Thursday, 8 May 2025
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'Er Ladyship's Robe
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Relaxing Lavender
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Noddy - The Unfinished Third Ricicles Vinyl Record
Back in the swinging '60s, Noddy was more than just a little wooden boy in Toyland. He was the bright, smiling face of Kellogg’s Ricicles—the breakfast of choice for happy British children everywhere. With two cheerful vinyl records already tucked into cereal boxes, each featuring jolly songs and gentle stories, Noddy seemed set to become a permanent icon of the breakfast table.
But what few people know is that there was a third record planned. One that never made it into the boxes. One that ended Noddy’s run as the Ricicles mascot forever.
Kellogg’s shelved it quietly, citing internal concerns about its “tone.” Those close to the project say it was unlike anything else Kellogg’s had ever produced. There were whispers in the corridors of their UK headquarters—about a rogue writer, a different recording team, and a test batch of Ricicles with the record already sealed inside, ready for distribution. But the pallets never left the warehouse.
You won’t find any official mention of the record anywhere. Only a few grainy photographs of the vinyl sleeve survive—featuring Noddy sitting at a breakfast table, with a disturbingly vacant smile and a half-finished bowl of Ricicles turned toward the viewer. The words “A Morning in Toyland” were scrawled across the bottom in red text that looked like it had been stamped on hastily.
Only one known copy exists. And I heard it.
The record begins innocently enough. Light flute music drifts in. Noddy wakes up in his bed and stretches. He yawns sweetly. The narrator—his voice a bit more echoey than usual—tells us that Noddy is ready for a new day in Toyland. “I wonder what’s for breakfast?” Noddy chirps in his cheery voice.
He walks to the kitchen. You hear the clinking of bowls. But the cheer falters. “Oh no… no Ricicles left,” he says, confused. His voice wavers—not with sadness, but a strange dullness, like a child pretending to feel something they don’t understand. There’s a silence. Then he mutters, “Mrs. Tubby Bear will have some.”
The audio cuts briefly, the tape skipping slightly as Noddy’s car engine roars to life. The drive to Mrs. Tubby Bear’s house is unnervingly quiet—no birdsong, no Toyland music. Just engine hum.
When Noddy knocks, there’s a wet splatter sound. Then dragging. Mrs. Tubby Bear speaks, but her voice is wrong—warped, slow, distant. She groans that they have no food. “We… haven’t had Ricicles for weeks, Noddy. We’ve been… starving.”
Noddy doesn't acknowledge her tone. He just gasps, “But you always have some!”
There’s a rustle. A thud. The narrator says, “Mrs. Tubby Bear collapsed in the hallway. Her stuffing trailed behind her like a broken toy.” A low, choking sound gurgles from the speakers, and then, silence.
Noddy says nothing. He gets back in his car.
As he drives through Toyland, ambient moaning fills the background. Starving toys line the roads. Some wave feebly. Some don’t move at all. One small doll calls out, “Noddy… help us…” but he ignores her. “Maybe Mr. Grocer has some,” he says flatly.
Inside the grocer’s shop, the shelves are nearly bare. The audio is off-balance—sound effects layered over each other. Noddy finally speaks again: “No Ricicles. I’ll get Cornflakes then.”
When he returns home, he pours himself a bowl. The flakes sound dry. So dry. He goes to the fridge. “No milk left,” he sighs, and sits down.
He opens the Toyland newspaper. You can hear each page rustling crisply, but it never stops. The sound goes on too long, like it's looping. He begins reading aloud in a hollow voice: “Famine continues. Toyland suffering worst shortages in history. Thousands gone. Ricicles shipments halted.”
He looks at his bowl. There’s a pause. Then he utters:
“I hate my cornflakes.
They’re not twice-ickle as nice-ickle.”
The rhyme echoes in a warped, reverberated loop, each time more distorted.
Suddenly, a drawer opens. A metallic clang. Noddy says nothing. Then a click.
A gunshot.
The vinyl scratches harshly. There's a long moment of silence. Then a deep, rasping voice—inhuman, yet somehow familiar—fills the speakers.
“You didn’t eat your Ricicles.
Noddy is gone.
He died hungry.
And so will you.”
The record abruptly ends.
Parents were horrified when the test batch was accidentally played at a promotional breakfast event in Leeds. Children screamed. One child reportedly vomited. The Kellogg’s rep fainted. The police confiscated the record and suppressed the story. But word got out. Noddy was immediately removed from all Ricicles branding. His replacement? Tony Jr.—a safe, smiling tiger who didn’t carry the weight of a dead Toyland behind his eyes.
Years passed. The third record faded into cereal lore. But then, in the early 2010s, Ricicles was suddenly pulled from shelves altogether.
The official story? Poor sales.
The real story? A little girl in Kent found something in her Ricicles box that wasn’t cereal. A wooden limb. Small. Weathered. Painted blue.
Noddy’s arm.
After that, Kellogg’s recalled everything.
They said nothing.
They knew.
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