Childhood is a strange and mystic land, the journey away from which is a painful and rough voyage across a stormy sea of homework, pubic hair and hangovers. Adult life of course is little better, a barren wasteland of death, taxes and wondering precisely where your childhood went. This of course explains why so many people react to videos of Bagpuss in a kind of money - out - of - the - wallet - and - paying -for - it kind of a way. Suddenly theyre transported back to a land of innocence without the need for tedious items like seasickness pills, and one is reminded instantly of how simple and pleasurable things really were. Mind you, the sex wasnt so good back then, but thats not really the point.
Those who find themselves in the nostalgic embrace of childhood television are a delivcate breed. The manic grasping nature of most science fiction followers has no place in the world of the Clangers, Mr. Benn and Willo the Wisp.
Fannish behaviour, needless to say, is borne of a very similar malaise. Its nature is to obsess about something as a means of immersion into another world, a way of escaping the dreadful dreary reality of an otherwise mundane and worthless existence. Those who find themselves in a nostalgic embrace of childhood television are a much more delicate breed than normal fans, however. The manic grasping nature of most science fiction followers, to clutch randomly at an example, has no place in the world of the Clangers, Mr. Benn and Willo the Wisp, even if the series are a product of the same time period. The television programmes of yore are far more fragile than this, requiring a certain detachment if they are to survive and inspire as they used to.
This fragility is partially explained by their apparent lack of depth. The words charming simple or naive are those most often used in conjunction with the programmes mentioned above. It is tempting to regard any obsessive nature towards Mr. Benn for example as being akin to trying to immerse yourself in a puddle. On a superficial level the viewer can enjoy the experience by simply remaining in the present and looking down on the sheer naivet of both the makers and themselves. The enjoyment is in evoking a long-passed childhood and having attention drawn to the development that has since occurred.
Whilst it is true that childhood entertainments are delicate, it is this delicacy which creates their very appeal, and is in fact the only reason why nostalgia can be targeted on them at all. Their sheer simplicity and lack of realism are particularly conducive to the feeling. Thundercats, Ulysses 31 and Battle of the Planets are more obvious cult fodder, more complex in terms of plot and imagery, and ultimately far more boorish and heavy handed making them ideal for the more abruptly fannish response that destroys fond nostalgia. Equally series such as Dangermouse and the Magic Roundabout are hard to view in a truly nostalgic fashion. The postmodernism and occasionally sly humour give them a fresh lease of life when viewed as an adult and the recapturing of childhood is less magical viewed in this fashion. Instead we require elegant simplicity for the effect to be complete.
As a child the Wombles had me enchanted, even though I missed their first impact on the world by several years. In fact, Im sure the level of interest in them foreshadowed my later obsession with Doctor Who. Mind you, Womblemania supposedly had just the same hold on the nations overdrafts as the Daleks had achieved some ten years before; bubble bath, stuffed toys and biscuits - a strange phenomenon considering the lack of dramatic texture in the series. The series which provoke this reaction today incorporate clear role models, easily identifiable issues and instructive plots, and yet the Wombles apparently revelled in dull ordinariness. This criticism, however, confuses subtlety with lack of depth. Strange isnt it to imagine that many years ago children would have responded to a series so completely bereft of black and white clichs?
Elizabeth Beresfords original books are marvels of simplicity in themselves, a straightforward uncluttered prose style that masks a surprising breadth of characterisation. At times, it must be said, Beresfords style borders on patronising, an element of writing-very-slowly ever present in the text, but then these are childrens books, what else would you expect? The characters themselves, though, are incredibly human little beasts, each one capable of gluttony, laziness, selfishness and self aggrandisement, and they frequently have thoughts at odds with their behaviour. It is of course the sheer elegance and ordinariness of these fully rounded characters (particularly Orinoco) that allows them to speak so easily to their audience, and these values transferred easily to the TV series.
That the Wombles were successful in so many media shows them to be a forerunner of todays style of childrens programme which trashes the minds of a generation of infants, and destrouys Christmas throughout the world.
And what a series it was. Bernard Crabbiness doing the bedtime story bit whilst Ivor Woods portly puppets caper about on screen, barely moving a couple of steps before lifting a leg to balance as they take a few breaths of air. Indeed it is the loss of the parent-like narrator which was the greatest (if probably the only) flaw in Cinars recent revival, which remained true in most other respects to the original series and novels. There is also something magical about Woods character design, the rodent-like puppets convincing in a way which Margaret Gordons original illustrations fail. The vaguely rat-like nature of their design is perfectly in keeping with their scavenging nature, whilst remaining so cuddly its no wonder the stuffed toys did so well.
Of course, the level of commercial activity the Wombles created is slightly at odds with the picture I painted earlier of innocent nostalgia, but the series and books themselves still provoke that reaction. The overall Wombles phenomenon never really occurred until the records were released, allowing the Wombles to bridge that gap between innocence and hysteria in a way which no other series had at that time, and arguably has since.
Yet the records are odd items to inspire this kind of reaction. TV merchandising has always had cash-in writ large all over it, and yet Batts recordings are beautifully tongue in cheek and utterly faithful to the Wombles series. The charm and innocence of the TV series combined easily with the knowing techniques of pop music and in doing so completed a bizarre and unique phenomenon: the quality childrens series with huge merchandising potential.
I inherited my Aunts Goddaughters LPs, presumably under the promise that I would pass them on again when I had grown out of them. Typically, I still have them, perhaps the strongest indication that I have no intention of ever growing up entirely, and they are a constant source of enjoyment to me. The lyric inserts are covered with felt pen scrawl, from colouring the individual Wombles with colour schemes which would make Ivor Wood vomit onto his drawing board. Ditto the clean white inner sleeves, covered with varying representations of the CBS logo and instructions on how to care for your record, vaguely copied from the lurid orange labels. Sadly, they refuse to play at all, ruined forever by overuse on a less sensitive record player, handling by a ham fisted child, and the tell tale marks of an occasional clumsily placed needle. (Those instructions I mentioned earlier were just words, obviously.)
That something so commercial could evoke such nostalgia is an odd concept with which to grapple but somehow the Wombles manage to achieve this and, sadly, it looks as though they were both the first and last to do so. That they were successful in so many media shows them to be a definite forerunner of todays style of children's programme which trashes the minds of a generation of infants and destroys Christmas throughout the world. And yet, they remained utterly true to their origins, maintaining a childlike innocence that is so utterly absent from the in-your-face antics of the Power Rangers or the over-calculated shenanigans of the Teletubbies that it makes one cry for the state of childrens television. As testament to this I should relate that I did try to pass the records onto my stepbrother, now 5, but he proved to be completely uninterested, his mind filled with Disney and Oscars Orchestra that anything so elegant was completely lost on him. When I took them back of course it was a different story. Then there were agonising and pitiful screams, the unmistakable sound of shattering glassware and enraged shouts of smine, gizzit echoing around the tiny hamlet in which I lived. (My cries, I might add, not his.)
So we should raise a glass to the Wombles. A truly unique phenomenon, the like of which we shall neer see again. Things change, sometimes for better and sometimes for worse, but they do change. Whether this article is a celebration of something brilliant or the wake of something long gone I have yet to decide. All I know is this: todays childrens programming will never provoke the nostalgia that those of my childhood so effortlessly achieved. Enjoy your reminiscences while you may - such nostalgia is truly a thing of the past.
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