TV Cream Toys Lite

Stock cars Collectors’ catalogues listed new toy ranges, such as Adventure 2000 (below) and Space 1999 (bottom).

Dinky, thinking on their feet, had thrown their lot in with Gerry Anderson, creating tie-ins to his younger-demographic-skewed Supermarionation shows. A shrewd move, it turned out, as the mammoth success of their Joe 90 range in 1968 proved–they became the top-selling toys of that Christmas. Spectrum SPVs and Thunderbird 2s capitalised on the F.A.B. vibe. Even Space 1999 got the Dinky treatment, the Eagle Transporter mopping up some of T2’s leftover metallic green paint (‘cos ver kids don’t like ‘all white’ toys, right?).

Eventually, it was simplicity that did for the die-cast dinosaurs. The stoic, some might say plain, British brands simply didn’t inspire excitement (where were the go-faster stripes, the flame decals or the ability to transform into a fighting robot, say?). They weren’t big enough to have action figures in ’em (MASK) or small enough to hide in your mouth (Micro Machines). In fairness, Matchbox did have a desperate last attempt to liven up their standard car range by introducing the Motorcity packages (bumper-value multiple-car pile-ups and elaborate multistorey playsets), but it was all to no avail.

It all went tits up for Matchbox in 1982 (perhaps their equipment was requisitioned for the Falklands?), and the others soon followed in a great mess of mergers and acquisitions. The companies may be dead but the brand names live on. Never say die.

1 It’s as if we never learn, isn’t it? Maybe, just maybe, we Brits aren’t good enough at this stuff. That’s something to ponder over a Starbucks latte and a Krispy Kreme donut, eh?

2 The poster (inspired by those similarly personalised ‘El Cordobes’ bullfighter one-sheets, we’re saying–perhaps Mr Matchbox had been sunning himself on the Costa Brava in ’77?) was a poisoned chalice. You could request three names to be printed, presumably to keep siblings happy, but one had to be credited under the threatening alien baddie also pictured. Two heroes, one enemy. Oh, the arguments!

Crossfire

Junior Rollerball for trainee snipers

See also Stop Boris, Battling Tops, Hungry Hippos

There’s something about the sheer size of so many toys and games of our era: they weren’t just played in the house–they took over the house. Nowadays, everything’s been reissued in petite ‘coffee-table’ versions on sale at Firebox.com1 Back then, you needed French windows just to get the likes of Crossfire indoors.

Basically a combination of pre-Pac-Man arcade favourite Air Hockey and a fairground rifle range, this two-player combat game required the steady aim of an SAS-trained marksman and the ruthless determination to win of an American athletics coach. The object of each round? To score goals against your opponent by firing a constant stream of steel ball-bearings–that’s steel ball-bearings, folks–against a rolling puck (also steel) until it passed through his net (incidentally also made of steel). Any ball-bearings that fell into your half became your next round of ammunition (to be loaded into the top of chunky red firing pistols at either end of the long chipboard playing area).2

Crossfire could be a fast and furious game (to paraphrase the advertising spiel, The only game as exciting as its name’) and, by crikey, it was certainly a noisy one. In addition to the endless chime of ricocheting steel on steel, the pistols themselves had a stiff and clunky trigger mechanism that not only discharged each ball with a loud crack but also had a tendency to jam mid-game (calling for a swift and strident blow to free the offending ammo). If nervous relatives felt the need to leave the room, who could blame them? In any case, the footprint required for both game and players to play in comfort (i.e. lying full stretch on the floor) meant that the settee had to be moved, so good riddance.

Two other important words to bring into the mix here: agonising blisters. Never mind the potential for RSI, endless chafing of fingers on a red-plastic trigger made for a certain unforeseen amount of bloodshed. The problem could be alleviated mildly by the application of a plaster or insulation tape around fingers or gun, but Crossfire would inevitably end up a messy game. Still, there’s no such thing as hygienic warfare.

As with all ball-bearing-dependent games, some would be lost over time. Had it been possible to detach the pistols from the field of play, however, and brandish them, airgun style, in the street, we concede that they would’ve gone missing a hell of a lot sooner.

1 Case in point: you can still buy Crossfire in the shops although now it boasts a so-called ‘giant playing field’ of just two feet New manufacturers FEVA are British though so we’ll let them off.

2 Given the fundamentally two-player nature of this game why any parent would buy this for an only child a mystery. An alternative Crossfire scenario for such unlucky kids was to create a Roman-style combat amphitheatre for woodlice by lobbing a few of them in the middle and blasting off a random bombardment of balls.

Cyborgs

Sci-fi figurines with interchangeable limbs

See also Action Man, ROM the Space Knight, Dr Who TARDIS

This early 70s Strawberry Fayre range–actually Takara Henshin originals imported from Japan by Denys Fisher–beats later incarnations developed around the same theme (including Timanic Cyborgs and Micronauts) by virtue of being constructed to a larger scale. In playability terms, that meant they could be pitched in interspecies war with Action Man, Dr Who and the Bionic pair

Cleverly manufactured in a combination of clear plastic, chromed parts and die-cast metal, they were very cool-looking toys (in two flavours, Muton and Cyborg). There was, naturally, some comic-strip business on the back of the boxes setting up an interplanetary war back-story,1 but kids just make up their own, don’t they? Chief factors in their appeal: you could see their internal organs and pull them limb from limb (what kid could resist that?).

There was also the slightly scary implication, not exploited by the later brands, that we would all one day become part human, part machine, with plastic or metal replacing what once was flesh. Which, when you were a youngster conversant with the plot of the Six Million Dollar Man (the TV series was based on Martin Caidin’s 1972 book Cyborg), seemed eminently plausible.2 Forget the rubber-suited Cybermen or the monotone Borg–here’s a frightening notion: when the Queen Mum had her hip replacement, she technically qualified as a Cyborg. A PR opportunity missed there, we feel.

