Congratulations to Action Man, who is celebrating his fortieth anniversary this week. When I was young my grandfather gave me an "Action Man plus accessories" for my sixth birthday. The "Action Man" was in fact a naked dolly (complete with facial scar and Hitler Youth haircut), and the "accessories" consisted of a combat jacket and an astronaut's boot, handy for hopping across a shallow stream but otherwise fairly useless. Needless to say the gift was not "new" but a hand-me-down from the kid next door, who'd realised at the age of seven and a half that this particular toy really only appealed to the sort of alpha male twat who believes that a Ferrari is required to get one from front door to pub. Thing is, for a man of action, Action Man was surprisingly inactive. Place him at the base of a mountain with a length of rope and rather than scale the precipice in the style of James Bond he would merely stand there motionless and stare blankly at the rock like a demented husband who can't remember on which floor of the multi-storey his Ford Mondeo is parked. So, in order to get my Action Man to feel a bit more "involved", I spun his head and arms round 180 degrees, put the jacket on the wrong way round, and placed the astronaut's boot on his left leg and a tomato on his right, before submitting my efforts to my oh-so-generous grandfather. "Is this the kind of thing?" I queried. "You stupid child", he retorted. "You're messing with a ruthless killing machine". "But Grandad" I explained, "this so-called ruthless killing machine is in fact little more than a static miniature mannequin who would be about as much use in a military exercise as Twiggy at a sumo wrestlers convention." And I was only six! Needless to say I did not "play" with my Action Man again. Around four years later I found him at the bottom of a wooden box in the attic, laid him out on the pavement and smashed his skull with a croquet mallet with the words "so who's the ruthless killing machine now?".

Hoss. (Not entirely telling the whole truth on this one)

p.s.- so, perma-permed 70's songstress Barbara Dickson once sang "January February, I don't understand". Hey Babs, I may be hedging my bets here, but aren't they the first two months of the year?