3: It might well be argued that decency and modesty are religious taboos....

 It might well be argued that the idea that you shouldn’t show nude pictures to children is a religious taboo.

It might equally be argued that all ideas about ethics and behaviours are religious taboos. But most of us think, that “you shouldn’t kill anyone without a very good reason” and “you should remove your footwear before coming into a place of worship” are in rather different categories. The danger of puritanism is that every personal taboo is raised to the level of a universal moral imperative.

I avert my eyes from certain images; therefore, everyone should be obliged to wear blindfolds.

If we allow churches and mosques to enforce the head-covering taboo, it is only a matter of time before the Home Secretary makes a rule that all ladies have to wear a headscarf in public

The solution to this is to send purity patrols into Wee Free Churches and rip the hats off all the ladies. I understand this has literally been tried on French beaches.

The more we tolerate people’s religious taboos, the more taboos fringe religious groups will think up. If we say “That’s all right, you don’t have to come to morning prayers if you don’t want to” then pretty soon the guru will decide that members of his sect are also not allowed to participate in egg and spoon races, flower-pressing competitions or Sociology.

The more taboos a religion imposes, the harder it is for members of the sect to integrate with the wider culture. The less the religion integrates, the more likely it is to survive. This is one of the reasons successful religions have long lists of obscure prohibitions.

Do you remember that scene in Twelve Angry Men where the Bigoted White Juror fumes at the Nice Hispanic Juror?

“Why are you always so goddamn polite??”

“I think” replies the nice Puerto Rican man “For the same reason you are not: it is the way I was brought up.”

Young children tend to split the world into good and bad, wrong and right, naughty and nice. Tell a small child that he can go to the end of the path, but no further, and he may very well try going two steps beyond the gate, to see what happens, but he generally won’t run down the street and across the road.

Sophisticated parents don’t treat this as a bold act of defiance, but merely a way of understanding where the boundaries are. Sometime around puberty, we start to be able to make finer judgments: to be able to understand concepts like “this thing is forbidden, except when it’s allowed” and “I’ll make an exception just this one time, because it’s an unusual circumstance.” Ask a young child if a starving person can steal food, they will probably say “Stealing is naughty”. Ask a teenager, and they’ll admit that it’s a difficult question.

Political conservatives and religious fundamentalists often have, or pretend that they have, the moral perspective of an eight year old. If it’s wrong, it’s wrong. Something can’t be good on Monday and bad on Tuesday. God created Adam and Eve not Adam and Steve. Situational ethics and postmodernism will lead to the downfall of society.

Why does Andrew think that black face dolls, public nudity, and the word fuck are generally inappropriate? For the same reason that you do. It is the way we were brought up.

I don’t buy the theory that a naturist is harmed by the sight of pants in the same way and to the same degree that a puritan is harmed by the sight of genitals.

I don’t buy the theory that the same liberalism which says that a Muslim lady has the right to keep her face covered if she wants to also says that a humanist has the right to not see ladies wearing burkas if he doesn’t want to.

I don’t buy the theory that the same liberalism which says that a transexual person should be allowed to go to the lavatory if they need to also says that a prejudiced person shouldn’t have to use a cubical adjacent to one that might have a transexual person in it if they don’t want to.

Some people say “If Christians are allowed to take Good Friday off work it logically follows that Satanists should be allowed to carry out human sacrifices” but they don’t really believe it.

I think that under most circumstances, where it is reasonable, all other things being equal, we ought to respect people’s religious traditions. And we pretty much agree on when things are equal and when they are not. We are mostly cool with Jews abstaining from pork pies; but not with Jews saying that no-one else should eat pork pies and definitely not with them closing down Melton Mowbray in case someone inadvertently walks past a pork pie factory.

I think that most adults can see that an anatomically accurate representation of an adult nude figure in a book about human anatomy is semiotically different from an accurate representation of an adult nude figure in a life-drawing class; and an adult actor taking his clothes off in an erotic movie sold only to adults is not doing the same thing as he would be if he sent a stranger an unsolicited explicit e-mail. We grok that you can take your clothes off in a sports-centre changing room but not in a sport-centre bar.

