Why I collect Funko Pops

Beyond writing, producing, and editing my podcast, my wife and I share a deep passion for collecting Funko Pops, and our collection has grown significantly over the years. You can follow our collecting adventures on Instagram at @warpandaradio and @tareneraven. T handles most of the Instagram activity, but I make an effort to share a couple of posts each week. With that context set, here are my reflections.

Seeing a sixty-year-old man surrounded by shelves of oversized-headed figures in boxes, people might assume they have me completely figured out: a very late  midlife crisis, a burst of nostalgia, or a refusal to grow up. The truth, however, is both simpler and more complex.

I grew up far from my present home in Cumbria, in the London suburb of Ruislip along the Metropolitan line to Uxbridge. Back then, life revolved around net curtain twitching, hedge-lined streets, and whatever cash my mother had in her purse, credit cards weren't really a thing then. I learned early on that certain toys were reserved for other kids. The wealthier boy down the street had all Planet of the Apes figures, the Evel Knievel stunt cycle, and the Raleigh Chopper. We were far from rich, though not poor. Most of my desires were dismissed as "pointless rubbish" or met with a "we’ll see," which any child knows is just a polite way of saying no.

Decades later, once I attained enough financial stability to stop worrying, I decided to stop telling myself "no". Now, I buy these Funkos simply because I can not to win a competition or prove anything to a long-forgotten schoolmate, but to ensure that "you can't have that" isn't the final word. People often behave as if joy has an expiration date, assuming mine should have run out around 1983. But in my 60th year I still get a kick out of being profoundly silly as should be obvious when you listen to my podcast.

Watching my parents age, I saw their worlds shrink down to an armchair, the evening news, and polite remarks about the weather before quietly passing away. That was their idea of dignity. I made a personal commitment: while getting older is inevitable, I refuse to turn being old into my full-time job. I don't want to remain trapped in 1975 or 1985, nor do I wish to passively wait for a few brief, polite remarks read at my funeral—often the only time a person's life is actually paused and acknowledged. I would much rather actively engage with my life while I am still here to experience it.

I want my living space to reflect my journey, who I was, and who I wished to be. It means standing in the present, admiring these shelves, holding a small plastic figure, and offering zero apologies for acquiring things that were once unobtainable. To me, these figures aren't just toys; they are anchors in time representing a film, a game, a moment. Whether it's representation of an item I coveted forty years ago or something I found last week, the vinyl is merely what catches the light and people attention.

Underneath it all lies a quiet, steady resolve a refusal born from a suburban upbringing where you were taught to wait your turn, only to realize that your turn sometimes never arrives. So when I walk up to a checkout holding a Funko, onlookers might just see an old man buying a toy, but you now know I see something entirely different. I'm carry a moment in time frozen in PVC.