COMIC book royalty for six long decades, Asterix remains a cultural icon on both sides of the Channel. By Luke Rix-Standing.

There are some very special Frenchmen who have truly endeared themselves to the great British public. Victor Hugo has managed it (we all love Les Mis), Claude Monet generally goes down all right, and those of a certain persuasion may have fond memories of Thierry Henry.

But for the true adoration of the nation, one name stands (metaphorically) tall above the rest. I'm referring, of course, to Asterix the Gaul.

After six decades of boar-hunting, Roman-bashing, magic potion-swilling and menhir-delivering, the mischievous, mustachioed warrior has barely aged a day.

Here, we take a look back at the laconic wit and wisdom that turned Asterix into a cultural icon...

The Gaulish wit

At the centre of the Asterix's success lies a subtle brand of sophisticated silliness that was written into the very fabric of the stories.

Just look at the names. Bard Cacofonix, pensioner Geriatrix and blacksmith Fulliautomatix are all classics of the genre, but even minor characters were rendered with loving care. Our heroes quaff a cuppa with British commander Mykingdomforanos, sample the cuisine of Gaulish restaurateur Instantmix, race Roman runner Gluteus Maximus, and outfox the devious chieftain, Whosemoralsarelastix.

Perhaps the forgotten genius of Asterix, at least in the UK, lies with the translation. It was translator Anthea Bell who turned French druid Panoramix into Getafix, and, in an historic moment of genius, renamed Obelix's determined terrier Idefix Dogmatix.

If the names are lightly humorous, the national stereotypes are rather more overt. The Spanish are led by the flamboyant, swarthy, and fiercely proud Huevos Y Bacon, who dances the flamenco with a rose between his teeth to a loud chorus of "Ole". The outrageously barbaric Goths (read: The Germans) speak in a bold 'Gothic' typeface, and are too taken up with blood feuds and medieval forms of torture to pay too much attention to our protagonists.

And then there's the British: Warm beer, Wodehousian dialogue, stiff upper lips, games of rugger, double-decker buses, appalling food, and stopping halfway through a fight to have "a cup of hot water with milk". You probably wouldn't get away with it in 2019.

When they wanted to be, the stories could deal in searing satire. Masterful 1976 volume Obelix and Co. offers up a savage spoof of consumer capitalism; The Mansions Of The Gods takes on gentrification.

Equally, they could be flat-out hilarious. The Roman 'woodland camouflage squad' springs to mind: "Try to look as botanical as possible." "Do we form a square?" "No! Form a spinney!" And who could forget the scene in which legionaries must identify a barrel of magic potion by drinking their way through 500 barrels of Gaulish wine?

As for Asterix and Obelix, there's something a bit Laurel & Hardy about their little-and-large, brain-and-brawn, buddy cop dynamic. Opposites, it seems, attract more than just each other.

All things to all men

At its heart, the Asterix storytelling style occupies that early-Simpsons niche, of being amusing to children and parents alike.

Jokes range from simple puns and light-hearted slapstick, to classical allusions you'd need a GCSE in Latin to understand ("It's the Visigoths," declares a Roman legionary. "Visi Goths?" says his colleague, "why the past tens?").

The art style is kid-friendly, with more than enough artistic clout to ensure it's not overly so, while the storylines bound along with vigour and vim. Asterix himself is a classic underdog - an intensely likeable midget facing down the might of history's greatest empire. His reliance on magic potion means that he can stand up for the little guy, and be the little guy all at once.

Partners in their prime

Much has been written about the Goscinny-Uderzo partnership after the creation of Asterix, but the two men were just as interesting before. Rene Goscinny was born in Paris in 1926 to immigrant Jewish Polish parents, spent much of his childhood in Argentina, and then moved to New York to become a cartoonist.

America was not kind to Goscinny. There still exists a letter he penned to the New York Times, complaining that his previous five communications had gone unanswered.

Albert Uderzo had a less transient upbringing, and - despite being born with six fingers on each hand - a more conventional one. The two met in Paris in the 1950s and collaborated to found Pilote, a magazine meant to showcase the finest in French and Belgian cartoons. Their first hero was Reynard the Fox - a staple of French folklore - but another cartoonist beat them to the punch, so Asterix was drafted in from the bench.

The mustachioed Gaul was a hit: By 1960, he had his first full album, Asterix The Gaul, and by the mid-Sixties Goscinny and Uderzo were both very wealthy men. Uderzo would scout out Asterix's new destinations, taking reels of photos to inform his subsequent drawings, while Goscinny planned his plot-lines so promptly that the pair released a couple of new albums a year.

It was with a glint in the eye that Obelix, in need of cash midway through Asterix And The Cauldron (1969), suggested to his friend that strangers might pay to hear the stories of their adventures. "I'm not much of a businessman," Asterix replies, "but I can tell you that wouldn't make any money."

Asterix has never managed to conquer America, but still registers storming sales in the UK. In an entirely, and perhaps rightly, forgotten piece of trivia, Asterix was first serialised in Britain in the early 1960s not in translation, but re-imagined as Little Fred, The Ancient Brit With Bags Of Grit. Fortunately for everyone, the idea was shelved within a year.

The next decade produced hit after hit, but 1977 brought the end of an era. Goscinny died unexpectedly of cardiac arrest aged 51, leaving Uderzo to write and illustrate alone. Goscinny's name still appeared on all Asterix publications, as a mark of respect.

Decline in Gaul

Some critics have argued that the golden age of Asterix died with Goscinny, but Uderzo kept cranking out creations at a slow but steady pace.

Initial offerings fared well and many fans breathed a sigh of relief, but Uderzo's penchant for sci-fi elements began to get the better of him. 2005 offering Asterix And The Falling Sky stands out as a shark-jumping nadir - a screwball yarn featuring purple extra-terrestrials, giant floating yellow orbs, and an army of clones dressed as Superman.

It was a far cry from the classical puns of years gone by, and it was the last that Uderzo would write. These aliens really were crazy.

A multimedia empire

However, by the mid-Noughties, the comics were but a part of a multi-million-pound empire to rival that of their Roman adversaries. Asterix merchandise was flying off the shelves, sales figures defied the disappointment of fans and critics, and Asterix had found success in almost every form of media.

On the silver screen, Asterix has now fronted 10 animated features - the most recent released last year - and four live-action blockbusters starring legendary French thespian Gerard Depardieu.

Meanwhile, 1983 saw the release of the Asterix video game, from the same school of thought as Space Invaders. After two decades of Mario-esque platformers amd Sonic-style speed scrolling, the net widened to include the likes of fighting games and a fabulously named PS2 action adventure game called Asterix & Obelix: Kick Buttix.

Book to screen is hardly a rare transition, but no one could have predicted that Asterix's greatest crossover would involve a roller-coaster, with seven loop-the-loops. Parc Asterix opened outside Paris in 1989, and with headline thrill ride Goudurix leading the charge, has now grown into the second most-visited theme park in France.

The future's Gaulish

Perhaps the truth is, Asterix outgrew his medium, and a few less-than-stellar comic books did little to dim his shine. Regardless, a new team of talent now stands at the helm, and their first releases have returned our indomitable heroes to near their belligerent best.

One final nugget of Gaulish trivia: In 2011, an academic study performed a thorough assessment of the head injuries sustained in the then-34 albums. It did so with no apparent irony - "a detailed analysis had not been hitherto performed" - and found precisely 704 cases of suspected trauma.

Thankfully for the Gauls, they won't be joining the list yet. It doesn't look like the sky will be falling on their heads anytime soon.