Contexts may overlap. There may be misunderstandings. Sometimes we may have to say “Whoops, so sorry, I thought the door was locked.” If I thought I was watching a documentary about professional footballers and suddenly found myself looking at a group of nude men in the shower, I might well say “That embarrassed me.” I might even say “That made me feel violated and dirty” or “That made me ritually unclean and unable to take the sacrament” or “That brought on a post-traumatic shock reaction because I was assaulted by a person with a similar body part some years ago.”

Which is why we tend to put warnings on that kind of material. “Contains nudity”. “Includes images which you may consider indecent.”

Some people might think that a sign saying “WARNING: If you come through this door you might catch a glimpse of a naked man” placed outside an exhibition of Greek Sculpture—or, indeed, a men’s changing room—was silly and unnecessary. Others might find it quite helpful.

But it really wouldn’t be a threat to free speech, democracy, and the continuation of western civilisation.

Nor, come to that, would a couple of judicious fig-leaves.

There is a lovely chaotic old fashioned toy museum in Sidmouth—less an exhibition than a repository of Teddy Bears and models trains and Muffin the Mules and Star Wars Lego that people have donated over the decades.

I can’t directly recall if the have any gollywogs on display, but I would be surprised if it didn’t.

I assume that somewhere in the world there is an International Jam Jar Museum. If there is, I imagine it includes jars with the offending character on the label.

I felt some sympathy for the enthusiasts who had restored an old bus, complete with a very old fashioned advertisement for Robertsons Marmalade on the side, and were asked if they wouldn’t please mind removing it.

Anatomically correct images of naked men could be exhibited in such a way as to constitute pornography; but equally clearly they could be exhibited in such a way as to not constitute pornography.

And, as a matter of fact, pornography may be relatively innocent or very harmful indeed.

I once saw a movie which consisted of nothing but still photographs of gentlemen’s private parts. It was second feature to an extremely dull film about Italian nuns, I seem to remember. I think the point was that if you show a sufficient number of such images (dicks, I mean, not nuns) they cease to be dirty or prurient or embarrassing and just become, I don’t know, skin.

Yoko Ono made the same point about bottoms in a film called Bottoms.

As a matter of fact, my willy wouldn’t drop off if a lady caught a glimpse of it; and the lady wouldn’t go blind if she accidentally caught a glimpse of my willy.

People who have done the naturist thing says it stops mattering after about three minutes. I believe the showers at Glastonbury are co-ed.

If we could just get over ourselves a lot of the difficulties would go away. We’d instantly deprive flashers and streakers of their power and put a lot of pornographers out of business.

Sometime around 1986, comedian and Blackadder perpetrator Ben Elton did a comic stand up routine.

He asked what the world was coming to when a primary school teacher putting sun-cream on a six year old kid might be thought to be committing a sexual act; but the President of America ejaculating into the mouth of an intern might be thought not to be.

He was being disingenuous for comic effect. What Clinton claimed was that what he had done in the Oval Office did not strictly amount to sexual intercourse, a significant legal distinction if what you are being accused of is telling lies. Many of us think that, given what we now know about Jimmy Savile and Rolf Harris, quite a lot of clergymen and a fair number of PE teachers, a rule which says that teachers can’t touch kids, at all, for any reason, ever, is quite a sensible rule to have.

I was reminded of the joke when two news items invaded public discourse at the same time.

A pub in England was temporarily closed because it had a collection of several hundred black-face rag-dolls on display. I think the police actually confiscated the collection, but outraged citizens donated new dolls so the display could be restored. Everyone involved asserted that there was nothing racist about the display. That the pub was called The White Hart was probably an unfortunate coincidence.

Meanwhile, the aforementioned school teacher was sanctioned for showing an carved marble penis to his art class.

What, I found myself asking, is the world coming to when a renaissance sculpture might be considered pornographic and a display of gollywogs might not be considered racist?

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2: On 25 August 2023, three Black people were shot in Jacksonville, Florida by a white man with a gun.

