

Despite their circumstances mum and dad always did their best to get us all what we wanted. Unable to afford the Atari 2600 games console I wanted they got me Astro Wars, a single game table top space shoot-em-up they probably couldn’t afford either and which I clocked several hundred times. I still have it and, in keeping with my temporal techno buffer, I eventually got my 2600 and a sackful of games for my eighteenth birthday in 1993. Mum got it on the cheap from a local second-hand shop inundated with Ataris thanks to Super Mario and Sonic the Hedgehog. Again, still have it and still love it. I bought Raiders of the Lost Ark for it last week.

Games consoles have become a bit of a yardstick for my gadget delay. Despite spending the entire summer of 1996 playing Worms on my friends’ PlayStation, it was 2003 - three years after the launch of PS2 - before someone took pity on us and gave us their old one. Having never seen a PS2 in action our old machine was still a revelation, and even better, the games were ridiculously cheap. A similar thing happened in 2008 when a kindly soul gave us a Nintendo GameCube. Leaping several years into the future in a single bound we were amazed by the graphics and game play – happily ignorant that kids of all ages were in similar thrall to the Nintendo Wii. I look forward to getting one… in 2015.

After slagging off mobile phone users for several years I got my first mobile in 2003. It was (naturally) a hand-me down from Mrs Custard, and even that had been given to her by a friend. I left it at home a lot and got told off for not answering it when people rang, but I did like the primitive version of Snake which kept me busy on the bus. I kept it for three years, updating to yet another pre-loved phone in exchange for a six pack of beer. It had a dodgy joystick and perhaps the worst camera ever made, but it did have a great mini-golf game. I finally signed a proper contract in 2008 and was given a free phone for my troubles. It had a rather pointless Walkman feature which didn’t let you use your own headphones, but the mini-golf had better graphics and the at least the camera worked. I felt modern, even though most of my friends had long since moved on to iPhone.

Anyway so finally, after so long at apogee of technological innovation here I am, at its artificially beating heart. For once in my life I can look people in the eye without shame, without a shrug of ‘ahdunno’ when discussing matters telecommunicational. I may have forgotten how to read a book but I can feel the same sense of smugness and self-satisfaction that I am more cutting edge than the general populous. I speak the language of Gates and Jobs. I - with my iPhone 3G - am of the moment. I am now. I am 2010. I am… sorry... hang on... there’s a what? When? Oh balls…

The Merchandise Strikes Back

Star Whores Episode 347:

The Merchandise Strikes Back

It is a dark time for Mint Custard. Though reconciled to George Lucas’ relentless commercialisation of everything he once held dear, and having vowed never again to give money to Lucasfilm, he did not count on the thirtieth anniversary of the Empire Strikes Back; his very favourite of all the Star Wars films.

Clearly preying on Custard’s long-standing recurrent dream about discovering dusty boxes of mint condition Star Wars toys in abandoned toy stores and dark attics, the evil Lucas has combined with Kenner to create nostalgia-based merchandise in pursuit of the Custard dollar.

Having evaded wave after wave of Star Wars related tat for many years, the once young and innocent - now just immature and with a steady job - Custard has capitulated under the onslaught of temptation provided by historically accurate and anatomically correct plastic figurines on special at K-Mart.

Sensing victory, the despicable Lucas readies himself for the chance to extract even more cash from his former charge with the release of Return of the Jedi related pish-posh in 2013. Little does he realise the contempt held by Custard for Jabba the Hutt and the Ewoks and that by then Custard will be free of his evil clutches forever…

Some irritatingly beautifully-packaged nostalgia, yesterday.

The Sky Falls

A quick thank you to McDonalds for picking up George Lucas' baton in the race to see who can poo on the most of Mint Custard's childhood loves. The world's favourite surrogate parent and cholesterol provider is back annoying the French Ministry for Culture by sidling up to Albert Uderzo with huge bags of cash to draw them this picture of Asterix, Obelix and co - presumably getting high on McFlurry e-numbers and that weird sugary bread rather than their usual ale and roast boar.


