Dear Diary,

My dimple is fifty years old.

Earlier this year, I read on social media an announcement about the imminent release of a 50th anniversary special of ‘Action’ comic. I pre-ordered it immediately, and it arrived weeks later shortly after its publication.

I’m not a collector. I can’t even remember the last time I read a comic, but I felt compelled to get my hands on this one.

Launched in 1976, Action quickly gained notoriety for its controversial stories and graphic violence, but mainly for the violence. Hook Jaw the shark tearing bodies to shreds and turning the sea red, Dredger the tough working-class spy taking no prisoners, and Hellman the WW2 German soldier, who fought with honour, were all explosive and addictive. Ten-year-old me loved it.

Fortunately, my parents were oblivious to the content, but the pearl clutchers of the day were horrified and their objections led to the comic’s demise in 1977.

You can imagine my excitement and curiosity about a special edition to mark the fifty-year anniversary, but it wasn’t just nostalgia for the comic that stirred my attention. Other connected memories of that eventful year resurfaced, some of which are so crystal clear it’s as if I were inside, peering out of my ten-year-old eyes.

Having said that, I have no recollection of flying over the car - although it must have been quite spectacular - not because it happened over five decades ago, but because the obvious trauma triggered a dissociative amnesia to protect me from the memory.

It was a Tuesday evening in June 1976, back when we still had seasons and early summer was reliably warm and sunny. The reason I remember the day is because Tuesday was Tarzan day, my latest obsession, and not just any old Tarzan. This was the series of Tarzan films from the 1930s starring actual Olympic swimmer, Johnny Weissmuller - the quintessential Tarzan - and Maureen O’Sullivan as Jane, who I completely fell in love with.

My weekly, eager anticipation was clearly palpable, or so I thought. To my horror, my parents insisted I join the village Cub Scouts, which happened to meet on Tuesday evenings in the Old School hall. This was outrageous, profoundly unjust and, frankly, torturous.

My need to avoid Cub Scouts was arguably stronger than my desire to see Tarzan. I was already struggling to navigate and survive the school day. The noise, demands, and institutional and social minefields of the classroom and playground were exponentially stressful and exhausting. By the time the final bell rang each day I was at or approaching burnout. It was a relief to escape. But Cubs, in our village, was a new level of sensory hell, ridiculous rules, and insane rituals. It was cap and woggle bedlam, and I dreaded and hated every moment.

This particular Tuesday I’d had enough and concocted a plan to convince my parents that Cub uniforms were not required that week. Once out of the house, my friend and I jumped on our bikes and headed out of the village to avoid being seen by the more dedicated Scouts in their short trousers, neckties, and proudly-displayed achievement badges.

We cycled up a steep single-track country road with high banks and fields on either side, stopping near the farm where the road levelled out, overlooking the village rooftops. From there we looked to see if any vehicles were heading up the track before tearing back down the hill at full speed. Gravity quickly made pedalling redundant and we shot down the road, weaving around the high-banked corners, shouting in delight. It was exhilarating.

We repeated this a few times and clearly became complacent. We didn’t notice the car making its way up the hill and I hit it head on as I rounded a blind bend. I have vague dream-like memories of arriving at the hospital, the ceiling tiles and fluorescent lights passing rhythmically above, and the muted voices of strangers all about me.

I woke up in a hospital bed. Later, I learned that I had damaged my legs, probably against the handlebars of the bike, but they weren’t broken, unlike my wrist. I had also hit my head, possibly on the car, but definitely on the road, and I had a deep abrasion on my right cheek, my newly acquired dimple.

In some ways, as my friend likes to point out, I got off lightly. He narrowly missed the car and swerved off the road into the steep bank covered in sharp thorns and stinging nettles, and unlike me, he was perfectly conscious for the whole experience.

I was bed-bound when I returned home, missing the last few weeks of the school year and my important part in the school play. One of my classmates was forced to step in at the last minute, a reluctant, but gallant act that I know he hasn’t forgotten half a century later.

One day, as I convalesced in bed, another classmate came to my house to lend me a box of comics. It included copies of the new Action comic, in chronological order. They were clearly a prized possession, which made the gesture all the more surprising. I immersed myself and quickly became hooked, especially on Hook Jaw. It was the best part of my accident.

I never attended Cubs again and, over the years, I eventually saw all of my Tarzan films. When I think back on the legacy of that summer, my dimple aside, it’s the unexpected kindness of the Action comic hero that I remember most.

[Main image and inserted image are from the comic ‘Action 50th Anniversary Special’, published by Rebellion, 2026]