I’m seething mad about adult toys. Yes, those brightly-coloured rabbit things I keep seeing in videos on the internet are driving me insane.
I’m talking, of course, about Labubus. By now, I’m sure everyone has seen these creepy hypebeast elves clipped onto the bags of people who spend £13 on ‘Dubai chocolate’.
Labubus have been a big trend for a while. For anyone who doesn’t know, they’re little devilish creatures, with creepy smiles and soulless eyes, and come in mystery bags. I suppose the intention is to collect them all. They are reasonably aesthetically pleasing, well made, if you like that sort of thing, but they have gone viral in ways that make me fear for mankind. I thought it would die out as a trend, and my simmering hatred could burn away, but they insist on persisting. People are buying little Balenciaga outfits for their Labubus, making micro-scale get ready with me videos, probably tucking them into tiny little beds to sleep.
They’re the latest in a long line of adult toys, these creepy little beasts, following in the strangely hyped footsteps of Sonny Angels (little cherub boys with their little willies out, wearing stupid little fruit hats) and those little gorillas that come on Kipling bags.
Collectible toys used to be at least ostensibly made for children. Things like Beanie Babies or Star wars figures, made to be toys, to be played with, with a happenstance status as collectibles for adults.
This culture was satirised joyfully in Toy Story 2, with the creepy toy collector restoring Woody and adding him to a terrifying vivarium-like collection. God, if only they knew how it would turn out…
At least these toys can be played with. That is what toys are for. The inner child yearns for these toys, but the outer adult seems to keep them just out of reach of the fingers. The fingers want to play.
Collecting toys for their own sake never appealed to me (my Star Wars figures are all out of the boxes - what if I want to give them silly voices and make them kiss?), but I understand the phenomenon. At least you COULD play with it, if the wont ever struck you. Lego is another proper toy that is marketed increasingly towards adults. It’s therapeutic, heals our collective ADHD, and is FUN. And still, there are people who insist on keeping it boxed and bagged.
So. Toys made for playing with became accidentally collectible, for all sorts of accidental cultural reasons. As the infantilisation of our culture marched steadily on, nerds and geeks accepted toys made for an older audience as different brands jumped on this trend. Some of these people would perhaps prefer the term Collectible Figurine, but, no, they’re definitely toys. I’ve seen firsthand comic-book shop shelves lined with anime women and various jokers cast in beautiful resin statuettes for hundreds and hundreds of pounds. Imagine them in the Toy Story universe. Desperate to be played with, but GOD NO NOT LIKE THIS—
Games Workshop is a brand of collectible toys exclusively for adults - I am endlessly fascinated by the skill level and creativity of the little painted miniatures - but these are for playing with rather than just for display. You but a new £65 set and it expands your army a little. Or something. Another pay-to-win game. But the point stands - it is not JUST a collectible. It is a toy. Toys are for playing with.
One of the biggest brand of adult collectible toys is Funko Pop Vinyls. You’ve them I’m sure, when you went to buy your Sex Pistols poster from HMV (you little punk, you), these big headed chunks of smooth vinyl in eminently collectible boxes completely devoid of any aesthetic sensibility.
They come in all sizes, these disgusting little freaks, and cover every franchise you can think of. Even stuff like The Beatles, Fight Club, and Nirvana, to fool consumers into thinking that they’re even a little bit cool. Poor Kurt Cobain. If you could see this Funko of yourself you’d blow your brains out again. I imagine if he’s in hell right now (quite possible) that his punishment is working the factory line at the Funko factory.
One of my great fears in life is falling in love with someone with a Funko Pop collection, them trying to put them up in our house, and me therefore having to commit an act of murder-suicide with the plastic head of Ross from Friends.
Nerds have BEEN on this trend, but it’s seeped firmly into the mainstream (why is every big movie a superhero movie? Do we not deserve stories about the real world?). Look to Disney adults, to Korn reunions, to prank shows. We are all babied by the man and so these pointless bits of tat have become a staple of modern existence.
“Cool” trendy toys started in the hypebeast world, with artists like KAWS and brands such as Be@rbrick creating collectibles for men who had Supreme branded homeware on their shelves.
People collect everything with a label. Social media has created endless hype machines for anything and everything with an air of exclusivity.
Spotlights and reverent speech accompany unboxing videos for vicarious enjoyment of someone else’s ruthless consumerism, creating an altar of plastic at which to worship these idols.
Jellycats are popular now, stuffed toy avocados and pancakes, selling for prices that no child’s pocket money could stretch to.
Look, I’ve known a lot of people who have a stuffed creature/ vegetable/ mineral collection, and most of them were wonderful people. Maybe there’s something I just inherently don’t understand about it. I get the idea of having a comforting thing, a friend — I fished out the Jellycat rabbit from my childhood last time I was properly heartbroken, of course I did — but do you need forty of them? They can’t ALL have sentimental value, they can’t ALL be distinct personalities that you love and have valuable conversations with. It feels like mindless consumerism, being attached to these poly-plastic objects in a dangerous mix of emotion and materialism.
Don’t get me wrong here. Collecting stuff is cool. Mudlarking is cool. Collecting Roman coins or Elvis memorabilia or old books is cool. The trouble is this trend of “collecting” branded items. There’s no SKILL, no INDIVIDUALITY, no REASON. You’re collecting it because everyone else is. I don’t want to hate on joy. I think it’s great that people like things. But the market for these ‘collectible’ brands is manufactured, all just good marketing, pushed by the very brands you’re giving your money to.
If you want to hang things on your handbag, that’s awesome. But go to a flea market, go to a car boot, go to a charity shop. Find something that one else has hanging on their bag. Don’t fuel Big Labubu and their poor-quality planet killers.
We’re filling the planet with stupid crap. You don’t need a Labubu. You don’t even really want one. You DEFINITELY don’t need a Funko Pop.
Just… imagine. Picture it for a minute.
The year is 3434. The world has changed, archives lost to The War of a thousand years prior. You’re an archaeologist. You’ve found a new dig site. A crucial piece of history, evidence about the people of the ancient past.
You dig up a box, perfectly preserved… you pull it out. Dust it off. What… what’s that? “Andy Stitzer (Waxed)”. Oh. It’s a plastic person. An idol. Did they worship this? Did they…
Hang on.
There’s more. There’s so many more. They’re all just silly names and gormless faces. God, your ancestors were lame. Maybe The War was a good thing after all. You put the boxes back in the hole, and heap the dirt back over them.