Now before you Gen-Y kids get all uppity and start telling me to get avec le time Grandpere, I do understand that Asterix is as much a brand as a little man with an unfeasibly large moustache. It's a brand that has been flogged to death in Europe, especially as a result of Parc Asterix and the so-so live action movies starring Christian Clavier and Gerard Depardieu. The films and tie-ins notwithstanding there have also been umpteen video games, board games, soft toys and even other less than Michelin standard food as this picture will attest...


Still there's just something about the idea of our indomitable Gauls selling out to Maccas, particularly after the way French anti-globalisation campaigner / nutcase José Bové was portrayed as a real life Astérix for driving his tractor into a McDonald's restaurant. He may just have been another pissed off French farmer and obviously destroying one McDdo was never going to bring down the Empire, but this is a powerful way for it to strike back.

I will admit I'm not totally averse to a bit of fast food franchise plastic toy collectible action when its done right. I have a marvellous Simpsons-sofa-and-family on top of my telly that my brother-in-law ate many pieces of chicken for once. Still, it's rare that the association between childhood icons and take away food results in anything more than piles of scruffy unloved and unwanted plastic at school fetes and garage sales.

Ultimately what I find most (ahem) galling about this is the way Uderzo has taken one of his best known and loved images (the traditional post adventure feast with Cacofonix / Assurancetourix bound up for the safety of everyone's ears) and cheapened it for the golden arches. Let them give away little plastic figurines for kids to play with, but at least leave those of us who don't eat at Maccas with our memories intact. Asterix may not be les beaux arts but it means something to me and probably to the 325 million people who've shared in their adventures, by Toutatis.

Comment t'appelles tu?

As a rule tax returns are not usually a source of entertainment, so my thanks to whichever petty bureaucrat at the Australian Tax Office put together this year’s online E-Tax forms. I hadn’t got much further than my name when I was presented with a doozy of a drop-down menu from which to choose my title of choice. Take a deep breath…

Abbot, Able Seaman, Admiral, Air Chief Marshall, Air Commodore, Air Marshall, Air Vice Marshall, Airman / Aircraftman, Alderman, Archbishop, Arch Deacon, Associate Professor, Baron, Baroness, Bishop, Brigadier, Brother, Cadet, Canon, Captain, Cardinal, Chaplin, Chief Petty Officer, Colonel, Commander, Commissioner, Commodore, Constable, Corporal, Count, Countess, Dame, Deacon, Deaconess, Dean, Deputy Superintendant, Doctor, Duchess, Duke, Earl, Father, Flight Lieutenant, Flight Sergeant, Flying Officer, General, Group Captain, Gunner, His Royal Highness, Her Royal Highness, Honourable, Honourable Judge, Honourable Justice, Inspector, Judge, Justice, Lady, Lance Bombardier, Lance Corporal, Leading Aircraftmen, Leading Aircraftwoman, Leading Seamen, Lieutenant, Lieutenant Colonel, Lieutenant Commander, Lieutenant General, Lord, Madam, Major, Major General, Master, Matron, Mayor, Mayoress, Midshipman, Miss, Monsignor, Most Reverend, Mr, Mrs, Ms, Pastor, Patriarch, Petty Officer, Pilot Officer, Private, Professor, Rabbi, Rear Admiral, Rector, Reverend, Right Honourable, Right Reverend, Right Reverend Bishop, Right Reverend Monsignor, Seaman, Second Lieutenant, Senator, Senior Constable, Sergeant, Sir, Sister, Squadron Leader, Staff Sergeant, Sub Lieutenant, Superintendent, Swami, Very Reverend, Vicar, Vice Admiral, Viscount, Warrant Officer, Warrant Officer 1st class, Warrant Officer 2nd class and last but certainly not least if you like your old school space adventure computer games, Wing Commander.

After skimming through the list I couldn’t help but feel a little disappointed in myself in having to settle for plain old Mr Custard. As the son of a communist gas fitter (a damn fine one I might add) Housemartins fan some of the more aristocratic titles were perhaps always going to be beyond me. Still, even taking the la-di-da’s out of the equation (and really Australian Tax Office, just how many His/Her Royal Highnesses do we have completing their tax returns in this country?) I think I need a fancier moniker to present the world with.