 On 25 August 2023, three Black people were shot in Jacksonville, Florida by a white man with a gun. This happens quite often in America. I sometimes wonder if they ought to rethink the whole idea of letting white people own guns.

There seems to be very little question that the shooter was a racist and that the attacks were racially motivated. This is what the local chief of police thought, at any rate.

A film clip went around the site formally known as Twitter in which Mehdi Hassan, an American newscaster of whom I was not previously aware, talked a lot of fairly non-controversial good sense. Racially motivated shootings are enabled by right-wing pundits who use white supremacist rhetoric. Shock-jocks and populist politicians ought to take note of who they might be emboldening. Not all white people are racists. Pundits don’t intend to provoke massacres. But after the World Trade Centre attacks, Muslims were told to take a long hard look at themselves and actively renounce the hate-preachers in their own ranks.

“Tonight, this brown Muslim is asking the white conservative community to do the same: get your house in order, crack down on the hate preachers...condemn the rise of white supremacist ideology.”

Jordan Peterson leapt into the fray. He said that Hassan “was not really brown, more like light tan, just like ‘white’ people” and added that he, Hassan, was a Caucasian “by definition”.

And I thought. There you have it. The great intellectual divide of our age. The distinction between left and right, woke and un-woke, sensible and stupid. People who believe that words have single, non-negotiable, unchangeable meanings. And people who believe in context, nuance, and interpretation.

In a word: exegesis.

“What do you mean by that?” is not a question they are able to ask. “What does this irreducibly mean?” is the only way they are capable of thinking.

You can win arguments by looking up definitions on Wikipedia. Printing “Woman, n: Adult, human, female” on your t-shirt proves some kind of point.

I went to college during the last but one intellectual epoch.

I believe I was at the actual seminar at which Post Modernism replaced Post Structuralism, at least at Sussex. I understand that Post Colonialism subsequently eclipsed both of them. By now, it’s probably Post Something Else Entirely. Critical Race Theory exists mainly in the minds of people who are very cross about it.

I never studied Critical Theory quite as closely as I was supposed to, and only got around to reading a work by Foucault during lockdown, mainly in order to annoy Liz Truss. I didn’t understand very much of it, but I think I got the gist.

Everything is text, and there is nothing but texts.

I can’t say what the Gospel According to Saint Mark or Cerebus the Aardvark irreducibly mean: but I can write down some words of my own about what Cerebus and Saint Mark mean to me. About some of the things they might possibly mean. I don’t imagine I have arrived at the truth: all I have done is created some more text. Some people may possibly think that my text is interesting in its own right. They might even think that reading my text and the sacred texts alongside each other is more interesting and fun and fruitful than reading the holy book alone. I’d be incredibly flattered if they did. I don’t suppose that I have revealed the True And Singular Meaning Of Saint Marks Gospel or Jaka’s Story.

Because there ain’t no such animal.

I am perfectly well aware that the idea that Everything Is Text would naturally appeal to people who like books. I imagine there are people for whom There Is Nothing But Jazz or Everything Is Snooker.

We are told that an art teacher in Florida has been sanctioned for showing his art class a post-card of Michelangelo’s David on the grounds that the picture is pornographic.

We have, I acknowledge, also been told that some American classrooms provide litter-trays for children who identify as cats and that gender studies has replaced mathematics in all state schools. It may very well be that “the tale of the teacher who wasn’t allowed to show his class a classical statue” is equally apocryphal. But the apocryphal story will serve to illustrate the argument which we are entirely failing to develop.

At first glance, the censor is making a good point. If it is wrong for a man to expose himself to a child in a dark alley, then it is equally wrong to display a picture of a man exposing himself to a child in a school classroom. It’s the nakedness, the exposure, or (to put it bluntly) the dick which is the problem. A flasher doesn’t get to say “I was showing my cock to kids for artistic reasons”. So a teacher doesn’t get to say “It wasn’t a dirty picture I showed your kid: it was art.”

