Whoop Whoop!
Yesterday evening, I was going about my business oblivious of the fact that the Guardian newspaper had released a feature on me and mine. Apparently, the world wants the Wombles back! It's ok world, I'm here! *hehehehe
Here's the feature and you can link in to the actual publication by Stuart Jeffries here
Yesterday evening, I was going about my business oblivious of the fact that the Guardian newspaper had released a feature on me and mine. Apparently, the world wants the Wombles back! It's ok world, I'm here! *hehehehe
Here's the feature and you can link in to the actual publication by Stuart Jeffries here
The Wombles at 40 – why we need them more than ever
They
play golf, live for three centuries – and turn 40 this week. Here's to
the gang of stuffed raccoons from 1970s kids' TV who showed Britain how
to recycle
 |
| Time for a party … Wombles showed selflessness and community spirit, writes Stuart Jeffries. Photograph: ITV/Rex |
Who would win a fight between a Womble and a Teletubby? Why did the Wombles' 1970s mission to teach a nation not to litter fail so abjectly? How did they, as Marvin Gaye would put it,
get it on? Forget about the wonders of the ice age: as the Wombles of
Wimbledon Common celebrate their 40th birthday, these are the questions
that need answering.
Let's tackle the first question. Obviously your Teletubby, while having much the same BMI as your mature Womble, is bigger and thus more terrifying in a smackdown scenario. That said, the former's gaudy colour scheme (Tinky Winky purple, Laa-Laa yellow) would make a surprise attack unlikely on even a very slow-witted Womble (I'm thinking of Tomsk, who has the lowest womble IQ and, as axiomatically follows, likes golf). Plus, because each Teletubby contains a sweating actor who's going to sack their agent as soon as they get out of their fur suit, they aren't exactly going to chase down their preys like cheetahs. Wombles are stuffed, and have no such motivational issues. Wombles, unlike Teletubbies, have vicious little eyes and snouts that suggest powerful teeth – both good in a scrap. They also have retractable claws, decisive in close combat – and definitive proof that 1970s kids' TV is better than today's.
Wikipedia puts about the nonsense that wombles are raccoons. Do raccoons wear scarfs, spectacles and hats? Aren't raccoons, in fact, known for tipping up bins rather than initiating community-wide, proto-recycling initiatives? A Womble's life span, unlike a raccoon's, may be as long as 300 years (the Womble song Minuetto Allegretto refers to Great Uncle Bulgaria as being a lad in 1780: you do the maths). This may explain how Great Uncle Bulgaria beat Britain's fascistic immigration system. Long-lived, species-non-specific stuffed animals rarely require visas, even when travelling from outside the EU. The great tragedy of the Wombles is that their mission to make Britain tidier now looks like a sick joke. The concept was dreamed up in 1968 by the late children's author Elisabeth Beresford, and later adapted for TV by means of Ivor Wood's brilliant stop-motion animation, an adorable Bernard Cribbins' narration and Mike Batt's undying theme music. It is as laughable as the Keep Britain Tidy campaign. Think of how last month's snow encouraged some dog owners to believe they had a free pass to let their pets befoul the pavements, rather in the way that Mike Batt's Wombling Merry Christmas befouled the singles chart in December 1974. Actually, that's unfair: there was much worse stuff (Mud's Lonely This Christmas, for one).
Did the Wombles clean up their own mess? A rhetorical question: of course they did! When they went for a walk, Tobermory would lead the way, followed by Orinoco, who carried a bag for Tobermory's waste, followed by Bungo, who was tasked with bagging Orinoco's. Tomsk, Wellington, Madame Cholet, Stepney and even Cousin Cairngorm McWomble the Terrible would follow in orderly fashion. Otherwise, Wimbledon Common would have become a vast Womble latrine. Who bagged Tobermory's waste? We may never know.