So how do I go about it then? Given the above list the military seems like a good option for plebs like me. Sadly, unlike many members of my slightly odd family I have no interest in the armed forces. The army is, well - you know - the army, and my Grandad’s double torpedoing by U-boats in 1944 left me suspicious of the Village People's claims about life on the high seas. Still my Star Wars obsession did lead me to believe being a fighter pilot might be a goer for a while. After a promising start (I had several almost finished models of the Space Shuttle and a Harrier Jump Jet and was gifted – almost prodigiously so – at Arcadians) a future in the air force was swiftly curtailed when I was luxuriantly sick on my maiden flight in a two-seater Chipmunk training plane. This airborne hurl – along with that whole discipline thing and uncomfortably itchy RAF trousers - meant my chances of Corporal Custard (never mind Air Chief Marshall Custard was gone before I was 15.

Keen-eyed watchers of The Bill amongst you will know that many of the same ranks are available in the police force. I will admit to having unhealthy thoughts about those stockinged ankles that used to appear at the end of the UK's premier cop drama so that was enough to get my attention. Also I am tall, so that's that important entry criterion fulfilled. Sadly two other considerations counteract this early promise. Firstly, I am a complete coward who hates violence, confrontation and all acts of aggression. Even on telly. Secondly, blue is not my colour. If I could dress like Sam Tyler in Life on Mars then I might be interested but I don't think it's a realistic goal.

I could of course aim for higher up in the judicial system with judge and justice (both honourable and just plain old regular flavour) up for grabs. On the plus side I am very judgmental and I love a comedy wig. On the downside, I really am very lazy and the idea of 23 year's study starting from scratch is really very unappealing. Whilst we're at it maybe we should rule out Professor and Doctor on the same grounds. Unless I become really famous and get awarded an honourary doctorate from the University of Woolloomooloo for being lovely, or tall, then I just don't see it happening.

So what else? Well life as a man of the cloth seems to offer a quick route to an interesting title. Even new starters get to be called Brother which is very Desmond Hume. However looking into it there does seem to be a lot of, well, Catholicism involved. Regardless of how cool it would be to have Right Reverend Monsignor Custard on my letterbox I'd rather stay excommunicated. Options in other religions are limited, though Swami is an option. Sadly Wikipedia's definition of a Swami as someone 'who knows and is the master of himself' rules me out. Anyone who has seen our puppy boss me about will tell you that I'm master of no one.

This limits my options for a bit of variety in my titulation to either a post-gender reassignment Miss or Ms (and no offence ladies, but that's not quite different enough for the level of investment required) or me getting my community hat on and running for public office. Given the level of public respect for our members of parliament in 2010 perhaps the time is right to step forward. Vote 1 Mint Custard for Mayor? I'd probably be rubbish but then that seems to be almost expected these days. Honourable Member...? Please. Now you're just being rude.

Aristocratic silver spoons aside it would seem that upgrading my name requires a level of time, effort or commitment which I clearly don't have. I could of course take the option pursued by Def Leppard on their Hysteria album when they listed themselves as Wing Commander Steve "Steamin', Dreamy, Snikker, Mayhem, P.T.W." Clark, A.H.D. (Guitars), Air Commodore Phil "Felix, P.C., The Guru, Wambo, Top" Collen, B.T.H (more guitars) and Baron Beaverbrook "Sir Richard" Rick "Sav" Savage (Bass). I could... but I won't. I think you know why.

So Australian Tax Office, it is with regret and shame that I declare myself as plain old me for another year. Not much to boast about, but hey, my Grandma loves me. Is that tax deductible...?

Amazing Adventures (Part 2)

... or the continuing adventures of the Mint Custard Book Club (membership of one but always looking for friends) or stuff about someone who is rubbish at reading fiction but is trying hard. This includes reading children's books - to which this particular post is dedicated...