For all I know, the American Religion may now teach that one must abstain from looking at unclothed male bodies under all circumstances whatsoever. If that is the case then broadminded people should probably be able to think up a work-around. When I was a kid, Jehovah’s Witnesses were excused morning assembly and theatre outings; so perhaps devotees of the new puritanism ought to be allowed to sit out life-drawing classes and be excused showers after gym. I am not entirely convinced that “taking all the books off the library shelf and going through them page by page to check that there are no naughty bits” is the way forward. At different periods of history, greater and lessor use has been made of fig-leaves and pixellation, and we may be entering one of the prudish periods. Young people used to say “ha-ha Granny put modesty screens around piano legs;” perhaps in a few years young people will say ha-ha Grandpa thought it was okay to look at renaissance paintings of bare-chested ladies.

Science fiction writers very often compared 1950s fashions with Victorian fashions and extrapolated that by the twenty first century we would all be nudists. It didn’t quite turn out like that.

Channel 4 is currently putting out one of those sex education programmes in which teenagers are allowed to look at adult human beings with no clothes on. I don’t know to what extent this kind of thing really strikes a blow for positive body image. It may be true that as it becomes easier and easier to obtain unrealistic pictures of naked human beings we have become correspondingly shier and shier about disrobing in front of other people: so it might be quite a good idea to show youths realistic pictures of what ordinary people who haven’t had the benefit of breast enhancement or penile prosthesis look like. It might also be that prime-time TV isn’t the best place to carry out this experiment. Channel 4 also puts out dating shows (for adults) in which (I understand) the contestants don’t wear any clothes, and (I understand) openly comment upon the parts of the body which people don’t generally comment upon openly. Which seems rather silly but essentially harmless.

I wish we were a bit less silly about bodies. If there were more nudity on TV we’d find nudity on TV less titillating; but because we find it titillating we’re not allow to see very much of it on TV.

But there is a school of thought which says that showing teenagers pictures of naked people in the context of a sex education show is exactly the same as showing teenagers pictures of naked people for sexual gratification; and that it follows that everyone involved in making the programme, and indeed, anyone who watched it, anyone who defended it, and anyone who reads this article is a nonce, and, moreover, that all nonces should be, at the very least, publicly beheaded.

Nonce is prison slang for a child molester; it entered the public domain around the time of the infamous Brass Eyes spoof.

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1: Imagine a movie about pirates.

Imagine a movie about pirates. Imagine that in the course of the movie the sea-faring rotters kidnap a pretty lady and tie her to their mast.

Imagine that the lady’s bodice has been quite literally ripped.

If you wish to imagine that a whip becomes involved, I am certainly not going to stop you.

Most men would, I think, find that scene a little bit sexy; some men would certainly find it very sexy indeed. As, indeed, would some women.

We could also discuss the psycho-sexual situation if the pirate were a lady, the bodice were a frilly shirt and the captive was Orlando Bloom.

Goodies being menaced by baddies, and doubtless rescued by other goodies, is part of the stock-in-trade of swashbuckling adventures. So, indeed, is mild eroticism. A puritan might say that if even one man enjoys watching Errol Flynn rip Olivia de Havilland’s bodice then the film is pornographic and shouldn’t be allowed. A very, very strict puritan might say that it is better to preemptively close all movie houses rather then risk one man being improperly excited. On the other hand, some perfectly sensible sex maniacs might abstain from pirate movies for the same reason that some perfectly sensible alcoholics stay away from pubs.

“I find pirate movies sexy and I don’t think that’s good for me. Not harmful to you; not harmful to him; but possibly harmful to me. One Corinthians Eight.”

Now let us suppose that someone takes a freeze frame of the offending scene, blows it up to A3 and hangs it on their bedroom wall. You might think they were particularly interested in that particular image. For some reason.

Let’s further suppose someone publishes a coffee table book which contains nothing but stills from pirate movies in which ladies of varying degrees of prettiness are menaced by pirates of equally variable levels of butchness.

You might suspect that purchasers of the book were interested in something other than Mild Peril and Action Sequences.

You might think that up and down the country, quite a few men would be swashing their buckles.

And you might or might not think that mattered.