The selflessness and communal bonds that the Wombles demonstrated weekly from 1973 to 1975, the basic respect they urged for our streets, commons, one another and by extension, the planet, are widely missing from our age. We need Wombles in 2013 – but where are they? The likely truth is that the Wombles have retreated underground for good, never again to shake their snouts at the overground mess we have made. The same is true around the world: Elisabeth Beresford imagined that each country would have a Womble colony, but they are now nowhere to be found. Apart from the Singapore Wombles, who can and often do eat their dinners off the city's pavements, so clean is it there. (True story.)
Finally, how do Wombles get it on? Well, first they retract their claws. Empathetic in so many ways, they are, we must suppose, thoughtful lovers. And then? None of your business.
Let's tackle the first question. Obviously your Teletubby, while having much the same BMI as your mature Womble, is bigger and thus more terrifying in a smackdown scenario. That said, the former's gaudy colour scheme (Tinky Winky purple, Laa-Laa yellow) would make a surprise attack unlikely on even a very slow-witted Womble (I'm thinking of Tomsk, who has the lowest womble IQ and, as axiomatically follows, likes golf). Plus, because each Teletubby contains a sweating actor who's going to sack their agent as soon as they get out of their fur suit, they aren't exactly going to chase down their preys like cheetahs. Wombles are stuffed, and have no such motivational issues. Wombles, unlike Teletubbies, have vicious little eyes and snouts that suggest powerful teeth – both good in a scrap. They also have retractable claws, decisive in close combat – and definitive proof that 1970s kids' TV is better than today's.
Wikipedia puts about the nonsense that wombles are raccoons. Do raccoons wear scarfs, spectacles and hats? Aren't raccoons, in fact, known for tipping up bins rather than initiating community-wide, proto-recycling initiatives? A Womble's life span, unlike a raccoon's, may be as long as 300 years (the Womble song Minuetto Allegretto refers to Great Uncle Bulgaria as being a lad in 1780: you do the maths). This may explain how Great Uncle Bulgaria beat Britain's fascistic immigration system. Long-lived, species-non-specific stuffed animals rarely require visas, even when travelling from outside the EU. The great tragedy of the Wombles is that their mission to make Britain tidier now looks like a sick joke. The concept was dreamed up in 1968 by the late children's author Elisabeth Beresford, and later adapted for TV by means of Ivor Wood's brilliant stop-motion animation, an adorable Bernard Cribbins' narration and Mike Batt's undying theme music. It is as laughable as the Keep Britain Tidy campaign. Think of how last month's snow encouraged some dog owners to believe they had a free pass to let their pets befoul the pavements, rather in the way that Mike Batt's Wombling Merry Christmas befouled the singles chart in December 1974. Actually, that's unfair: there was much worse stuff (Mud's Lonely This Christmas, for one).
Did the Wombles clean up their own mess? A rhetorical question: of course they did! When they went for a walk, Tobermory would lead the way, followed by Orinoco, who carried a bag for Tobermory's waste, followed by Bungo, who was tasked with bagging Orinoco's. Tomsk, Wellington, Madame Cholet, Stepney and even Cousin Cairngorm McWomble the Terrible would follow in orderly fashion. Otherwise, Wimbledon Common would have become a vast Womble latrine. Who bagged Tobermory's waste? We may never know.
The selflessness and communal bonds that the Wombles demonstrated weekly from 1973 to 1975, the basic respect they urged for our streets, commons, one another and by extension, the planet, are widely missing from our age. We need Wombles in 2013 – but where are they? The likely truth is that the Wombles have retreated underground for good, never again to shake their snouts at the overground mess we have made. The same is true around the world: Elisabeth Beresford imagined that each country would have a Womble colony, but they are now nowhere to be found. Apart from the Singapore Wombles, who can and often do eat their dinners off the city's pavements, so clean is it there. (True story.)
Finally, how do Wombles get it on? Well, first they retract their claws. Empathetic in so many ways, they are, we must suppose, thoughtful lovers. And then? None of your business.
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