The Boy in the Dress / Mr Stink – David Walliams

Ah cross-dressing; it's an English tradition. I love it, you love it, David Walliams loves it and (perhaps unsurprisingly given the title) so does Dennis, the 12 year old hero of the Boy in the Dress. Writing his first book for children Walliams sympathetically taps into his own longstanding interest in feminine finery and in the process repairs some of the gentle damage he did creating Little Britain’s Emily ‘I’m a lady’ Howard.

David Walliams and the Quentin Blake drawn cast of The Boy in the Dress

Although teenage transvestism might appear unlikely fodder for a children's book, Walliams manages it deftly. He is clear that Dennis's predilection for women's fashion has no impact on his footballing abilities nor does it prevent him having a lustful crush on Lisa, the school fashionista Lisa who encourages his interests in increasingly involved and daring ways.

Yet far from being just a book with a pinky leftie commie message the Boy in the Dress is full of the type of humour you'd expect from one half of the Little Britain team, with local newspaper shop owner Raj a particularly constant source of laughs. Unphased by Dennis' nervous purchase of Vogue magazine Raj is more interested in selling half eaten chocolate bars, old christmas wrapping paper ('eleven rolls for the price of eight!') and bags of out of date pickled onion Monster Much ('a British delicacy!')

I have no idea what the 9 to 12 year olds this funny, energetic and ultimately rather sweet book is aimed at would think, but to me Dennis’ lone-parent family troubles were well handled and didn’t feel at all contrived. Whilst the same couldn’t be said of the slightly silly ending the Boy in the Dress’ big idea – be who you are and not who other people want you to be – seems like a good reason to write a children’s book.

The biggest coup for Williams is the inclusion of Quentin Blake’s always-wonderful visuals. Having Roald Dahl’s illustrator onboard immediately adds to the impression that the Boy in the Dress is somehow part of the Dahlian canon and it’s fair to say that give or take one too many contemporary references to reality television and a plot mostly grounded in the real world Walliams succeeds in emulating his idol’s knack for escapist pre-teen thrills.

Dennis (a boy)... in a dress

The same is not quite true of Walliams’ second children’s book, Mr Stink which whilst infused with a similar infectious energy and cheeky breaking of the fourth wall, as well as Blake’s wonderful drawings, feels a little more forced. This time our hero is Chloe, another twelve year old with parent-induced self-esteem issues who finds friendship in the form of a putrid-smelling homeless man called (aptly) Mr Stink.

At war with her revoltingly overachieving younger sister Annabelle, bullied by school colleagues and put down by her mother for carrying a bit of extra weight young Chloe hides away from the world, devoting herself to her creative writing that she dare not share with anyone. No-one that is apart from Mr Stink who encourages her to tell him night time stories as he beds down in the family shed. Chloe spends the rest of her time letting her imagination run riot about Mr Stink's past, imagining several histories for his each time they meet.

The evolution of Chloe and Mr Stink’s relationship is nicely done, but her politically ambitious Hyacinth Bucket-like mother and down at heel ex-rocker father don’t feel quite as plausible. Perhaps this is part of the point as Mr Stink sees Walliams let his own imagination loose more than Boy in the Dress, resulting in helicopter rides to meet the Prime Minister in Downing Street (an untrustworthy, slightly smarmy man called Dave, interestingly for a book published long before the 2010 election) and a flatulent appearance on Question Time.

Mr Stink and the Duchess ('she wasn't any particular breed of dog, she was just a dog')

There is another welcome outing for Raj (this time trying to offload a crate full of Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle stationery sets) and some lovely descriptions of Annabelle's daily diary ('2am Learning Arabic; 3am Dance Lesson - breakdance, hip hop, krumping; 4am Oboe; 5am Tour de France cycle training etc) but overall there was less joy than his first volume.

It is possible that Walliams has nothing left in his children’s literary locker, but in Mr Stink, and especially the Boy in the Dress he can at least boast two highly likeable, endearing and above all fun books to add to his growing list of achievements.

Yet more Mint Custard Book Club tomorrow (I know, whoda thunk it...?)