I have absolutely no idea what a bodice is. I suppose it is an old-fashioned word for bra?

When I was a child, I played with stuffed toys until I was rather too old for them. My second favourite was a penguin. My favourite was...not a penguin.

Percy Penguin still lives on a shelf in my front room. The other one...doesn’t

My parents were card-carrying Labour-voting Guardian-purchasing lefties who would have eaten Muesli and Tofu if such strange foodstuffs had reached the shelves of the East Barnet Co-Operative Stores. I was not allowed to play with toy guns or toy soldiers or watch war movies. But I was allowed to own that particular stuffed toy. The one that is not a penguin.

My sister recently gave me a box file of papers that she found while clearing out Mum’s house. There were a number of photos of a disconcertingly cute waif in an East Barnet School uniform and a number of picture postcards with illegible handwriting on the back.

At the bottom of the box was a small enamel broach that I mist have obtained by collecting ten labels and sending them, along with a stamped addressed envelope, to the manufacturer of Robertson’s Marmalade.

The character on the broach is not a penguin either.

Suppose I display the Robertsons marmalade badge in my front room, alongside my Tufty Club badge, my Blackpool Golden Mile badge and my I’ve Been On the Corkscrew At Alton Towers badge.

You would probably think that what you were looking at was a collection of badges.

But suppose I added to the display my collection of Robertsons’ Marmalade plaster figurines. I have about twenty of them and they are no longer worth an awful lot of money. You might start to suspect that something not entirely wholesome was going on in my head. If I included the rag doll who is quite definitely not a penguin, and six or seven other rag dolls of similar design, your suspicions would be entirely confirmed.

People sometimes ask me why I have a piece of artwork by comic-book artist Dave Sim on display in my front room.

The only way I can respond to that question is to say “I wrote a sixty page book about Cerebus the Aardvark. Dave Sim thought it was quite good.”

The same people sometimes ask me what my current thinking is about religion and whether I have moved on from my youthful involvement in the UCCF and if I am going to embrace Islam.

The only way I can respond to that question is to say “I wrote a four hundred page book about Jesus. Whether Jesus thought it was any good or not I couldn’t say.”

I am not sure if I have any actual in the required sense opinions about Cerebus the Aadvark ot Saint Mark’s Gospel. I am not sure if I have any opions about Sir Kier Starmer, Liz Truss or Richard Dawkins.

What I do have is opinions on particular texts.

A display of Robertson’s Jam figures and rag-dolls is a text. So is a collection of photographs of pirates. So is a signed picture of an aardvark.

You can’t say what the toy, or the poster or the photo, irreducibly means. You have to talk about what the person who put up the poster meant by it; and what other people might reasonably understand it to mean.

In a word: exegesis.

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...And None Of Them Were Wearing Eyepatches!

The Mohole Mystery
Hugh Walters

Sooner or later, it had to be faced. Chris Godfrey spent four whole books exploring the Moon; but he whizzed through Venus, Mars, Jupiter, Mercury and Saturn in only five volumes. (He's apparently sharing Mars with some other astronauts; but their expeditions are distinctly Off Stage.) Is the series going to come to a preemptive close after Neptune, Pluto and The One With the Rude Name? Or are there other places where our heroes can confront Certain Death? Walters speculated about interstellar travel when introducing us to the idea of cryogenics; but in the end he shies away from it. He probably wouldn't have done alien civilisations; and crashing into a barren moon on Alpha Centuri wouldn't have been much more fun than crashing into one on Pluto.

So: this time around our heroes take a detour. A journey to the Centre of the Earth. Well; maybe not the centre, but forty miles down. Pretty darn deep, at any rate. It appears that between the earth's crust and the earth's mantel is something called the Mohorovicic Discontinuity, which it is impossible to drill through. So, naturally, the Boffins are trying really hard to drill through it, and they've found a weak spot in, er, Dudley; just near the Castle Zoo, as a matter of fact. (Tony comes from Birmingham, but no-one thinks it polite to say so.) Initial probes have discovered an absolutely ginormous cave, along with traces of nasty alien microbes. So the only option is to send some explorers down and find out what is going on. Sir George also claims that if they don't explore the cave, everyone will have to stop mining coal and drilling for oil and civilisation as we now know it will come to an end: but no-one seems particularly bothered by this.

