Here’s a story of yester-year, see if you can place it in time.
Me, my mate and accursed (at the time) younger brother playing Action Men (so it was some time ago, let’s get that straight LOL ) in the street.
I’ve got the upper hand, in fact realistic gripping hands on my two new Action Men, whereas my mate (playing the enemy) had more figures but only one with gripping hands.
For those non-Action Men familiar souls (poor lost creatures you are) without gripping hands your bloke would drop his rifle everytime he was moved or displaced in some manner. Which renders them rubbish.
My advantage was further enhanced by my new Scorpion tank, complete with revolving turret and elevating gun. “Take that, you commie swine” I would shout, along with other Commando-book phrases I had memorised.
So there’s me and Rod, engaged in the Gosforth equivalent of the Battle of the Bulge with the street between our house littered with the detritus of battle, when my younger and infinitely grumpy younger brother decides he wants a piece of the action.
Now, I love my brother dearly, esp now he’s seen the light and got a 'ped, but back then it was different. He always wanted to tag on to my games and would always end up in tears. This turned out to be no different.
Upon first being refused entry to the game, and then being laughed at for bringing his Action Men in astronaut costumes (I mean, no camouflage!) he picked up a huge lump of stone from the garden, and threw at my prize and joy, my sole Action Man transport, the key to my success breaching of the enemies fortified positions, MY BL00DY TANK!
Clean smashed the (clearly too) brittle turret into pieces and with it my chances of winning this and future battles - until Xmas when the battalion waould doubtless be brought back up to strength.
Filled with a fury and sense of righteousness that only a slighted 12ish year old can have, I brayed him one.
Needless to say, the ensuing screams brought my Mother out who rather rashly (but I suppose understandably on seeing poor Steve writhing on the ground) decided it was all my fault. And uttered the words that, to this day, strike terror… “Wait 'till your Father gets home”.
Straight to my room was sent, to the kitchen for Steve to have medical treatment that I’m sure involved eating chocolate (ah the days when all ills could be cured that way 
), with the threat to horrible to mention now.
When Dad arrived, boy was I scared, and I got a rollocking that left me 2 inches high and generally sick of the injustices of having a younger brother with a big gob and bad temper.
The real punishment, the ‘punchline’ if you will : I couldn’t stay up to watch what was the Starsky and Hutch film that was the pilot for the series. I had to wait years to see it for the first time.
Ah sweet memories. And I’ll save the Meccano / Abba on Eurovision story for another time…
and fire storm: Willow the Whisp!!! That was a Wicked cartoon!! evil edna 