As with the later figure collections, there was an abundance of accessories, in this case, weapons sets (various arm-replacements for Cyborg, including the Cybo-Liquidator– a water pistol–and the Cybo-Eliminator), flying discs a la the Green Goblin and the prohibitively expensive CyboInvader spaceship. Muton even had actual outfits to wear, known as ‘subforms’ and comprising Torg (a horned demon thing), X-Akron (a red roboty thing) and Amaluk (a green fishy thing). Third member of the team and Johnny-cum-lately Android, seemed cast in a different manner, being more ‘brittle’ and lacking the rubber head. His chest panel popped open to reveal a four-missile launcher, which could be fired by pressing a button on his back.

Sadly, the only real-life cyborg we know of is the University Of Reading’s Kevin Warwick, who seems to make a living by implanting microchips in his forearm and telling newspapers that he’s turned into C3P0. This should not reflect too badly on the university’s robotics department as, before this, it was most famous for building Sir Jimmy Saville’s special Fix It chair.

1 Muton was an intergalactic space-parasite-type who’d decided that it was Earth’s turn to be laid to waste. Humanity’s best scientific minds got together to create the ultimate defender of the human race, Cyborg. Android was designed later as an extra ‘hero’ toy to gang up on poor of Muton. A million bullied kids sighed in recognition: two against one.

2 Bloody Hazel O’Connor and her cha Eighth Day misanthropy didn’t help matters much either. This 1980 tune wrapped quasi-religious bunkum in with ‘machine becomes sentient’ lyrics, while the video featured O’Connor herself going mental in a TRON-inspiring neon skeleton suit. Proper worrying.

Domino Rally

Chain re-ACTION!

Yet another thing the Yanks did bigger and better than us. For the Cream-era child, hardly a week would pass without kids’ telly showing yet another colour-saturated videotape of record-breaking domino topplers in a Milwaukee aircraft hangar. Thereon, jaundiced-looking Spielberg-alikes would spend days setting up elaborate domino displays under hot sodium lamps (usually suffering a cataclysmic setback when a stray grasshopper knocked over a 10,000-tile Flags of All Nations set-piece overnight). America, Holland, China…you name it, everyone had a crack at the record books.

Just not the UK. What hope of government funding for a would-be domino athlete, eh? You’d just about scrape together enough cash for one wooden, slidey-top box of those Bakelite buggers. The carefully positioned mosaics and pixellated patterns (albeit created by teams of Stateside nerds) may have lent the domino an exotic air it never would’ve acquired from years as an old man’s knock-on-the-table game in murky brown pubs. Plus, with only the living room to experiment in, future British domino topplers would be lucky to get together a run of ten, never mind an entire course of dominoes sliding down chutes, setting off rocket launchers and swinging across mini-ravines.

Confidently stepping into this gap in the market came Action GT and its Domino Rally sets (mark 1, mark 2 and, perhaps inevitably, mark 3), featuring masses of brightly coloured tiles1 plus all kinds of gimmicks, stunts and tricks for them to perform (loop-the-loops, elevators, steps, slides and ‘sunbursts’). Domino Rally also had one extra-special ace up its sleeve: most of the dominoes were fastened along flat, perfectly spaced lengths, so resetting them was a quick flip of the wrist away.

See also Cascade, Mousetrap, Guess Who?

However, the unique selling point of domino toppling (not much more than ‘set them up, knock them down’ as the box blurb reiterated) started to feel a little like too much effort after a while and, as the young player him/herself tumbled inexorably towards adolescence, the plastic set took up final residence in the loft.2 Nowadays, if you hear someone say they fancy dominoes, you’re more than likely expected to get the pizzas in.

1 The technical term is apparently not tiles but ‘stones’, which makes them sound very rock ’n’ roll, doesn’t it? Hence, we suppose, why Eric Clapton chose the pseudonym Derek and the Dominos to record Layla. And, erm…well, there’s also Fats.

2 You can, however, book now for the annual Domino Day in Leeuwarden, the Netherlands. They need 80 volunteer domino-setters. But beware–according to their website, ‘It is hard work, often on hands and knees, and requires an enormous amount of concentration.

Downfall

Upright counter-based safe-cracker game

This 70s entry ticks nearly all the boxes required of a board game. First off, even before the lid was lifted, you had the double-meaning implicit in the name (successfully exploited by the burglar-centric telly ads) insofar as not only did the red and yellow counters of the opposing sides ‘fall down’ through the vertical playing construct but also, while you were trying to win, you could have been assisting your competitor in their attempt to plot your ‘downfall’.

Second, it required only minutes to understand how to play, set up and go. For the record, the counters–two sets of five, numbered and in different-coloured sets to vary the manoeuvring difficulty if required–were loaded into feeder chutes and all the combination-lock-inspired dials were set to a required start position. Then, in turn, each player made a single spin of any dial in an attempt to pass the counters through the dials and down to the waiting tray at the bottom.1Most satisfying was being able to navigate a full set of counters into the bottom dial for the final turn, before watching the crestfallen reaction of your opponent as they tumbled out en masse.2

More recent versions of the game have ditched the original board’s institutional blue and grey in favour of the usual kid-friendly acid colours or, in one case, stripping out the board altogether and leaving just some key-operated tumblers floating in midair. Call that iconic? Pah!

The aforementioned mid ’80s ads played on the addictive qualities of the gameplay: apparently, even housebreakers would find it impossible to resist just one more go, giving the police plenty of time to turn up and arrest them. ‘You’ve won!’ ‘I think we both lost!’ If only there’d been one of these set up in Tony Martin’s Norfolk farmhouse, he could’ve avoided a lot of silly bother.

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