So: we have an exciting variation on the archetypal Astronaut Goes Up / Astronaut Comes Down plot-line. Astronaut goes down. Astronaut's descent capsule lands awkwardly. Astronaut has no way of getting home and comes to terms with Certain Death. Astronaut's friends mount rescue attempt. Astronauts come up. 

It feels a little slight: the suspicion arises that Walters is engaged in what can only be described as padding. But overall it works better than it should. The comic relief and side plots manage to be a reasonable amount of fun; and the focus on the three heroes left on the surface lends a certain desperation to the plight of the one trapped all alone in the underworld. 

Once or twice, Walters seems to be attempting what I can only describe as humour. The capsule in which our heroes are going to make their descent is manufactured by Rubery Owen, a company who normally make aircraft and racing cars. Our author permits himself to be wryly amused by the formality and self-importance of British Industry.

A magnificent commissionaire, who was obviously also an archduke at the very least, emerged through swing glass doors to bid them welcome...The noble person who condescended to act as a commissionaire, personally conducted the director and his party to the Chairman's private office.

I think that it is probably a mistake to do this sort of thing in a children's book: I am pretty sure the irony was lost on me. If a grown up tells you that some West Midlands car firms are staffed by exiled Russian nobility, at ten years old you are inclined to assume that this is a true and obvious fact.

Wing Commander Gatreux -- "old Whiskers" -- who hasn't been heard from since the Mars adventure, makes a reappearance. His whole purpose in life is to provide comic relief, and he knows it. As soon as he arrives, our heroes start to act like naughty school children, putting an "apple pie bed" in his quarters and laughing at the colour of his PJs. 

He also has a very unreliable car:

It was one of the former officer's main occupations in life to wage a constant battle to keep the Red Peril in running order. Nevertheless it had made the journey from Buckinghamshire to the Midlands without any really vital parts dropping off.

Not, I concede, the funniest joke ever made: but it bespeaks a lighter tone than the previous volumes have had. Silly Whiskers and Stuffy Sir George Benson are a passable double act which adds some much needed light and shade to the roster of faceless boffins. 

And, slightly more surprisingly, the Chairman of RO comes across as, if not quite a character, then at least as an endearing caricature. He starts out as only one degree removed from Reginald Perrin's C.J. He  humourlessly insists that if the capsule is scheduled to be completed by 0320 then it can be tested at 0321. He boasts to the astronauts that he sometimes travels as much as half a million miles in a single year. But when our heroes are facing (SPOILER ALERT) Certain Death, he puts on some overalls and gets his own hands dirty on the factory floor. He even refuses to go to hospital until the rescue project is completed, despite having been involved in a serious industrial accident.

"But you must have an X-ray" the doctor declared firmly. "You may have a broken shoulder and crushed ribs."

"I don't care if I've been decapitated" the industrialist spluttered "I'm stopping on this job. Don't you realise there's a life at stake?"

The shaft that has been drilled from Dudley Zoo to the mysterious cave is very narrow; and there is no time to make it wider; so a single astronaut ("subterrainaut") is going to have to squeeze into a very small capsule and be dropped forty miles into the cavern below. This is one reason why the mission is going to be undertaken by astronauts and not, say pot-holers: they have experience with free-fall. There is quite a lot of not entirely implausible technical detail about how the capsule works:when the altimeter tells the pilot that the capsule is close to the cave bottom, he can activate rockets (using his knees) to slow his descent; and the boffins on the surface will shine an infrared beam down the hole which will guide him home. But only a small astronaut can squeeze into the tiny capsule; and an inordinate amount of time is spent watching our heroes desperately hoping that they will be chosen for this mission. Morrey, being an American, has "broad shouldered" printed on his character sheet and is ruled out from the beginning: Tony and Chris are both a little on the large side. Like Doc Smiths Lensemen, they seem to subsist entirely on a diet of bacon and eggs, steak, and apple pie. But Serge, being Russian, is small enough to squeeze into the tin can. 

