Susan Morrison: Fight me for a comic? I'll turn out The Victor

Published on Friday 4 December 2009 09:47

I HAVE reached a certain age, I know. Yesterday, I referred to a young man as "son". He was helping me to cross the road. And at an antique fair at Meadowbank the other day I spotted a copy of The Victor.

Now, for younger readers, let me explain. The Victor and its rival The Wizard, were comics for boys, usually delivered on a Wednesday. They would thump on to the mat behind the door, where they would be swiped by your big sister, who rather oddly for a gel, liked to read war stories. You would then batter lumps out of each other over the ownership of the said comic. Siblings were allowed to thrash each other in those days without fear of family therapy groups or people referring you for counselling.

The Victor and The Wizard would never be allowed into the hands of children today, at least not without stern warnings in certain parts of the meedja, getting hysterical about children being tainted by racism and violence.

Both comics, and their big brother at the newsagents, Commando, never let the Second World War go. Braddock VC, for example, flew his Lancaster bomber for dang near 20 years. Commando did what it said on the tin, and then some, with endless stories of midnight raids that must succeed for the war to be won, destroyers limping back to the Clyde after defending Atlantic convoys from fiendish U-Boats, and fighter pilots who drove two-seaters and played the piano in the Officers mess. I'm not sure what the RAF did with non-musical fighter pilots.

The soldiers of the Axis powers were drawn in a seriously unflattering light. The Imperial Army troops were always a bit weedy, wore glasses and were given to yelling "Banzai!". The Wehrmacht consisted of a rather sneering, hard-faced bunch, who saluted a lot whilst bellowing "Heil Hitler". When they tangled with the mighty Jocks, they were put to flight shrieking "Donner und Blitzen!". I never did work out why they thought two of Santa's reindeer would ride to their aid like antlered Valkyrie, and for years I thought that's all the Germans said, so you can imagine my shock when I started German at school and found out the bitter truth.

Equal opportunity advocates before their time, The Victor and The Wizard regarded all foreigners and foreign ways with deep suspicion. Alf Tupper, Tough of the Track scorned modern training techniques like oh, fitness, and kept himself in shape by being a welder and eating fish and chips. But he could still thrash Johnny Foreigner. In The Wizard a totally bonkers character called The Amazing Wilson ran about the Yorkshire Moors barefoot in a pair of woollen long johns. You'd get arrested for that now. Or start a summer school for those trying to get in touch with themselves. However, The Amazing Wilson went on to regularly win everything at the Olympics, except the swimming events, where I imagine the knitted sportswear would have presented a problem.

It wasn't just the foreigners who were suspect. Alf, Braddock and the Amazing Wilson all tangled with the 'toffs'. A sneaky working-class subversion ran through all the comics. Toffs were regarded as useless, in fact, dangerous. Alf was regularly in danger of having his spikes tampered with by the posh boys from the Harriers and Braddock was forever getting told off by moustachioed staff officers for being a scruff until they saw his VC (which he always wore, for some reason, no matter how scruffy he was).

Working class heroes were always saving the day when people with names like the Marquis of Liverport or Sir Fred Badwin were bungling about. Posh accents were treated with disdain, unless you were a fighter pilot in the RAF, when I think you squeezed elocution lessons in between piano practice.

Boys were taught that the underdog won. He usually had to work harder and be smarter but the day usually went to him, which in the days of Just-Shoot-'Em Grand Theft Auto is something worth remembering.

And weirdly enough, despite my brother being practically bathed in what we'd now call racist stereotyping, he seems to have survived with no ill effects whatsoever. In fact he has turned into a successful international business exec who does a lot of business with our German Euro partners, and Japanese trading cousins. He still gets chippy round toffs, though.

Oh and as for the comic at the antiques fair. They wanted 7 for it. Seven quid for a Victor comic? What's the world coming to?

Oh, very collectable, said the antique dealer. This particular beauty was unsoiled and in pristine condition, and 7 wasn't bad for a 40-year-old comic. My daughter immediately pointed out I am a 50-year-old comic and asked how much would I be worth. The dealer looked at me like I was a cracked chamber pot on the Antiques Roadshow and told her I should have been laminated to stop me getting soiled.

So, guess what my bro is getting for Christmas? Mind you, he'll have to fight me for it.