This leads to a sub-plot which almost amounts to a shaggy dog story. The aforementioned Whiskers, being ex-RAF is wheeled in to train Serge for the mission. The others join the gym sessions in solidarity and to show they are still a team. Whiskers makes a big deal out of being too old for this sort of thing; and affects to be surprised that there are only four sets of gym equipment, forcing him to sit and watch while the young men do their keep fit sessions. Naturally, Chris sees right through this ruse and finds spare exercise bikes and rowing machines which Whiskers has hidden, shaming the old man to do PE lessons with the lads. But of course, this precisely what Whiskers intended: he knows that working together to catch out the old man will have wonderful effect on the boys' morale. 

Serge is shot down the shaft; and instantly meets with one of those Certain Death Scenarios. The absent-minded boffins didn't realise that all the the debris from their drilling will be piled up on the cave floor. When the capsule lands on the mountain of rubble it topples onto its side, making a return to the surface impossible. (And forty miles of solid rock means he can't radio for help. A shame they didn't have any telepathic twins on hand.) Serge immediately flips into the standard heroic suicidal ideation. 

He would have to compose himself and await his end as calmly as possible.

He would explore the underworld until his oxygen gave out. Then he would die with his courage intact.

He would only have to cut off his oxygen supply and he's soon fade out for ever. Or he would remove his helmet and allow his lungs to be scorched by the searing heat. Valiant Serge shrugged off those unworthy thoughts. It was his duty, instilled in him by years of training, to remain alive to the bitter end...

If he had to die, at least he'd die cleanly...

Serge expects to die of starvation, or for his oxygen to run out; but weirdly and rather arbitrarily, Walters introduces an additional Peril. The Cave is inhabited by a strange life-form which may be a faceless limbless animal but which may also be an unusually mobile mushroom. A swarm of hollow eggs which are capable of rolling up the hill; and which, for no clear reason, are converging on our hero...and which periodically burst and shower him with potentially deadly alien dust. There is something uncanny -- at times very slightly Lovecraftian -- about this idea. But at the same time it feels exactly like the sort of thing you'd get in 1960s BBC TV show. You can just picture the black and white astronaut on the studio floor while BBC special effect eggs on strings move slowly towards him, just before the cliffhanger music kicks in.

No-one seems to have the slightest curiosity about this new life-form: Serge's immediate reaction is to throw stones at it. 

In the end, it is engineering and PE which saves the day. The heroic mechanics at RO jerry-rig a capsule with two compartments; and, crucially, legs, so that it can land safely on the uneven cave floor. And Chris realises that because he joined in Whiskers' gym sessions he has lost nearly a stone and will now fit in the tiny capsule. (I told you there would be a punch line.) So he makes another descent, and drags Serge back to the surface, in the nick of time. The borehole is sealed. No-one tells Chris that he isn't allowed to glance backwards, and everyone seems to have forgotten about the imminent threat to Civilisation. 

Overall, the book is surprisingly effective, even though it is obvious that Walters is sometimes scraping the barrel to find space-filling strategies. ("At Hendon, Serge joined the motorway and was bowling along nicely until he came to the Aylesbury road fork...") But there is something genuinely nightmarish about Serge's predicament; dropped forty miles down into a dark cave he has to chance of getting out of; isloated from your friends; trying to face The End bravely as weird alien animals creep inexorably towards you.

NOTE: Whiskers' got married in Blast Off at Woomera (1957); his children were away at school in Expedition Venus and are now at university, which is consistent with this book being set in 1976 or 77. Spaceship To Saturn, with its 18 month round trip and 6 months of preparation and a longer than usual internal timeline. Earth mainly gave up burning coal for fuel in "the late 60s and early 70s" and the Cold War -- weapons in general -- are now part of "the bad old days". However, the boys bet "half a crown" on a game of snooker and Tony manages to win "eleven shillings" off Whiskers. 

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